#not sure if it's part of WYL or not

[linskywords]

Idk why but I really see Will as a TK-type dom where everyone kind of just assumes he’s a sub on first glance because of his like overall vibe and he gets to San Jose and they all just kind of lowkey assume and move on like even Mack is just like yay a fellow sub! Then one day someone says something and he’s like no wait guys what I’m a dom and the whole team is like ???? And Maklin lowkey loses his marbles because what do you mean he can sub for Will????? His perfect gorgeous funny best friend Will???

Also Will making Mack wear his jersey is so dom/sub coded. Like possessive dom Will showing off that Mack is his to the whole NHL

Yessss I love this. In an AU where subs are slightly more accepted in NHL locker rooms, and everyone makes a huge deal out of the idea that the Sharks have these two super-talented baby subs who are starting at the same time and are already best friends and wow, look at this new era of acceptance where subs can be this successful and prominent! And Will's over here going uh...actually I'm not a sub... But he didn't put together what people were saying until it was too late (I mean, he's not a sub, so why would he think they were talking about him?), and by the time he does everyone's made such a big deal out of the two baby subs and he doesn't want to seem subphobic. Especially not when Mack is so excited to have another sub here to share the experience with.

But also Mack is really funny and cute and nice and cuddly and Will starts to feel a little creepy about not telling him the truth. Like, it's probably not cool, the level of cuddling he's getting away with just because Mack doesn't know he's a dom. But also it feels too late -- like, how does he tell Mack he's a dom now, when they've already been doing all this stuff together? And Mack is getting snugglier and snugglier, and sometimes he even gets kind of dozy like he's going into subspace, and Will cannot stop thinking about the way he looks when he tilts his chin up blinks his eyes all slow like that, and oh no this is bad this is very very bad.

[sorcerous-caress]

So fun fact about me irl I work with children but often my teacher language slips out like telling my friends to say “bye bye bus”, telling another person in my lecture writing to “be nice to the pencil, it’s your friend.” And greeting a roomful of grown as adults with good morning boys and girls. It’s mortifying but How do you think the companions would react to having a teacher!tav slip up like that.

Dealing with a Teacher Tav

[Bg3, fluff, platonic kinda, nb!reader]

[Gale, Shadowheart, Laezel, Wyll, Karlach, Astarion, Halsin, Minthara, Jaheira, Minsc]

Gale

He delightfully plays along whenever you tell him to thank a stranger or say goodbye to an inanimate object. He thinks it's very silly and joyous.

Teachers have always been a big part of his life, it doesn't phase him in the slightest when you unawarly awake the deep memories of being in wizards pre-school for him.

Says good morning to you back, adding a teacher honorific at the end for the sake of being playful while asking if you've finally graded the homework he handed in.

He gives you an apple occasionally. He thinks he is very hilarious.

Shadowheart

She freezes in awkwardness whenever it happens, not sure if you’re being serious or just playing around. Sometimes, you don't even register slipping up as go on with your day, leaving her wondering if she's imagining things.

She has zero experience with the school system, completely confused by the need to say thank you for carriage after it arrived. It's just a carriage, why should she?

One time while her and Laezel were arguing, you used the same call you'd use in the classroom to get the kids to quiet down and it completely caught them both off guard. They just stood there baffled, forgetting their original argument.

Laezel

Why, yes, she is very familiar with teachers. In fact, she was the best out of her class, ask any githyanki teacher, and they'd tell you endless praise about her throat cutting techniques and sword welding stances.

You, whoever, use very unusual teaching techniques. How would learning a song about washing your hand and brushing your teeth help her in slaying her enemies?

Intriguing, so you take advantage of the brain's tendency to latch on to phrases that rhyme, which makes them easier to remember? And you encode your melodies with instructions to embed them into the impressionable youth?

Huh. She actually is impressed. She made her decision, you will lend your teaching skills to help her embed the most effect way of fracturing someone's spine into a melody to spread to the githyanki children.

Wyll

As someone who has been an unofficial teacher for so many kids throughout his years, he can relate to your struggle a lot. He slips up more than he cares to admit.

The both of you meeting early in the morning while still groggy and tired, your brains working on automatic mods as you greet each other with the same high pitched enthusiastic voice you use to greet a toddler.

Then just stare at each other, complete understanding between the two of you. Like two people accidentally using their customer service voice in front of the other.

You struggle to tie your boots once, and he unconsciously bends down to tie them for you while using the rabbit loop euphemism, only to stop in his tracks as he realises what he's doing.

He uses a curse word once, and you immediately use your teachers voice and say, "we don't speak like that here, that's wasn't very nice."

You're both tired, you both need a nap and neither of you brings it up when the other slips.

Karlach

Much like Gale, she finds it extremely amusing. Top tier comedy to her. Unlike Gale, she hasn't been to any proper schooling system, so she doesn't exactly know what most of these phrases mean or imply.

In a way, it lets her pretend she was a part of something like a school in her youth, like she could've had a normal childhood like everyone else.

She'd indulge you, saying goodbye and thank you to the pigeon that delivered her a letter, or overhearing Wyll's rabbit loop ryhme and whispering it under her breath as she ties her own boots. Who knew this could've been so easy?

Astarion

You remind him of how Leon was with his daughter back in Cazador's manor. Astarion never was close with any of them, but still, he sometimes overheard him attempting to give his daughter a semblance of a normal childhood and growth.

It's endearing when you accidentally use your teaching ways while dealing with the owlbear cub, but he'll never admit it.

Doesn't indulge you with it, he has appearance to keep. Well, unless he has a chance to twist your innocent meaning words into a sex or gorey joke like the 12y old humour that he has.

Ah, the scrowl on your face is the exact same one Leon had around him, such fond memories.

Halsin

Ah, you bring him back to his old days of having to deal with the children at the grove. Although his methods focused more on showing them that nature is a friend rather than inanimate objects.

But who is he to judge your ways? If anything he could learn a thing or two from you to add to his skillset.

Tells you about the fables that were passed down from elf to elf throughout the generations, animal stories have always done a great part in teaching him morality.

Do you happen to have any? Maybe you could tell it to the children of the grove, they are good kids.

Minthara

As a noble, she was only given the best and most prestigious of teachers while growing up. Even the ones that weren't a drow would still be considered the best of the best, crème de la crème.

Yet not a single one of them applied such...childish methods. etiquette and discipline were taught by the lash and threat of punishment, not lullabies and gentle guidance.

....it's not as bad as she imagined.

She doesn't get why some of your companions find it amusing. She doesn't bother indulging either.

But sometimes, sometimes, when it's just the two of you, and she is sure not a single soul is around, she will reply with a pun with the most deadpan face expression you've seen.

Jaheira

Despite what most would think, she actually integrated the same methods into her teachings back when her kids were little, it just happened to be weaved with her more dangerous lifestyle ascept.

Here comes the plane, with the airplane usual holding a good dosage amount of poison to build resistance.

A short rhyme about what to check before leaving the house, except the list has a suspicious amount of daggers and trap disarm kits in it.

If it works, it works, so what if she had to alter a kid's book about a honey loving yellow bear into one with decipherable texts to teach them Harpers' secret communication language.

Minsc

Ah! Boo does use the same method on him sometimes, the two of you have a lot in common. Although Boo's methods do involve a bit of biting every now and then.

Say, how about he teaches you some fables from Rashemen, a lot of them are about a rabbit who got lost after not listening to his witch frog companion.

You could use it in your teachings later! Show the youth the importance of good teamwork. Yes, he is aware of the fact he didn't listen to Jaheira and got captured by the cult. No, he doesn't see why this is relevant? Why is Boo suddenly agreeing with you? He is supposed to be on his side.

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 36

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: E Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** Hey, did you know that if you're a spellcaster and take even just one (1) level in Wizard in BG3, you can learn whatever fucking spell you want from scrolls? Now you know. (Also, did you know that there's art of chapter 26? Now you know that too.) ***

“You can let go of that hand, love. It’s not going to fall off again. I think.”

Astarion’s comment didn’t get Durge to let go of his hand, but it did get a chuckle out of Halsin. “Not to toot my own horn, but I am a more than decent healer. Your hand is permanently regenerated. It won’t fall off.”

“Unless cut. Or burned off.”

“Unless cut or burned off.”

“I’m not entirely sure the nails are quite as well maintained as they were before...”

“We’ve been in the Hells for the best part of four months.”

“Ah, yes. That will do it. My hair still looks good though, doesn’t it? Durge?”

“It’s not as well coiffed as usual, but the fact we were having sex until a couple of minutes ago might have something to do with it.”

“Ah, yes. That will do it.”

There was a chuckle and then a long, peaceful silence. The room they had taken for themselves - Wyll and Karlach, understandably enough, had opted to have one of their own; Raphael had gone on his own in an unoccupied one - had ice walls and ceiling, and stone floor. Even the beds were made of ice. Still, with resistance to cold and enough bedrolls and blankets piled on the ground, they had made themselves comfortable enough. 

That, and an hour or so of strenuous activity had kept them warm, too. They had yet to catch their breath, and for a while they did just that. The silence was pleasant, but not… entirely silent. Durge sat up, listening.

“... Is anyone else hearing thuds?”

“Wyll and Karlach.”

“Ah. Right.”

“Bet you a hundred gold that Wyll is going to come out walking funny in the morning.”

“May as well bet a hundred gold that it will be snowing outside.”

“I don’t think he’s going to complain, though.”

“I mean, who would?”

More chuckling, and Astarion leaned back between them. Or rather, on them: Durge and Halsin apparently made a good mattress when put together. He settled with a sigh, and waited for Halsin to pull the covers back up on them all before speaking again. 

“... So. Fighting the second most powerful archdevil of the Baator. Lord of the Eighth, master of hellfire, archmage of the Hells. How much gold would you wager on us pulling that off?”

Durge shrugged. “All we have,” they said, and Halsin smiled.

“Your confidence is reassuring.”

“Either we win it big, or we won’t need the gold anymore.”

Halsin’s smile faded. “That’s… not as reassuring.”

Durge shrugged, looking up at the ceiling. They snuck a hand over Astarion’s back, rubbing the back of his shoulder with a thumb. “Destroying the Netherbrain seemed impossible, too. But that we did, Crown of Karsus and all. And we now can count Raphael as an ally, far more powerful than he was before.”

“Is he really? More powerful, I mean. Are we just going on the gelugons’ word, or is it some kind of sorcerer sixth sense?” Astarion glanced up, causing Durge to chuckle. 

“His ascended form was much more powerful this time around. But yes, it’s something I can just sense. There is something there, yet untapped. Did you feel that too, Halsin?”

“... No. But perhaps it is a kind of power too far removed from nature. It is not a sort of magic I know, or even much wish to know,” Halsin muttered. He seemed thoughtful, and Durge leaned their head a little more against him. Durge and Wyll had discussed whether they too should try their hand at learning this infernal ice magic that could counter hellfire, and it had not been a long discussion: the more people in their party could make use of it, the more chances they had to get an edge over Mephisto. 

“Bit of a shame that Gale isn’t here,” Wyll had sighed. “He’d learn it in no time and help us out, too. Worst possible timing to take a sabbatical. But, imagine his face when he finds out we fought the archmage of the Hells without him!”

Durge, who just so happened to know precisely what Gale's sabbatical was about and who may or may not have been responsible for it, had chosen to say nothing. “Don't worry, we'll be able to handle it. Gale gave me a pointer or two. Or twenty.”

Halsin had spoken up at that point, saying that he too would learn to use this Plume… but something about his expression had given Durge pause. They hadn't said anything about it then, but they did now. “You don’t have to do this,” they said, quietly. To learn hellish magic was no joke. Wyll was used to the touch of the Hells; Durge themself had been more than touched by something just as unholy themself. But for Halsin… it would feel like a corruption of every principle he held dear. “If three of us learn to control it, it should be enough.”

Halsin shook his head. “I came to aid you in every way possible. And aid you I shall.”

“Or,” Astarion spoke, “you can join me and Karlach in taking a break. Most we get to do is sharpen up our knives and axes while the spellcasters do the hard work for once.”

Durge snorted, a puff of cold air through their nostrils and into Astarion’s hair. “For once,” they repeated, and felt Astarion’s grin against their scales. 

“Implying I don’t pull my weight?”

“I don’t imply. I move specific accusations.”

“You pull weight ?” Halsin asked in a reasonably good impression of a truly stunned gasp. 

“Hilarious. Truly,” Astarion huffed, in a tone that somehow conveyed the fact he didn’t find it hilarious at all, except that he sort of did. “We have the King of the Hells getting a cambion and some mortals to kill an archdevil for him, and I’m the one who’s not pulling weight.”

That got a few chuckles, but they died down quickly and for a time, there was silence. In the next room over, the thudding sounds had ceased. Durge turned to the other wall, but no sound at all had come from that room, where Raphael had retired to sleep alone. 

“... It is a cruel burden which Asmodeus has placed on his shoulders,” Halsin spoke. Clearly, he’d followed Durge’s gaze. “One would assume the Lord of all Nine Hells would be able to take Mephistopheles off the lanceboard, so to speak, by himself.”

Durge hummed. “Who knows. The politics of the Hells are an intricate thing, and I suppose moving against one archdevil himself, so openly and seemingly without open provocation, might spark a united reaction not unlike the Reckoning of the Hells,” they added. No archdevil on their own could hope to defeat Asmodeus, but all of them - or at least most of them - united… then perhaps they’d have a chance. Astarion hummed.

“Didn’t Asmodeus emerge victorious from the Reckoning? That’s how the story goes.”

“He did, but the sides looking to unseat Asmodeus were split, waging war at one another before they even turned their attention to Nessus. They might act as one, if one of theirs is killed by their king on a whim - each of them wondering who’d be next. I imagine that’s why Asmodeus wishes to pull strings, rather than being seen as the one dealing the fatal blow.”

“He demoted archdevils before.”

“Demoted, yes. Punished severely, too - Levistus is never leaving that tomb of ice he’s in. But killing is another matter entirely,” Durge replied. Truth be told, they wondered if they’d even ever learn the reason why Asmodeus had decided to put an end to Mephistopheles’ reign after so many eons of tolerating even his most obvious ambitions. They were curious, really. 

But for now, all they had to focus on was the battle ahead… and on surviving, with some luck.

A lot of luck.

***

“Lord Mephistopheles.”

“Duke Hutijin. Has there been any development of note in my absence?”

“Duke Barbas returned form Phlegethos scarcely half an hour ago.”

“Empty-handed, I assume.”

“He did not find the incubus, no. He seemed quite cross about it.”

“Of course he did not, and of course he was. Word from Bifrons and his soldiers?”

