#the laws of time are NOT his especially not when he's attempting to destroy it

[bluebellhairpin]

Harwin Strong X f!Reader

Summary: The arrangement you made with your husband to help Rhaenyra backfires, and you attempt to put and end to it before if gets anyone into trouble. But trouble brews anyway.

Warnings: Leaning into reader/rhaenyra/harwin ship territory. Reader is fem bodied + called wife/mother. Reader is a Criston Cole hater (justified).

Listening to: 'Blood of my Blood' by Ramin Djawadi

Series Masterlist || AO3 Link || Masterlist || Ko-Fi

Ever since Rhaenyra was wed there had been whispers - ones that you could hear without lending your ear to your cunning brother in law. 

They were murmurs only heard in the darkest of halls, about how she and Laenor didn’t lay together, that they never had, and refused to do so. Word spread that the Princess had taken a secret lover, and that the guard who��d been killed at their wedding used to be Laenor’s. They gained weight, and became ugly looming shadows over the young couple.

Especially after Rhaenyra had her first child - and he was born looking nothing like Laenor. It caused more rumors to spread. Rumors you did not appreciate. Ones that you weren’t entirely sure how you felt about, because they eventually affected you and your family too. And partially because they were basically your fault. 

In the beginning, you chalked up the similarities between your second child, Dawsyn, and Rhaenyra’s, Jacaerys, as chance. You convinced those around you that it was pure coincidence. But as they grew older, despite being almost nine months apart in age, you started noticing things. They way their hair all held the same curls. The way they would tilt their heads the same way when their toys didn’t work how they wanted them to. Their giggles. 

Then Rhaenyra had her second son, Lucerys, around the same time as you had the daughter Harwin had spent years longing for. Suddenly you were met with the same rumors as when Dawsyn and Jacaerys were born - and had to fend them off again from others in the Kings Court. 

You knew something that only three others in the Red Keep knew, and because of that the similarities blared at you like a red lantern at night. The father of your children was also the father of Princess Rhaenyra’s sons. And that was starting to worry you. 

You knew people suspected Harwin as the real father. That he was one of the few men that those in the Red Keep thought could be siring Rhaenyra’s children - her bastards they called them, the word made something sour bubble in your stomach. But you knew what that would mean for Harwin. You knew what could happen to his life, and the lives of Rhaeynra, her sons - even your own children. 

Every single one of them could die. 

You stood at the window in Rhaenyra’s bedroom. You’d taken to spending a lot of time in her company, especially now she was reaching the end of her third pregnancy. Her labour pains could start any day now, and she was starting to get restless. 

There was no blaming her, by the same time during your time with Renai you’d been sick of it by now too. 

“You look deep in thought,” she said. 

You turned to her, slowly moving your eyes from the window to her place on the settee. She was relaxed, with you around she dismissed all other company - she did it often, you guessed she liked a slice of normalcy free of the fluttering hens at court, or the ears of little servant birds. But all you could think of was when she was younger, before you’d subjected her to the foul words whispered behind her back. Really this was your fault - in an effort to help Rhaenyra keep her happiness, you’d destroyed it. You felt like you couldn’t keep your thoughts to yourself anymore - that the worry was starting to make you crack around the edges. 

“Like something worries you.” Rhaenyra, apparently, could notice it too. 

“You can’t blame me, you live here too. You hear what people say. It worries me.” you replied, finally cluing someone into your thoughts. You turned back to the window to see where your children and Rhaenyra’s played below, supervised by Pacey and Raechel. “What could happen to them worries me.” 

“You think we should stop?” Rhaenyra asked. The question, if overheard without the context of both your conversation and the secrets you both held, wouldn’t have been understood by anyone else. But you knew she knew that the subject had changed to her situationship with Harwin. 

“I think he should stop giving you children.” You looked back at her, your eyes lingering on the clasped hands over her belly. “He’s a smart man in many ways, but if he keeps acting as he is now, he’s just going to get us all into trouble.” 

“I could talk to him.” Rhaenyra offered, looking up at you with almost wide, childlike eyes. It softened the worry in you, like you’d forgotten she was a younger woman than you were. You moved from the window and sat by her side, taking her hand in yours.

“No. ‘One heart, one flesh, and one soul’. That’s what we were declared on our wedding day. His mistakes are mine, and mine are his. I allowed this to happen, and I’ll end it.” you said, squeezing her fingers, “Leave Harwin to me.”

Rhaenyra’s chest rose and fell three times before she spoke again, voice even more hushed than before, as if afraid to even admit it to you. But she did. 

“I don’t want to be alone.” 

“You never will be.” you said, shuffling closer to her side as your arm pressed to hers, “I’ll never leave you alone. No matter how far away life could take me, just call me to your side and nothing in the Seven Kingdoms will be able to stop me.” Then you smiled to yourself, mind straying toward the man of the hour. “Harwin even more so. His affection for you might even outweigh his love for me.” 

“I’d hate to think that.” she scoffed, sitting up slightly as her hand now squeezed yours. 

“Then don’t. This is loyalty deeper than bone, neither of us would leave you alone, and when called to duty Laenor wouldn’t either.” Rhaenyra’s gaze softened again, this time instead of being afraid she seemed nervous. 

“Will you tell anyone?” she asked. You shook your head, almost offended. 

“No one will hear a word of it from me. After I speak with Harwin, the words will never leave my lips again. It will be as good as forgotten.” Your thumb moved back and forth across the back of her hand as you spoke, and she looked down at it when she spoke again. 

“You’re persuading me that this isn’t something to worry about. It’s no wonder Alicent is always so agreeable after you speak with her.” 

“Do you wish to be persuaded further?” you asked, smirking. 

“Perhaps.” she replied, her smile matching your own. You shifted from your spot on the settee, now facing the Princess fully with both her hands in yours. 

“Before the Seven, mine and Harwin’s blood was declared the same. Nevertheless, your children are of his blood as much as mine are, no matter who their mother is,” you said, eyes never leaving hers as you spoke, and your voice softened as you continued, “They’re as good as my own children. That’s enough to warrant keeping them safe.” 

Her face morphed. Changing from one that conveyed half assured hopefulness to one that was undeniably relieved. Even her eyes welled with unshed tears with the weight that seemed to lift off her shoulders. Yet her next words laid bare her last ounce of doubt. A doubt you were dead set on burying. 

“Can I really believe I’ve earnt enough love and trust from you that not only can you not find it in your heart to hate me, but you are so willing to love these children as your own? That you could forgive me?” 

“Rhaenyra, you mean more to me than you could ever imagine.” you said, “Harwin and I both agreed to this, we knew what could happen. There’s nothing to forgive.” 

Not even a day later, and Rhaenyra had entered and finished birthing her third child. Her final that would be sired by Harwin. 

You’d been with her, until she finished, then left her in the hands of the maids and midwives to go tell everyone else the good news. Well, everyone that mattered to you. 

Laenor, as soon as you told him, left right away. 

However, to keep up his newly reinforced guise of being indifferent (he took the conversation surprisingly well, all things considered), Harwin stayed and watched over where his four sons ogled over a new dragon egg. You could tell from the look on his face when you entered that he longed to be with her. He had an understanding of the horrors of childbirth that you’d seen in no other man. He’d have to have been torn from your side if the Maester’s didn’t let him stick around when you were in labor - you’d believe he would have resorted to biting, if they went to make him leave you - so you could only imagine how he felt about having to leave Rhaenyra alone. 

His only consolation was that you were there instead. 

“How was she?” he asked quietly, a hand resting on your elbow. You eyed Dawysn as his fingertips tested how hot the egg was, slowly inching closer. 

“In high spirits. If I were to be trusted, I’d say she’s getting quite used to going through labor for the sake of a new son.” you whispered. Harwin was about to speak again, but instead of listening, you scooped Dawsyn in your arms - he’d burn himself if he were allowed close to that fire stone any longer. “You, little ser, need to keep your fingers to yourself.” you said to your son, grabbing his chubby fingers and kissing each one. 

“It’s not that bad -” Larys said - right before reaching his hand too close - “Ouch!” He pulled his hand back, shaking it before stuffing his fingers in his mouth. Harwin came up behind him, and put his hands on his shoulders to guide him to where you now sat. 

“You are no dragon, son, leave the scales to those who can handle them.” he said, ruffling his hair. Harwin tried to leave Larys in your care, but he was having none of it - instead he tucked his head into the cool armor at his father’s stomach. 

“My Princes’, may I suggest putting the lid on that egg? We don’t want it to cool down too much.” you suggested, pressing a kiss to Dawysn’s head as you set him down. Jace nodded, managing to lift the cast iron lid back in place while his brother already got distracted. 

By the time all four of them had settled onto the rug with a handful of carved wooden toys, Harwin beside them telling some story about Aegon’s conquest that you didn’t doubt they all already knew back to front, the door opened. In stepped Rhaenyra, Laenor, and the new child. 

Immediately Rhaenyra’s two sons jumped to their feet, eager to tell their mother about the dragon egg they brought up from the pit. Your sons stayed on the floor, watching curiously as Harwin helped Rhaenyra sit, and Laenor coo at the baby. You likewise rose from your seat to get a proper look at the boy, humming and harring at him as he slept. 

“He will grow to be a fearsome knight.” Laenor said, shifting slightly so you could see better, but in no way was he giving up the child yet. You were satisfied just to see his face. 

“Just like you,” you said, a gentle hand squeezing Laenor’s shoulder. 

“Ser Harwin wishes to be introduced to Joffrey,” Rhaenyra said. Her voice, although laced with exhaustion, was strong enough to cut through the baby-induced bubble both you and Laenor were stuck in. Within moments, the baby was passed over from Laenor’s arms into Harwin’s. 

The sight was enough to make you want to freeze the moment in time forever. That happened each time you caught Harwin holding a baby. It was like he was meant to hold a child, with how comfortable he looked. How perfect it looked. You couldn’t help but smile, and as you caught Rhaenyra’s eyes, it only widened. 

However, like a moth to flame, the four young boys took Joffrey being passed to Harwin as a sign to swarm. They came in from all angles with the grace of a drunk herd of cows, all speaking at once, and all trying to persuade Harwin to let them look at the babe. Harwin could only hold poor Joffrey out of reach while Laenor intervened, persuading Jace and Luke to go to the dragon pit to train. 

“You both too, come on,” you said, hands resting on your son’s curls to guide them out of the room, “Don’t forget you have lessons also.” 

“But Mother, we don’t have any until this afternoon -”

“Then go to your sister,” you said, ushering them out the door despite their protests, “I’ll be there shortly.” That did it, they did have a fondness for their young sister, something they inherited from their father no doubt. You saw them off running down the hall before turning back to Harwin. 

You caught his eye and smiled, in return his gaze was soft, smile even more so as he rocked his son in his arms. The thought returned, that it was if he were born to be a father. 

Then you looked over at Rhaenyra, nodding with your smile unwavering. She relaxed in her seat, and her lips quirked up. She needed rest, so you cast one more look of longing over at Joffrey - you could have your turn holding him another day - and closed the door behind you. 

You were in high spirits. Joffrey’s safe arrival into the world had many feeling the same way, and he brought joy to many around him - a happy child already, and it had barely been a day. 

You’d just left your room, flanked by your son Larys - your purpose was twofold. Larys was promised he could train with the Prince’s if he finished his lessons, so you were taking him to the courtyard to meet them, then you were going to bring Harwin back since he would be just finishing his shift for the day. 

Larys really was his father’s son, with almost a natural strength to him despite his youth - it was an aspect you knew your own father would’ve started honing properly years ago. You’d held off for the sake of still seeing him as a child, but in the world you lived in it was expected. Larys liked it, he liked having something in common with his father, and many others in your family - and you couldn’t stop him from doing what he loved just because you wanted him to be safe. 

But today something seemed to be bothering him. Usually he looked forward to training, so much so that you could see it on his face. Not today. To try and get him to open up, you dismissed anyone who might’ve followed you - but it took almost the entire walk for him to finally hint at what was wrong. 

“Do you think I might be good enough to beat Ser Criston someday?” Larys asked. You looked down at him with your arm around his shoulder. 

“If you practised enough, there’s no reason why you couldn’t.” you said. He looked down at his hands, toying with the hem of his training glove. 

“I don’t think I get to practice enough.” he admitted, the way he spoke sent pangs through your heart. “Ser Criston is the only teacher and he focuses on the Prince’s so much more. I’d ask Father for help instead, but he’s always so busy.” So that was what was wrong.

You both stopped just short of the door to the training courtyard, and you turned Larys so he faced you. 

“Then I’ll have your grandfather send someone from my home. You will get to practice just as well as the others.” you said, taking his face in your palm so you could brush his curls from his face. “You’ll have your own teacher.” 

“Really?” he asked, a hopeful look in his eye as he looked up at you. 

“Of course. I’ll send a raven as soon as I can.” you smiled, kissing his forehead. “In the meantime remember you can learn a lot from simply watching, even if you aren’t able to train the same as the other boys. Don’t underestimate the power behind observation.” 

“Yes Mother.” With a grin on his face, you squeezed his shoulder and guided him towards the door. His steps were more enthusiastic now, and his head was held high. If you were anyone else you might say he was being spoiled - promised his own teacher when even the Princes had to share one. But you were his mother, so instead you’d say he deserved the best of what he wanted. 

You both stepped out the door expecting to see the others training, but the sight that met you was far from it. 

The timing was perfect - right as you walked into the daylight, Harwin lunged for Criston Cole. The latter was on the ground after only a few blows, but Harwin wasn’t stopping. He climbed onto the downed man and kept going. Punch after punch landed on Criston’s face, and all you could think of was what that idiot did to make Harwin’s temper snap so violently. 

You hadn’t thought of doing a thing to intervene, perfectly content to watch, until Larys brushed past your skirts as if to move closer. 

“You stay here,” you said, walking forward and pushing your son back a little so he stayed away. Two of the King’s Guard rushed forward, running to pull Harwin off Criston, then two more joined in to stop him breaking free. 

“Say it again! Say it!” Harwin yelled, voice rough with rage as he struggled and tried to pull away and attack Criston again. 

“Harwin! That’s enough.” you said, reaching over the guard’s arm and pressing your hand to the armor on Harwin’s chest. He physically relaxed when he saw you in front of him, enough that the guards reluctantly loosened their hold. But when he looked at you, his eyes still didn’t change as the men stepped away. He looked ready to have killed Criston, and probably would have if there was no one around to stop him. 

“Yeah Commander, listen to your -” 

Swiftly you stepped away from Harwin and stood over where Criston had started to stand. He was already weary from the beating, but when you bent over, jabbing a finger to his chest, he swayed where he sat resting back on his elbows as he looked up at you. The look in your eye that made him freeze. 

“Stay down, Cole. If you get up before we leave I will let him blend your skull into the pavement.” you hissed. His eyes narrowed at your quietly spoken reference - yes, a fate like Laenor’s lover, and yes you remembered, even if everyone else seemed to forget. It was a fate you were ready to let him share. 

“I’m in the Kingsguard and you speak to me like that?” Criston tried to start again, although less confident than before. One more look from you had him shutting up, and your next words were sharp. 

“I can speak to you however I want to. If I so desired it, the only place you’ll be safe from me is fucking Qarth, do you understand me?” His jaw clenched, but besides that he made no effort to move or speak again. “I said ‘do you understand me’, Squire’s son?” He frowned, lips rolling over his teeth. You’d hit the exact nerve you were hoping for. 

“I understand,” he said. You quirked an eye at him, standing over him so you were no longer hunched over. You stayed like that. Waiting. “Milady,” he finally added. 

