#truly a great evening. i love you drag i love you drag queens i love you gay people

[goodsprings]

just got home from an amazing drag show. there is truly peace and love on planet earth

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

YASASHII NO DE

HE CAME IN 20 PULLS……………….. ……… ….. …. . … …. .. .. . . … . .. . .. . . . TRULY YASaSHii OF YOu, GOOD SiR 😭

***Crowley Groovy, chibi sprite, lesson lines, and vignette spoilers below the cut!***

Unfortunately, we do not get any more details on his profile. It’s the same as the profile he had before the update. Age and birthplace unknown, 185 cm tall, favorite food is wild game, and his hobby is vacationing.

SDFHEGYOGYFQEN;jkhaCWIDODB A LOT OF CROWLEY'S LINES ARE VERY CHILDISH OR GOOFY... Like he has one where he complains about Grim eating his snacks, tells on students who are sleeping in class, and gets distracted by shiny objects (which, I guess, is par for the course for a crow).

Crowley cannot attend Alchemy class and does not have Chats. His Buddies are Deuce, Vil, and Grim (with Grim being his Duo Magic partner). Deuce and Vil are interesting choices, I wonder why those two in particular... (Some friends and I were memeing earlier about how "all those characters have single parents so Crowley must be a single parent" and, "Vil is the Evil Queen and Meleanor is a princess of evil", etc.) Crowley can, however, attend the other lessons and it’s every bit as awkward as you think it is. (He has a pre-lesson line where he expresses surprise taht he has to do homework 🤡)

THE CROWLEY DOPPLEGANGER ALLEGATIONS ARE TRUE 💀 He can just straight up run into a clone of himself during lessons… THE DEVS KNEW WHAT THEY WERE DOING, they even goofily have Crowley say, “Oh! Hello, me!” while the other Crowley is in class for the special lesson… THEY KNEW HOW DUMB THIS WOULD BE 😭 (The dialogue states the Crowley that barges into class is a magical projection…?)

Here are some of his chibi sprites, as well as his Groovy candy. Crowley is not only very yasashii, but also very cute!!

He does, in fact, have vignettes but they are unvoiced. The first part is him running an assembly with the dorm leaders present. Crowley discusses the health of an adolescent apple tree in the school's courtyard, and no one seems to be interested in his speech. Malleus barges in late and, in a fit of anger at having not been invited, starts unleashing lightning. Wow, just like how Meleanor shoots lightning at Lilia... Like husband, like wife/j Everyone retires to their dorms, leaving Crowley to deal with an upset Malleus. The second part features Crowley having lunch with the other staff members (Sam included!). Each staff member is eating something different (Vargas is of course having eggs), and Crowley is revealed to have a great appetite in spite of his age. Crewel and Trein wonder how many decades old Crowley is, since he was apparently still headmaster when Crewel was a student and when Trein started teaching at NRC. Finally, Crowley is walking down main street and spots Yuu, Grim, and some mob students skipping class… so he uses his Lash of Love to discipline them! He binds everyone together and proceeds to drag them back to class. (It was surprising, we haven’t seen the Lash of Love since like… what, the prologue? I almost forgot about it.) Crowley alludes to the fact that even though the students joke about him, he is actually a very powerful mage that shouldn't be taken lightly, you know?? The vignettes end with Crowley referring to his students as "apple trees" that he is nourishing and watching over as they grow, which rounds us nicely back to the apple tree he mentioned in his first vignette.

BUT ANYWay HEREmS thE GROOviY in JUICy DETAIL INkjoW YOU WERE ALL WAiTING FOR

It’s so pretty AaAAaaaaaaaAAAAAAAaaAaaAHHHHH 🥺 His grotesquely detailed hand reaching out to the viewer, who appears to be awaking from within a coffin… and do I have to mention the parallel between Crowley here and the mysterious hand that is offered to us in the mirror at the very beginning of the game????? Which could imply that Crowley is beckoning/summoning us into another world... The dim room, light spilling onto the Mirror of Darkness… So atmospheric!! If Crowley knows how to do one thing well and consistently, it’s drama~ The Groovy totally reminds me a lot of the prologue when Crowley tells Yuu to go before the mirror to get sorted. Omg guys... He's posted like Masquerade Malleus/j

One detail I super appreciate in this illustration is that you can see the dorm leaders in the background! If you squint, you’ll realize that there are 5 of them posing exactly like how they are in the following promotional artwork:

The one without a matching pose is Idia, who is present via his tablet. Though… I feel like we’re forgetting something 🤔 … Eh, I’m sure it’s nothing, nothing at allllllllll~

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

Hēzīr, Ābrazȳrītsos (What is Broken!Aemond x Sister Wife!Reader) 18+

Translation: From Now On, Little Wife

The day she has been waiting for all her life is finally here. She is at last wed to her dear brother, Aemond, and all is right in the world. For now, she does not have to be patient to get what she's been craving for so long...