“They wait. I’ve been keeping an eye out from the windows, but I’ve seen no sign of a battle.”

“And no word from my High Cantor, either.”

“No, my liege. There have been no reported sightings of Raphael, either. Did questioning the Lord of the Seventh yield any answers?”

“Not the sort I was expecting.” Mephisto stepped past Hutijin, to the window. “Baalzebul said he has not seen Raphael nor was aware of his presence in his layer at any point. Did you see him return from Nessus?”

“Yes. No slug,” he said. Mephistopheles almost laughed. No slug - how concisely put. 

“It seems that Raphael was more clever than I thought. He must have known I’d have expected him to turn to my greatest enemy in the Hells, and kept away from Malagard.”

“Mh. That makes sense. Unless Baalzebul has found a way around the curse.”

“Not if Lord Asmodeus is speaking true.”

Duke Hutijin tilted his massive head, crowned with horns not unlike Lord Bel’s. “... And is he?”

A scoff. “Don’t you think I wondered as much?” Mephistopheles turned, meeting Hutijin’s eyes with an arched eyebrow. He almost saw it again, that oddly veiled gaze that Asmodeus had given him. He found he couldn’t read it; it caused a kind of unease that was near impossible to put into words. “I don’t entirely discount the idea - I discount nothing - but I also fail to see what interest the Lord of the Nine would have in aiding a fugitive halfbreed.”

“Is he still a fugitive if he’s heading here?”

A scowl. “Was that your idea of a jest?” he asked, a cold note to his voice. 

Hutijin’s grin immediately died down. “Apologies, my lord. I meant no offense.”

“... Hmph. Be grateful I took none.” Mephistopheles waved a dismissive hand and looked back out of the grand window. Beneath, all the way to the base of the glacier, through the snow storm, there was no sign of life. “I will settle for the simplest explanation, for now - that Raphael avoided Malagard and pressed on for Cania. I wouldn’t put it past him to have some prior knowledge of viable passages which are not guarded. The whelp has an annoying tendency to hoard knowledge,” he added.

With his gaze on the frozen wasteland outside, he entirely missed the way both of Hutijinìs eyebrows arched as the pit fiend somehow managed to convey, through expression alone, that he was currently thinking of a very specific saying about apples and trees. “Yes,” he said in the end, having bitten his tongue quite hard. “That’s entirely feasible.”

“Of course, if the situation remains unchanged I shall take further steps. But for now, I'll wait.”

“Should we send word to Lady Antilia? We have traps ready to be sprung here.”

“No, not yet. For all I know the whelp may have been delayed and is simply yet to pass through Malagard - in which case, she should be there to meet him. And besides, any communication may be intercepted and expose her as my spy. I’ll do no such thing.”

“Of course. She is a valuable asset.”

“Yes. Very.” Mephistopheles turned from the window. “Raphael’s fiendish half will attack the other on sight, but perhaps I will add another failsafe. I want you to go guard the vaults, too.”

Duke Hutijin did not like the notion, and made it clear. “I am to guard you. Not your trinkets.”

“You are to obey me, first and foremost. Should you be needed, I’ll summon you,” he added.

And, as always, Duke Hutijin did obey.

***

“Very well. Are you ready?”

“To clobber you good? Oh, I’ve been looking forward to it for months.”

“I’m flattered, truly.” Raphael glanced over at Durge, who had put away Mourning Frost - not much point in relying on cold spells in Cania, they’d said, and Raphael couldn’t argue with that. Now they were preparing to fight with a different quarterstaff. An exceedingly rare one. 

And incidentally, it was also one that Raphael found suspiciously familiar. 

“... You found your way into my vault as well as my bed, I see.”

“Ah, yes. I made quite the habit of breaking into infernal vaults, did I not?” A grin, all fangs, as they held up the Staff of Spellpower. “Mind if I borrow it?”

“Seems rather late to be asking that,” Raphael grumbled, but decided to drop the matter. Some distance away from the courtyard that was to be their battleground, hidden to the outside world by a powerful illusion of rocks and ice, he knew that Tuncheth was watching. Him and half the gelugons of Nebulat, most likely. That had been their idea; they were keen to see how Raphael fared in battle, to decide whether he was ready to learn about the Plume. 

“You were rent asunder body and soul, and your halves grew in power separately through different means. You may struggle with your new power. We must be certain you’re ready.”

Raphael had wanted to protest - he had no time to waste with Haarlep and his mother in the vaults - but he knew he had a point. He felt that arcane power his father had channeled into half of his soul, thrumming in his chest and veins as if a living thing… and like all living things, it could turn against him if he failed to keep it in check.

He’d been born a spellcaster, and he thought he was familiar enough with arcane magic. Now, he knew he’d barely scratched the surface by a scant inch. Only that one inch, compared to the depths Mephisto has been plundering for eons. Would some ice magic truly tip the scales in any way?

“Ah, but we should let bygones be bygones! Ready?” Ravengard called out, causing Raphael to recoil and chase away the thought. Not far from him, Astarion was nocking an arrow; he’d put away the hand crossbows for a longbow Durge had pulled out of their bag of holding. It glowed faintly, and Raphael could sense something unsettlingly celestial about it. 

“... Are you quite certain you’re safe to use that?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, it is safe for the wielder. I don’t mind celestial light when it hurts somebody else. You, in this specific case.”

Raphael raised an eyebrow, faintly wondering if that fight - five on one - had been entirely Tuncheth’s idea after all. “You best be careful not to shoot yourself in the foot, vampling.”

“Oh, I’ll aim for yours. And we have a healer,” he added, causing Halsin to chuckle and nod at Raphael. Around above them, wind and snow hit a shimmering, barely invisible dome.

“I’ll heal you as well, of course, should you need it. This is simple sparring, after all.”

“Much obli--”

“Oh, he will need it,” Karlach cut him off, holding up the halberd she’s picked for th fight. Or, as she referred to it, her ‘big fuck-off halberd’. Raphael raised his other eyebrow. 

“You seem just a touch too enthusiastic about this.”

“Hey, all practice before we move on to your daddy. Go on, soldier. Give us your best shot.”

“Very well.” Raphael looked past her, at Durge, and almost returned the smile. Instead he focused on that thrumming thing within him - potential, he’d called it. What he’d earned in his travels and what was forced upon him, all of it now as one. All parts of him, human and devil.

Both and neither, forever and never, he’d thought once, a very long time ago, and it still was true. It would always be true. Both and neither… and all the more powerful for it. He’d need no pillars now, no souls to sustain him. It was all him. And as he lifted his hands to let the flames roar to life - let that power sing through his every nerve ending with a staggering sense of wholeness - he thought, for a wild moment, that perhaps it would indeed be enough.

***

When Duke Barbas arrived at the vaults, Haarlep could hear him from several rooms away. And through the crackle of the flames Raphael’s ascended form was wreathed in.

He tended to make a lot of noise, they’d noted, especially when in a foul mood. That was certainly the case now: he stomped around, snapped at guards, muttered and harrumphed an awful lot - all for no reason whatsoever other than reminding at least someone of how important he was, tasked with ensuring all was well in the vaults on a daily basis. 

The reason for his foul mood was easy enough to guess: a wasted trip to the Fourth, to look for Haarlep. They were not certain whether that false lead had been planted by Duke Adonides or Lady Baalphegor, or who among their agents, but it had been a masterstroke. Archduke Belial had little love for Mephisto, and Archduchess Fierna… well, if tales were to be believed, she would have loved to have another incubus at court. 

Honestly, Abriymoch truly was someplace Haarlep had long wished they could visit, if not for the not negligible detail they wouldn’t be guaranteed a chance to leave should they not find it to their taste. Overall, a perfectly believable but ultimately false lead which had sent the chamberlain on a wild goose chase between layers. Delightful, truly.

Haarlep may have laughed, had that not been a sound Raphael’s ascended forms was incapable of making. They only listened to the Duke’s complaints and most of all, to the guards’ responses. Adonides’ gelugon guards did modify their memories with the spell - a nifty little trick, that - but of course, there was always the chance the spell may fail on one of them, which would mean the end for them, for Adonides, and of course for Dalah. 

Haarlep had never claimed to be an expert in hellish politics or any politics for that matter - it was not what they were made for - but they had a vague inkling that would not be an ideal outcome. So they were relieved when Barbas ceased snapping at the guards, and began muttering something about useless spies making him waste his time.

And then they were more than a little concerned when they heard a low, rumbling voice at the entrance, seeming to reverberate between the walls. Duke Hutijin was not the kind to fly into violence without reason, but his presence was both intimidating and highly unusual. 

He hasn’t found out already, has he?

Duke Hutijin was pretty much Mephistopheles’ right hand guy, and was never too far away from the throne room. Haarlep had to wonder what he was doing there, in the vaults deep beneath the citadel. Apparently, Barbas was wondering precisely the same thing. 

“Duke Hutijin. What a pleasant surprise it is, to see you here,” he spoke, in a tone that implied he was very surprised indeed, and not pleased at all. “A welcomed sight, if… unusual.”

A light grunt. Well, as light as the massive pit fiend could make it. “Lord Mephistopheles said I should stand guard at the entrance of the vaults, for the time being.”

“What? Did he say why?”

“He did.”

“And…?”

“And you’re welcome to ask him yourself. You’re going to get a chance soon enough, aren’t you? He’s curious to hear all about your fruitless search for the incubus in Abriymoch.”

A sharp intake of breath. When Barbas spoke again, he’d clearly forced himself to stay calm. “... Of course. I am certain he can understand, a creature who may change appearance is--”

“It’s not me you have to tell, chamberlain. Feel free to take your spiel to the throne room at your earliest convenience,” he added. Several rooms away, for the second time in only minutes, Haarlep almost laughed in spite of that form’s limitations. Ah, what a clever idea of Mephistopheles, placing his most powerful servant at the entrance… but it had come a few hours too late. Lucky, that.

They could only hope that luck would hold.

***

Later, Durge would not be able to tell how long the sparring had gone on; they only knew that by the time it ended they were barely standing, out of any spell that wasn’t a cantrip, in awe and, to be entirely honest, more than a little turned on. 

It was staggering to think that only a short few months earlier, after setting off from the Last Light Inn on the road to Baldur’s Gate, Durge had to really hold back while sparring with Raphael’s weakened human half. He’d been still recovering from his injuries, got winded fast, and was obviously unused to relying on a mortal bard’s array of spells with no trace of hellish powers.

They’d had to purposely aim something as simple as a splash of acid a little off target to give Raphael a chance to dodge and counter; the only way he’d been able to truly land a blow on them was through deception - admittedly, a valid strategy in itself. 

They’d watched him grow more powerful as the journey continued, more accustomed to fighting as a human. He’d become more precise in his casting, more controlled, no longer burning himself out in anger - he makes mistakes when he’s angry, as Hope had put it - until he could hold his own against a couple dozen armed devils, long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Until he could hold his own against his own sister, if with their help, and win.

They’d been warned, too, that his fiendish half had been imbued with arcane power beyond what most mortals could even imagine. All things considered, Durge had known the fiend they were about to spar with would be someone different, and stronger, than the cambion they took down in Avernus a year past. 

They still had not been prepared for the show of unbridled, raw power on display - the cracking stone, the shimmer of arcane magic, the fierce heat of hellfire none of them could withstand… and that was before he’d taken it up a notch and ascended, with no need to consume any souls and probably for little true reason other than showing off. Durge found they could not fault him for it. Besides, showing what he could do was the point of all that. 

They hadn’t necessarily made it easy, of course. None of them individually could match him anymore, but all together they were still a force to be reckoned with, and could hold up well enough. The fact remained that, had that been a true fight and not a sparring match, it was unlikely they’d still be breathing. They were not really breathing now, but they could chalk that up to awe rather than… well. Death.

“That was magnificent.” The praise left them with almost no thought at all, while Halsin healed a deep burn on their forearm and Karlach pulled Wyll and Astarion back on their feet. Raphael was bloodied too, his clothing torn, casting a healing spell on himself. He glanced over at the praise, and smiled.

“Very kind of you to say,” he replied, in the tone of someone who is well aware the praise was earned and very pleased with himself indeed. A shame he did not have peacock feathers to unfurl: they would not have been out of place. But it was the best mood Durge had seen him ever since Antilia’s death; they’d bite off their own tongue and swallow it before spoiling it.  

“Heh. As Lae’zel would say, I don’t play compliments. I make observations.”

“Ah, yes. Your gith friend. What has become of her?”

“She leads her people in rebellion against Vlaakith, in Orpheus’ stead.”

“Against the lich queen? I’d say it’s folly, but we’re attempting something more daring still and with no armies nor dragons at our beck and call.”

“After seeing you fight, I think we truly do stand a chance.”

Raphael looked at them, making a gesture of his hand; blood and sweat on every one of them vanished, the slashes and dents in armor mended. “Flattering as that is, and you know I am not one to let sincere flattery go unappreciated, you have only seen what I can do. You have no inkling of the extent of Mephistopheles’ power.”

“Have you seen him fight at the full extent of his capabilities?”

“If I had, I doubt I’d be here to tell the tale. But what I have seen and heard is enough, believe me. More than this will be needed if we are truly to complete this mission.”

“Well, isn’t that what you’re getting the ice magic for?” Astarion asked, holding up a hand to wriggle his fingers as though casting a spell. “If it is as powerful as the ice devils claim it is.”

“I can assure you, it is.” They had not seen Tuncheth approaching but there he stood, looking with some distaste at the devastation in the courtyard, at the flickering hellfire still burning here and there. Still, he did not complain aloud and only nodded at Raphael. “... Very well. You do possess sufficient control. I’ll have my wizards deliver the scrolls to you so that you may read all about the Plume, before they teach you to wield it.”

Raphael grimaced for a moment. “Scrolls are not how--”

“Of course not. Your unfortunate bardic tendencies aside, you’re a sorcerer. You’re used to innate power without ever having to work for it--”

“Nearly all fiends have some form of innate--”

“But the Plume can only be learned through rigorous study,” Tuncheth cut him off. “The theory first, then the practice. You’ll have to take a leaf out of your father’s book for this.”

“I can help,” Durge spoke quickly, before Raphael could voice his distaste. “Both Wyll and myself got a few lessons from Gale, when it comes to learning spells from scrolls. We’d be happy to help you and Halsin with it.”

That, at least, defused the situation… although Raphael was still scowling he turned and headed back towards their quarters, saying nothing more. Durge hesitated a moment before they felt a nudge on their back. 