With that you turned on your heel and made to leave. Harwin said your name, reaching for your arm. Instead, you shoved his armored shoulder when you reached him, pointing to the door. 

“Go.” 

After returning to your room, Harwin was almost immediately summoned to go speak with his father. Which left you alone for most of the afternoon. You weren’t sure exactly what you were thinking, but it made you so anxious that you couldn’t stand being around anyone until you knew what cause’s Harwin’s outburst. 

You were sitting by the fire when Harwin returned, staring into the flames as the wooden door clicked shut behind you. For a moment you heard nothing - he was standing, waiting - then he moved, and the familiar sounds of him taking off his armor started echoing in your quiet room. 

“What happened?” you finally asked. He quietened again, before you heard a sigh and the heavy clunk of his sword being put aside. 

“You want to hear it?” 

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have asked.” You turned your head, watching him walk over and sit in the chair opposite you. Harwin’s hands laid in his lap, one cradled with the other as his thumbs brushed over his knuckles. You decided that after you were done being upset with him, you’d take a look at it - obviously it was sore. 

He very slowly leant forward, looking into the fire with his elbows on his knees. His hair was loose, and it fell so you couldn’t see his eyes. 

“My father made the decision to give up his role as Hand, and take me away to Harrenhal. I’m being punished and he’s taking my whole family down with me.” He spoke slow, quiet. Once he was done his head fell into his hands, fingers weaved through his curls. 

“Actions have consequences. What you did today very well could be the undoing of all of us.” you said, voice even quieter. A log in the fire cracked and fell. 

“You know it’s not the first time.” he mumbled. 

“You’ve beat Criston before?” you asked. He sat back, pushing away his hair and slumped into the chair with a deep breath. 

“No, he’s been lucky I’ve been so patient until now.” Harwin hissed, “He’s made more comments about Rhaenyra’s children than I can remember. I didn’t want to remember, so I tried not to, but today? I couldn’t take it. Those boys deserve better than those whispers behind their backs.” 

At least that was something you both could agree on. 

“Which is why your father has decided we must go?” 

“Which is why my father decided we must go.” He finally looked at you, despair written in his eyes. “But I don’t want to go. It’s so fucking weird there. And cold, you’d hate it. Our children, their whole lives are here. Kings Landing is all they’ve ever known.” 

You turned away back to the fire. You felt his eyes still on you as you watched the flames licking the burning wood. You felt him watching you as you thought. You kept your eyes on the hearth, but reached your hand out. His fingers brushed yours before he took your hand in his. His hands were warm and calloused, but they felt like him. They were a comfort, and they felt like home. Home was his hand in yours, not the Red Keep. 

“You were upset earlier. Not just at Cole. At me.” Harwin said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. For all of it. If I hadn’t done any of it -” 

“- You are not solely to blame. It was my idea!” you reminded him, squeezing his fingers. 

“- I could have said no.” Harwin said, smiling knowingly, “I could’ve stopped. I should have, and I didn’t. I have a duty to defend Rhaenyra, but my duty first is to you. From now on, you and our children will be first. Now, always, and forever.” 

You stood from your chair, walking over to his side. He watched you, the hand that was grasped in yours broke free to instinctually wrap around your waist as you came close. His arm was warm through the fabric of your clothes. He felt like home, but he wouldn’t take that as an answer right now. 

“Harrenhal is your home, no matter how weird or cold.” you said, brushing back his hair and kissing his temple. “The children will grow there, like you did. They’ll call it home too, and we’ll be safe there. We all will be.” 

[whencyclopedia]

Pegasus

Pegasus (or Pegasos) is a winged-horse from Greek mythology which was fathered by Poseidon and was born from the severed neck of the gorgon Medusa, slain by Perseus. At the same time and in the same way, Chryasor was also born. Poseidon gave Pegasus to his son Bellerophon who put Pegasus to good use in his famous battle with the Chimaera.

The myth of Bellerophon begins with the hero visiting Tiryns and enjoying the hospitality of the city's king Proitos. However, trouble started when Stheneboia, the king's wife, fell in love with the hero and made inappropriate advances. Bellerophon, being a good guest, politely rejected these advances but predictably, Stheneboia saw red and went before the king and accused the visitor of attempting to seduce her. In punishment, Bellerophon was sent by Proitos to serve his father-in-law Iobates, King of Lykia. On arrival, Bellerophon was set a series of dangerous and impossibly difficult tasks, chief amongst them being to destroy the fearsome and rather bizarre Chimaera. This fire-breathing creature was a terrible mix of a lion's body with a snake for a tail and the head of a goat sprouting from its back. To aid him in this task, Bellerophon was fortunate to have at his disposal Pegasus. In some accounts he found the horse at the fountain of Pirene near Corinth, and Hesiod suggests this fact explains the name Pegasus, derived from 'water'- pēgē. Taming the horse with the help of Athena, Bellerophon rode (and flew) Pegasus and managed to kill the monstrous Chimaera with his spear.

Bellerophon and Pegasus went on to enjoy further success with other challenges Iobates set the hero including a battle with the Amazons. However, becoming rather boastful and thinking he could fly high enough on his winged steed to take his place amongst the immortal gods, Bellerophon was thrown by Pegasus and fell unceremoniously back to earth. Meanwhile, Pegasus kept on going and on reaching Mt. Olympus, he was given to Eos who was responsible for bringing Dawn across the sky each day. According to Hesiod in his Theogony, Pegasus also brought Zeus his thunder and lightning whenever needed.

Pegasus is also credited with creating a number of springs with a stamp of his hoof. Most famous of these were the Hippocrene spring on Mt. Helicon, close to the grove sacred to the Muses, and the spring at Troezen.

Pegasus appeared on Greek pottery, the earliest being Corinthian wares from the 7th century BCE. Pegasus was also a popular design on coins, in particular from Corinth from the 6th century BCE. A famous representation in sculpture is from the pediment of the Temple of Artemis on Corcyra (c. 580 BCE). The Bellerophon and Pegasus myth was also a popular subject in Roman art - especially engraved semi-precious stone cameos and floor mosaics - where the horse became symbolic of immortality.

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[fizziepopangel]

“I’ll shelter and adore you more than anything…”

Touch and words of affirmation are his top love languages. He’s been through a lot that’s really shaken his confidence and his beliefs. Hearing someone actively reassure or compliment him is a huge boost for him, as is feeling something solid and consistent in the form of touch (especially when these come from someone he cares for).

Lucifer absolutely blasts show tunes and sings at the top of his lungs while he’s in the shower.

Flirting goes straight over his head sometimes since people often use the “did it hurt when you fell from heaven” bit on him and it usually results in him trauma dumping and showing them the actual physical scars he has from literally falling from  heaven…. He never understands why people seem to drop out of the conversations after since they did ask him.

He frequently uses the phrase “I knew him personally, so I know that God only lets things grow until they’re perfect. Some people get there sooner than others.” when someone makes fun of his height.

He sleeps in duck footie pajamas that Vaggie gifted him on his first father’s day since he and Charlie began talking again. Though she was embarrassed to give him a gift, he was absolutely over the moon excited since this means that his daughter’s girlfriend likes him.

Unbeknownst to the rest of the inhabitants of the hotel, Lucifer has a rubber duck that resembles them all. He often has to remake Alastors because when he’s upset with him, he tends to take his anger out on the Alastor-themed duck. At least one radio demon duck gets destroyed a week.

Eats candied apples religiously

He only wears the hat to look taller. Alastor knows this and frequently steals his hat and then pokes fun at his height as the king of hell wanders around looking for the accessory.

Lucifer loves animals so once a month he gathers all the pets (this included Razzle and Dazzle prior to Dazzle’s death) of the hotel for a little playdates. He buys them cute little outfits, takes them to pet parks to play, buys them each a new toy, and gets them hell’s version of a pup cup.

Yes, he did try to take Husk once because he does in fact view the man as a giant kitty that he really wants to win over…. And yes, Husk does go once, he regrets it immediately.

Despite them not exactly seeing eye to eye (partially because of the height difference), Lucifer and Alastor both enjoy cooking and get together with snacks to watch their favorite cooking show once a week. It started by accident, but since it became a weekly occurrence, they put aside their differences for the one night to enjoy the show together.

Lucifer bakes muffins and banana bread every weekend. He even teaches Niffty how to do it, she’s a flour covered mess by the end of it and her bread usually comes out rock hard and her muffins rarely rise, but Lucifer actually really enjoys the company and he finds the tiny woman rather amusing to spend time with.

After reconnecting with Charlie, Lucifer made it a point to have father/daughter dates once a month in an attempt to get to know her again. After realizing how big a role Vaggie plays in her life, he would start inviting her out with them too and referring to her as his future daughter in law.

He absolutely hates geese.

Lucifer keeps his wings tucked away for most of the time when they aren’t needed, but he usually sleeps with them unfurled and spread across the bed when it’s warm out, or with them wrapped around himself when he’s cold.

While most people would think that the big boss of hell would be the all business type that drinks his coffee black, he actually prefers a soothing warm tea to coffee when given the option…. But if he has to have coffee, he usually has a cup that tends to be more creamer than coffee and it has to be tooth rottingly sweet.

There’s a cabinet in the Hazbin Hotel kitchen full of mugs. Lucifer has 4 duck themed mugs in that cabinet… there were 6 but Alastor “accidentally” broke two.

Lucifer keeps one of Charlie’s baby photos in the pocket of his jacket, but as their relationship improves, he keeps a newer photo of the two of them together in his pocket with it too.

There’s a cabinet in the Hazbin Hotel kitchen full of mugs. Lucifer has 4 duck themed mugs in that cabinet… there were 6 but Alastor “accidentally” broke two.

Lucifer keeps one of Charlie’s baby photos in the pocket of his jacket, but as their relationship improves, he keeps a newer photo of the two of them together in his pocket with it too.

[sloanesallow]

Big Brained

There's nothing wrong with being feral for one's husband, right? Sloane can't help it, especially when Sebastian shows off that big, sexy brain of his. ✨Sebastian Sallow x F!MC Tags: NSFW! MDNI! Sexual content, oral sex (m receiving), exactly one spank, and some Sebastian dirty talk. 2.5k words [Read on Wattpad] - [Read on Ao3] - [tumblr masterlist] Reblogs, comments, and kudos are always appreciated! ✨

The last place Sloane wants to be is the Ministry of Magic.

She has managed to avoid a permanent place at Whitehall, despite Minister Spavin’s constant and personal invitations for her to join their ranks. Her answer is always no—she does not want a career in the wizarding world’s government, preferring her freedom and whatever anonymity she has left. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for her husband, who is technically under their employment, contracted to work as a curse-breaker with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

At twenty, Sebastian is young, but incredibly talented, and one of the Auror’s greatest assets. He is usually in some far-off destination, exploring ancient tombs and collecting artifacts with a rag-tag crew, helping to chase down Dark Wizards and undo any havoc caused. Sloane travels with the group as an unofficial healer, treating mysterious and mundane wounds while researching remedies both magical and muggle. They are a dynamic duo of sorts, and the Ministry knows that the Sallows are a package deal, the bond inseparable—unbreakable. 

After spending the last three months in the Austrian wilderness, they are back in London to receive a new assignment. Sloane spends the morning checking in on their dusty flat and shares a few cups of tea with Poppy in the local shoppe before venturing back to the second floor to find Sebastian. Even though he is rarely in-office, the Aurors keep a room clear for his use, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of what she calls the ‘bull-pen’.

Sloane can hear a few familiar voices as she approaches the open door, peeking her head in to see Sebastian in the middle of a fervent discussion with two of the officers who accompanied them in Salzburg. The other men don’t seem to notice her presence, but her husband acknowledges her entrance with a quick glance, the corner of his mouth twitching up before he refocuses his attention.   

“Have the scouts reported back?”

“Yes, sir,” Jeffries, the older and more skeptical Auror replies. Sir—Sloane sees the subtle pride in Sebastian’s expression, even if the title causes her to bite back a laugh. Jeffries continues, “the rumors about increased activities on the Nordic coast are true. Intelligence suggests a small, but powerful group of heretics are attempting to locate bloodrunes, magic the Ministry hasn’t encountered in…centuries.”

That you know of, Sloane muses to herself as she idly peruses the nearby bookshelf, overflowing much like the shelves at home.

“Bloodrunes require significant power to activate,” Sebastian states, not bothering to specify if this knowledge is based on first-hand experience or not. He leans over the map spread out across the desk and traces a finger along the supposed site. “There are probably laylines that can be disrupted, but I won’t speculate until I see the area for myself.”

“Perhaps we should wait before sending a team—”

“Wait for what, exactly?” Sebastian interjects, raising an eyebrow in challenge. He straightens his posture and crosses his arms. “A blood sacrifice? Neither of you studied ancient magical tribes, so I won’t fault you for your ignorance, but the last time runes like these were activated, it triggered a tidal wave that destroyed the sea walls along the Nordic coast. Thousands of people were killed.”

Sloane glances up from the book she is pretending to read and feels only a little shame for ogling her husband when he is in the middle of an important conversation. But she enjoys watching Sebastian showcase his intelligence—he’s always been a little cocky, and rightfully so—he won’t back down when he knows he is right. With his coat discarded and sleeves pinned up, she can see the way the muscles in his arms flex as he waits for either man to respond.

“Alright, Sallow, you win,” the other Auror, Bartie, sighs. The red-headed Weasley is a few years older than her and Sebastian but is far more trusting than the rest of the old guard. “What do you need from us?”

Sebastian shrugs, trying not to smirk when he gets his way. “Whomever the department can spare, really. Preferably those who are proficient in more than just defensive magic. A liaison for the local communities as well, to safeguard them from harm.”

“Should I contact St. Mungos—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Sebastian waves off Jenkins’ inquiry. It should be known by now that the only healer needed is Mrs. Sallow—Sloane. The Aurors give curt nods and Sebastian flicks his gaze to where she is standing. “Now, if you’ll excuse me gentlemen, but I believe my wife has been waiting long enough.”

She smiles somewhat bashfully as the two men finally notice her just as they are being shooed out of the room. Jeffries is indifferent, but Bartie offers a polite smile and wave before leaving.

“Looks like we’re off on another adventure, sweetheart,” Sebastian says when they are alone, re-crossing his arms as he leans back against the desk. Sloane is already swiftly crossing the room, practically launching herself onto him as she swallows his surprised laughter in a kiss. He quickly hooks his arms around her waist, holding her steady as she presses up on her toes to meet his height the best she can.

“Mmm—hello,” he manages, pulling away with a breathless grin. “You’re certainly in a mood.”

“Yes, sir,” she simply replies, catching the glimmer of excitement that passes through his coffee-colored eyes. Sloane touches her heels back to the floor, smoothing her hands across his shoulders and chest, playing with the straps of his suspenders. “Is that so bad?”

“Not at all,” Sebastian hastily shakes his head and gives her hips an appreciative squeeze. “I’m usually the needy one, is all.”

“Well, I can’t help it when you show off,” she explains, undoing the first two buttons of his shirt. “I love your big brain.”

Sebastian’s brows twitch up at the word big, but before he can make a lewd comment she palms the front of his pants, and he croaks instead. He recovers quickly, hands snapping up to firmly cradle her face as he captures her lips in a kiss that speaks volumes of his hunger for her. Sloane matches his enthusiasm, tugging at his suspenders until they are hanging at his sides. As she flicks open the clasps of his trousers, he fumbles for his wand, muttering the necessary spells against her lips to slam shut the door, waiting for the audible click of the lock before tossing it aside.