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (third person, no use of Y/N)

Warnings: Smut (vaginal fingering, p in v), sadness but only if you've read What is Broken

Author's Note: This was written for @queen--kenobi 'set Table Sex Event but I'm so fucking late lol my b

I will be setting up a side blog for me to reblog fics to in place of a taglist

Hēzīr, Ābrazȳrītsos

The time between Aemond kissing her at the altar and leading her into the Great Hall for the wedding feast was a blur.

She was fairly sure he had kissed her again in the wheelhouse before it made its journey back to the Red Keep. The King, who, according to their grandsire, had been too weak to attend the ceremony, greeted them upon their arrival. She did not recall what he had said, but she doubted he had either, so she did not concern herself with remembering. And at some point, she had been undressed and redressed, for she now wore her second wedding gown – the one that had not had its hem dragged through the mud outside the Sept and in the castle courtyard.

But to her, it seemed as if only a moment had passed between Aemond pulling away from her at the Sept and him leaning in to kiss her again in front of the Iron Throne.

“Ñuhon,” Aemond whispered against her lips. Mine.

“Aōhon,” she replied. Yours.

Though the crowd’s cheering was their cue to take their seats, she could not resist leaning forward to kiss him once more.

“I see my wife is a greedy little thing.” Aemond was grinning when he pulled back, noticing and delighting in the way she blushed when he called her ‘wife.’ He took her hand and helped her into her seat before taking his.

By tradition, he should have been seated directly to their father’s right, with his new bride on the King’s left. But tradition had always been disregarded for them. Or rather, for their half-sister, who now occupied the seat at their father’s right hand. Thus, he and his bride were both on the King’s left, two seats down. She took the seat closest to their father to avoid her being on his blind side, and he loved her all the more dearly for it.

Despite the slight, all eyes were on them – on her. How could they not be? She was radiant, her eyes sparkling with the reflection of the gold stitching on her dress. Her smile was bright enough to outshine the sun and stars themselves. And while their guests were fortunate enough to witness it, he knew it was all for him.

No longer just his hāedus. More than his zaldrīzītsos or maegītsos. More precious even than his raqiarzītsos. Now, and forevermore, she was his ābrazȳrītsos. Little sister, little dragon, little witch, little darling.

Little wife.

They were kept busy enough by receiving congratulations and praise from the various noble well-wishers who attended the wedding that they were hardly able to eat their meal, much less speak to each other. It frustrated her to no end. This day was about them, so why was she prevented from speaking to her new husband?

By the time Aemond finally leaned toward her, she was buzzing with anticipation. “Eat your fill,” he said, pushing her plate closer to her. “You will need your energy for tonight, ābrazȳrītsos.”

Gods, the effect that one simple word had on her.

No, it wasn’t just the word. It was who was saying it and how.

Aemond’s voice was as it was when they were alone. When they had taken refuge in their rooms to kiss and kiss and kiss each other in ways that were not at all proper for an unmarried couple. When he pulled her aside at an event to whisper in her ear how her dress was driving him ‘truly mad.’ When he had snuck into her room the past three nights to lay her gently on the bed and demonstrate – without truly taking her maidenhead – precisely what they were to do tonight.

Heat scorched through her, so fast and hot that she was surprised fire did not come out of her mouth when she took a steadying breath.

“You like it when I call you that,” Aemond observed smugly. She knew he had likely only said it because he knew it would cause this reaction from her.

She looked at him, then turned away. If she looked at his handsome face right now, when her entire body was screaming at her to kiss him already, to let him tear away her clothes while she tore at his, to finally become his in every sense of the word… Well, she would do just that.

A deep sip of her wine cooled her enough to answer. “I do, valzȳrys. Very much.” Husband.

He smiled and flushed, as well, but only slightly. Always so stoic, her husband.

“Are you well, my dear?” Their grandsire’s cool voice and large hand on her shoulder shattered the burning spell Aemond had put on her. He rubbed large circles on her back, as he had when she was ill as a child.

“I – ”

Aemond took her hand, squeezing tightly. A signal they had years ago devised during nights spent in the library when they were meant to be in bed – quiet. “Perfectly well, Grandsire. Perhaps a touch overexcited. I will take her for some air.”

Otto raised a brow in a way that usually meant he was suspicious – though she didn’t know why. Fresh air seemed to be a wonderful idea. Nevertheless, he nodded to his grandson.

“Come,” Aemond said as he stood, brushing a stray curl away from her face. “I think we both need a little escape, don’t we?”

She nodded with a dreamy smile before dutifully following him as he led them toward the back of the Great Hall.

“Do not be too long,” Otto called as they passed him. “This is your wedding feast, remember. You are expected to be in attendance.”