“Go check on the princess,” Astarion said. “We’re going to rest up, and get those scrolls. See if you can convince him to stop pouting meanwhile. And to donate to the Astarion Blood Bank Fund while he’s at it, since we took one literal hell of a beating to help him practice.”

Durge chuckled. “I suspect his blood runs too hot now,” they said, and went after Raphael.

They caught up with him at the door of the room he’d picked for himself, a hand on the handle. They cleared their throat before they spoke. “I understand it is not ideal,” they said. “Being told you’re to do anything the way your father would.”

There was a brief silence, a light scoff. Raphael spoke without turning, still holding onto the door handle. “Let me hazard a guess. Personal experience? Knowing of Bhaal, I don’t suppose it was something as mundane as learning a spell the wizard's way.”

“It was more along the lines of butchering an innocent to gain his favor, and the Slayer form.”

“Heh. That is quite powerful. You should have probably done it.”

“The innocent in question was Isobel Thorm. You have her healing powers to thank for the fact you did not pass away from your injuries in the Material Plane. And-- her sway on Dame Aylin to thank for the fact your head is not currently at her belt.”

Raphael chuckled. “Touché,” he said - whatever that meant in Infernal. Durge hesitated. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” they asked, gaining themself a chuckle. 

“Pleasant as the sound of my voice is, talking about it is the last thing I wish to do.” He sighed, and rubbed his face. “I simply have to study the theory. I’m probably overthinking it.”

“You are.” Durge tilted their head, and met Raphael’s eyes. They stared at one another for a few moments, blood red and molten gold. “... I could help you with that. If you’d like.”

I want to stop thinking, Raphael had groaned that night by the campfire. Now he said nothing for a moment, more in control than he’d been then, but he did swallow before speaking. 

“I would appreciate that, I believe,” he said, with only the slightest tremor in his voice betraying his eagerness as he opened the door of ice leading to his room. 

Durge smiled, all fangs, and made sure to close it behind them after pushing Raphael inside.

***

“You have done well.”

The words were whispered by the servant working next to her, as they prepared a long table for yet another lavish banquet. Of course that was no servant at all, although nothing about her appearance would give away her true identity. 

There seemed to be something about her, however, that kept other indebted souls out of earshot - a sort of instinctive avoidance they did not seem to be even aware of, leaving some empty space around them. “Your pleas against his sire’s hold on his mind, and Mephisto’s will did not win out,” Baalphegor mused. “If bragging was ever a good idea for someone in your position, I’d say you earned the right.”

“I just want him safe.”

“That he cannot be. Not until his sire falls.” Baalphegor’s voice was quiet, and perhaps it was only Dalah’s imagination that the silence between the two sentences had stretched out a little longer than it was necessary. She took her eyes off her work for just a moment, and glanced over at the plain human face which hid the former consort of the Lord of the Eighth. 

Most of the time, devils were easy enough to understand - ruthless and cruel and ambitious, attached to their laws but certainly not to other devils. Lady Baalphegor, however, was more of a mystery. She took in the souls of women who died after bearing Mephisto’s spawn as her own entourage - I have equal claim to all things my consort claims, she’d once heard her say - and it was a mercy, because their workload was lighter and they were, overall, safe. 

Not all the souls in her entourage had been tricked or coerced into bearing a cambion; more than a few had done so willingly, and some even knowing full well the consequences of carrying and delivering a half-fiend. Lady Baalphegor had never seemed to hold any animosity towards them, their offspring… or indeed, towards her consort. 

“... Why become his consort at all?” Dalah found herself asking. A naive question, most likely; but it remained so difficult for her to imagine how someone who may choose to reject him would not do so. Dalah had no choice; and while many of her memories from the last months of her life were distant and faded, more like a horrid dream she had once, the night Mephisto claimed his due was seared in her mind. A nightmare that part of her never awoke from.

She remembered a looming presence reminding her the terms of the contract she had signed - a business translation like any other, to him. She recalled the terror upon realizing how she’d been fooled, feeling so small and helpless. Staring above without seeing anything, thinking of nothing but the fact Rahirek would get to live, that it wouldn’t all be for nothing. 

Looking back, it was everything she’d feared her wedding night to be like, after her father brought her to Fort Starspire to marry a man twenty years older than she was, for a foothold into the area and the nearby trade road. But it had not been so: Rahirek had seen her anguish, and had not touched her that night. Or many nights afterwards, until she’d--

There was a chuckle, snapping her from her memories. Baalphegor shook her head. “Why not? He had power, the second highest position in the Hells, with a brilliance few may hope to match. And I am also quite the catch, if I do say so myself - an asset as well as easy on the eye. I did not displease him, and he did not displease me.” A pause, a look, before she spoke again.

“I have had no reason to complain. I hold nothing of what he did to you or other mortals against him; we are devils and you signed a contract, seeking to sell out others for your benefit. One does not resent water for the lives taken by a flood, particularly if they chose to stand on a floodplain. The one thing I do blame him for is--” a pause. For the first time, she looked tired. “... He needed not bring this on himself. But he did. This time, it was him who crossed the line into the floodplain. And as the ice melts upstream, the flood shall come to take its due. Will it bring you joy when it does, and the devil who tricked you is no more?”

Dalah saw no reason to answer with anything other than the truth. “Yes,” she whispered.

A smile. Faint. “Then I do hope his demise will taste sweet,” Lady Baalphegor said, “for at least one of us.”

***

Raphael did not stop thinking. Not quite. Not entirely.

For all their commendable talents, Durge was no incubus; they did not quite empty his mind the way Haarlep could. But they certainly could turn his thoughts to much more pleasant things than an imminent battle against his sire and near certain death. That did not go unappreciated… although he wasn’t planning to be particularly vocal about that appreciation. 

The grip on his horns forcing his head down on the pillow - that, too, was cold against heated skin - tore a moan from his throat regardless. He almost scowled at the lapse, but the pull at his tail and the throaty laugh that followed nearly tore another noise out of him. He clenched his teeth against it, determined not to moan. It was no easy feat with  the heat in his groin and a tremor in his limbs, his ears buzzing, breath coming out in pants already.

Then sharp teeth grazed at the base of his tail, and got another noise out of him. He’d have been annoyed, if he’d been able to recall what annoyance was right there and then. Perhaps Durge was capable of emptying his mind, after all. He might have to revise that assessment, annoyingly eno-- ah, never mind. There it was.

“Do you manhandle all your lovers like you’re trussing a calf?” he snapped, trying to turn back. The grip on his horns kept his cheek firmly pressed into the pillow; Raphael could barely catch a glimpse of the red scales on Durge’s throat, the gleam of bared fangs.

“Only when they enjoy it.”

“What makes you think--”

In lieu of a reply, Durge’s hand closed around his cock, already hard and leaking. They said nothing - didn’t need to - and Raphael tried to pass off the groan that left him as a grumble. But he could not hide the shudder nearly as well: he kept his hips still, but he forgot about his wings entirely. They quivered, and gave him away. 

Durge laughed. “You asked me to take you like I owned you, last time.” The hand let go of his cock, greased fingers pushing inside again - rough and thick, prodding, spreading. They pressed against just the right spot, damn them. Raphael shuddered again, spread his knees wider, and tried to push back just as the fingers retreated. Another throaty chuckle, almost a growl. “Is that still how you want it?”

“You bothersome creature-- yes!”

They were still holding his head down by the horns, keeping him nearly bent in half on the bed. Raphael could rise if so he chose, but at the moment he chose to forget the fact he had that option. Especially when Durge’s other hand went to pull his tail to the side, roughly, to expose him entirely. There was pressure, slick and warm and thick, against his greased hole. Pushing in, stretching… and then, maddeningly, pausing .

“Beg.”

Another rush of heat to his groin, a twitch of his cock he did his best to ignore. His fingers clenched on the sheets, almost tight enough to tear. A single beat of his wings would have thrown that insufferable tease off him, but he had no intention to do that. “No,” he ground out.

“Then perhaps you don’t truly want--” Durge trailed off when Raphael’s tail wrapped around their thigh and he clenched around the head of their cock, trying to keep them there, to pull them deeper. He turned his gaze to their left, where a wall of ice reflected them as clearly as a mirror - himself on his elbows and knees, head held down by the horns, the dragonborn’s body over him. No longer large enough to dwarf him but not all that much smaller, either. 

Their cock in particular still felt nowhere near small. They didn’t seem to have even noticed the mirror and were just looking at him, an unmistakable hunger in their gaze.

He drew in a shaky breath, cock twitching with need. “If you’re to take me like you own me, own me,” Raphael rasped. “You do not need me to ask for--”

His words broke with a cry when Durge grinned, suddenly, and snapped their hips forward without warning - quick and unyielding, all of it. The hand gripping his horn gave a rough yank, forcing Raphael to arch back his neck with another strangled cry. Durge did not thrust as much as they ground into him, tilting her hips, for several torturously long minutes. Raphael had to bite his lower lip not to groan, teeth piercing skin, and tasted his own blood. It was too much. It was not enough. He struggled to put together any coherent thoughts.

He reached up to grasp Durge’s arm, scratched at the scales with his claws. It made Durge hiss, and bite down on his shoulder… or try to. The wings were very much in the way, and it caused them to chuckle before they pulled back… and out, to Raphael’s dismay.

“Durge--”

“I want you to ride me. I want to see you.”

Of course they do. Is this not the form they were after, when they took Haarlep’s offer?

He did not look exactly as Haarlep’s mimicry of him; he’d been much younger when the incubus had taken his form, and admittedly Haarlep’s jab on how his stomach had never been quite that chiseled had not been without merit. Durge did not remark on any of that; when they leaned back against the headboard and Raphael sank down on their cock, the look on their face was hungry as ever. “Perfect,” they rumbled with a roll of their hips, running a hand across his chest, down his stomach, stopping only a scant inch from his cock. 

Raphael would never know whether the jolt of pleasure that ran up his spine was more for the upward thrust or the praise - such high, sincere praise - but it did not matter. He arched his back, rolling his own hips. “More,” he rasped. It was in his nature to want, it was in his nature to take, and this - oh, he’d gladly take every drop he was offered, beg for more if he had to.

“Of this--” A sharp thrust, a gasp. “Or praise?”

“Everything.”

And he did get everything - the bruising grip on his hips and the teeth grazing at his neck and shoulders, although not hard enough to pierce the tough, leathery skin. The relentless thrusts and the snarled praise, until finally - finally - Durge’s hand closed on Raphael’s cock, squeezed, and gave just a few merciless, rough strokes. 

The orgasm was harsh as the touch, the thrusts; it tore a sound from Raphael that was almost a wail. He crumpled forward, wings opening and shuddering, palms hitting the wall on either side of Durge’s head. They laughed, breathless, and grazed at his neck. 

“I’m not done,” they reminded him, and Raphael felt them grin. “I still own you, don’t--”

The transformation came without warning, causing them to trail off and then moan. Raphael’s human form was lighter, easier to wrap their arms around… and most of all tighter around their cock. Raphael laughed, breathless, tucking his face against their throat. A small victory but a victory nonetheless, and they savored nearly as much as the overwhelming sense of fullness. He drew in a panting breath and leaned against Durge, chest to chest, heart beating furiously against his ribcage. Their heartbeat, too, was frantic.

“Why ask,” he groaned, tilting his hips against the next thrust, “when you can just claim?”

And claim Durge did, nearly snarling by his ear, biting onto Raphael’s shoulder, drawing blood and savoring it like a fine vintage. They chuckled against the wound. 

“Does not  burn nearly as hot as wyvern whiskey.”

“It burns far hotter,” Raphael groaned, wrapping his arms around Durge’s shoulders to cling closer, tucking his face against their throat while they fucked him. “Only not in this form.”

The rumble of a laugh against his own chest. “Astarion will be glad to know as much.”

Raphael scoffed and laughed at the same time, panting against blood-red scales. “Make me come again,” he gasped out, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. He was beginning to harden; even without incubus spit, a devil’s refractory period was short. “And I’ll consider it.”

Perhaps, he should have clarified how many times he wanted Durge to bring them to orgasm; in their daze, he’d thought one more time would be it. As it turned out, it was three.

For once, he did not mind being wrong.

***

Wyll knew that something was not quite right halfway through the third scroll. 

With Durge and Raphael obviously otherwise occupied, he and Halsin had decided to go ahead and start reading through the theory and details of this hellish ice magic the gelugons were so proud of. It was quite a few scrolls, because the Plume was not a spell - it was a vast array of spells, each of them involving channeling the arcane focus of all of Cania to create… well. The sort of ice one may find only in the Hells.

Just looking at the amount of scrolls they were expected to go through before even attempting to cast any of those spells, Wyll couldn’t help but think that the much-ridiculed annoyance of wizards towards sorcerers - and warlocks, obviously - made sense. He wouldn’t much like it either, having to study so much to learn each spell and then watch others just cast from birth or through a deal with a devil. 

“Ah, this spell is something like Abi-Dalzim's Horrid Wilting. Durge can do that one. I’m sure they can help us out, once they’re--” he cleared his throat, and shifted a little on the seat. Honestly, sitting was not the most pleasant of positions for him at the moment. And not because of the earlier sparring match. “Once they join us.”

“Of course,” Halsin said. There was no amusement to his voice, no chuckle. Looking back, Wyll would think that he should have known right there and then that something was wrong. But he was focused on the scroll, he thought nothing of it and continued. 

“Anyway-- yes, as I said, it’s something like the Horrid Wilting in that you manipulate moisture, but you push it in instead of drawing it out. You release a vapor that enters the enemy's pores and then freezes into countless tiny pellets within the bloodstream. Kills weaker opponents on the spot, immobilizes more powerful ones. Horrifying, but useful.”

No answer, and that was what caused Wyll to look up, wondering if Halsin was still too tired from the earlier fight. But that was not it: Halsin was pale in a way Wyll had only ever seen him as they journeyed through the shadow curse.

“... Halsin? Are you all right?”

Halsin recoiled, and cleared his throat. “Ah, I… yes, of course I’m well. Apologies, I must be tired. Perhaps I’ll need a few hours’ rest before I can--”

“You’re a terrible liar, you know. You’re not well at all,” Wyll cut him off, and Halsin held his gaze only a moment before he sighed and looked away. “... It’s the entire notion of infernal magic, isn’t it?” Wyll asked. “It’s the farthest thing from nature I can imagine.”

With a long sigh, Halsin nodded. He finally glanced back, and he looked more than tired: he looked haunted. “My apologies. It must seem foolish, to one who took a deal such as yours to keep an entire city safe. I know that this Plume can make the difference between victory and defeat; as many of us as possible should learn to wield it. But it’s difficult to… the more I learn, the more I see how it goes against everything natural in the world. Just like hellfire.”