It isn’t very often that Sloane is in control, and she takes full advantage of catching him off guard, not-so-gently pushing him back until he topples into the cushioned armchair with an oof. He watches her with a mesmerized expression, shifting to accommodate as she kneels between his spread legs. She continues with removing his trousers, pulling them down along with his underwear until the fabric pools around his ankles.

Sloane wastes no time, finding satisfaction in the way Sebastian’s breath hitches as she wraps one hand around the base of his cock, already hard from her teasing. She leisurely strokes him, pushing up his shirt so she can trail a path of wet kisses across his navel, hipbone, and thighs. Her thumb brushes over the sensitive head, spreading the gathering of pre-come as he shudders, breathing already labored. With a coy glance up through her lashes, she slowly takes him into the warmth of her mouth.

Sebastian’s fingers quickly thread into her hair, tugging at the ash-blonde strands as her lips slide down his length until she feels him against the back of her throat. She sucks in to create a perfect seal, repeating the up and down motion a few times before leaning back to swirl her tongue around the tip.

“F—fuck…” Sebastian groans, his head lulling back. Sloane steadily increases her pace, humming until the vibration prompts him to slide open his eyes to watch her head bob in his lap. Her fingers continue to stroke where her lips can’t reach, her other hand softly fondling his sac in a way that has his hips bucking up involuntarily.

She keeps her eyes on his face as it contorts with pleasure, brows furrowed deeply as he resists the urge to unravel too quickly. It’s thrilling for her to see him at her mercy, incoherent murmurs of praise falling from his lips as she eagerly coaxes him to the edge. His grip tightens in her hair, pressing against the nape of her neck, a telltale sign he’s close.

“Slo—Sloane,” he gasps, voice strained. “I—oh, fuck—I’m—”

The rest of his sentence dissolves into a strangled moan, his body tensing and cock twitching against her tongue as he spills his release. Sloane swallows it all, remembering to breathe through her nose as she takes every last drop he has to offer. Sebastian slumps back, in a daze as Sloane pulls away with a wet pop and self-satisfied smirk. There’s a lopsided grin on his face as he silently admires her, affectionately sweeping the hair from her face before brushing the pad of his thumb across her wet lips.  

Even though Sloane can feel the slick of her arousal within her undergarments, she is content enough to wait until they return to their London flat for reciprocation. Seeing Sebastian so boneless and completely sated is satisfaction enough. She slides her hands across his thighs, gently massaging the remaining tension away.

“Ready to go home?” she asks, already imagining the evening ahead. A long bath, a hearty meal, and the comfort of their marital bed—not that they’ll be doing much sleeping.

Sebastian gradually sits up and Sloane pushes herself to stand, ready to help him right his trousers and gather his belongings so they can leave before more Aurors—or heaven forbid the Minister himself—stops by for another chat. But Sebastian shakes his head and the devilish gleam in his eyes is all the warning she has before his hands are on her, spinning her around to bend her over the desk.

“Seb!” the protest dies on her tongue as he hoists up her skirts, tucking them around her waist. Sloane sucks in a breath as he cups her, fingers pressing firm against the dampness of her knickers. He makes an appreciative sound, applying more pressure where she needs it the most, but just as she pushes back against his touch it’s gone, and all she can do is whimper at the loss.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Sebastian coos, peeling the delicate fabric away to expose her naked flesh. “I’ll take care of you.”

She lets out a surprised squeak when he playfully smacks her bare bottom, even more heat pooling in her gut as her legs tremble. Sebastian huffs a soft chuckle, this time smoothing the skin over with a gentle touch.

“More?” he asks, the deep timbre of his voice causing her to shiver.

She nods, barely remembering to speak, “yes.”

“Yes…?”

Sloane flushes—even after all these years, Sebastian can so easily fluster her. “Y—yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

Perhaps some lingering naivety makes her believe he’ll simply take her like this, but no, her husband clearly has other plans for her. His hands slide up the back of her thighs until his thumbs are spreading her open, teasing her silken folds and entrance.

“Is this what I do to you?” he rasps, sliding two fingers through her arousal before slowly sinking them into her as she lets out a shuddering sigh. The way she flexes around him as he leisurely pumps in and out betrays just how impatient she is for his offer of pleasure. When she lifts her hips to meet his ministrations, Sebastian presses his free hand to her lower back, keeping her still.

“I said I’d take care of you,” his voice is gruffer than before, and she bites back a whine when he removes his fingers. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” she breathes, shaking her head. A part of her realizes this is Sebastian’s way of showing her who is really in charge, now.

“Do you want to come around my fingers?”

Sloane shakes her head again, fighting the urge to squeeze her thighs together for the slightest ounce of relief.

“No?” Sebastian feigns surprise, amused by her startled moan when he slips his fingers back inside her anyways. “My, my…you are needy today, aren’t you?”

All she can do is moan, disrupting the parchment on the desk as she grasps for purchase.

“Well,” he says in a sigh, curling his fingers to press against the spot that makes her vision blurry with stars. “You’ll have to use your words, my love. Tell me what you need.”

Sloane bites down a little harder on her bottom lip, her entire body now hot and prickled with goosebumps. She used to hate when he prompted her like this, attempting to coax filthy words from her lips and make her beg. But she really is too indigent right now to care, glancing over her shoulder to meet his wicked expression.

“Sebastian, I swear to God, if you don’t—”

“Isn’t it a sin to swear to God?” he muses, acting as if he isn’t knuckle-deep inside her. “My Sloane is much more polite than that.”

Insufferable tease—she huffs in frustration, but the warm swirl in her gut is a stark reminder that she loves it, loves him.

“Please,” she starts, deeply exhaling. “Shut up and fuck me.”

Sebastian tries to hide his delight but fails, laughing as he shifts to properly stand behind her, nudging her stance a little wider so they are properly aligned. “As my lady wishes.”

There is little teasing after that, Sebastian nudging his hardened-again cock against her before snapping forward to fill her in one fluid stroke. Her sharp gasp is drowned out by his deep groan and it’s very clear neither will last very long. Almost immediately, he sets a quick pace, the friction an agonizingly wonderful burn. Sloane can feel her legs shaking, straining as she stands on the very tip of her toes, Sebastian holding her up by the waist and hips to meet his thrusts.

“That’s it,” he grunts, not bothering to keep any sort of rhythm. He folds his body over hers, his free hand grasping her right wrist, pinning it to the desk as he bares his weight down. “Just like that.”

Sloane whimpers her approval, the warmth of him holding her down a comfort she never expected to enjoy or need. He ruts his hips against hers until they are both frantically crying out, core fluttering around him as he spills again, this time deep inside her heat.

It takes several moments for them to float back down to reality, Sloane sighing as Sebastian rests himself a little more comfortably across her back. He nestles his nose against her neck, affectionately sweeping through her sweat-matted hair as he presses a few lazy kisses to the shell of her ear.

He repeats her earlier ask with a breathless chuckle, “ready to go home?”

She hums her agreement, the two unhurried as they fix their appearances and attempt to tidy up any mess. As they leave the offices hand-in-hand, Sloane thinks to herself that maybe, just maybe, the Ministry of Magic isn’t so bad after all.

[helpdraseel]

Help Dr. Aseel’s Daughters To Escape From GAZA WAR To Safety 🇵🇸🍉

I am Doctor Aseel Al-Saqa, caught between two missions linked only by life and death. I used to work in the emergency department at Al-Shifa Hospital, but I never expected my life and my family's life to turn into scenes of horrifying war. As a mother to two beautiful daughters, Amal and Haya, the weight of this responsibility becomes even more profound.

Since the morning of October 7th , the sound of shelling has filled the skies of Gaza, dramatically altering our lives.

Before War:⬇️

We fled with my husband Walid and our children, Amal and Haya, from the airstrikes, leaving behind everything we own in search of safety amidst screams of pain, fear, and panic. There's no longer a routine familiarity with alarm sounds; instead, waves of fear engulf me amidst my desperate attempts to protect my family and make them feel secure in a time of chaos and destruction.

Our hearts ache for what our little daughters, Amal and Haya, are going through. They deserve all the joy, love, and safety in this delicate age. I appeal to all of you to help us ensure our daughters' right to a dignified and safe life by leaving Gaza away from the effects of wars and conflicts.

Before War:⬇️

During WAR When my Daughters Scared from the Sound of Bombing:⬇️

We suffer from a shortage of food and healthcare resources. My innocent daughters, two-and-a-half-year-old Amal and ten-month-old Haya, suffer from food scarcity and lack of healthcare, as polluted smoke from rockets fills the sky of our city and sewage water accumulates in our streets. All of this makes them vulnerable to devastating diseases like gastroentritis and pneumonia. Our children should not bear this ordeal; they are our future, and we must provide them with the protection and care they deserve.

The moment the occupation destroyed the hospital where I served and caused my home to collapse before my eyes, it was not just a loss of shelter, but a powerful blow that shattered my entire life. Therefore, I need your help in this difficult moment, to extend a helping hand and support so that I can rebuild my life and the lives of my children anew. I need to secure a new roof over my head and return to my profession as a doctor to continue my journey of giving &healing.

My husband, Walid, works as an accountant in a Company. He faced a tough moment since the beginning of the war, as he lost his job and his workplace was bombed and destroyed. These painful experiences have made life more complicated and challenging for us.

As for my family, which consists of my father-in-law, my mother-in-law, and two brothers-in-law who lived with us in the same building, their house was destroyed along with ours during the bombing.

They were forced to flee in the middle of the night, leaving behind everything they owned. My father-in-law suffers from heart disease and diabetes, and amid this devastating war, he faces a constant shortage of insulin and the necessary treatment, which makes us tirelessly search for medication to ensure his survival. We are in dire need of your help, especially with my father-in-law's difficult situation, as we strive to move him to a safe place that provides him with treatment and security away from the ravages of war and destruction.

Perhaps this fundraising effort is our last hope that we rely on strongly. I appeal to the world to listen to my plea, as we are in desperate need of assistance to alleviate our suffering and escape to safety outside Gaza. We are a family of six and two daughters, and we need financial assistance ranging from $10,000 to $13,000 per person to leave Gaza and reach Egypt in search of safety.

Thank you for your support and for standing by me during this difficult time.

[syn4k]

actually yeah, fae tr, especially during s2. think about it.

operate on strange rules and dynamics that are incomprehensible to all but themselves

adjacent to the arcane and unnatural from the very start. they approach a natural terror and fucking play around in it

incredibly aggressive for no apparent reason. violence for violence may be the law of beasts but they have shark tooth grins and laugh at things that terrify others so who's to say that any of them are human?

very tightly knit group. they have their banter and their little dogfights and they spill blood and pull the rug from under each others' feet but one almost gets the sense while watching that this is just how they show affection

attempts to enter that group are never really fully successful. sure, they have friends and allies, but even those are kind of on the outskirts of. whatever dynamic they have going on.

unless you're Andor, that is.

some in Dagrun whisper that the fact they accepted him so readily as one of their own is a blessing. most of the town see it as a curse.

lastly, and most importantly, they are inextricably bound to each other. every last one of them. if you fuck with one of them, all of them hit back in vengeance, and the vengeance of the sky people is not something that you want to provoke. because after all,

they say the zombie singlehandedly killed a god he used to be championed by and absorbed all of its power

they say the mercenary has eyes that are a little bit too sharp behind his glasses, a tongue that's a little too rough for a champion of mianite. his actions never quite line up with his words

they say the thaumaturge runs towards things that would destroy her instead of away like she should, embraces them fully, and emerges stronger and more fucked up for it every time

they say the wizard holds enough power in his little finger to turn entire cities inside out without so much as lifting it

and they say when the captain goes quiet, you should run.

[frozenjokes]

Quite A Rotten Love, This Is

“My deepest apologies to the council, and equally to our noble familied witnesses,” Cub was not sorry, nor was he the type to grovel, but he knew his place here. He knew his place quite well, just as well as he knew what it was like to sit in the stands, raised platforms overlooking the defendant of the court. He knew he’d be walking out of here with a slap on the wrist; less than, if he played his cards right, but ah, Cub was never the most delicate with his words. “Really, I am quite embarrassed with myself, letting my whims get the better of me like this. I only want the best for our kingdom, however, I see now that chasing those ambitions has endangered our clan.”

The council, the bears that oversaw that governing of the Bear Clan, held narrowed eyed expressions, neutral, bordering on hostile, an expression Cub wore quite well himself. But Cub could see beyond their practiced neutrality; these bears knew him, especially the nobles in the witness stand. There may not even be a vote on his sentence. Why sentence Cub at all? He’d hardly done anything wrong, the opposite really, even if the law saw things differently.

He was a scientist. A man of research, a man of the court, and he took his job quite seriously. His work surrounded that of the Rot, the very corruption which ensnared Armello’s current king, driving him to madness at the cost of the rest of his country. Rot was nasty business, truly, and the Bear Clan in particular despised it, but Cub saw potential where his peers could not, he knew if he could just figure out how to harness it-

Armello’s king was dying, withering away at the hands of the very power he had wielded for so long. The Clans of Wolf, Rabbit, Rat, and Bear were all quite aware, and as the king’s madness grew, so did attempts to seize the throne, heroes storming the castle in the name of their Clan, then perishing on the halberds of the king’s royal guard.

Fools.

Fools, all of them who turned to the Wyld as their savior. Now, their logic was not unsound, not at first glance. The only way to cure an affliction of corruption such as the Rot was to destroy it, and the only known way to destroy the Rot was to expose it to a concentrated source of the Wyld’s power; spirit stones, as they were so aptly nicknamed. But these coveted stones were rare, only forming in the depths of Rot-infected dungeons, or if you were superstitious, entering a spirit stone ‘in your time of need..’ Yeah.. Cub had reason to doubt that one. However, to cure an infection, you needed four stones, and if the afflicted host was already too far gone, the absence of their Rot would kill them instantly, proving a massive waste of resources.

That is.. unless you had four stones in the throne room, shattering Armello’s corrupted king to pieces under their divine light. He would die instantly. Cub was certain. However, good luck getting near the castle with your precious stones, as even carrying them beyond the walls of Castle Town will count as treason- well, to be fair, most anyone entering the walls of the king's home town was treason these days.. It’s safe to say the king had noticed the uptick in assassination attempts and trusts little of the neighboring Clans. But the king’s guard were not infected with Rot; not most of them anyway, so the spirit stones alone would not be enough to breach the castle walls.

But the Rot was different. The Rot made you strong.

Near the beginning, when the king’s madness had only begun and the guard was not so heavy, an assassin had made it into the king’s chambers, and in the absence of his guard, the king fought the intruder himself.

The assassin was eviscerated. Cub had seen countless photos of the king on his balcony, his large mane soaked in the blood and viscera of the young Wolf Clan member who had made it inside. But you wouldn’t have known their race, not from the body that had been tossed into the castle square, splattering- no, shattering on the bricks, black steam wisping off the creature’s managed remains. The emblem on the destroyed armor was the only indicator of Clan, only DNA tests able to confirm the exact race. A wolf; not surprising when the bearers of their Clans’ name tend to be most invested in their politics, but interesting enough. That was besides the point.

If one could accrue enough Rot to face the royal guard, then the king himself, and recover from the infection at a cost less than that of their life- this was ideal, and in Cub’s opinion, a no brainer. In all honesty, the king’s successor did not have to survive the fight so long as the king was dead, however, it seemed to be a well accepted notion that the king’s killer would rule in his stead, securing the place for their Clan. Would it stop the infighting among Clans? No, and there would be many more deaths before peace in Armello was restored, however, the Bear Clan’s influence taking the king’s place would be a very good start. Perhaps the other Clans would be so grateful to them for disposing of the old bastard, they would accept their rule without question? Unlikely.

However, Cub would very much like to find a cure for Rot corruption that doesn’t involve the death of the host. After all, he was quite skilled in the art of magic, in the Wyld as well as the Rot, and he had a few ambitions of his own..

“Hey, do I get to know your name yet, or are you just going to sit there sulking until we starve to death?” The prisoner, Scar he was called, that had landed Cub on the court’s floor in the first place spoke, breaking him from his thought. Now, it wasn’t as if Scar ever stopped talking, but being addressed directly was a little harder to ignore.

“My name is not relevant to our mission, and given the innumerable ways I outrank you, you would not be addressing me as such anyway. If you must call me anything, then call me Sir.”

“I’m not calling you that. Feel free to take a step off your high horse though, because we're both on equal footing now. They blew up the dungeon entrance and everything, a whole spectacle of a cave in, yeah? I mean, not the most reliable form of capital punishment if I’m being honest. Listen, I know you’re in a bad mood and all from having your people turn their backs on you or whatever, but this ain’t my first rodeo. You’re in good hands!” Scar held out his arms for emphasis, though given he was a rat, his wingspan was hardly any longer than the width of Cub’s body.

Cub turned his scrutiny from the floor to Scar directly, taking the Rat Clan (well perhaps ex-Rat Clan) member in. Scar’s past was written all across his skin in marks more permanent than tattoos, both ears were in shreds, and even half his tail was gone, the stump looking fresher than most of his other scars. A thief, some kind of rogue, and a nasty one at that, though Cub got the feeling Scar’s prime was behind him, and not just because of their shared predicament. He stank of rot, as obvious as the bulging veins on both of his legs, though the right was far worse than the left, hence the cane Scar used to get around. He was not corrupted yet, still in the stage of weakness that would haunt him for a while longer, though many bears had thought otherwise, given he had clearly lost his mind. Waltzing into Bear Clan land, the place where Rot was most despised, then attempting thievery of all things- truly, there most definitely was something wrong with Scar and it had nothing to do with his sickness.

“As stated in our sentence, we are not on equal footing. I will continue my research, and you will be my assistant.”

If Scar responded, Cub didn’t hear it, the deep, dull throb of his broken chest drowning out all other noise. He tried to push it down, repress the all encompassing pain of their betrayal, but the memories overtook him regardless.

He knew his place. He knew with an unshakeable certainty that this one flub, this one mistake in which he had the misfortune of getting caught, would not end in consequence. He was loyal. He was theirs. And he knew he was right, even if the rest of their Wyld-riddled brains couldn’t see it.

And yet.

“We’ve set a close eye on you in recent weeks, Cub,” a council member, one he did not know well, but whom he trusted regardless; he’d had no reason for mistrust- everything up until now had been cordial, even if he could sense discomfort at his various dissertations from time to time, “You’re passionate about your work, we all know. We’ve heard you speak. However, matters like those of Rot are delicate. We, the citizens of Armello, are delicate. You, Cub, are delicate. Yet, you do not treat yourself as such. You do not respect the boundaries we’ve agreed upon to keep the Bear Clan safe, to keep us from becoming like that of Rat and even Wolf, noble as they pretend to be.”

Cub was not worried. Cub had not been worried. “I understand we have had disagreements.. ones that have been settled, and terms I have ignored in pursuit of my craft. Wrong as I am, I hope to appeal that I only push the boundaries of your word for the sake of our future. The council knows better than I, yes, however, I hope you understand my frustration in such tight restrictions. Some days it feels as though I am left to wonder, how am I really meant to study Rot when I’ve never been allowed to speak to those who suffer from its affliction.”

“You like the Rot, Cub?” The council member straightened just slightly, their tone edged, and the others of the council came to attention in turn, their practiced expressions growing colder, as typical for a court of law. Cub considered this typical. He had not been worried. Though, the question had confused him. It was odd. Loaded.

“As a tool, I believe Rot to be key to our success. We’ve all witnessed the power in its corruption, and if we can harness it, overtake the king in his castle then free ourselves from its grip.. well. Not only do I believe we can use it to take power, but keep it as well. To find a cure without the cost of a corrupted’s life.. Our influence, unimaginable.” The following silence itched under Cub’s skin, the glares of the council still cold and unyielding. Perhaps he would be punished after all. Perhaps he had judged the room incorrectly. Fine. He could handle it.

“You did not react when I told you that you were being watched. You don’t believe yourself to be guilty?”

Cub steeled himself, keeping his expression firmly neutral. “I acknowledge my transgression for the crime of seeking out the infected prisoner. While I do not believe my work requires such intense supervision, it does not surprise or bother me to know this was taking place. My only wish is to serve you, the Bear Clan. I know I have yet to convince you of the Rot’s power, so in the meantime, whatever brings you the greatest comfort is more than okay with me.”

They were going to force him to cease his research. That’s where this was going. Possibly worse than the worst case scenarios he’d imagined in his head, and the threat of secret supervision was planted in order to keep him from continuing in secret. They knew he would try. They knew him far too well. Perhaps Cub had bared too much of his heart, though he never imagined they would seize it in this way. Grief and anger swirled in his gut, pushing apart and dizzying him with the feeling, but his neutrality did not change. He would accept this sentence with grace. While Cub believed strongly that the Wyld alone would not win them this battle, in the end, he would do as he was ordered.

“Must I give it all up?” There was nothing neutral about the words that slipped from his lips, tore apart his facade, and left his heart and lungs broken and bleeding for the world to see. A grave error, one he recognized and fiercely regretted the moment he spoke, but there was no going back now. Is this what they’d been waiting for? Was he always doomed to crack at their feet?

“We don’t believe you can,” a new council member spoke, one he was far more familiar with, one who he thought maybe, eventually, he might learn their name. Their cold hostility sent the first sparks of fear down Cub’s spine.

“I would do anything-“

“Quiet. It is no longer your place to speak.” The faces above him were stony. Every face, even beyond the council. Cub felt his breath catch in his throat, audibly, for everyone to hear. Relentlessly, he was plowed over. “You are infected, Cub. Not in skin, nor in smell. In mind, however, we all agree. You are dangerous, you have been for months, and now, you’ve shown how far you’ll go to pursue this mad fantasy.”

He hadn’t done anything wrong! He wanted to scream it, to argue, to wail and lash out and convince them, and they knew it, the council let the silence linger, waiting for Cub to speak, waiting for him to break the order he had been given, to prove to them just how disloyal he was. But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. He would do whatever they asked of him, accept any punishment. Infected. He was not infected. He would show them. He would show them, and he would not say a word.

(One transgression. One, in all his time of studying Rot, with the strictest restrictions placed on his research, one time he had disobeyed. Had the council been waiting? Looking for a single excuse they could use to rid of him? Cub perished the thought.)

He bent on a knee, waiting for their order. “You will continue your study, but you will not do it here.” Cub’s head snapped up, hope lighting his heart, but at once he wished he hadn’t, the council’s eyes boring into him as if the motion was a clear admission of guilt. He was only confirming what they already knew. That this is what he wanted. This. The Rot. Still, he did not speak. “You will be escorted to where our territory borders with the king’s, and you will research the Rot directly, as you have desired for so long. With the assistance of the infected rat of whom you betrayed your council for, you will be sealed in one of Armello’s dungeons with three days’ rations. Do as you wish with the time, as your whims are more important to you than the security of our Clan.”

And they had gone on, but Cub was no longer listening. This was worse. This was worse. Scar had been brought in, hissing and spitting and wielding his rotted legs like weapons, useless as they were, but the rat was still feared for the illness that would never spread simply by contact, and certainly not through heavy armor. If they’d listened to him, they would know. They wouldn’t have to be so afraid.

He might have cried, though he didn’t remember. Regardless, Cub was certainly crying now. If Scar noticed, he said nothing, continuing to ramble on like the world hadn’t just come crashing down.

“Do you like the stars?” Scar asked the question out of nowhere, completely unrelated to whatever he’d been babbling about before. Cub frowned, adjusting the pendant that kept his cloak in place.

“Astrology is one of my passing interests, yes. Anyone with so much of a desire to practice spellwork knows to pay their respect to the moon. The night lends us her power, an ultimate force of good.” Cub hadn’t slept on his last night. He wouldn’t have been able to regardless of if he spent the hours in bed, so he chose to sit on the roof of his small home, small only because he hardly spent a moment inside. His real home was the lab, but he was no longer allowed access. Regardless, he intended to savor the stars he would never see again, and pray to the Wyld to lend him strength enough to accept his fate with grace.

“Uh, yeah. That! And it's pretty. That’s what I like.”

“The night sky is beautiful, yes.” Cub heard Scar shifting on his feet, but whatever he wanted, Cub was determined to ignore it.

“I thought you might be a fan because of your- uh- shoulder thing, shoulder wrap. Cloak. Thing. I mean, I can’t see it very well in here, not much light gets through the fallen rocks, huh? But on the way here I mean, sitting in that carriage, I was looking at it. All blue and silver and kinda glittery? Goes well with your fur. Looks expensive. I can see why you wanted to take it with you. Your staff too, now that’s worth quite a bit isn’t it? What’d it cost to get your paws on a spirit stone?”

Cub was tiring quickly of this conversation, extremely uninterested in how the rat would have pawned off all his belongings, but at the same time, dwelling on the way his legs shook on the court room floor.. that was worse, decidedly.

“The stone is used, inactive as you can probably tell. If it still emitted light, we may have an easier time seeing.. though, you’ve probably never seen an activated stone in person. Still, it did cost a pretty penny for mere aesthetics. Spiritually though, it was worth the gold. Contrary to popular belief, the Wyld and its many mysteries are deeply important to me.”

“Well stranger, I have no reason to believe otherwise. I’m not here to fight you, you know. I intend fully on seeing the stars again, especially since my last night was spent in a jail cell.”

“Naive, aren’t you.”

“People tend to think so, and maybe they’re right. You’ll just have to decide that for yourself.” Scar’s eyes glittered in the low light, sharp with something like mischief, but distinctly perceptive, “And, Sir, I’m willing to bet I’ve seen more spirit stones than you could hope to dream. I bet that just turns your stomach, doesn’t it. The grubby hands of a thief holding one of your precious stones between his infected legs.”

Cub grunted, though his surprise didn’t show externally. “Congratulations. Perhaps you’ve slowed the rate of your infection, though, I was never cleared to test something like that directly. You’d think..” Cub huffed, but stopped there.

“Think what?”

“Nothing.”

“No really, continue.”

“We all have thoughts we don’t mean, but they are just that. The things we think are separate from the ways in which we act, and even in the face of death, I will not succumb to anger. They’re protecting their land, and will continue to do so with precise vigilance. My sentence, harsh as it is.. no matter my intention, no one can read minds. As my last act, I will remain loyal. I will respect their decision.”

Cub sensed movement, but didn’t look up. The clumsy click of Scar’s cane grew louder, but Cub stayed still, acknowledging the other with no more than a flick of his ear. He did not move either when Scar ducked into his field of view, disrupting his violent glaring at the floor.

“Hm.” Scar said, as if making forced eye contact in the dim light had revealed some grand insight. Cub met his challenge, though Scar didn’t seem to care, pulling back, “I don’t remember asking.”

Cub growled, but Scar was already walking away, humming to himself. Scar turned, but if he saw Cub’s bared teeth he gave no indication, tapping the opposite wall with his cane, “So the bear does feel emotion other than sorry for himself, that’s nice to know. Listen, given the circumstances I guess I understand, but your failure to realize how the dynamic here has changed.. I deal in difficult people, stranger, but your brand of ignorance just grates my nerves.”

“You have no idea who you’re speaking to.”

The taps of Scar’s cane grew louder, more aggressive. “Oh, I have a pretty good idea, actually. You’re an exile. An outcast. The worst kind too, the kind that grasps at their nobility like it will save them from a knife to the throat. Will loyalty save you, stranger? Or will you keel pathetically, choking on your own blood before you even make it down to die as your council intended. If you’d like to cry of rankings, I’m miles above you, for goodness sakes, and I hardly have weeks left to live! But I intend to live them, hear me?” Scar smashed his cane so hard against the wall Cub was sure it would snap, but it didn’t, and something was wrong here, beyond anger, something was wrong, but when Cub reached for his staff-

“Idiot,” Scar snorted, and Cub looked up to see the silhouette of what Scar was really holding, the length of the staff ridiculous next to his small stature, though he seemed to have zero trouble abusing the rocky brick wall with it. Cub stood with a snarl, but he couldn’t even find his footing before Scar was on him, punching the air from his lungs with a sharp jab from his own staff, then throwing his whole body at Cub’s chest, forcing him back to the ground. Cub hit his head as he landed, and maybe that’s why he failed to notice the dagger at his throat for so long.

“Do you think I make empty threats, stranger? Do you want to die?”

Cub let out a strangled noise, but Scar’s dagger only pressed harder on the exhale, fear sending sparks down his spine as the pressure cut beneath his fur. He couldn’t use magic like this- couldn’t speak any incantations- “No- No-No I don’t- I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die, please.” Cub had never heard those noises leave his mouth, but at this moment he was unconcerned with appearances.

“You don’t want to die? It sounds like you do. Tell me again, where do you rank out here? You’re an exile, an exile! Who has the power here? Do you really think it’s you? Do you want to die?”

“No! No! Please, whatever you want, I don’t want to die-“

“Good! Good! We aren’t going to die, you hear me?”

“We- I don’t-“

“Do you want to die?”

“No!”

“Then we aren’t gonna! So tell me, what’s your damn name?” Scar didn’t take well to the short pause, using his other hand to increase the pressure on Cub’s neck without pushing the dagger further, “What is your name?”

“Cub! Cub- My name is Cub,” he wheezed unable to do much more than comply, “Cub. Not- I promise.”

Scar chuckled as he softened his grip, still firm, but Cub found the laughter more frightening than anything else Scar could have done next, “You promise? What’s that mean? Wouldn’t have thought you were lying, silly.” Scar made a grand gesture of rolling his eyes, and Cub thought he might just pass away right then and there.

“People- correspondents in the past- they think it’s a funny name-“

“Oh, ‘cause you’re a bear.”

“Yes- that-“

“Is it a nickname? Something your friends called you that stuck? Just curious, I mean, I’ve known a few Pinkies in my time, it’s a somewhat common nickname. Rabbits don’t really do that. Wolves? No idea, but I think if I was nicknamed Puppy I would want to die!” Scar barked a laugh, the dagger bouncing as his chest did, and Cub had never known a greater terror.

“It’s- Legal name. I’m called Cub.”

“Oh! Interesting. You know, they might’ve called me Pinkie since I’m always picking out my hair, but quite honestly, I much prefer Scar. It’s a bit cooler in my opinion, though I’ve known some pretty scary Pinkies. Scar is not my legal name, if you were wondering.”

“That’s- That’s really great-“

Scar smiled, something far too genuine looking to be real, especially the way he had Cub now. What was it going to take for him to let go? “Look how engaged you are now! Oh, this is just delightful, much much better than before. I mean sure, I think anyone has the right to be a little moody, grieve a bit, yadda yadda, but you were just uniquely insufferable about it, so I’m glad we’re on the same page now. Are we on the same page?”

Given that the dagger had not moved, Cub was not about to disagree. Actually, he may never disagree with anyone ever again. “Yes. Yes, same page. I got it.”