Wyll sighed, and pushed the scrolls to the side. “Halsin. Can I say something that is going to sound incredibly stupid from someone who’s lived a quarter of a century against your three-hundred fifty-something years? Learn from my experience.” He leaned forward on the table - that was too made of ice - to make sure to meet Halsin’s eyes. “I accepted the corruption of the Hells for the sake of my city and if I were in the same situation, I’d do it again. It was no true choice. But also, I was alone. It had to be me to shoulder that burden and stand in Tiamat’s way, or no one would. You are not alone at all. Raphael, Durge and myself can wield this. You don’t have to.”

Halsin sighed, and shook his head. “I owe you more than words can say, and I came here to help. So help I shall, to the best of my abilities--”

“And your abilities are already enough. You don’t have to do this.”

A moment’s hesitation, plain as day on his face, before Halsin shook his head again. 

“But if I do, we’ll have better chances--”

“Maybe. But I thought we’d have better chances against Zariel if I took the sword and attuned to it, even if it would change me for good. I’m sure you remember how well that idea went over with Karlach. Or anyone else, for that matter. Including you.”

That, at least, seemed to drive the point home. Halsin stared at Wyll for a few moments, biting his lower lip, and finally he sighed. “I am sorry. I promised I’d do anything I could to help, but this…” A gesture at the scrolls before, finally, he said it. “I cannot do this.”

Wyll grinned. “Well, no promises broken. You are doing everything that you can do. And pretty well, too, since now you can reattach limbs and-- what else? Resurrect the dead at full health? That’s plenty of help, Halsin. It can make a difference, too. And there is not a single person among us who won’t understand if you sit this one out.”

The look of gratitude and relief Halsin gave him made Wyll almost feel guilty he hadn’t seen it before, just how much Halsin was putting up with for their sake. He hid it well, sure enough… but he of all people should have known better. So he smiled, and stood. 

“You know, I think I can wait for Raphael and Durge to start learning this. Want to come see how the target hitting contest between Karlach and Astarion is going?” he added. Karlach was more for melee fighting than anything else, but she did take on board the suggestion that a little training with a heavy crossbow would do her good. 

Halsin smiled. “I’d appreciate that.”

As they headed out, Wyll must not have been able to hide his limping as well as he thought. Halsin cleared his throat. “I can provide some salve for that,” he said, earnest as always. 

Wyll was, once again, rather grateful that his complexion did not allow his cheeks to flush red.

***

It was not unusual for Mephistopheles’ focus to split and shift, from one project to the next, from one scheme to the other. It was as fickle as his moods, as fickle as his favor. Everyone at court knew as much, and each one of them would do anything to anticipate his wants, or be at least prepared to meet his demands as quickly as possible. Get him what he wanted, or give him answers he needed.

But this time, no one could answer his question - Where is Raphael? - and they grew increasingly nervous as days passed and his mood became bleaker. They were still desperately seeking that answer as the question shifted to another - Why is my High Cantor still not reporting? - which in turn hid another, different question. More urgent. More visceral. 

Unspoken, so that no fool could take it for weakness, but growing from a whisper in Mephisto's mind to a hurricane, drowning out all and any thoughts of his runaway whelp and his whereabouts. Perhaps Raphael’s corpse rotted submerged in a mire in Maladomini; perhaps it was frozen beneath snow and ice at the bottom of one of Cania’s crevasses.

Well, let it rot, let it remain frozen in time. It did not matter. There was only the new question, relentless, howling in his mind like a storm - where is my daughter?

“You are to approach Malagard with utter discretion, and find my High Cantor. Disguise yourselves. Should you be caught your lives are forfeit, either by Baalzebul’s hand or mine.”

“Of course, my lord. And of this Raphael…?”

Mephistopheles scowled, a hand clenching on his throne’s armrest. “Forget him. Find the High Cantor. Ensure no harm has come to her, and report to me. If she has been imprisoned, ensure that Baalzebul knows I am willing to negotiate and report to me immediately. ”

“As you command, Lord Mephistopheles.”

The Lord of the Eighth was still clutching the armrest of his throne, claws digging into ice, when his spies left. Unheard through the hurricane in his mind, ice kept melting, dripping from his throne like a ticking clock.

***

Raphael was a creature of fire. 

Tuncheth had said as much with a grimace as soon as they’d arrived; unpleasant, but not  wrong. It was something Durge had noted as they fought in the House of Hope: he was entirely immune to any and all types of fire, even hellfire - but he could suffer injuries from cold based attacks. He had a high degree of resistance, of course, but no immunity. 

That did not necessarily have any bearing on one's ability to master different spells: Durge’s fire spells were no less powerful than their cold or lighting spells, for one. Still, the Plume was a different type of magic from anything they had known; even with their own affinity for cold, they struggled to truly draw power from the essence of Baator itself - the heart of Cania, as Tuncheth called it - and channel it into the array of spells the gelugons had designed. 

Not impossible, but difficult. Very much so: Wyll struggled with it, too. If it took Raphael time to command it, none of them would fault him for it.

And yet, to their moderate surprise and a rather embarrassingly fierce sense of pride, Raphael took to it like a duck to water. A very powerful duck, wielding extremely dangerous water. They were probably not going to use that wording aloud, though. 

Some distance away, a fiendish direbear some gelugons had brought in roared and charged straight at Raphael. Durge watched in silence as Raphael brought up his right hand; a fine mist of condensation rose from the icy ground, and was then cast against the creature with a swift, precise gesture of the left. It hit the bear, who had just enough time to roar again before Raphael closed both hands into fists, and the spell took hold. 

The creature reared back, then stilled. For a few moments it remained standing, frozen mid-act; the eyes dull and glassy, every drop of blood - every bit of moisture in its body - solid ice. Then it fell, dragged by its own weight, and shattered onto the stony ground in chunks of frozen gore. It was safe to say that hex, too, had been mastered.

“Very well. I think that is enough for today.”

Tuncheth stepped forward, and Raphael - who had been smiling down at the remains of what had been more test subject than opponent - frowned. “There are more spells I ought to--”

“You shall, soon. But now you have to come with me. Let your companions keep practicing - plainly, they need to. Desperately.”

Durge may have protested, if that hadn’t been an obvious fact. With a sigh, they went back to practice with Wyll - wondering only faintly about the reason why Tuncheth had come to collect Raphael in such a hurry.

***

Raphael knew who the visitor was the instant he stepped on the ice ledge he’d been directed to, as soon as his eyes fell on the gleaming ruby on top of the rod he was holding. 

The unholy aura he emanated was enough to make any annoyance Raphael still felt melt away into a sort of dread he’d rarely felt before; enough to make him stop mid-stride as though he, too, had been hit by the full power of the Plume. 

Before him, clad in red robes, was an avatar of Asmodeus. 

“You are lucky he found that little plan of yours concerning the Crown of Karsus amusing as well as doomed,” Lady Baalphegor had told him not too long ago. It had annoyed him, then. Now he could only think that he had been lucky indeed, so very lucky, to only face Mephisto’s wrath and not that of the Lord Below.

Raphael swallowed, tried to speak, he had no time to force out a single word before Asmodeus turned and met his gaze.

"Raphael," the Lord Below spoke, and smiled. Even so, those eyes made something at Raphael's very core tremble. “It’s long past time we met. You know who I am.” He turned fully, the ruby rod tapping once on the ice. “Now, let us speak of who you must be.”

***

[Back to Chapter 35]

[On to Chapter 37]

[Back to Start]

[daceystvrk]

dacey nodded. her social circle had been small at school, and ryon wyl had not been part of it. she knew little of him to know if it had been a sporting and spirited action, or if hugo was being polite, as he often was. "either way, you look fine without it," she assured him, with a slight nod of her head.

"thank you. i'm a little embarrassed to say this was all panic-bought at the airport." she had forgotten all about it until they had gone through security, and scraped together what she could. she let out a laugh. "somehow, i'd completely forgotten about ugg boots. i'm not sure what we were thinking with those." she'd definitely had a pair or two of her own in her youth.

a gasp left her, and she shook her head. "oh hugo, congratulations. i'd have sent a gift if i had known." mentally, she added it to her to do list for when she arrived back home. "i'd love to meet her. how long have you two been together, now?" it might seem strange, being on such friendly terms with an ex-boyfriend, but dacey was nothing but happy for him in that moment. "i'm well. my partner and i are living together now, and i finished my residency this year, so i suppose i'm a proper doctor now."

"Oh no, it's fine, Mr. Wyl is sporting and spirited if anything." Hugo spoke with that same smile he always wore. Some would say he spent a lot of time in his political form and while that could arguably be true, he was also the kind of man who knew it was better to start with a smile. His mother always told him that people remember a man with a warm and welcoming smile.

Hugo spoke to the bartender and then put his attention back on her. "You look inspired if I say so myself. Personally, I find myself disappointed there's not a single Ugg boat in the crowd." Hugo laughed at his own joke as he finished his drink, glad for the new one coming his way.

"I'm quite well. I don't know if you've heard but I've been elected MP of Greenwich. Quite an accomplishment, well on my way I'd say. I would introduce you to Ellie Swann, she's somewhere. Perhaps speaking to her brother." He turned back to her. "Tell me how you are."

[myfandomprompts]

𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐞 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟒

Summary: Your journey back to King's Landing was definitely much more peaceful than your arrival.

Warnings: Angst, smut, jealousy

A/N: Angst angst angst angst Masterlist (Part 13 - Part 15)

You woke up in a jump as you heard a huge sound.

Vhagar, being one of the oldest dragons in the world, was not spared from snoring, and in a rather loud bestial manner. Once awake, you looked at the presence underneath you, seeing Aemond still soundly asleep, despite the sun already being high in the sky. You watched his chest rise up and down in calm breathing, taking in his relaxed feature, although quite exhausted, from the travel and the blood he had lost no doubt. You quickly checked his bandages, assuring yourself that it had held during the night before watching him again, listening to his breathing. It was a rare sight, seeing him like this.

Vhagar, being one of the oldest dragons in the world, was not spared from snoring, and in a rather loud bestial manner. Once awake, you looked at the presence underneath you, seeing Aemond still soundly asleep, despite the sun already being high in the sky. You watched his chest rise up and down in calm breathing, taking in his relaxed feature, although quite exhausted, from the travel and the blood he had lost no doubt. You quickly checked his bandages, assuring yourself that it had held during the night before watching him again, listening to his breathing. It was a rare sight, seeing him like this.

He must have sensed your gaze because he came out of his slumber slowly, blinking as he adjusted to the bright light, and straightening his position, the action causing him to groan in pain.

"How do you feel?" you asked as you moved to give him space, feeling suddenly cold now that you left your warm spot beside him.

"Sore and tired. But it will have to do," he replied, lifting his hand to put a strand of your hair behind your ear. You stood up and helped him do the same, before retrieving your belongings and heading to Vhagar who had woken up at the same time as her rider.

You took a moment to look beyond the cliff and into the sea, the sunlight allowing you to see far away now.

"Where are we?" you asked.

"Hm, not far from Wyl, I would guess."

You nodded in acknowledgment, remembering your geography.

"And how long do you think it will take us to get back to King's Landing?"

He hummed again. "It could take as long as you wish. I'm not in a hurry to be back, now that I have you."

"Aemond, you need to see a maester."

"There are plenty of maesters in the Seven Kingdoms, and great healers in the east. Or perhaps the one from Storm's Land will do me a favour in treating me if we stop there." He jested, reaching for provision for you both to use.

His joke made its mark as you laughed darkly, thinking about the welcome you would have if you were to both arrive unannounced at Lord's Baratheon castle. Not a good one for sure.

"Or perhaps he will try to poison you slowly."

It was his turn to chuckle darkly. "He could only try, as I had my own personal healer to tend to me."

You watched him tenderly as he extended his hand for you to mount.

"You first," you said. He looked at you a little surprised before humming again and climbing under your watchful eye. He was surprisingly doing well, considering his injury, and you thought that he was hiding his pain from you on purpose.

"Will my Lady do me the honour of seating at my side now?" he asked, perched on Vhagar, theatrically bowing his head and extending his hand again. You obliged, feeling his arm lift you as you reached the top.

The journey was mostly silent, as you couldn't really hear anything with the wind constantly in your ears. You wondered if you should evoke the subject of what he had confessed yesterday, about him getting married, yesterday. While he was in Dorne, with you.

You decided against it, the fact that you were going back to King's Landing as this very moment surely overtopping every other topic of concerns, considering that Aemond had just kidnapped you from a Dornish House. It will be quite a difficult return, for sure.

Aemond helped you get down from the carriage in the Red Keep's front courtyard, and you didn't even had set a foot on the ground that Alicent was dashing towards you both.

"What in the Seven Hells Aemond! Where were you? It had been days ! Do you realise what your absence means? What you left me to handle of my own?"

"Mother please, settle down, I do not wish to do this now."

"You're injured! What has happened?" she said as she saw the red stain at his side. "Call the maester at once," she yelled behind her.

Then she saw you and her eyes seemed to light up in understanding.

"Aemond, what did you do?" she asked her son in a desperate look, her eyes going from him to you and back.

"Mother, I love you, but right now all I need is medical care and a hot bath. We will talk later."

His tone was firm, and Alicent knew better than to argue. She watched as he took your hand and led you toward Maester Orwyle who had just burst through the door in haste, followed by a servant.

"Please accompany Lady Y/N to my quarters and provide her with anything she asks." he told the servant.

"Your quarters? What about mine?" you asked, bewildered.

"They had been filled with other guests," he simply replied.

"Other guests? What about my family? Where are they, Aemond?" you panicked, your hand squeezing his firmly.

"Later Y/N, for now go rest."

"Aemond, where are they ?" you asked, voice shaking.

"I said later! Now go."

You were led to Aemond's apartments, and doomed to wait there for his return.

You had no idea how long you had waited in his room, but your foot was beginning to hurt from all the tapping around in stress.

What had happened to your father? Surely he had managed to make it home, back to your land, but something inside your head did not forget Aemond's look as he sent you away when trying to draw answers out of him.

After a while, you guessed that he had been retained, now that he was Prince Regent, certainly asked by the Small Council and men of the court as his leave was apparently not planned, Aemond was acting as he wished apparently.

You had started to doze off when the door finally opened to an evidently tired Aemond, dressed in a new attire and bandaged properly underneath his shirt. He did not waste a second as he cast his cloak aside and came to sit in a chair beside you, exhaling in relief.

You watched him with narrowed eyes, wanting for him to feel your intense and accusatory gaze as he took off his eye patch and set it aside. You were a little taken aback by the gesture but you said nothing as you continued to stare.

"My mother is not really happy that my first act as Prince Regent was to fly to Dorne to retrieve a friend of my sister," he said, watching the flames dancing in the fireplace.

"Where are my father and brother?" you asked bluntly. "Are they back in the Westlands?"

Aemond clenched his jaw. "I've spoken too fast, it was my second act as Prince Regent. The first being to demote the Vances from Duskendale and to send them elsewhere."

You let his words sink in, imagining Aemond commanding a powerless Addam with a royal order.

"You will be happy to know that your traitor of a father departed while I was away, obviously not heeding my warning, and is now back at his stronghold, at Deep Den."

You let a breath out you didn't know you were holding until then. You averted your eyes at the fire momentarily before reporting it back to Aemond, curiosity taking you.

"What about Add-, I mean, what about House Vance? What did you mean? Where did you send them?"

Aemond turned his face toward you, his sapphire eye glowing as he talked softly, almost apologetic.

"I could not let a Lord desert his King without impunity Y/N. So I ordered dear Lord Denys Vance to retrieve your father in Deep Den and bring him back here. By any means."

Your eyes blurred as you could not believe it. You refused. You felt your eyes water.

"No..."

"I am sorry Y/N, but it is betrayal. He took the opportunity of my family's absence to send you away and leave himself without a trace, and your father knew of the consequences. I had warned him, as I did you," he watched softly as he saw your tears rolling down your cheeks. "It is better this way, trust me. Once your family gets here, all will be sorted out."

You cried silently as you lifted your palm to your mouth in disarray, looking into emptiness, controlling your breathing.

You felt his hand on your arm, fingers rubbing your skin, and you took it.

You didn't know why you didn't hate him at this moment, but the undeniable fact was that you didn't. It was beyond your understanding, beyond your control. All of what Aemond had done, it was for you to be together, and you understood that despite your better judgement. Being near him, allowed you to talk with him, reason with him, prevent him from making decisions that could harm your family further, at least you hoped. Slowly, but surely, you were convinced that Aemond would listen to you, that you will influence him enough to make him give up his hold on your family. If he cared for you even just half as much as you cared for him, you were confident that it would work. And you will never experience the pain of being apart from him again.

You remained seated in your chair for a long time, Aemond respecting your silence, the feeling of his fingers caressing the back of your hand as your sole link to reality.

After a while you sat up, your tears had dried on your cheeks. Aemond watched as you stared at the fire some more, unsure of what you would do, his hand still in yours, tugging it gently to make you look at him. You did, and at the same time you looked around, as if you were discovering the place for the first time.

"Where will I sleep? I don't have my apartments any more."

"Here," he simply replied.

"But this is your quarters," you said, confused.

"I know. This is why you are welcome here. You already know the place. You will have your quarters in time, I will see to it."

He tugged at your hand to pull you closer as he said that, putting his other hand over your arm in a soft manner. You saw him bite the inside of his cheek at the movement, lowering his arm at once.

"How is your wound?" you wondered, and as if you wanted to see it, to touch it, you were drawn to sit on his lap, your body moving on his own. It seemed so natural for you, to act like this with him.

Aemond was surprised at the action, but adapted quickly as he shifted in order to make you more comfortable, putting his hand on your thigh.

"It will heal quickly, Master Orwyle said to not strain myself too much. I think he believes me to be some reckless boy."

You smiled at that, putting your finger over the fabric where his wound was, pensively.

"And what of... Aegon?" you asked, careful.

Aemond bit his lips, eye reporting to the fire, making his sapphire glow more.

"He will live. Everyone is praying for his recovery, he has plenty of care. Helaena is the one who is... not taking it well, to put it lightly."

You looked up at him, then nodded in understanding. You perfectly imagined sensible and sweet Helaena not being able to take such tragedy and sulk into silence and loneliness. You sympathised with Aemond's pain.

"I can't wait to see her again," you gently said.

He was now stroking your thigh where your dress did not cover it, as to occupy himself elsewhere than on the conversation.

"I very much like your dress. Since I saw it in Sandstone in fact. It's a shame it's black."

You went to fiddle the fabric that covered part of your belly absently. "I quite like it too, it was a gift from-" you stopped yourself, not wanting to put Aemond in a bad mood in uttering a name he would surely not like. It did not fail.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance. "I will offer you other dresses, and anything else you want. You just have to ask."

"I don't want your gifts Aemond..." you said with a sad smile.

"Then what do you want Y/N?"

You let a moment pass. "You know what I want."

He looked around in irritation. "I cannot make your father return on his own accord, not until he learns that you are here. You will have to be patient."

"I know that, I only…” you stammered, not leaving his gaze, full of meaning. “It’s you, you’re…”

He froze, his eye blinked almost imperceptibly before looking away, a shameful look on his face. You took his chin, making him face you again, and kissed him softly, as if afraid to hurt him. You felt him tense a little under you before his grip tightened on your thigh as he grabbed your waist with his free hand.

When you pulled away to find his eyes closed, you took the opportunity to touch the scar on his face, sensing him relaxing under your touch.

"Why won't you say it?" he asked, watching your swollen lips.

"I-, I don't know..."

He hummed, face unreadable as you felt his hand go to the back of your neck and pulls you in a kiss again, his grip warm on your skin.

It was gentle, at first. You felt light-headed as he poured his soul into the kiss, but then you felt his finger touch a sensitive spot further into your thigh and your body stiffened. In reaction you felt your body move and you went to straddle him, shifting your position in order to press your body into his.

He breathed sharply, his lips still on yours as he grabbed your hips to hold you into place as he felt your warmth overcome him. You were enthralled at how he made you feel, your hands travelling from his chest to his shoulder, wrapping them around his neck and tugging his hair. At the same time, you had moved your entire body in order to tower over him, seeking entrance with your tongue into his mouth, sometimes biting his lips in hunger. You soon felt him harden underneath you, and his breath became heavier, mirroring yours.

You moved your hips once again, seeking to indulge your aching body of its need, and you felt Aemond groan before stiffening, squeezing your hips harder and breaking the kiss. He then ordered you to stop moving.

You did as you were told, a little confused at the demand and dizzy by your current state, but you now looked at him with worried eyes. His own was agitated, his arousal evident from his features, but at the same time he displayed sheer determination. At this moment, it was taking all of his strength to not take you right here and now. He took several heavy breaths to settle, waiting for him to speak.

"When I returned, with my brother half alive, and I discovered that you were gone, I thought I would go mad." he said in an icy voice, not reflecting his current state in the least. It scared you slightly. "Then I understood that you father had gone, clearly defecting to the other side, I became enraged. But it was not the worst part."

He watched you warily, not even breathing, carefully lowering your hand from his shoulder.

"You once said that I broke your heart. But do you have any idea of what you did to mine? How I felt then?" he asked, his voice shaking through his anger, tone low. "Get up."

You stood at once, a little afraid as you saw him do the same and it was his turn to tower over you, his face close to yours.

"I was going to fix things, I was to sort it out, make you happy, make us happy. But your father had decided for you before I could even try. And you were gone again, out of reach." He pulled a strand of your hair behind your ear, but his jaw was clenched in clear irritation. "And for that, I think you need to not be indulged, only for a while."

You were too stunned to say anything, you saw the pain in his eye, beyond his anger, and you hated it, hated what you had inflicted to him.

He was playing with the necklace hanging from your neck, watching the pearls rise up and down as you breathed anxiously.

Seeing you like this, panting, in a dishevelled state, your skin glowing at the light, made his lower belly throb in anticipation, barely holding himself from touching you all over. But he was trying to make a point.

He let go of you before retrieving his usual stature. "You will sleep here. You will not be bothered, especially not by me."

He snatched his eye patch from behind him, and walked away, not even bothering to look back at you. You were stunned, you had not expected the turn of events, but most of all, you felt bad, your throat felt tight as you watched him leave.

Aemond had no desire to hurt you, but he needed you to understand, to make you feel like he felt about you, just for a moment. It was not the best solution, but this is all that he was capable of.

As he walked down the corridors, he concluded that a cold bath would not be enough to ease his current state. So he decided to retire into a secluded place and relieve himself there, imagining you on his lap.

-0- Part 15

@let-love-bleeds-red @crazylokonugget @jeyramarie @ephemeralninon @mrswhitethornbelikov @dudfahsn @missusnora @queenofterrasen418 @honeytrapsblogp-graham @heathclifftragedyy @discowizard88 @ivartheblessed @xceafh @bubbletae7 @omgkatherine97 @tzipora-art @signyvenetia @ml0103 @nsainmoonchild @lonadane @skythighs @bietchz @samnblack @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @projectcampbell @ripdragonbeans @caribbeangal @polireader

[nerajaana]

Hello, not your recent rude anon. I just wanted to drop in and say that I love your work! It's so gorgeous, I don't have enough words to describe how good it's. I envy your talent (nothing malicious tho). Also, you make this fandom a better place so thank you. (Definitely envy your irl friends too) I was just wondering what are your favorite moments/scenes with Arya since she's your favourite.

Nonnie staaahp you’re wayyy too kind pls thank you ily💚💚💚

Arya, oh how I adore her my darling girl🥺💓😩😭💕 George for the love of all that’s in existence at the very least release the braavos novella as a companion piece to twow or something I need some happy Arya chapters gimme Arya hanging out with her friends in the marketplace

I just realized I had answered a similar ask a while ago😅 but I think I’ll do a part 2 (there’s just.....so many moments argh how I love her, she owns my heart istg)

In no particular order:

Arya screwed up her face in a scowl. “Jaime Lannister murdered Jory and Heward and Wyl, and the Hound murdered Mycah. Somebody should have beheaded them.”

Ned stopped and looked at her. “Arya, what are you doing?” “Syrio says a water dancer can stand on one toe for hours.” Her hands flailed at the air to steady herself. Ned had to smile. “Which toe?” he teased. “Any toe,” Arya said, exasperated with the question.  (Too cute I cri)

When at last she slept, she dreamed of home. The kingsroad wound its way past Winterfell on its way to the Wall, and Yoren had promised he'd leave her there with no one any wiser about who she'd been. She yearned to see her mother again, and Robb and Bran and Rickon . . . but it was Jon Snow she thought of most. She wished somehow they could come to the Wall before Winterfell, so Jon might muss up her hair and call her "little sister." She'd tell him, "I missed you," and he'd say it too at the very same moment, the way they always used to say things together. She would have liked that. She would have liked that better than anything.

Yes, it’s you who ought to run, you and Lord Tywin and the Mountain and Ser Addam and Ser Amory and stupid Ser Lyonel whoever he is, all of you better run or my brother will kill you, he’s a Stark, he’s more wolf than man, and so am I.

"Lommy, you keep Weasel here." He grabbed the little girl by the hand and pulled her close. "What if the wolves come?" "Yield," Arya suggested.

She would make much better time on her own, Arya knew, but she could not leave [Gendry and Hot Pie]. They were her pack, her friends

Alone, she slid through the shadow of the Tower of Ghosts. She walked fast, to keep ahead of her fear, and it felt as though Syrio Forel walked beside her, and Yoren, and Jaqen H'ghar, and Jon Snow.

“Harwin, it’s me, don’t you know me, don’t you?” The tears came, and she found herself weeping like a baby, just like some stupid little girl. “Harwin, it’s me!” Harwin’s eyes went from her face to the flayed man on her doublet. “How do you know me?” he said, frowning suspiciously. “The flayed man … who are you, some serving boy to Lord Leech?” For a moment she did not know how to answer. She’d had so many names. Had she only dreamed Arya Stark? “I’m a girl,” she sniffed. “I was Lord Bolton’s cupbearer but he was going to leave me for the goat, so I ran off with Gendry and Hot Pie. You have to know me! You used to lead my pony, when I was little.” His eyes went wide, "Gods be good," he said in a choked voice. "Arya Underfoot? Lem, let go of her.".... "She broke my nose." Lem dumped her unceremoniously to the floor. "Who in seven hells is she supposed to be?"…........"The Hand's daughter." Harwin went to one knee before her. "Arya Stark, of Winterfell." (Ugly sobbing)

The Tickler backed away. Arya could smell his fear. The shortsword in his hand suddenly seemed almost a toy against the long blade the Hound was holding, and he wasn't armored either. He moved swiftly, light on his feet, never taking his eyes off Sandor Clegane. It was the easiest thing in the world for Arya to step up behind him and stab him. "Is there gold hidden in the village?" she shouted as she drove the blade up through his back. "Is there silver? Gems?" She stabbed twice more. "Is there food? Where is Lord Beric?" She was on top of him by then, still stabbing. "Where did he go? How many men were with him? How many knights? How many bowmen? How many, how many, how many, how many, how many, how many? Is there gold in the village?" Her hands were red and sticky when Sandor dragged her off him. "Enough," was all he said. He was bleeding like a butchered pig himself, and dragging one leg when he walked. (Only pain nothing else)

Arya watched and listened and polished her hates the way Gendry had once polished his horned helm. Dunsen wore them now, and she hated him for it. She hated Polliver for Needle, and she hated old Chiswyck who thought he was funny(he was laughing about participating in gang rape). And Raff the Sweetling, who’d driven his spear through Lommy’s throat, she hated even more. She hated Ser Amory Lorch for Yoren, and she hated Ser Meryn Trant for Syrio, the Hound for killing the butcher’s boy, Mycah, and Ser Ilyn and Prince Joffrey and the queen for the sake of her father and Fat Tom and Desmond and the rest, and even for Lady, Sansa’s wolf.

Arya stared at the face carved into its trunk. It was a terrible face, its mouth twisted, its eyes flaring and full of hate. Is that what a god looked like? Could gods be hurt, the same as people? I should pray, she thought suddenly. Arya went to her knees. She wasn’t sure how she should begin. She clasped her hands together. Help me, you old gods, she prayed silently. Help me get those men out of the dungeon so we can kill Ser Amory, and bring me home to Winterfell. Make me a water dancer and a wolf and not afraid again, ever.

Winterfell, she might have said. I smell snow and smoke and pine needles. I smell the stables. I smell Hodor laughing, and Jon and Robb battling in the yard, and Sansa singing about some stupid lady fair. I smell the crypts where the stone kings sit, I smell hot bread baking, I smell the godswood. I smell my wolf, I smell her fur, almost as if she were still beside me

Even sewing was more fun than tongues, she told herself, after a night when she had forgotten half the words she thought she knew, and pronounced the other half so badly that the waif had laughed at her.  My sentences are as crooked as my stitches used to be. If the girl had not been so small and starved, Arya would have smashed her stupid face.  Instead she gnawed her lip.  Too stupid to learn and too stupid to give up. (My baby is the the epitome of perseverance)

"Thank you," Sam told the girl when they were gone.........."Are you truly in the Night's Watch? I never saw a black brother like you before." The girl gestured at the barrow. "You can have the last clams if you want. It's dark, no one will buy them now.”