“Mhm!” Scar seemed to be satisfied with himself, removing the dagger from the immediate vicinity of Cub’s throat, though he didn’t move from his spot on Cub's chest, and Cub was far too frightened to try and sit up. “Now, just in case you need a reminder, you will not be blowing me up with magic the second you get the chance, because I’m your ticket out of this, got it? I’ve killed quite a few Rot creatures in my time, and there’s no way you’re taking down a Bane without me, especially if you’ve never fought one before.”

A Bane. Creatures of Rot, often thought to be manifestations of pure evil. They rose from the dungeons from time to time, clicking their beaks and trailing rotted feathers wherever they went. Drawn to sound, just one beast could wreck an entire town, and while the king’s guard did their best to keep the creatures at bay, there were too many, they were too strong. Self proclaimed heroes had been known to face off against them one on one, but even in victory, Cub couldn’t imagine how they’d escape Rot sickness with so many open wounds exposed to the Rot for so long. He had known teams of three to handle them with some success, but even then, these guards were often overpowered.

Cub didn’t even have any armor. Surely Scar didn’t either- maybe he wore something light under the red cloth that hung loosely around his chest and legs, but Cub could see enough patchy fur to know it wasn’t enough.

“Hey,” Scar broke through Cub’s spiral, a hand finding the side of Cub’s face, thumb rubbing gentle circles through the fur on his cheeks, “You’re scared,” he said, gently, as if everything Scar was doing and saying wasn’t utterly terrifying. “You’re in good hands, Cub. Good hands. Now, I’ve got an idea, but they hardly had a cot in that prison cell and I’m exhausted, so I’ll tell you what,” Scar clicked his tongue, flipping the dagger in his fingers before tucking it back at his belt. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you? You’ve lost everything.”

Scar paused, seemingly giving Cub the opportunity to speak, but words were failing him right now, and honestly, Cub wasn’t even sure he had anything to say regardless. So he nodded, somewhat feverish, and Scar smiled, the hand on Cub’s cheek remaining as it was, petting the fur like he was comforting a child.

“Rest, then. Grieve. We have time. Three day’s rations, but they gave us enough for two bears; I eat quite a bit less than you do. We’ve got a little wiggle room here, yeah? So today, we rest. Tonight we can work out a plan, and tomorrow maybe, we can put it to action. You bears have a pretty good internal clock, right? That’s what I’ve heard. How does that sound?”

“I- Yes. That sounds good.”

“Good,” Scar hummed, hand moving from Cub’s cheek to his neck, a gesture that made him impossibly more tense. It took everything in Cub not to flinch as Scar traced the place his dagger had been, pulling back to examine his hand with thoughtful precision, “Not bad. It’s shallow, but if you like you can heal it. Might as well. Do you need your staff?”

“No,” Cub spoke, feeling breathless. Scar didn’t move from his place on Cub’s chest, watching intently. He cocked his head when Cub stayed still, and Cub wished he was anywhere else.

“Go on, then.” Well. Guess Scar wasn’t going anywhere. Cub swallowed hard, bringing his hands slowly, very slowly, non-threatening, to his throat, speaking the soft incantation for healing. Scar seemed intent on making everything as stressful as possible, leaning in with keen interest, and generally making Cub question all his life decisions up to this point. Maybe the council was right. Maybe Rot had made this rat crazy- Cub couldn’t see how anyone in their right mind would act this way without the influence of an infection.

But still, when it was over, Scar did not move. He seemed interested in Cub’s cloak, which he’d probably already dirtied by stepping all over it in his boots. Emotionally, that was a bit of a blow, but given The Everything Else, Cub was shocked he even had the state of mind to be concerned for the cleanliness of his possessions.. ah well. Scar had expressed interest, and if the crazy knife-wielding rat wanted a closer look at his clothes, Cub wasn’t about to stop him.

And then Scar took off his boots, plopping right down on Cub’s chest to pull them off and haphazardly throwing them across the room. Yeah. Sure. Alright. Scar was entirely unconcerned with whatever Cub was thinking however, the other hardly acknowledging him as he kneaded Cub’s chest with his feet, testing how it felt on his paws, which, gross, but maybe he liked the garment because it was fur lined? Regardless, whatever Cub expected Scar to do next, it was not attempting to burrow underneath.

“What- What-“ was really all Cub could manage, unsure how to stop this immediately without triggering Scar to drive a dagger into his stomach, so instead he laid with his paws somewhat raised, baffled and frightened and extremely distressed. At last, Cub attempted to sit up, but Scar didn’t like that at all, grabbing fistfuls of his fur and whining like a child.

“No! No, stay! Stay, come on, stay, stay please?” At this point Scar was halfway under the cloak, legs sticking out awkwardly, kicking and nearly nailing Cub in the snout.

“Stop- Stop this. This is- This is not- I- professional?”

“Maybe not, but I bet I’ll have the best sleep of my life under here. It’s cold, isn’t it? Maybe you’re not cold, but you’ve seen me! My hair is so damn thin- I need a big ol’ bear cloak! If I stole this off you, there’s no way I’d sell it! Well. Maybe I would. Blue isn’t my color and money’s always tight, you know how it is. I’ve got a family of three to feed!”

“You have kids?”

Scar cackled, and Cub was growing increasingly concerned about the sharp things hanging off the rat’s body as he wiggled around. “Goodness, no! At least, I don’t think so! That pup’s life would be far worse off with dad in the picture. Got family, though. They’ll be looking for me. Once we get out of here, I’ll figure out how to find them again. With any luck, we’ll see each other real soon.”

“Ah. That’s good then..”

“What? Our imminent rescue?”

“That you don’t have kids.”

Scar barked another laugh, settling completely now under Cub’s cloak. So this is how it’s going to be, huh? Huh. Wow. Yeah, Cub could not think of a single way this could be any worse. A Bane could rise up from the depths and swallow him whole, and that would probably be better than the company of.. whoever this was. Family, huh? Cub shivered at the thought of anyone remotely close to resembling Scar in body and mind. What a fucking nightmare. Rescue, though.. did Scar really think his family would find them? Find a way to dig them out? Probably not.. he didn’t seem too optimistic, and given he already had some sort of plan.. for Wyld’s sake, Cub was doomed.

Cub closed his eyes. He was tired.. more than tired actually, he was exhausted. He couldn’t remember a time where he’d felt so utterly defeated, broken down until the only other option was sleep.

Well. Maybe he should try. He wouldn’t be of any use fighting creatures of Rot or, Wyld forbid, a Bane, on twenty four hours of no sleep. Not that the floor of a musty old dungeon cave would be any good for a nap, but it would have to do. Cub never did have to be comfortable to fall asleep; long nights in the lab were proof enough, dozing hunched over on his desk.

Though, he would much rather be alone, thank you very much.

“Scar. Scar. Take my cloak if you want it. I’ll remove it for you, and you can sleep elsewhere. No need for this.”

Scar did not answer. Given the slow rise and falls of his chest, Cub got the sinking feeling he wasn’t going to. Quick to fall, isn’t he.. Could Cub get away with waking him up? Vividly, he imagined Scar startling awake, wide eyed with a paw immediately to his belt, driving his dagger into the closest assailant..

Well. So be it.

It was chilly, and at the very least, Scar hidden away against his chest provided a bit of warmth, as much as a man of his stature could, anyway. Alright. For now, it was alright. Cub inhaled deeply, fighting for control over his own breathing. Now was the time for sleep. Tomorrow would be the time for dying. Somehow, miraculously, if he made it out of here, then he could think about what was next.

[elizabethrobertajones]

I wish to hear the tales of siren Lizzy driving men into rocks with disinterested lesbian asexuality! Those sound like fun stories!

Oh my god, like, the most recent event, I think I manic pixie dreamgirled a dear friend, who we'd met in weird circumstances (he and his brothers were notable town characters being small business owners with a visible presence and themselves as a trio came across a lot stranger than they actually were. A bestie of mine met his brother and married him and he's the nicest most normal guy, so his brother (much nerdier) became a sort of friend-brother-in-law and we became friends, but I'd reacted in shock and awe to my friend having met her husband by chance since I recognised them in a very silly way and when I was a teen had used their appearance for characters in a story on account of them being Notable Strange People In Town and I'd thought they were only background characters in my life forever until then and therefore fair game to take inspiration from.)

I was just being me at him (chatty, fun, extremely weird, trying not to admit I'd basically made up spy fanfiction about him and his brothers a decade earlier) and he also was sort of weird in a benign normal nerdy way so I didn't think there was anything strange, until I realised he was coming around regularly and bestowing quite large gifts and writing really really really nice birthday cards specifically to me (easy to tell when you're a twin and your twin also gets a present and card from him) which made me start to realise he miiiight have a crush on me, and then I thought about it some more from his perspective of meeting me and how I can be rather full on in person and he was a wallflower who rarely got any attention especially compared to his two more conventionally normcore brothers, and realised I'd accidentally enabled him up to the point that I briefly considered just marrying him to avoid the embarrassment if he did proposition me. But I sort of gently ghosted and just toned back the interaction to group chats and collective meetings and while I feel sort of bad and miss hanging out with a friend who is in town, it was probably very sensible because he was way too nice to accidentally destroy through awkwardness :P

since I'm biromantic and demisexual I do end up crushing on guys and giving anyone a really long time to shoot their shot because I can't tell if I'm just mildly crushing and it could be more or if it's going to turn into more but it is Always a catastrophe and makes me feel More Gay Than Ever in the aftermath and I know now after so many failed attempts I am Not Meant to date at the very least any guy who is excessively cis, het, shy, or normcore in interests because I just end up in a spiral about not matching them in any way whatsoever despite my surface ability to start crushing, and it causes an enormous communication gulf that they are never equipped to handle and I always end up feeling like I'm trying to explain myself to a brick wall until I give up and things fall apart, because in the same time I was giving them a run up, they had already fallen completely in love or else thought we should already be having tons of sex and were hurt I wasn't interested yet and couldn't SAY that so they get passive aggressive and super weird and - aaurgh. Sometimes I just want to be friends, also, but that can also be seen as interest from some people so then they hit a double brick wall where I only ACCIDENTALLY led them on and I sometimes don't even know myself which one it was if I did crush on them at least a little at first.

I do catch myself thinking sometimes that I should just shave my head to try and get some sort of visible barrier up XD

[lilac-gold]

A Sweetheart Analysis because she might have a god complex

In-game, Sweetheart has always been a narcissist. She literally tries to marry herself, calling herself perfect and beautiful. It's a huge part of her character and personality, Sweetheart clearly believing that she's superior to everyone else, but another part is her laugh. And it was while looking at her laugh that I came upon a realisation:

Sweetheart has a god complex.

Now, I am by no means a psychological expert, but by researching it, I found that some typical traits of a god complex- often associated with narcissistic personality disorder (NPD)- were:

Extreme entitlement

Arrogance

An inability to take responsibility

Believing in their superiority to others

An alarming lack of empathy for others

An inflated sense of self-importance

A conviction that one is infallible (See sites such as verywellmind for evidence)

And Sweetheart exhibits all of these throughout the course of Omori. She believes that Hero is obligated to fall in love with and marry her, outraged when he doesn't and saying that the idea is preposterous. She locks Hero and Rococo away when they refuse her/break up, and has a special cell made for Spaceboy after they seperate, refusing to accept responsibility for the falling-apart relationships and completely uncaring of how this affected them. She constantly compliments herself, taking self-love to its extremes as she tries to marry herself and later clones of herself. She's flabbergasted when she loses to Omori and co. in their fight, disbelieving and in denial. Her deepest desires are manifested into a castle where she has everything, from films made about her to an endless crowd of mindless, adoring fans. She's egocentric and shows no regard for others, and apparently has since she was younger, Rococo saying that she 'always won' their arguments and since he 'fought back', he got very good at running. She's ready to and tries to destroy/eternally imprison a group of children because they crashed her wedding.

Not only this, but Sweetheart compares herself to a literal god in-game:

The fact that 'blasphemy' is defined as 'the act or offense of speaking sacrilegiously about God or sacred things; profane talk' speaks for itself. Sweetheart views herself as a god, or at least whatever comes closest to it.

Furthermore, I'd like you to look at her laugh:

...yeah. Now, does it remind you of anything? No? How about this:

Both of them use 'oho' as a sound in regular conversation, though Sweetheart incorporates it through her laugh while it is the only word that Biscuit uses to converse. In a way, it's his language.

Now, consider the fact that Sweetheart was raised in Orange Oasis, where the Unbread Twins are known about and respected. Bread is left under a giant carving of them. There are still legends about them. They're treated as gods, because that's what they are. Doughie and Biscuit are actual deities, and one of them only uses the language of 'oho'.

Sweetheart knows all of this, and most likely believes in the twins herself. By imitating Biscuit's manner of speaking at times, she could be interpreted as imitating the language of the gods. It's a stretch, but the connection between 'Ohoo' and 'OHO' is made easily enough.

She considers herself to be so superior to everyone else that she compares herself to a higher being multiple times. She even attempts to bend the laws of nature in Headspace and make sentient copies of herself that are just like her so that she can have someone to marry.

I'm not saying she definitely has a god complex because that's not something that I am able to diagnose, especially not to a video game character. But there's certainly evidence to support this, and it's been fun compiling it!

Bear in mind that Sweetheart potentially having NPD does not mean that everyone with NPD is exactly like Sweetheart! Everyone is unique, and a mental illness/disorder does not define a person. Do not use this as an excuse to stigmatise NPD or take this as me being against it. I am talking about a fictional character who is incredibly overdramatised because that's her whole character- the narcissist looking for a date who serves as an obstacle to finding out the truth. NPD and a god complex are also not the same thing, so consider that when bringing it up!

Thank you for reading my little analysis- I love seeing people's responses, but please be respectful! I'm not trying to start a fight or offend anyone, just have a discussion about a fun character from a game I enjoy :)

[ironwoman359]

A Thief's Gamble - Ch.5

The Renegade from Cyrodiil

Previous: Ch.4 - Bedlam and Burglary || Next: Ch.6 - Unhindered Insights Fic Masterpost

Fic Summary: Brynjolf is certain that the only way the Thieves Guild will return to its glory days is by bringing in new, talented members. Unfortunately, Mercer doesn't agree, and it's not like Brynjolf's latest attempts at recruiting have gone well. But when he meets a stranger in the marketplace one morning, he's willing to take the risk and bring her on board....only time will tell if his gamble pays off.

Chapter Summary: Brynjolf learns that Ariene has been hiding who she really is, and he is forced to confront her before she endangers the Guild.

Content: Brynjolf POV, Thieves Guild quest spoilers, game typical violence.

Ships: Brynjolf x Dragonborn OC (slowburn)

Word Count: 3,857

Check the reblogs for a link to read on AO3!

--- --- ---

Sometimes, Brynjolf wondered what his Ma would think of him today.

She’d wanted him to join the merchant’s trade when he was a lad, but he’d refused, complaining that he didn’t want to spend his life stuck behind a desk filling out paperwork and speaking with boring noblemen. He wanted to do something exciting with his life. 

He’d always been a schemer, inventing wild tales to scam the other kids out of pocket change and sweets, and as he grew, so did his ambition. His targets grew bigger and his plans became more elaborate, and soon he caught the attention of others who operated on the shadier side of the law. He made some new friends, acquired some new skills, and before he knew it he was being offered a position in the Thieves Guild. 

Finally, he had the life he’d always wanted, far away from the daily drudgery of ledgers, bookkeeping, and his Ma’s boring expectations. 

Thirty years later, as he sat at his desk keeping books, balancing ledgers, and reading correspondence from boring noblemen, he was certain that she was looking down from Sovngarde and shaking her head at him. 