Have a lovely day ahead nonnie💛

[northernroyal]

the first time

chapter four

a vow only for you

ao3 and ffn

The first time he ever crossed enemy lines it was for her. After Lyanna had retreated to her rooms, Arthur had spent the rest of the night planning. He made her a promise and even though she thought he wouldn’t keep it, he was going to try his damndest.

He had enough gold to cross over to Essos, but those funds wouldn’t last long. Not to mention the supplies needed for the journey to the nearest port wouldn’t last either. The sun had yet to crest when he heard the familiar footsteps on the stairs outside his room. He let out a long sigh as the door crept open with a low groan.

“I know of a captain near Wyl who will take us east, but I haven’t an idea where to port.” His hands were pushed down against the table and his head hung low as he glanced across the maps spread out in front of him. “Braavos would be the best. But that long of a journey might leave a trail behind.” As his rambling continued, he noticed she hadn’t moved from the doorway. When his eyes finally darted up towards her, he noticed her furrowed brows.

“What is all this Arthur?” She was looking at him as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. She took another step into the room pulling the door shut tightly behind her. Her eyes began to survey the mess laid out on the table before her. She stumbled back against the door and let out a frenzied breath. “Have you gone absolutely mad?” Arthur was taken back by the fierceness in her voice. She made her way to the front windows that overlooked the only road to the tower. With her back towards him, Arthur could see the stiff position she held herself in. He saw the motion of her head as if she was searching for something. Arthur felt a chill go through his body. Surely he hadn’t misread the situation. She wanted to leave, right?

As she turned toward him, the swirling steel of her eyes held him still. “The prince could return at any moment. What do you expect to happen when he returns and finds you planning my escape?” His gaze never left hers even as she marched her way towards him. Her glare was hard as she stopped only a foot or two in front of him. His stomach turned to knots as she stared him down. There was a wariness in her voice he wasn’t able to decipher. Was she worried more about the prince finding out than she was about ever leaving this place?

The silence hung heavy in the air. Her question still unanswered, Lyanna shook her head and took a step closer. When her eyes had returned to his, Arthur saw a sadness he hadn’t noticed before. Her hands rested on his waist as she stared up at him.

“This is reckless, Arthur. If he ever found out, he would kill you. Your past together won’t matter. He has plans for me. I told you. He seemed almost fanatical yesterday. He wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of you if he thought you were in his way.” She got angrier the longer she spoke. She made to pull away, but Arthur grasped her forearms and pulled her back to him before she could leave him. “I won’t let you get pulled into this. I did this. I made this stupid mistake.” Her voice, which had started out fierce, seemed to break all at once.

“I know you think you have to save me, but I don’t want you to. My father and brother died because of what I did because of the choices I made. I will carry their deaths with me for however long I have left. I can’t carry yours too Arthur.” Her eyes were downturned and pooled with tears when she finished speaking. Arthur grasped her chin before she could pull away. When her eyes met his, he was scared of the finality he saw there.

“I think you underestimate me. I made you a promise Lyanna and I intend to keep it.” His words did little to reassure her. She tilted her head and gave him a sad smile as she began to pull away. He pulled her back firmer than he had ever been with her. She stumbled into his chest. Her hands grasped his tunic. He started to speak before he let her body pressed against his effect him.

“No! Listen to me Lyanna. I’m not letting you stay here and I’m not sending you out to sea by yourself. I don’t care if you don’t want my help.” He was breathing harder than normal. He tried to control the volume of his voice but everything seemed harder to control with her pressed so close to him.” My death would be my own, not yours. It would be my choice. A choice I would be glad to make. A choice I would make over and over again.” Arthur's voice started to waver. He took a deep breath before he placed his hands on her neck. “It would be the easiest choice I’ve ever had to make.” He felt a shiver go through her body as he rubbed his thumbs along her jaw.

Her eyes had fluttered close as his lips ghosted over hers. He held her close, never pushing for more. The words left him before he realized his mouth was moving. “You’re not leaving without me Lyanna. You hold my heart in your hands. I’d die of a broken heart before I’d die on Rhaegar’s sword.”

Arthur swore she could hear his heartbeat in the silence that followed his confession. Her previously closed eyes seemed to be searching every inch of him. Before he could take it back or make up some weak excuse, she was pushing up into him. Her hands, still clutching his shirt, pulled him down to her. Her lips moved against his with reverence.

When she pulled away, his lips followed just as hers did only hours before. Unlike last night, Lyanna welcomed Arthur’s chasing lips. His groan filled the room. His body was working faster than his mind. In no time at all he had Lyanna pushed up against the table with one leg wrapped around him. His hand moved up her knee and around her thigh, pulling the light dress she wore with it. The need to breathe soon proved too much. Both pulled away, panting. Arthur’s mouth quickly returned leaving open mouth kisses along her jaw before settling on her neck. His desperation poured through him and onto her. Every moan and whine and gasp that he pulled from her only added more fuel to the burning that was soon to overtake him.

“Arthur…” The desperate moan of his name quickly pulled him back to reality. He pulled himself away from her neck. Her cheeks were stained red, her eyes were closed, and her lips were parted.

“Wherever you need me that’s where I’ll be.” Arthur felt what little control he held over his own feelings slip away. Looking at her left him bare. Any defense he had fell away when she returned his gaze. He knew by now that her eyes showed everything. For the first time in all the months he had known her, he saw an openness that hadn’t been there before. He saw something he had been hoping to see for weeks. She finally believed him.

“I never wanted to hurt anyone or see anyone get hurt. I just... I didn’t want to marry Robert.” Lyanna pulled away and made her way around the table picking up the spare maps and documents along the way. “And it was selfish. And stupid. And I wish I could take it back.” She stood across the room from him. All evidence of his would be treason held firmly against her chest. “I lost my father and my brother. I won't lose another. If your words are true, let us leave now. But not across the sea.” Arthur heard the fierceness in her voice but her eyes were pleading.

“I’ve already told you I don’t want you to save me, but would you run away with me?” Her words were earnest and held a bit of sadness. As if he would deny her. Her mouth was already moving before he had the chance to answer. ”Because I am quite sure if I hold your heart in my hands than min-”

Arthur made his way around the table grabbing his greatsword along the way. Lyanna fell silent at his sudden movement. He fell to his knee before her, laying Dawn across the other. He looked up to her hoping she saw his sincerity.

“My sword is yours, my shield is yours, I am yours. I swear it by the old gods and the new.” Arthur had made many vows in his life. Those as a knight had been easy to follow, be brave and just, defend and protect the young and innocent. But those as a Kingsguard had been harder seeing as they often clashed with those of being a knight in Aery’s court. They had all been easy vows to make but harder to keep as the years went on.

“By the old gods and the new..” The whispered words pierced through the silence in the room.

[xmenwickedgame]

❤️🧡💛Pride Headcanons💚💙💜

Hey gang!

Since it’s Pride Month, I figured I’d make a post exclusively dedicated to my muses gender+sexuality headcanons. I’m not going to include characters like Oliver and Raven since I don’t write for them that often.

Prime universe:

Charles Xavier - Formerly bisexual, now identifies as asexual biromantic. Tends to keep the second bit to himself as he believes himself too damaged to be an adequate partner (and after being hurt by Erik, is extremely reluctant to fall in love again.)

James Xavier - James identifies as heterosexual, but he’s actual bisexual, with a very strong preference towards women (like an 80 - 20 ratio.) He hasn’t come across any men he’s attracted to yet, but his doppelganger has... James is a bit of a weird one in that he’s almost exclusively attracted to extraterrestrial women XD (Does that make him pansexual?)

Vivian Lehnsherr (Ice Queen) - Bisexual, but with a strong preference towards women.  She’s experienced attraction to men in the past, but has only been with women. 

David Xavier (adult) - Graysexual. He doesn’t usually experience sexual attraction, but every so often Violet draws it out of him.

Blake Summers - Heterosexual but desperately wishes he were asexual and aromantic and tried to live that lifestyle due to high anxiety...at least until he met Laura.

Professor X - This version of X never surfaces long enough to dedicate any time to himself, so he loosely considers himself asexual. He’s actually gay, but probably won’t discover that in the Prime Universe </3

Doppelganger universe:

Charles Xavier - Demisexual/Graysexual. He isn’t entirely sure and tends not to dwell on it. Formerly identified as asexual before a heated debate with Magneto ended with them in bed. For this version of Charles, his sex drive is primarily tied to intense emotion and his inability to get over Erik Lehnsherr.

James Darkholme - Bisexual, with a strong preference towards women (same ratio as James Prime.) He thought he was straight for the longest time, until he joined Torchwood and found himself crushing on Captain Jack Harkness. 

Vivian Lehnsherr - Bisexual, with a strong preference towards men. She has experienced attraction to both before, although hasn’t been with a woman (yet??) She’s still in love with Charles Xavier and right now, that keeps getting in the way.

Malekith - Panromantic, possibly asexual or demisexual. He’s not really sure and since regenerating into Tennant’s face, hasn’t taken any time to figure that out. As a Dark Elf, he identified as asexual.

Wyl Darkholme - Non-binary. They’re still figuring out their sexuality but might be gay?

Dark!Blake - Heterosexual. Still possesses lingering anxiety but after learning to control his powers, he’s less afraid of physical touch.

Second Chances:

Charles Xavier - Asexual Biromantic, with a preference towards men. Mostly Erik. They’re happily married and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Second Chances Charles tends to use telepathic intimacy as a substite for sexual intimacy. Wherever that puts him, he’s happy with.

X - Gay but also possibly demisexual? He really only experiences attraction towards Erik, but that might be because Erik is the only man to sit down and really get to know him.

Vivian Lehnsherr - Similar to her doppelganger universe counterpart, she’s bisexual with a strong preference towards men. She still hasn’t been with a woman but had an on-again, off-again relationship with Remy LeBeau before meeting her future husband.

Guinevere Lehnsherr - Asexual Aromantic. She’s perfectly content with familial love and support.

Rahne Sinclair - because I really wanna get the New Mutants storyline off the ground again— Rahne is gay but is still learning to openly accept that part of herself. She’s never really had a safe place to do that </3

@secondchancesmagneto @canspotatimeagent @missgreentelepath @deitysmuses @the-renegade-child-of-time @rileymcdaniels @jennymaltzurrak

[sunontherhoyne]

I get House Bolton vibes from House Wyl. Whenever we hear about Dornish atrocities, they’re always the House that seems to be solely responsible or involved.

I get that as the frontline house against the Stormlands for hundreds of years, they have to have a higher degree of viciousness to act as the first line of defence. But I’d keep my distance from those guys for sure. There’s definitely a dark side with that house in particular.

Do you agree?

Yeah, this is a large part of why I don't think the Ullers are the ones that are crazy. I mean, the only thing sketchy we know about the Ullers is how they shot down Meraxes and may or may not have tortured Rhaenys. Well, that and how their keep is called the Hellholt and they live on the Brimstone river, which isn't enough evidence imo.

The Wyls, on the other hand... yeah, they're the real dark ones. Go look at their wiki page, especially for the Wyl of Wyl. If any house should be considered crazy, it's them.

[dgchg]

his eyes and horns and spinal plates blood red

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He will be sadly missed by his adidas mariposas wife of 19 years Fern (McEwing); sons Ross (Shelley); John (Nellie); Paul (Heidi); step daughters Lori McDougall (Ren); Janice McDougall (Tony); his 13 grandchildren; mother in law Ruth McEwing as well as many nieces and nephews.. This could possibly give a too conservative vibe. As his crew gathered, whispering and trading glances, he raised a charred and blackened hand. If it were only possible (which, however, from the laws of human nature never can be possible), if it were possible for every one of us to describe all his secret thoughts, without hesitating to disclose what he is afraid to tell and would not on any account tell other people, what he is afraid to tell his best friends, what, indeed, he is even at times afraid маратонки puma mercedes amg to confess to himself, the world would be filled with such a stench that we should all be suffocated. 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Shoppers hit stores and websites at record numbers over the Thanksgiving weekend, according to a survey released by the National Retail Federation on Sunday. His new Unsullied are an obscene jape. A recent study at the University of Toronto showed that teams playing group sports had better overall mental health and less stress. Derry, Ashley and Andrew entered solo and were put into a group with two other contestants, who Tulisa replaced with Charlie. I had that happen the other night with a project that was just fine minutes before. Braavos would have suited me better, but Lynesse wanted someplace warm. The actual distinct factor that we are able to provide with the technology of using the electrodes is that we make sure that moderate execution is taking place.. Also enjoy strolls through the art galleries, an Asian inspired fashion show and copious food and drinks. It was thrice the size of his captain’s cabin on Black Bessa, and even larger than the cabin Salladhor Saan enjoyed on his Valyrian. She would not see them either. More than that. Part One: Millennium Approaches will be captured live and broadcast to cinemas on Thursday, July 20 and Part Two: Perestroika will be captured lived and broadcast to cinemas on Thursday, July 27.. Upon this announcement, the audience cheered loudly. But only in the royal tent. And for the rest of that long night they let her sleep.

[absolxguardian]

“Riot was allowed to land on the forest moon. The locals didn’t speak Basic but they were kind, and they’d taken their own losses. The celebration went on for hours, and we’d go from crying to cheering to just sitting with one another and looking at the stars. 

“It was intense, and pretty late in the night Skitcher and Sonogari both needed some space to process it all. I’d been with them so I figured I’d take a walk, and just…see it all. Take it in and remember it. I didn’t know anyone besides Riot Squadron, but watching everyone else—” 

“Right, you’re a wuss,” Chass said. “I got that part.” 

Wyl caught her gaze and looked abashed. He resumed as if he hadn’t been interrupted: “I went for a walk. People were still eating and cheering but I ended up out on the edge of the village. There was a bonfire, and I saw someone standing alone in front of it.

“He was a man. I thought he looked familiar so I got a little closer. When I got a better angle and the fire lit his face, I realized it was Skywalker. I’d never met him; I just recognized him from images.” 

Chass shifted forward. Luke Skywalker, the Jedi hero, savior of the Rebellion. If anyone else had told the story, she’d have called it braggadocio; but Wyl sounded almost contrite. 

“I didn’t want to interrupt him. He looked sad and thoughtful, like he was mourning and maybe also relieved. Like he’d unburdened himself. I should’ve turned away, but then I saw—I realized what the fire was. It was a funeral pyre. I didn’t see the body, but I saw the armor.”