It turned out that running a Guild required just as much paperwork as being a merchant. And while not all of the contacts he kept were boring noblemen, sometimes he thought that actually made things harder. 

Merchants didn’t have to encode half their messages to keep the guards from discovering their movements, and shopkeepers didn’t have to keep two sets of ledgers, one with real figures and one with numbers that were faked. 

Sometimes, Brynjolf regretted being so eager to prove himself to Gallus and the other higher ups. While he did prove that he was an exceptional thief, he’d also proved that he had a good head for numbers, and more and more of the Guild’s administrative work was passed on to him, especially after Mercer took over the Guild. He still managed to keep his more interesting skills as sharp as his daggers, but there were definitely days when he felt more like a merchant than a thief after all.  

Today was one of those days. 

He’d been cooped up in the cistern for what felt like ages, reading over reports from his agents across Skyrim. It was important for the Guild to keep a finger on the pulse of what was happening in each hold, and while most of their clients had dried up, Brynjolf had managed to ensure that his contacts still sent him news about any notable changes in the country. 

The most concerning news was the rumors of a dragon attack in Helgen. Brynjolf had received reports on what had happened near the southern border, but it had been right before the situation at Goldenglow had escalated, and he hadn’t paid much attention to the rumors. There were, after all, more pressing matters to deal with. 

But now it seemed that Helgen really had been destroyed, and that not long after there’d been another attack in Whiterun. Only about a day later, by the accounts he was reading. He was only receiving the report now because his contact had feared traveling across the Rift with dragons on the loose. 

Brynjolf wasn’t sure what to make of the idea of dragons. He had initially thought the reports about Helgen were written in some kind of code, but once he’d disproven that theory he’d simply written them off as mere rumors. This latest report from Whiterun implied otherwise though, and Brynjolf couldn't help but think back to the stories his Ma had told him as a boy, about dragons and fire and the end of times. 

Still, despite the existential threat that the return of the dragons posed, he found something else in the report from Whiterun to be even more surprising.

He was sitting at his desk, staring down at the letter in disbelief when Delvin walked up to him. 

“Brynjolf, you’re never gonna guess who I just got a message from.” 

Brynjolf blinked, then shook his head. 

“Sorry old man, what was that?” 

“You got wax in your ears or somethin’?” Delvin asked. “I said I just got a message in from Whiterun, and you’re never gonna guess from who. Olfrid Battle-Born himself. Says he’s heard we were active in the city again, and that he’s got a job for us. We haven’t had a break like this in months.”

“We haven’t,” Brynjolf muttered, more to himself than to Delvin, and the old man snapped his fingers in front of Brynjolf’s face.

“You awake in there, Bryn? What’s got your head in the clouds?” 

Brynjolf just passed the Whiterun report to him, and pointed at the last paragraph that he’d been reading and rereading for the past several minutes. 

Delvin huffed, but took the paper and read aloud:

“A final note: word is that you’re making moves in Whiterun again. Be aware that the jarl has appointed a new Thane to his court, an imperial by the name of…Ariene Anneius? It is unknown at this time how amenable she is to persuasion, or whether or not she will seek to take Justice into her own hands. Proceed with caution.” 

Delvin lowered the paper and stared at Brynjolf. 

“I know,” Brynjolf said, his mouth a grim line as he took the page back.  

“Why on earth would a Thane join up with the Guild?” Delvin wondered aloud. “Could she be tryin’ to take us down? Gather evidence against us?”

“I wondered the same thing, but if that were her goal then she’s seen more than enough to incriminate the lot of us. Instead, she just…keeps doing jobs,” Brynjolf said. 

“Besides, if a Thane were to try and take us down, why would it be one from Whiterun?” Delvin added. “We haven’t had a strong foothold there in years, and it’s only because of her that our reputation is gettin’ stronger in the first place. Maybe she wants somethin’ from us? A cut of the action in exchange for her silence?” 

“Maybe…” Brynjolf trailed off, something Delvin said sticking out in his mind. “Except…wait a moment.” 

He pushed a stack of papers aside, digging through the older pile of reports until he found what he was looking for. 

“Except she’s not from Whiterun. I knew I’d heard that last name somewhere before. Look,” he said, passing over a crumpled note bearing the Imperial seal. 

Delvin took it and read aloud again. 

“Wanted: Renegade Imperial Soldier Ariene Anneius. It is believed she is headed for the northern border with Skyrim. Likely armed and dangerous, DO NOT ENGAGE alone. If spotted or captured, inform the nearest Imperial outpost.” 

He let out a low whistle and passed the note back to Brynjolf.

“This came in around three weeks ago, but I didn’t give it much attention.” Brynjolf said. “By the time I saw Ariene in the market and offered her a job, I’d already forgotten about it.” 

He shook his head in disbelief. 

“No wonder she was so nervous about Maven knowing her name. Maven’s ties with the Imperials are well known, if Ariene is on the run from the law in Cyrodiil…” he trailed off as another thought came across his mind. “Hang on. If she’s a wanted renegade, then-” 

“How on earth did she end up gettin’ named Thane of Whiterun?” Delvin said, completing Brynjolf’s thought. “Jarl Balgruuf is a man of honor, so much so that it makes things difficult for us on occasion. He wouldn’t just award a wanted criminal the highest position in his court without a damn good reason.” 

“Whatever the reason, I don’t think we should send anyone out there to meet Olfrid Battle-Born just yet,” Brynjolf said. “Not until we get some answers.” 

Delvin nodded in agreement. 

“And how do you intend to get those answers?” he asked and Brynjolf grimaced. 

“The only way I can. I’ll have to ask the lass myself.” 

— — — 

Brynjolf found Ariene in the training room. He stood in the entryway, hovering just out of sight and watching her with renewed curiosity. 

She stood in the center of the room, her bow drawn and an arrow knocked at the string. She took a deep breath, then in one smooth motion she lifted the bow up, pulled back the string and fired, not even waiting to see where the arrow landed before reaching back and drawing another. Over and over, she let the arrows fly through the air, her movements quick and fluid and her face a mask of cool concentration. 

Brynjolf edged closer, tearing his eyes away from her to look at the targets, each with a mass of arrows clustered around the bullseye. Not a single shot had flown astray, and his mind drifted back to her wanted notice.

Possibly armed and dangerous, DO NOT ENGAGE alone. 

“How long are you planning on skulking there in the shadows?”

Brynjolf tensed, but Ariene’s tone was light and playful, and as he turned his attention back to her, he saw her bow was lowered, the quiver empty at her back. She was smiling an easy smile, and Brynjolf took a deep breath. 

“How long did you know I was there?” he asked, stepping into the room, and Ariene smirked. 

“The whole time. You’re not as stealthy as you think you are, Brynjolf,” she said, and Brynjolf raised an eyebrow. 

“Or maybe you’re just more observant than the average mark,” he countered. 

Ariene laughed, and Brynjolf found a part of himself wishing that he could just ignore the mysteries of her past and enjoy her company for the sake of it. 

But he knew that if he did that, he’d never quite trust the lass again, and that would be far worse in the long run than whatever fallout would come out of this confrontation. Better to face the issue head on while he still had a chance to. 

“Got a problem, lass,” he said, forcing his voice to remain even. “Was hoping you could give me a hand.” 

“Sure,” Ariene said, stowing her bow over her shoulder and looking at Brynjolf expectantly. 

Silently, he pulled the folded wanted slip out of his pocket. He passed the paper over to her, and carefully watched her reaction as she unfolded it. Her shoulders tensed and her eyes darted around the room, lingering for a moment on the daggers on Brynjolf’s belt before settling back on his face. 

“The criminal organization have a problem with criminal pasts now?” she asked, a challenge in her tone.

Brynjolf couldn’t help the half smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth at that, and he shook his head. 

“No, lass. And I’d be a damn hypocrite if I said otherwise. Your past is your own business, so long as it doesn’t affect the rest of the Guild.” 

“So what’s the problem? Have you decided the price on my head is greater than the amount of gold I can make you?” 

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Brynjolf said. “You’re not the only member with a bounty, and the Guild never would betray one of our own for coin. The problem is this.” 

Brynjolf pulled out the Whiterun report, and Ariene narrowed her eyes. She grabbed the paper and scanned it quickly, and when she looked up, her expression had gone stone cold.

“I still don’t see the issue,” she said evenly, and Brynjolf scoffed. 

“Then you’re not as good a thief as I thought you were. We’re all entitled to our fair share of anonymity, but this? This is something I needed to know about, especially before I let you take a job in Whiterun.”  

“I don’t owe you an explanation-” Ariene began, but Brynjolf cut her off.

“You don’t owe me an explanation for how or why you’re wanted by the Imperial government. That’s not my business. But secretly being a member of a Jarl’s court? Even if it’s in another hold, that could affect the Guild in any number of ways. And that means that it is my business.”

“You make it sound like it’s some crazy conspiracy,” Ariene growled. “Maybe I just like my privacy.” 

“A normal thing for a thief to say; a very odd thing for a Thane to say,” Brynjolf countered. 

Ariene glared at him and he tensed, fighting the instinct to reach for his daggers. Her quiver was empty; as deadly as she could apparently be with a bow, the weapon was useless to her now. He glanced quickly at her belt, where her own dagger sat in its sheath. He’d never seen her use the weapon before, and had no idea whether her skill with it matched his own. Even if he couldn’t stop her alone she’d likely be bottlenecked in the cistern, but he’d still prefer to keep his blood inside his body, thank you very much. 

Still, Ariene made no move to attack him, or to try and escape. Instead, she folded her arms over her chest and kept her glare trained on him. 

“Who says I even wanted to be a Thane?” she demanded. “Why would I come to Riften in the first place, break the law multiple times and crawl through a sewer to join a failing Guild if I was set for life in another hold?”

At that, Brynjolf forgot his apprehension and glared right back at her.

“That,” he said, his voice low. “Is exactly what I’d like to know.”  

Ariene sighed and turned away, walking over to the archery targets. She began pulling the arrows free and Brynjolf tensed, but she still made no hostile movements. She stowed the arrows back in her quiver and glanced back at Brynjolf, raising an eyebrow. 

“You’re not going to be satisfied until you get an answer, are you?” she asked. 

Brynjolf folded his arms. 

“I’ve had questions about you since the first day you showed up here,” he admitted. “But there’s a difference between personal curiosity and business. This isn’t about me, lass. It’s about the Guild.”

Ariene leaned up against a bale of hay that one of the targets was standing on and gave him a long look. Silence hung heavy in the air between them, the tension in the room a nearly physical thing before she let out a breath and looked down at her boots. 

“Fine. What do you want to know?” 

“Why are you here?” Brynjolf said immediately. 

“Here in Riften, or here in Skyrim?” she asked, then she shook her head. “No, I suppose that doesn’t matter. The answer is the same either way. I’m running.” 

Brynjolf raised an eyebrow at that.

“Running?” he repeated, and Ariene rolled her eyes. 

“Well, trying to, anyway. It seems no matter where I run to, I find something else to add to the long list of things I’m running from.” 

She looked distant for a moment, and Brynjolf waited for her to continue. After a spell, she shook herself, and held up her wanted page. 

“I’ve been on the run from the Imperial Legion for nearly two months. I tried to cross the border into Skyrim a few weeks ago, but I got tangled up in an ambush that the forces here had set for the Stormcloaks. I was captured, and very nearly executed.”

Her expression was casual, but there was a detectable tightness to her voice, and despite everything, Brynjolf couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for her.

“They execute folks for deserting now?” he asked, and Ariene huffed. 

“For deserting, for illegally crossing the border, for what I did before I deserted, maybe for all of it wrapped into one, who knows. It doesn’t matter anyway. I escaped Helgen and-”

“Wait,” Brynjolf interrupted suddenly. “You were at Helgen? When?” 

Ariene grimaced. 

“If you’re asking that, then you already know the answer.” 

“So you saw a-”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Believe it or not, I’d be dead now if it weren’t for that dragon. I was able to slip away during all the confusion, with the help of one of the other prisoners. We laid low with some relatives of his for a day or so, but the price for their hospitality was a message to Jarl Balgruuf about the dragon attack. I took the message to him and was going to just move on, but he offered me a contract to retrieve an item from an old barrow in the mountains. And as much as I didn’t want to waste my time dancing on a jarl’s strings…well, the Imperials took my money, and all my gear. I didn’t really have a choice.”

“You don’t expect me to believe he named you Thane because you ran one job for him,” Brynjolf said, and Ariene rubbed her eyes. 

“No. No, he named me Thane because right after I returned from fetching the artifact for his wizard, there was another dragon attack.” 

Brynjolf’s eyes widened at the implication. 

“Are you saying that…you killed the beast?” he asked in disbelief. 

Ariene gave a wry smile. 

“Not alone, no. But my contributions to the fight weren’t insignificant. I’m sure you noticed, but I’m a hell of a shot.” 

Brynjolf nodded, a smile of his own tugging at the edge of his lips despite himself. 

“When the battle was over, my, ah, prowess was noted by the other guards, and that is when Balgruuf named me his Thane. I left the city not long after.” 

Brynjolf stared at her, trying to wrap his head around the revelation. He’d assumed the lass was capable in combat– she’d made it out of Goldenglow, after all– but taking down a dragon…that was something else. No wonder the jarl had ignored her criminal past and given her a title. A thought occurred to him then, and his brow furrowed.

“There’s something I still don’t quite understand, lass,” he said. “After all of that, why leave Whiterun at all? Why come here?”

The smile slid from Ariene’s face, and she fiddled with the hilt of the dagger at her hip. 

“Whiterun was never my planned destination. And Balgruuf…” she sighed, and a look somewhere between a smile and a grimace crossed her face. “He’s an honorable man, for better or for worse. If an imperial officer tried to capture me there?” she shook her head. “I can’t be certain he’d refuse them.” 

“So he doesn’t know about your criminal history?” Brynjolf asked, and Ariene shrugged.

“I’m not sure what exactly he knows, but to be honest, it doesn’t matter. Regardless of whether I’d be safe from arrest there, I’m not too keen on spending the rest of my life carrying out the orders of yet another man who thinks he can use me for his own gain.”

She tilted her chin up and looked straight at Brynjolf.

“Like I said,” she said evenly. “One more thing to run from.” 

Brynjolf read the challenge in her eyes, but he held her gaze.

“And that running took you here, of all places,” he said. “Why?” 

Ariene raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not as though I planned it. I ended up in Ivarstead, and had no desire to go back around the mountains, so I headed east instead. I’d planned on spending a day or two in town here to scrape up enough money to hire a carriage north, but then–”

“Then I offered you a job,” Brynjolf finished. “At this point I’m surprised you said yes. It sounds like following orders isn’t high on your list of favorite activities.”

“Maybe not,” Ariene admitted. “But you didn’t give me an order, you gave me an offer. One that was my choice to accept. Besides,” she added with a half-smile. “You were right. My pockets were pretty light on coin. And in my experience, larceny is the quickest cure for that particular ailment.” 

“Aye,” Brynjolf agreed with a chuckle. “You’re not wrong there, lass.” 

There was a beat of silence, and Ariene shifted her weight so that she was no longer leaning against the hay bale. 

“So…” she said carefully. “What happens now?” 

“Now?” he repeated, and she nodded.

“That’s it. You gonna run me out of the Guild or hand me over to the Imperials now?” 

Her voice was light, but she carried a tension in her body like a coiled spring, still ready to run or fight at a moment’s notice. Brynjolf watched her for a long moment, then he shook his head no, and she blinked in surprise.

“I said it before, lass. We don’t turn in our own for gold.”