Chass frowned. “The armor?” 

“It was black, a little bit like a stormtrooper’s but ornate and…old, like something from the early days of the Republic. It looked familiar the way Skywalker did, and I knew: It was Darth Vader.”

 “Okay…?” Chass said. She parted her lips, closed them again. Vader had been a story to her—the Emperor’s nightmarish enforcer, rebel-hunter, and genocidal freak; one of the worst monsters in the whole cabal of criminals who’d run the galaxy. But she had no connection to the man, felt nothing but confusion and a dull horror. “Was he part of the fighting on Endor? I don’t remember hearing—”

“No. I don’t think so. Rumor was that Skywalker was aboard the Death Star, so he must’ve found Vader there. He must’ve brought him back. Brought the body back to cremate it.” 

“Maybe he brought it back for a bioscan?” She spoke without conviction, trying to make sense of the story. “Making sure it wasn’t a body double?”

“Maybe. I don’t think so.” Wyl drew a long breath. “It was that look that he had—like he was remembering Vader’s life. Like he felt grief. I don’t doubt that Skywalker did all the good they say, but it felt wrong to have Vader there, when we’d just lost so many people fighting everything Vader represented…” 

Wyl was shaking. 

“It’s okay,” she said. 

He finally held her gaze. “I don’t know what Vader meant to him. I believe in grace and compassion, and that no one deserves to die in war. Even so, I watched Skywalker and Vader and I can’t shake the thought that maybe there are some crimes that shouldn’t be forgiven. That there must be some line we shouldn’t cross.”

-Alphabet Squadron- Victory’s Price

I’m a really big fan of this scene. Wyl is an absolute cinnamon role. Like he says, he has trouble justifying killing imperials. But there’s a big difference between the Emperor’s right-hand man and a footsoldier- like those who Wyl tries to talk with. I’m glad canon has finally addressed just how baffling Luke grieving Vader is to outsiders, and I think that even if Wyl knew the whole story- unless Polynean has a big filial piety thing- he would still struggle with it. 

Alexander Freed has said that part of what he wanted to do with Quell is address what happens after redemption, something Star Wars hasn’t really done. And yeah, Quell is a lot like Vader. She’s also an executor of a genocide, and has never really been driven by ideology, but rather personal connections. And so much of the series is about whether or not she deserves forgiveness for Narconcis, and the theme in the end is that it doesn’t matter. 

[linskywords]

how do you think WYL jack would react to nico getting injured? it’s on the brain rn because he’s day to day but i know he’s had worse injuries before. how does jack handle his main source of steadiness being threatened? can they still scene if they’re physically limited or would jack be too worried about nico to even want to?

(in a similar vein but the opposite direction, i imagine jack being soooo insufferable and smug when nico is named captain because that’s HIS dom lol the fun of WYL ending when it did is thinking about all the jacknico milestones that came after!!)

WAIT SORRY re: my earlier ask i just realized nico was already captain in WYL before they got together lol ignore that part, i totally had a brain fart

'Tis true! But I bet he is super happy and smug about all of Nico's achievements. Nico is the best dom and he thinks Jack is the best sub which means Jack IS the best sub. Case closed.

The injury thing sucks, I'm sure. (Side note: there were actually several injuries during the spring where most of the WYL action takes place, and I ended up pretending they didn't happen because it felt better for the story. AU = cheating is extra allowed!) I don't think it's super threatening to Jack's well-being, though. He's so much more stable overall now that he's realized he's a sub and is getting what he needs on a regular basis. He doesn't like having to travel without Nico, but he can definitely handle it.

As for how they scene -- I think there's so much they can do even if Nico isn't up for much physical activity. He can definitely put Jack under with only his voice, for example. He wouldn't get him fully into subspace when he isn't physically there -- like he said about his former scene partner during the pandemic lockdown, that wouldn't be safe -- but there are degrees of it, and even over the phone he can get Jack pretty dreamy and have him get himself off, and then stay on the phone with him during the time they'd normally be cuddling. And when they're in the same place there are SO many possibilities. Like, say, Jack kneeling between Nico's knees and sucking him and touching himself while Nico keeps telling him when to stop, until they're both edged to within an inch of their sanity. Or Jack spread out on the bed, tied except for one hand, so that Nico can tell him how to touch himself. Or just a busy day where Jack's been at the rink and he's also been running around taking care of Nico, and Nico makes him stop, and kneel next to the couch, and then Nico strokes his hair and whispers good things to him until Jack feels every ounce of care slide right off his shoulders. Nico doesn't let him up until he can see the relaxation in every line of his body.

[rebelsofshield]

Star Wars: Shadow Fall-Review

The second installment of Alexander Freed’s Alphabet Squadron trilogy is a character driven story of survival and personal growth that ranks among the best novels to come out of Star Wars in years.

(Review contains minor spoilers)

For the first time in the Galactic Civil War, both sides are in equal footing. With the death of the Emperor and the cataclysmic events following the Battle of Endor, The Empire has fallen into disarray and chaos. No central leadership exists and the once terrifying fascist force has split into different factions vying for survival. The New Republic fairs no better. Caught between mopping up between Imperial holdouts and trying to establish a government of its own, the former Rebellion is stumbling as well. All sides are scrambling to make sense of a new galactic order. Caught in the middle of this mess are the ragtag starfighters of Alphabet Squadron. Lead by a guilt ridden Yrica Quell, these five war weary pilots make a new desperate ploy to capture the still elusive and dangerous forces of Shadow Wing, a deadly TIE Fighter regiment that remains one of the Empire’s strongest remaining assets. However, Shadow Wing faces its own test of survival, now under control of Quell’s former mentor, Soran Keize.

Alphabet Squadron was one of the biggest and best surprise hits of last year. While Alexander Freed had already cut his teeth on writing Star Wars with the mostly underwhelming Battlefront: Twilight Company and the novelization for Rogue One, the first in his starfighter trilogy kicked off with an emotional and character driven drama that proved compelling from the getgo. Freed’s prose is dense and detailed and arguably more so than any other current prose writer working for Lucasfilm has the ability to make the world of the Galaxy Far, Far Away feel lived in. There’s an attention to on the streets storytelling. Our characters are fleshed out, flawed, and emotional characters, but they are far from the larger than life icons we see in much of Star Wars. They are part of the galactic swell of millions caught in the middle of a conflict that will change the shape of their society for decades to come.

It’s this feeling of upheaval and cultural shift that gives Shadow Fall much of its success. Freed paints the last year of the Galactic Civil War as a transitional period and while Chuck Wendig’s Aftermath trilogy may have been about the end point of this transformation, Shadow Fall concerns itself with the tough growing pains of societal metamorphosis. As Alphabet Squadron and their fellow New Republic allies attempt to liberate a planetary system orbiting a black hole, they have to contend with their own spread thin forces but also with their place as galactic liberators. They are no longer scrappy rebellious underdogs, but representatives of one government ousting another. Similarly, Soran Keize finds his leadership of Shadow Wing borrowing more and more from the Rebellion, with strategy shifting from wartime to success to the physical and mental health of the men in his charge. Freed creates a general feeling throughout of shaky footing and unease. The end point of the war is well in hand, but nobody is quite sure what it might entail and that proves to be something that drives introspection not only morally and politically, but also spiritually.

Freed’s ability to layer the Galaxy Far, Far Away with detail and nuance remains a strength, but the overall success of Alphabet Squadron proved to be its cast of compelling characters. By the end of its page length, we left the first novel of this series with a dynamic central cast, each with their own wants and weaknesses, and even a collection of memorable supporting characters. Shadow Fall continues that trend here, and while some standouts from the last novel such as Kairos and Nath Tensent (the former in particular) don’t get enough time in the spotlight, Freed digs in deeper with many of his cast than ever before. Following the likes of The Empire Strikes Back, Shadow Fall takes the middle chapter route of separating its heroes and putting them through the emotional ringer.

Yrica Quell remains the most complicated and compelling of the bunch. With her New Republic intelligence handler, Caern Adan, now aware of her secret participation in the genocidal Operation Cinder, Quell finds herself at risk with her fellow pilots. Freed fills her chapters with a sense of hesitancy, tension, and guilt ridden trauma as Quell tries to navigate the comfort of her new life with the looming atrocities of her past. Shadow Fall takes Quell on a twisting and harrowing journey and she ends the novel in an unexpected place that is sure to shake things up for the final installment likely coming next year.

In contrast, Soran Keize makes for an interesting new take on the sympathetic Imperial antagonist. It’s rare that we see a member of the Galactic Empire written with this amount of emotional depth and empathy. There’s a rightful hesitancy to paint representatives of sci-fi fascism with humanity and typically once a Stormtrooper or officer starts to show a hint of light, it means they are redemption bound. Keize makes for a fascinating inversion of this. We first met him having already deserted the Empire, trying to eke out life under a new name and purpose. Keize ended Alphabet Squadron with a decision to rejoin the Empire, but his role in Shadow Fall is far from fanatical patriotism. Instead, Keize becomes a steward for Shadow Wing, attempting to protect the men and women under his command from death and despair. It’s a more humanistic approach than we’ve seen from an Imperial before and it gives the battles at the novel’s climax an additional weight.

Other standouts prove to be Wyl Lark and Chass na Chadic. Lark made an impression and quickly became a fan favorite out of Alphabet Squadron due to his unshakeable moral character and optimism. In a series that approaches being dour in its chaos and bloodshed, Freed strongly balances out the ensemble with a character that feels as attuned to the light as Lark. Shadow Fall maneuvers him into a leadership position that he finds himself taking on  maybe a bit too much responsibility and complicated even further by the intense empathy he feels for the empathy at every step. Freed paints Lark as a good man that isn’t made into a bad one by the horrors of war, but finds himself struggling to find the right thing to do at all times. It makes for compelling and hopeful conflict.

Chass na Chadic, the music spewing B-Wing pilot, was a colorful addition to Alphabet Squadron, but she more than any other character feels like she comes into her own here in Shadow Fall. The last surviving member of multiple squadrons who met their end by the hands of the Empire, Chass has never expected to live through to the end of the Galactic Civil War. She doesn’t actively wish for death, but has more so accepted a reality that her survival isn’t a part of. Combined with her own sense of sardonic humor and multi-species discography, Chass constantly feels like she’s hiding layer upon layer of emotion but remains entertaining all the same. In a smart move, Freed puts Chass in a place that challengers her nihilism in startling ways and it makes for some of the most interesting subject matter of the novel.

If anything proves a little shaky with Shadow Fall, it’s that the overall uncertainty of its world and characters bleeds a bit too much into the plot as well. Freed’s characters feel concerned with moment to moment survival and while it makes for a thrilling and at times emotional read, it’s easy to leave the second installment of Alphabet Squadron feeling a tad unmoored. It’s unclear what exactly this trilogy is building to outside of another conflict between our titular starfighter team and their elusive enemy. I will find myself picking up the next installment in order to catch up with these characters that I have become so attached to and not necessarily because I’m waiting with baited breath for the conclusion of this winding story.

As was the case with Alphabet Squadron, Freed’s prose knows how to oscillate in tempo and focus with ease. His descriptions are detailed and dynamic. His character prose is insightful and personal without feeling overbearing. His action scenes feel kinetic and explosive. It’s impressive just how thick and dense Freed’s prose can feel when it needs to, but how quickly it can shift to something quicker and more action oriented without sacrificing the detail that defines the rest of the novel. It represents a clear evolution from the sometimes leaden Twilight Company that builds upon the style but makes it much more emotionally and narratively engaging.

With Shadow Fall, Alexander Freed’s solidifies Alphabet Squadron as the new Star Wars trilogy to watch for. It’s characters are just as haunting and compelling as ever and Freed’s writing feels more lived in and organic than anything else offered by Lucasfilm Publishing at this time. Pick this book up and savor the read. I’m going to miss these lost souls over the next year.

Score: A

[she-wolf-of-highgarden]

All the times Arya mentions being (un)afraid

“A shade more fun than needlework," Arya gave back at him. Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. Jon had their father's face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. When Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It had been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her.” - Arya I, AGoT

“The direwolf," she said, thinking of Nymeria. She hugged her knees against her chest, suddenly afraid.” - Arya II, AGoT

“She looked at the sword with wonder in her eyes. For a moment she was afraid to touch it, afraid that if she reached for it it would be snatched away again, but then her father said, "Go on, it's yours," and she took it in her hand.” - Arya II, AGoT

“Her fingers brushed against rough unfinished stone to her left. She followed the wall, her hand skimming along the surface, taking small gliding steps through the darkness. All halls lead somewhere. Where there is a way in, there is a way out. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Arya would not be afraid. It seemed as if she had been walking a long ways when the wall ended abruptly and a draft of cold air blew past her cheek. Loose hairs stirred faintly against her skin.” - Arya III, AGoT

“Three of them started forward, chainmail clinking softly with each step. Arya was suddenly afraid. Fear cuts deeper than swords, she told herself, to slow the racing of her heart.” - Arya IV, AGoT

“Arya closed her eyes. For a moment she was too frightened to move. They had killed Jory and Wyl and Heward, and that guardsman on the step, whoever he had been. They could kill her father too, and her if they caught her. "Fear cuts deeper than swords," she said aloud, but it was no good pretending to be a water dancer, Syrio had been a water dancer and the white knight had probably killed him, and anyhow she was only a little girl with a wooden stick, alone and afraid.” - Arya IV, AGoT

“Arya knelt in the dirt among the scattered clothes. She found a heavy woolen cloak, a velvet skirt and a silk tunic and some smallclothes, a dress her mother had embroidered for her, a silver baby bracelet she might sell. Shoving the broken lid out of the way, she groped inside the chest for Needle. She had hidden it way down at the bottom, under everything, but her stuff had all been jumbled around when the chest was dropped. For a moment Arya was afraid someone had found the sword and stolen it. Then her fingers felt the hardness of metal under a satin gown.” - Arya IV, AGoT

“It was the scariest thing she'd ever done. She wanted to run and hide, but she made herself walk across the yard, slowly, putting one foot in front of the other as if she had all the time in the world and no reason to be afraid of anyone. She thought she could feel their eyes, like bugs crawling on her skin under her clothes. Arya never looked up. If she saw them watching, all her courage would desert her, she knew, and she would drop the bundle of clothes and run and cry like a baby, and then they would have her. She kept her gaze on the ground. By the time she reached the shadow of the royal sept on the far side of the yard, Arya was cold with sweat, but no one had raised the hue and cry.” - Arya IV, AGoT