“But if I lied about my background–”

“Look. The only thing that worried me was the question of your allegiances,” Brynjolf explained. “If what you’ve told me is true, and you joined the Guild because you honestly wanted to, no ulterior motives besides getting rich? Then that’s no longer a concern of mine.” 

Ariene nodded slowly. 

“My allegiance has always been to myself, first and foremost,” she said. “Never to the law, either in Cyrodiil or Skyrim. But the Guild’s done right by me, which is more than I can say about the Legion, or…anyone else, really. So I intend to keep doing right by the Guild, as long as it’ll still have me.” 

Brynjolf inclined his head to her, letting an easy smile slide onto his face. 

“And we’ll keep doing right by you, as long as you do the same for us,” he said. 

Ariene nodded, then looked at him for a moment, her expression thoughtful. 

“There’s more you want to know, isn’t there.” 

It was not a question, but a statement; one they both knew was true. Brynjolf’s mind was turning over all the information she’d given him, throwing up dozens of questions in response.

Why had Ariene fled to Skyrim after deserting? What had she done that made the Imperials so determined to hunt her down? Hell, why had she, who bristled at authority and walked her own path wherever she went, joined the Legion in the first place? What was she– someone who could hold her own in a fight against two dozen men and take down a dragon– really running from? 

Each question fought to jump forward to the tip of his tongue, but Brynjolf pushed them all down with another smile. 

“Like I said, lass. This isn't about me. Unless there’s something else that would affect the Guild, there’s nothing more you need to tell me.” 

“That,” said Ariene, giving him a pointed look, “was not a no.” 

“Aye, it wasn’t,” Brynjolf agreed with a chuckle. “Sharp as ever, aren’t you lass? But I meant it. Your business is your own, and my curiosity is mine. You’re under no obligation to satisfy it.” 

Ariene regarded him for a moment, then a smile– small and more than a little cautious but there nonetheless– spread across her face and the tension finally bled out of her posture. 

“Well,” she said. “Maybe one of these days, I’ll tell you the rest of the story…if you don’t mind telling me a story or two about yourself in return?” 

Brynjolf grinned.

“You know lass? I don’t think I’d mind that at all.”

--- --- ---

Previous: Ch.4 - Bedlam and Burglary || Next: Ch.6 - Unhindered Insights

Author's Note: Sorry this chapter took awhile! Things have been busy at work and I haven't had a lot of energy lately, BUT I'm back at it and more excited than ever about where this story is going! Hope you enjoyed a peek at our Dragonborn's backstory! Please reblog if you liked it, it'd mean a lot to me! <3

[eternal-dragon-of-time]

Enemies who are Friends and Friends who were Enemies.

Go. Enjoy.

past enemies to lovers depending on how you read. Dubious mending of injuries, burn injuries. MEGA Shadowflame Saga Spoilers. Herokath.

In the aftermath of the fight with Malgor. The Hero of Lore is left with their own thoughts and with nowhere to go. They find themselves someone to help.

The end of everything had come, and then passed them by, and the Hero did not know what to do with themselves. 

After Malgor was sealed into the closed time loop it took everything in them not to collapse. It was only the failed futures they had seen in the deadlines, the knowledge that peace on Lore would come with consequences, that managed to keep them on their feet to negotiate a temporary peace period with what remained of the now defunct Alliance. Now that everyone had left, those last dredges of willpower were beginning to peter out. They needed to find a nice bed to sleep in, preferably for a year or two.

Yulgar’s was immediately discarded, as wonderful as it sounded to return to Battleon they couldn’t bring themselves to confront Aria, what they had asked of her. The guilt would eat them alive. Shadowscythe wasn’t an option either, maybe it would never be an option anymore, thinking of the blood that could’ve been on their hands. Swordhaven? Hero couldn’t see Tara and Victoria complaining about it, but they weren't sure they would be able to restrain themselves, keep themselves away from asking hard questions when they knew those soul destroying arrows were in play. There were too many variables, too many people they were scared of hurting- or of being hurt by. They slammed their eyes closed and took in a deep breath. Spiralling got themselves into this mess, they owed it to everyone to not immediately fall back into it.

While they attempted to focus on nothing but the sturdy rise and fall of their lungs, the quiet of the fallen castle was broken by a muffled shout of pain. Immediately orienting to the sound, Hero took action before they could think, dashing towards the source even as their poor legs protested. Rounding a corner of a crumbling wall they came to the belated realization that they knew who that voice belonged to.

Drakath was leaning his back against the wall, which seemed to be the only thing keeping him on his legs, Hero could see how he was trembling, cursing under his breath as he glared at his hands. They knew that the battle against Law and Infamy had been hellish, but only now they saw just how ruinous the lasting injuries were. Strange burns were left where the mask of Law’s flames had scorched him, cutting straight through his armour and melting at what was left of him underneath, the wounds leaking pure power and mana. His hands and wrists had caught the worst of it, and the Hero grimaced at where the flames had burned down to the bone. Wrenching their eyes away from his hands they could see where the fire had travelled up his arms and gotten to his chest, and further up still a strange feeling stirred in their gut as they saw the two still twitching stumps that was all that remained of his wings.

They tried to remind themselves that it wasn’t the first time he had lost them, that once they had been happy to clip those wings themselves. The thought felt hollow.

It was pretty clear to the Hero what had happened. After negotiations everyone had split off to return home, Gravelyn had Dage to help her back, and Warlic had ferried the forces of good back to Swordhaven with a teleportation spell. Almost everyone had support to take them back home, but similarly to the Hero, Drakath had come alone. Without his wings he would have to cast a spell to get back to Crownsreach, and given the state of his body and mana right now it was doomed to backfire.

The Hero shouldn’t feel sympathy for him, not after all that had happened, especially not after seeing that hidden room in Crownsreach. It had been stupid of them to think that anything he said while they worked together meant anything, but the knowledge that while he spoke about working beyond good and evil to defeat Malgor he had been planning to silence them forever struck deeper than any of the petty things they had suspected of him. However, despite trying to muster the anger required to turn around and leave him, Hero found that they couldn’t. Maybe it was how tired they were or maybe it was all the revelations that had come after making it seem small in comparison, but the rage that festered in them couldn’t be stoked to burn.

“Are you alright?”

Drakath flinched, his whole body tensing as if to spring away from them. He really was exhausted if he had failed to notice them entirely. If they weren’t so tired Hero would’ve fired off a quip, instead all they could do was marvel at how vulnerable he looked. For once they were looking down instead of up on the scales. The Hero blinked, realizing how little satisfaction it gave them anymore.

 Unlike them, Drakath apparently still had the energy for anger, as he moved to lash out at them. The short-lived attempt died immediately as he had to lean back against the wall, his body giving out.

“Can’t leave me alone for even a second can you?” Drakath spat, body shaking from the exertion. “What are you doing here? Do you have some new way to tie me to you? Decided you can’t trust me after all?” The intensity of the accusation was almost enough to make the Hero fall back, there were better ways they could be spending their time then with a bastard who clearly didn’t want them around. Yet something about what he was saying made them reassess his reaction to them. Hero had pissed him off enough times to know that if he was actually mad at them, he would've found a way to insult their class, their friends, and their intelligence while he was yelling, that he wasn’t spoke volumes.

“You yelled, I thought someone was hurt.” They said with a sigh, deciding to pick their battles for now. The Hero shifted as Drakath’s eyes narrowed in disbelief in response, it was sort of impressive how much contempt he could direct while in such a pathetic situation. “I do care about that kind of thing.” 

He scoffed. “Like you would even be able to do anything. You look half dead.” The sheer audacity to throw that stone from his glass house made the Hero’s jaw drop. “Which brings us back to my question. Why are you here? The fight’s over, you should be- wherever you stay when you’re not bothering me. The only reason for you to be here is if you were planning something.”

Oh.

“I’m not looking for a fight, I actually think if I tried I would keel over immediately, so you can write that off.” Maybe that wasn’t the best thing to admit to someone who had spent years as their nemesis but hey, they had a whole wreath of olive branches to hand out right now. Drakath seemed less than enthused with their little attempt at humour, so they got to the point. “I do have the strength to help you back to Crownsreach though.”

“Would you stop dodging the question-” It was his turn to be stunned speechless, Hero wasn’t sure why, it wasn’t that outlandish of an offer. Less confusing was the fact that it seemed the offer was enough to make him more mad. “No. No. I am not entertaining this.” He growled, that was a tone they were more familiar with.

“Oh? Do you have another way of getting back? One that's not walking?” It was a little tiring to try and be light and teasing, but if they actually pushed hard Drakath wouldn’t fall for the bait. If they kept trying him like this though he would probably challenge them to send the pair back. They knew Drakath very well after all, it was something they could have confidence in.

Confidence that immediately faltered as his angry expression deepened into something harder, he looked away from them, gazing into the ruins of Malgor’s fortress. An unease settled into the Hero’s stomach.

“You know, trying something like this after everything I just learned about you is pretty bold.” His voice was cutting and it was the Hero’s turn to look away, trying hard to school their face in a neutral expression. “I’m not dropping the topic, tell me why you’re still here.” What a bastard.

They still had a goal though, and this gave them an in, shifting to lean in closer they narrowed their eyes in what they hoped looked like determination. “Only if you let me help you first.” If they were going to spill their guts out he had to give up his pride and let them get him home. The Hero wasn’t going to sit here and wallow alone, they weren’t sure where they would go after Crownsreach, but at least it would delay the issue. When Drakath opened his mouth to argue they interrupted before he could press harder. “I promise! You’ll get nothing but the truth once we make it to Crownsreach.” They reached out a hand to him.

Drakath looked at the offer with disdain for a moment, but just as the Hero started to worry that he was going to argue further he took their hand and pulled himself off the crumbling ruin. He laughed as the Hero was almost pulled down by the force of it. Throwing one arm over the Hero’s shoulder he was forced to lean into them for support as they almost buckled under the weight.

“You’re certain you can get us home still?” There was an smug tone underneath the strain as he spoke, the Hero immediately regretting their choice now that they could feel his breath against their ear. Their face felt flush all of a sudden as they worked their hands into a spell, but that was because they were tired carrying him. Definitely.

~

It was disconcerting how quiet Crownsreach was when they arrived. The Hero’s visits had been brief, but the wide array of life and sound had been its defining feature. It was chaotic of course, and dangerous, but it was a home to many as well. It was unsettling to see it so subdued now in the aftermath of the attack.

Xing and Xang had been waiting at the path up to the doors when they arrived. Something about the way the two looked must’ve rattled the twins, because when Drakath told them to leave them to go keep an eye on the rest of the Militia they didn’t argue. Leaving them to make their way to a room where they could talk.

Carrying Drakath when they were about to collapse themselves was a terrible idea, and when the Hero finally stumbled into the small side room Drakath directed them to they almost wept. It was a tight space, with boxes shunted to one side and a disheveled broken bed on the other, only leaving enough space for one person to walk in between them, or two people holding each other up. With the grace of a fish they rolled themselves onto the bed, taking Drakath down with them. Instead of complaining like they expected, Drakath just adjusted himself onto his back with an appreciative groan while the Hero curled up for a moment, happy to finally lay down.

“Could I get you a raincheck on explaining?” They sighed “I think this is the closest I’ve ever been to heaven, and that's counting the time you killed me.”

It took a minute to register that Drakath was laughing, his voice was so hoarse it came out more as a bark. For a moment it gave Hero hope that their shared exhaustion would give them an opportunity to slip out of their agreement, but as most of their hope did lately, it faded when they saw the hard steel in their opponent’s eye. “Not a chance.”

“Fine.” They huffed, scrambling out of the bed and towards the small boxes in the corner of the room. “Just give me a second.”

Thankfully their wounds gave them another way to stall, Drakath had directed them here since the small room was full of shunted away supplies, bandages and potions included. The Hero didn’t need to question why the cult of Chaos would consider them superfluous hideaway storage, especially when it was so convenient for them to use in privacy now. Downing a potion immediately to patch up the worst of their own aches The Hero scooped up the rest of the supplies into their arms and clambered over onto Drakath’s side of the small bed. “Drink this, I’ll tell you everything while we fix up your hands.”

Mercifully he didn’t complain and just took the damn potion, Hero sighing as they took his other hand into their lap. There was no point in trying to do this painlessly, so they opted for speed instead, waiting for Drakath to be in the middle of the draught to yank his gauntlet off so they could get at the worst of the injuries. A strangled noise came out of his throat as something caught and tore, Hero swore they could hear grinding from him gritting his teeth as his hand spasmed for a moment in their grip. 

It looked about as bad as Drakath was feeling it, the Hero sucking in a breath at the way his flesh had been blacked, edges of the wounds looking like they would crumble away into ash at a slight touch. Parts of his hand were raw and beginning to bleed from where the gauntlet had to be torn free, the flames had fused the material to his flesh. This… Hero wasn’t going to be able to fix it with bandages and potions; wasn’t sure if it could be healed by a master of healing magic even. Still, they resolved themselves to the task, beginning the long process of cleaning up the burns so they could apply the potions and bandage as needed. The two sat in almost companionable silence as they worked for a while, Drakath unnervingly still as the Hero ignored his impatient expression. They weren’t going to be one to breach the quiet, he would have to ask. 

“Why are you doing this?” Whatever good energy was in the room immediately dissipated as the Hero tensed, mouth opening but to their frustration unable to form an answer. They paused their bandaging at his question, chancing a glance at Drakath’s piercing glare. They were hoping for a more open expression, but aside from the initial shock he seemed to be unaffected by them wrapping the wounds, although from the way his hand twitched on occasion he may just be very good at ignoring pain, at ignoring their work.

 It pissed them off that he was so good at it.

“That wasn’t what you asked before. Now, can you feel when I do this?” They interlaced their fingers with his for a moment and squeezed, determined to make him feel… whatever they were doing here. “It will help to know if it hurts.” He jerked back in surprise, hissing through his teeth before gripping back with crushing force. The Hero only had a moment to revel in victory before their shoulder was grabbed and they pulled face to face with his furious gaze.

“You said you would tell me everything.” He was suddenly very close, clutching their hand in his grip while leaning forward, a manic look in his eye. “That I’d have ‘Nothing but the truth’ if I went along with this, So tell me why you're doing this.” Their hand was aching before the pain began to blissfully vanish, Drakath had pressed hard enough into their palm that the potion salve bled through his bandages.

“I don’t know! So I don’t have to answer the first question?” The Hero yelped. They could feel themselves rapidly losing control of the situation, their flustering not helped by realizing just how close the two had gotten as they bandaged his hand. Somehow in avoiding thinking about telling him their situation they had also managed to ignore their own reservations. “I didn’t have anything else to do!”

“Spare me the bullshit, you of all people in Lore could find something to do other than throw some stupid pity party for-” They were tired, so, so tired. Their head hurt, their body ached, and their emotions were whirling in a mix of confusion. Frustrated and with nothing else left in their exhausted mind they defaulted to shoving him off of them hard before he could start yelling at them.

It wasn’t very strong, but neither was Drakath at the moment, the push sending him onto his back. His grip on their hand remained firm though, pulling the Hero down as well in one last stubborn attempt at victory. The two were left sprawled out on the bed, the Hero lying awkwardly on top of Drakath. They sighed into his chest, this situation was getting too pathetic for them to keep fighting. 

“I didn’t have anywhere to go.” they mumbled. “That's why I hadn’t left yet.” Drakath groaned.

“You can face me though?” They were almost disappointed that they were so tired, it made it certain that the slight tinge of… something light to his voice was a delusion. “No shame about what happened between us?”

“That’s stupid, surely you have-” They smacked his shoulder ineffectually.

“Can’t face them. Not after what happened.”

“I don’t think you get to talk about that actually.” They said, lightly rubbing their thumb against his knuckles as they continued, “not until I ask. And… I don’t know, I wasn’t intending to come here either, I was just around when you were in trouble and this sort of happened I guess.” They rolled off of him, deeply embarrassed. “This was stupid, I’m stupid. I think I need to leave.”

“Do you have a way of leaving? One that isn’t crawling out of the door?” His voice was smug for a moment before faltering slightly. They could feel the mattress shift on this very small bed as Drakath moved to get more comfortable, the Hero sinking closer to his side as a consequence. “I’m not going to waste my time and energy helping you leave. So. You can stay here I guess.”

“And tomorrow?”

“We can worry about tomorrow when it’s tomorrow. Get some rest or go.”

They didn’t need to be told twice. They just hoped Drakath wasn’t actually expecting anything tomorrow, they had promised themselves they were going to sleep for a year and they meant it.

[mysticarts]

Hi, Rambling cause I woke up at 4 am to wrote this idea.:

Lucio and Wick are problematic idiots in love, the pinning is real. They won't take each other srsly sometimes. Aka the bickering between these two. At first Wick gets intimidated at Lucio's when he has his face covered.. And then you got Wick gets flustered at the moment Lucio unmasked his scarf revealing his face. (Wick is now having bi panic not knowing Lucio is also having Bi panic.)

The two are throwing disguised insults towards each other, when they're secretly competing who gets to fluster the other one. (They don't know they were doing this lmao.)

From every insults becoming a playful banter. The slowly built a trust that took a long time. Until they formed a friendship. They still bicker but instead out of bluntness it became a silly game for them.

Wick taking notes on Lucio's interests and hobbies and learning about them, Wick listening to Lucio lecturing him about cooking, while he helps him chopping vegetables. Lucio doing the same like attempting to listen at the siamese ramblings of rocks collection or historical facts, he just looks at Wick's face and cracks a sligth smile.

Lucio slowly seeing Wick's true self, not his known gentlemeness or a fancy businessman. The same goes for Wick upon seeing Lucio being genuine for the first time, Wick feeling happy he has someonenwho doesn't looks at him for being a law-abiding man but himself.

And this is where I am gonna add the pinch salt of angst here cause I'll be honest they won't be officially together at the sequel au. Even if they tried dating they still have a many responsibilities to hold and tons of conflicts to deal with.

They have already enough to their plate that they might think is not the right time to date especially in a society where.. Anytime would have their reputation destroy. It would effect everything if a secret was out, their occupations, status and their friends/family/close ones/etc.

So yeah Lucio and Wick still remains as friends, they can't be inlove because is tragically impossible because of their fates...

(The two would probably have shared their last kiss as a farewell before going back to their own lives. Oof.)

Okay have a good day/Night!

this......this is amazing and sad at the same time.

Because them bickering is like, super adorable in my mind. You bet Carmen and Nia are in the middle, looking at the two, Carmen knows what's going on, so she'll probably tell Nia:

"Nia, what Lucio and Wick are doing is called flirting. Do not disturb them" while slowly walking away with Nia.

Also you bet that Carmen and Nia sew up different types of scarfs for Lucio, just to make sure Wick compliments Lucio at the end of the day. Nia and Carmen are the best wing women, fr

It does make sense that Wick and Lucio don't get together in the sequel au, considering Homosexuals where.....very little to exist and people where greatly discriminating towards them (im guessing, I'm not a history expert, please do not come for me in my sleep)

But in the sequel au, Nia wouldn't allow them not to be together. IF I make Carmen alive still in the sequel au, Carmen would be the one setting up private dates for Wick and Lucio. If Carmen is dead in the sequel au, then it's Nia who's setting up the private dates.

Nia isn't an expert with love, she's a expert in explosives. However thay won't stop her from trying to make the most romantic date ever for the two.

But yeah, I'll say this again, if there was a movie between these two I would eat it up

[seth-shitposts]

Alex💙:

~These are points that have most certainly been touched on before by others, I'm just musing over the thoughts and analysis again~

Currently just thinking about how between s2e14 to s2e17 Kallus was most certainly at his lowest point.

The man has made failure after failure, and then even to the point where the laws of nature and physics were on his side, that there was no logical way The Ghost Crew should've been able to escape, he had them pinned to an exploded starcluster. And then they still managed to pull a miraculous win over him.

By the end of s2e14, no one had challenged him, especially not to the point where the mere existence and survival of The Ghost Crew had.

And it wasn't just his personal pride and abilities that were being challenged. Kallus had a harsh reminder about where repeated failure will lead you back in s1e13 when Moff Tarkin had the Grand Inquisitor dispose of Grint & Aresko, whose inability to handle the same rebels was giving allowance for dangers against the Empire. Their repeated failure proved that they were of no more use to the empire.

So, by the start of s2e14, with the combination of these factors Kallus knew he was running low on chances and was currently running on borrowed time. So for him to have had them pinned, with no possible way for escape, if he couldn't capture them, he would ensure that they will be destroyed, only for them to still escape. He came to another harsh realization. He was never going to succeed.

So the mission on the base above Geonosis was not one he was planning on actually working. He only had a couple dozen men with him compared to all the resources he had previously. His goal and purpose for this was that if he was going to be going down, he was going to make damn sure he dragged at least one of the ghost crew down with him. And it was going to be the one that he was most obsessed with, had a more intense connection to.

And this most certainly wasn't the first time he's thrown caution to the wind for a desperate attempt. (As his actions/words back in s1e3, to me, seemed... very rash and reckless, even if for a logical one up to provoking Zeb. What he said itself made sense to do for its purpose, but there was much tone and energy around it that was not of sound m decision making.)

A portion of Kallus’s The Empire Is Growing spiel felt that he wasn't just trying to convince Zeb, and it's not that he didn't believe it himself and was trying to convince himself of it, but maybe felt more like grasping for straws.

---I may come back later and continue my thoughts. I've run out of time, but there's several layers to the significance of Zeb and Kallus’s interactions, especially on Bahryn, but not limited to Bahryn.---

Seth💚:I gotchu- In other words, Kallus hit his lowest point, got trapped on Bahryn with Zeb, Zeb called him a coward, and then Zeb triple dog dared him to actually take a moment to have a single critical thought go through his brain.

[goodqueenaly]

This might be a silly question but what was the point of Doran making Arianne wait weeks to talk to him when he wanted something out of her? Why would he think she would do what he wanted when he was in effect isolating and humiliating her? I would imagine a week or under would produce the necessary you are in trouble and only I can fix it but even then she is his heir/person in position of power that I need why needlessly antagonize her?

On the contrary, Doran imprisoned Arianne for such a long time precisely because he knew that this method was the exact way to combat Arianne's desire for quick action and quick response. It is in fact not the case that "a week or under would produce the necessary you are in trouble and only I can fix it" message getting to Arianne, because we see exactly what happened as Arianne was held in prison for days and then weeks. Indeed, Arianne had confidently expected that Doran was going to see her within 24 hours of her arrival - only to discover that the only people she would be seeing that day were "the servants with her midday meal". As Arianne tried thereafter, day after day and week after week, to force a meeting with her father on her terms, Doran simply waited; only when his daughter had shown that she had, at least in this respect, given up would he summon her for an interview. All of this treatment directly underlined, I think, the lesson Doran was trying to teach Arianne. She who had been surrounded by friends and chummy co-conspirators her whole life needed to understand the value of isolation and silence (hence Doran's refusal to reveal his sources on the grounds that “a little mistrust is a good thing in a princess”); she who had rushed headlong into a political plot needed to learn the value of careful, lengthy planning (hence his comment on the cyvasse table left for her, that “[s]ometimes times it is best to study a game before you attempt to play it”); she who had seen her father as a feeble man of inaction needed to understand that he had authority, designs, and sources of information beyond anything she maintained (hence Arianne’s astonished realization before their meeting that “for the first time in my life, I am frightened of my father”).

Too, I think it's important to note that Doran was not, strictly speaking, trying to antagonize or humiliate Arianne as he was keeping her in the tower - or, maybe more accurately, the point of her punishment was not antagonization and humiliation for the sake of antagonization and humiliation. Indeed, the very first line of the chapter - "Hers was a gentle prison" - emphasizes that Doran's mission was one of lesson teaching rather than punishment inflicting. Arianne was not lacking for all the luxuries due to her as a princess of Dorne - but more importantly, she was also not lacking for educational material, especially selected not just for a future Princess (now capital P) of Dorne but specifically Arianne, a woman now guaranteed in her legal position as Doran’s heir (hence that "dry-as-dust study of the laws of Dorne") who would be dealing with a very powerful High Septon and a reinvigorated Faith Militant (hence those copy of The Seven-Pointed Star and Lives of the High Septons) and (so Doran expected) the return of dragons in the very near future (hence that "huge tome about dragons"). Likewise, at the end of the chapter Doran does not simply censure Arianne for the queenmaker plot, but also finally brings Arianne (at least partly) into his long-term ambitions: she was not just confirmed as heiress to Dorne now, but also made aware of Doran’s ultimate goal - to destroy Tywin Lannister and his legacy and restore House Targaryen (with a Martell at the ruling monarch’s side as consort). This was not a man, on other words, gleefully watching his daughter’s emotional breakdown because he wants to see her humiliated, but a man who wanted to see his daughter and heiress realize just how serious their, and relatedly Dorne’s, political situation is - a political situation in which he now expected her to take a much more active role

[moongothic]

Quick speculation from Chapter 1105

Okay so somebody's on their way to Egghead right now. Needless to say I'm curious as to who the fuck that could even be

A) Blackbeard and/or his crew I mean one of BB's ships is already there. On one hand, it could be just a vague reminder to us that the ship is there meaning those crew members could be making their way to the island. On the other hand, we know the ship is already there, so why be so vague about it? Alternatively, it could about BB himself, that he could be on his way to see what the fuzz is about and/or to try to bargain with the Marines with Garp's bounty? (Wild but okay)

B) Strawhat Grand Fleet Saw a few people suggest this, and like, sure, if you wanted to have a giant battle between the Grand Fleet and the Marines, why not. I'm not entirely sure what this would achieve aside from protecting Egghead from getting wiped out (which wouldn't be bad mind you, especially considdering a considderable portion of the island is literally just Vegapunk's fucking BRAIN) (Like??? IS HE GONNA DIE IF HIS BRAIN GETS DESTROYED???), but it's an option

C) Cross Guild The absolute wild card option? I think it would be funny as hell if those idiots somehow showed up there? But I'm not entirely sure when Buggy started his mutiny (like was the day before or like a few days ago??), depending on when that took place then it could make no sense for CG to arrive on Egghead that soon. Also why would they come to Egghead? Like unless one of the needless of the Log Pose from Emptee Bluffs happened to point to Egghead then. Yeah, how and why would they ever get there. I dunno man, I think it could be the funniest option for who could be on their way to the island. Especially if Crocodad Real. (Also this would give us an opportunity to see Caribou fall into Crocodile's hand and leak the info on the Ancient Weapons to him but I'm still more convinced Caribou's working for BB) But yeah this is the most unlikely option.

D) Dragon and/or the Revs Narratively speaking, this is without a doubt the most logical conclusion. Kuma's backstory was heavily about his ties to the Rev Army, so the gang coming to his aid at his time of need (and when the Government is about to wipe out an entire island after already killing most of its innocent inhabitants (who attempted to flee)), yeah, the Revolutionaries would make sense. Plus it's been kind of set-up already, with both that phone call Vegapunk made to Dragon as well as Dragon speculating with Iva-chan about where Kuma might've gone to. Like, Dragon pursuing Kuma to Egghead would make sense.

Only problem is that Dragon and the Revs are in fucking Paradise on Momoiro Island. They are literally the furtherst away from Egghead from any of our alternatives. So how the fuck could they even get there??? Like unless Dragon (or some other Rev we don't know about) just happens to have an ability that allows the Army to literally fly massive distances at the same speed as Kuma, if not faster... Yeah. There's no way they should be able to get there. To be fair if Dragon is a Wind Logia as many speculate then. I mean even if he couldn't load the army onto a ship and fly them there, he could probably fly to Egghead himself. Maybe. I dunno.

Like Dragon would make the most sense to me. He'd make the most sense narratively, but only if he has a trick he can use for fast travel. Which remains to be seen.

E) Someone else IDK it could be someone else but I can't imagine who else could be on their way. Red Haired Pirates? Kuja Pirates? We know it can't be Law nor Kid at the very least since those two got nuked.

I dunno, I'm curious to see who shows up (hopefully) in the next chapter

[ourwaveofhistory]

As I begin the next chapter of research into my grandfather's journey through World War 2, I am focusing on his whereabouts betwen 1941 and 1945.

We believe some of this time was spent detained in a PoW camp, but we are not yet sure which one. We have a photo and anecdotal stories passed down the family. I also have a series of replies from official bodies saying they have no record of my grandfather.

During the height of the conflicts in Wolrd War 2, there were over 1000 camps for detainees, including Concentration Camps, Transit Camps and Prisoner of War Camps.

A needle in a haystack doesn't even begin to cover what I am trying find, and so to try and help narrow things down, and to provide some context and clairty of definitions, I am starting with some of the basics before investigating which camps he could possibly have been detained in.

What is a Prisoner of War?

A prisoner of war (PoW) is "A combatant who falls into the hands of an adverse party...in the course of an international armed conflict".

The rights afforded PoW's also stretches to civilians, so that any persons "who fall into the hands of the enemy during an armed conflict are protected under humanitarian law. If the individual is a combatant, he or she is accorded protection as a prisoner of war. If the individual is a civilian, he or she is protected as such." (Medecins Sans Frontieres)

Under the Geneva Convention, which at the time of Word War 2 was in its second iteration, and hence why I am flipping into past tense here, Prisoners of War and other civilian detainess were granted legal rights of protection.

To oversee these rights, the International Committe of the Red Cross (ICRC) were entrusted with a central role of "protecting the dignity and wellebing of PoWs". With the responsibility of monitoring conditions of those detained, the ICRC would attempt to visit camps and interview those detained.

However, during the Second World War, when attempting to access those captured by the Germans, this was not straightforward. German Red Cross had been pulled into being state owned and was no more than a puppet committee, and they did not comply with the ICRC's demands to visit detainees.

On 29 April 1942, the German Red Cross informed the ICRC that it would not communicate any information on "non-Aryan" detainees, and asked it to refrain from asking questions about them.

The ICRC have since acknowledged they were "impotent" during the Nazi regime.

So although no official records seem to exist for my grandfather thus far(acknowledging that I haven't completed all my investigations), I am slightly encouraged.

At first I felt that no records existed because he wasn't technically a PoW as he wasn't a combatant, which I assumed due to his age at this time. Of course it is possible he was a member of the Yugoslav Partisans at the age of 18 - we know that other members of our family were part of Tito's Partisan army.

However, it is just as possible, if not more likely, that he was captured by the Italians as a Slovene, and simply not visited by the Red Cross, especially given the difficulties they were having with Germany (which I read as all Axis powers).

Now I can understand why I have received responses From the ICRC stating that they have no known records of my grandfather during this time. I can also understand why no records exist from the former Yugoslavia, given this country no longer exists and many records were destroyed during the conflict of the early 1990s.

But with this clarity on the definitions surrounding Prisoners of War, along with this context and background of how PoWs were treated and monitored, I can start to find a way of narrowing down my searches and focus my investigations to find my grandfather in and amongst the historical chaos and confusion of the Second World War.