“The long windowless hall beyond the door was as black as she remembered. She held Needle in her left hand, her sword hand, the candle in her right fist. Hot wax ran down across her knuckles. The entrance to the well had been to the left, so Arya went right. Part of her wanted to run, but she was afraid of snuffing out her candle. She heard the faint squeaking of rats and glimpsed a pair of tiny glowing eyes on the edge of the light, but rats did not scare her. Other things did. It would be so easy to hide here, as she had hidden from the wizard and the man with the forked beard. She could almost see the stableboy standing against the wall, his hands curled into claws with the blood still dripping from the deep gashes in his palms where Needle had cut him. He might be waiting to grab her as she passed. He would see her candle coming a long way off. Maybe she would be better off without the light …” - Arya IV, AGoT

“Yes I do, Arya could have said. I killed a boy, a fat boy like you, I stabbed him in the belly and he died, and I'll kill you too if you don't let me alone. Only she did not dare. Yoren didn't know about the stableboy, but she was afraid of what he might do if he found out. Arya was pretty sure that some of the other men were killers too, the three in the manacles for sure, but the queen wasn't looking for them, so it wasn't the same.” - Arya I, ACoK

“Fear cuts deeper than swords. Arya made herself approach the wagon. Every step was harder than the one before. Fierce as a wolverine, calm as still water. The words sang in her head. Syrio would not have been afraid. She was almost close enough to touch the wheel when Biter lurched to his feet and grabbed for her, his irons clanking and rattling. The manacles brought his hands up short, half a foot from her face. He hissed.” - Arya II, ACoK

“Yoren wouldn't like it if she fought with him. She tried to look afraid. "Wolves? For true?” - Arya III, ACoK

“From up here, she could see a small wooded island off to the northeast. Thirty yards from shore, three black swans were gliding over the water, so serene . . . no one had told them that war had come, and they cared nothing for burning towns and butchered men. She stared at them with yearning. Part of her wanted to be a swan. The other part wanted to eat one. She had broken her fast on some acorn paste and a handful of bugs. Bugs weren't so bad when you got used to them. Worms were worse, but still not as bad as the pain in your belly after days without food. Finding bugs was easy, all you had to do was kick over a rock. Arya had eaten a bug once when she was little, just to make Sansa screech, so she hadn't been afraid to eat another. Weasel wasn't either, but Hot Pie retched up the beetle he tried to swallow, and Lommy and Gendry wouldn't even try. Yesterday Gendry had caught a frog and shared it with Lommy, and, a few days before, Hot Pie had found blackberries and stripped the bush bare, but mostly they had been living on water and acorns. Kurz had told them how to use rocks and make a kind of acorn paste. It tasted awful.” - Arya V, ACoK

“She had thought she had known what it meant to be afraid, but she learned better in that storehouse beside the Gods Eye. Eight days she had lingered there before the Mountain gave the command to march, and every day she had seen someone die.” - Arya VI, ACoK 

“I should have let the fire have them. Gendry said to, I should have listened. If she hadn't thrown them that axe they'd all be dead. For a moment she was afraid, but they rode past her without a flicker of interest. Only Jaqen H'ghar so much as glanced in her direction, and his eyes passed right over her. He does not know me, she thought. Arry was a fierce little boy with a sword, and I'm just a grey mouse girl with a pail.” - Arya VII, ACoK

“As his men herded off the captives at spearpoint, Arya saw Pinkeye emerge from the stairwell, blinking at the torchlight. If he found her missing, he would shout and threaten to whip the bloody hide off her, but she was not afraid. He was no Weese. He was forever threatening to whip the bloody hide off this one or that one, but Arya never actually knew him to hit. Still, it would be better if he never saw her. She glanced around. The oxen were being unharnessed, the carts unloaded, while the Brave Companions clamored for drink and the curious gathered around the caged bear. In the commotion, it was not hard to slip off unseen. She went back the way she had come, wanting to be out of sight before someone noticed her and thought to put her to work.” - Arya IX, ACoK

“Jaqen still owed her one death. In Old Nan's stories about men who were given magic wishes by a grumkin, you had to be especially careful with the third wish, because it was the last. Chiswyck and Weese hadn't been very important. The last death has to count, Arya told herself every night when she whispered her names. But now she wondered if that was truly the reason she had hesitated. So long as she could kill with a whisper, Arya need not be afraid of anyone . . . but once she used up the last death, she would only be a mouse again.” - Arya IX, ACoK

“Arya went to her knees. She wasn't sure how she should begin. She clasped her hands together. Help me, you old gods, she prayed silently. Help me get those men out of the dungeon so we can kill Ser Amory, and bring me home to Winterfell. Make me a water dancer and a wolf and not afraid again, ever.” - Arya  IX, ACoK 

“Arya's mouth hung open. “Who are you?" she whispered, too astonished to be afraid. "How did you do that? Was it hard?” - Arya IX, ACoK

“I'm not afraid," she said. "That boy Ned said . . .” - Arya VIII, ASoS

“The castle's not closed," Arya said suddenly. The sergeant had said it would be, but he was wrong. The portcullis was being drawn upward even as she watched, and the drawbridge had already been lowered to span the swollen moat. She had been afraid that Lord Frey's guardsmen would refuse to let them in. For half a heartbeat she chewed her lip, too anxious to smile.” - Arya XI, ASoS

“When the time came to leave, he needed Arya's help to get back up on Stranger. He had tied a strip of cloth about his neck and another around his thigh, and taken the squire's cloak off its peg by the door. The cloak was green, with a green arrow on a white bend, but when the Hound wadded it up and pressed it to his ear it soon turned red. Arya was afraid he would collapse the moment they set out, but somehow he stayed in the saddle.” - Arya XIII, ASoS

“The sound was as huge as he was, a terrible groaning and grinding, so loud it drowned out even the captain's voice and the crash of the waves against those pine-clad ridges. A thousand seabirds took to the air at once, and Arya flinched until she saw that Denyo was laughing. "He warns the Arsenal of our coming, that is all," he shouted. "You must not be afraid." "I never was," Arya shouted back. "It was loud, is all.” - Arya I, AFfC

“Ashore. Arya bit her lip. She had crossed the narrow sea to get here, but if the captain had asked she would have told him she wanted to stay aboard the Titan's Daughter. Salty was too small to man an oar, she knew that now, but she could learn to splice ropes and reef the sails and steer a course across the great salt seas. Denyo had taken her up to the crow's nest once, and she hadn't been afraid at all, though the deck had seemed a tiny thing below her. I can do sums too, and keep a cabin neat.” - Arya I, AFfC

“Valar dohaeris." He pushed off with his oar and drifted back off into the deeper water. Arya watched him row back the way they'd come, until he vanished in the shadows of the bridge. As the swish of oars faded, she could almost hear the beating of her heart. Suddenly she was somewhere else . . . back in Harrenhal with Gendry, maybe, or with the Hound in the woods along the Trident. Salty is a stupid child, she told herself. I am a wolf, and will not be afraid. She patted Needle's hilt for luck and plunged into the shadows, taking the steps two at a time so no one could ever say she'd been afraid.” - Arya I, AFfC

“She opened her eyes and stared up blind at the black that shrouded her, her dream already fading. So beautiful. She licked her lips, remembering. The bleating of the sheep, the terror in the shepherd's eyes, the sound the dogs had made as she killed them one by one, the snarling of her pack. Game had become scarcer since the snows began to fall, but last night they had feasted. Lamb and dog and mutton and the flesh of man. Some of her little grey cousins were afraid of men, even dead men, but not her. Meat was meat, and men were prey. She was the night wolf. But only when she dreamed.” - The Ugly Little Girl, ADwD

“After three hours of wine and words, the priests took their leave … all but the kindly man, the waif, and the one whose face bore the marks of plague. His cheeks were covered with weeping sores, and his hair had fallen out. Blood dripped from one nostril and crusted at the corners of both eyes. "Our brother would have words with you, child," the kindly man told her. "Sit, if you wish." She seated herself in a weirwood chair with a face of ebony. Bloody sores held no terror for her. She had been too long in the House of Black and White to be afraid of a false face.” - The Ugly Little Girl, ADwD

[gffa]

I’m making progress on various SW books, which I’m hoping to get wrapped up before the TROS books start coming out in LESS THAN A MONTH.  Vague thoughts as follows. - I’m about three hours (out of eight) into the audiobook of A Crash of Fate which is the one that’s proving the most difficult for me to get into and I don’t think it’s probably going to win me over by the end.  It’s facing the uphill battle that Batuu feels like it’s being pushed way too fast and way too hard for it to feel like an organic growth of a GFFA location, which means all the descriptions of the place just feel like Product Placement instead of natural to the setting. But mostly it’s that the story feels entirely removed from Star Wars.  You could change the setting of the story and I don’t know that it impact things in any noticeable way, which makes it feel like a story that was just copied-and-pasted into the Star Wars universe.  The point is very much a YA romance and that is the majority of the story, while the plot part is very low-stakes (they might get blacklisted at the Outpost???) that just didn’t reel me personally in. It’s very cute for the audience it’s aimed at, if I were younger and into this kind of thing, maybe I’d be eating it up and I love that SW is big enough to be able to include a book like this!  And I’ll still end up finishing it, because I have it, I might as well, but I think it’s probably just Not For A Lot Of People And That’s Okay.  If it is For You, then it’ll be a cute, fun story! (I do want to add a side note that I’m finding Brittany Pressley’s reading of the book really good, though!  I suspect I’d find the characters a little insufferable in print, but she brings a charm to both Izzy and Jules.) - I’m more than halfway through Alphabet Squadron and while I can’t say I’ve come to love the characters as much as I do the Aftermath characters (it’s hard not to compare the two, they’re set in similar times, they’re about pulling together a ragtag group of people to hunt down Imperials, they’re about messy and complicated people, they’re part of a three book deal, etc.), I do think this is one of the best books that’s come out lately. Yrica Quell is the kind of character I am over the moon for, a female character who is written as an absolute hot mess, that she has sharp and jagged edges, and the narrative makes it clear that she’s interesting and worth reading about for these edges to her character.  I enjoy Wyl and the others, too, but I’m absolutely here for Yrica and how hard she’s packed herself down so that trying to pry anything out of her is genuinely difficult and often not worth the pain caused. The other thing I love about the book is that I can’t read a lot of it at one time because I end up feeling exhausted by it--but in the way that I’m supposed to, because it’s a really exhausting point in the timeline for the Rebellion/the New Republic, and Yrica herself is constantly exhausted.  Add in some really great Hera cameos, and it’s definitely the best book I’m reading right now. - I’m about a third of the way through Thrawn: Treason and I’m not sure what’s holding me up.  Maybe it’s that I’ve been catching up on fic reading more, maybe it’s that I’m wary this book is going to frustrate me like Alliances did (even though having Eli back and having Ar’alani have helped tremendously), or maybe I’m just not in the headspace for it. It’s perfectly fun so far, though!  It feels like a return to the fun that the first book was and once I get my head in the right space, I think I’ll enjoy it again.  It’s not really revolutionary or new, it’s pretty much the same thing as always (well, Ronan has been a hilarious addition), but if you enjoyed that first book or the second book, this one should be just as enjoyable. - I haven’t gotten any further on Black Spire since the power outage day, but it’s still the book I’m most looking forward to picking up again because it has the same great pacing and great character stuff with Vi and Archex that the Phasma novel had.  Yeah, the Product Placement stuff with Batuu is a little much in the beginning, but I’m already invested in the characters and their relationships (AND VI IS SO MUCH FUN TO READ ABOUT) that I recommend this one a lot more readily for a wider audience.  Well, assuming you’ve read Phasma first, that one was a necessity. - I’m listening to a bit of the Myths and Fables audiobook (after being like 95% of the way done with the text one) and I’m not sure how I feel about it.  It seems fine?  But somehow this one worked better for me in print.  It’s still a relatively inconsequential piece (I think Legends of Luke Skywalker did it better, even if that one has lost a lot of the shine for me after some author interviews), a lot of which because it was pushing the Batuu stuff yet again (the Tatooine story was the best of the bunch, if all the stories had been like that, I think this could have been stellar--much as I enjoyed the Dark Wraith/Vader fable, it didn’t have the gravitas of a place where galactically important events happened), but one that’s absolutely worth reading. It’s a quick read and there’s some gorgeous art in it, so I’d say it’s up there as one of the best of the Galaxy’s Edge titles.

[ironforgedrp]

mw male characters with connections?

    hey there anon, and we do have a few off the top of my head, some of these are open connections, some are wanted connections and some are just an open suggestion from me, anything not mentioned in the little summary i’m 99.5% sure is completely up to player… but i will update if the other admins or muns point out anything crucial i have missed. so, in no particular order here are a random seven that popped into my head;

prince targaryen, elder sibling of the queen of the iron throne rhaena lannister. he was also briefly arranged to be married to princess sarella martell - though this was by suggestion of both of their fathers. he abdicated the throne and his position of heir and thus allowed rhaena to become queen and ultimately was part of the end of the targaryen reign.

king baratheon, oldest baratheon sibling, recent husband of kyra baratheon née tarth. his late father and late lord of tarth were very close friends, and when the stormlands became an independent kingdom kyra was suggested as a suitable queen. it is not a love match, but they are both politically driven and have an amicable relationship due to family closeness.

wyl snow, a bastard of lord benjen stark (npc) and half-siblings to branden, jon & wylla stark. he/they are the one person closest to wylla in the world, and the one person she’s afraid she hurt most when she left five years previously without any warning. he is close to wylla’s age, and are likely distant from branden, though he does care.

ruling lord allyrion, lord of starfall and long-time husband of ravella allyrion née swann as well as long time lover and paramour of ceryse sand. he is also the father of loreza and ryon (npc children). house allyrion are closely allied with house martell.

ruling lord greyjoy, the eldest sibling of lord viktor greyjoy and lord cullen greyjoy who is the master of laws on king arryk lannisters concil. he is uncle to viktors three children harlon, aelrie and maximus.

ruling lord clegane, the eldest trueborn clegane son. he is the elder brother of lord willem, the hand of the king, and lady myrcella and half-brother to naturalized (a decade ago) bastard master blacksmith morrec clegane.

ruling lord harlaw, the younger brother of lord rychärd harlaw (iron isles representative on the small council under king arryk), he is the second eldest and secondborn son, but he suffers from meniere disease and rychärd, fearing that his younger brother would be cast out for being unable to captain a ship, stepped out of the line of succession six years ago. he assumed the position of heir, then ruling lord two years ago after their fathers death.

     we have TWENTY-SIX wanted connections also, and some roles published in our OPEN CHARACTERS tag, so peruse there if nothing above really suits you.