“We will!” she assured, pulling Aemond back for a moment so she could kiss their grandsire’s cheek. “I promise.”

Oddly, he was still looking at them dubiously when she looked back at him just before Aemond pulled her into the corridor.

“Where are we going, Aemond?” They had passed several balconies now, along with a few throngs of guests who attempted to offer their congratulations. Aemond hastily brushed them all aside and continued walking through the mazelike halls until the sounds of the celebration faded entirely.

He did not respond, only grinning back at her in a way that both comforted and excited her.

“Aemond…?”

At last, he stopped before a small, shadowed alcove between two torches containing nothing but a small table topped with dried flowers in a brass vase. He drew her close, turning his head to examine the corridor. Slowly, he looked back down at her, his violet eye darkened, cheeks flushed, and the corner of his tempting mouth turned upward.

“Ābrazȳrītsos,” he whispered as he bent toward her, sending another wave of heat through her blood. “I’m afraid I simply cannot wait any longer.”

“Wait for wh – ”

He kissed her harder and fiercer than ever before. One hand fixed on her waist while the other climbed to cradle her neck, holding her upright when she nearly fell from the intensity of the kiss. She hardly had time to breathe between kisses, but she hardly cared.

She was kissing her husband.

It was not the chaste kiss they shared at the Sept or the gentle kisses filled with laughter from the carriage. It was not even the hungry, desperate kisses they shared when he came to her room late at night. This was a kiss of possession and possession alone.

She was his, as he was hers.

They had always known it. From her first breath, they had known it. Now, so did the realm, the world, and the gods themselves.

“Aemond…” She pulled back as far as she could when she felt a familiar hardness pressing at her stomach through the mass of her dress. “It is not time – ”

“I know.” He buried his face in her neck as though he needed the scent of her to breathe. “But I cannot wait any longer, my love. I have already waited all my life.” He wrapped his arms around her legs and lifted her onto the table, the vase screeching as it was pushed against the wall.

“But… we’re supposed to undress each other,” she argued, even as she helped Aemond bunch her skirts around her waist. “You’re supposed to carry me to my bed. That is what we practiced.”

The sound of her smallclothes ripping echoed in the hall as Aemond tore them away, stuffing the scraps into his trouser pocket before fumbling with his laces. “I know what we practiced, raqiarzītsos. I promise we will do it all. But later.”

Any further argument she had vanished the moment his hand touched her, stroking the bare skin just above her stockings. The yearning she had become so familiar with in recent days roared to life. In an attempt to find words, she only gasped a short “Aemond.”

“I need you,” Aemond breathed against her cheek. “Now. Please, let me have you?”

She was his – his to protect, to care for.

His to have, in whatever way he wished.

How fortunate for her, then, to wish to have him in the same way.

“Nykēle aemās, valzȳrys.” Have me, husband.

His lips found hers again, claiming, devouring, worshiping, as his hand rose up her thigh to her core. He shuddered when he found her already wet for him. “Perfect,” he moaned. “You are so perfect for me, ābrazȳrītsos.”

“For you, Aemond.” She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders as the pads of his fingers finally reached the spot he had previously ground against, pleasure sparking through her with an intensity their past escapades had not reached. “Aemond!”

He laughed, pushing his brow against hers. “Good girl. You like that, don’t you?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Good, now look at me.”

She had not realized that she had shut her eyes, but it was so hard to control her body when he was making her feel like this.

“That’s it,” he kissed her once. “Now, I’m going to do something we did not practice. It may hurt for a moment, but I promise it will feel good if you relax, yes?”

She would do whatever he wanted, so long as he kept touching her, kissing her, and smiling at her like that, his eye sparkling. She trusted him implicitly. If he said it would feel good, she knew it would.

“Tell me you’ll relax, raqiarzītsos.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

His thumb stayed on that delightful spot, pressing in tight, wonderful circles while his fingers traveled lower. He laughed slightly as he played with the wetness that coated her. “All for me?”

She didn’t understand. What was all for him? Her body? Her love? Her maidenhead? Of course it was all for him. “Yes, all for you.”

Her answer pleased him, earning her another deep kiss. “Avy jorrāelan, ābrazȳrītsos.” I love you, little wife.

“Ñuho glaesot rȳ avy jorrāeltin,” she whispered, her eyes scrunching shut as he slowly sank a finger inside her. I have loved you all my life.

‘Hurt’ wasn’t the right word for what she felt. Discomfort, yes. An unfamiliar pressure within her. It was an intrusion, but one her body was made for – made for this, made for Aemond. Besides, he told her it would feel good if she just relaxed, and he wouldn’t lie to her.

Indeed, it lasted only a moment before the feeling changed. There was still pressure, but it was no longer a discomfort. His finger – fingers, now, as he had somehow slipped another in without her notice – stretched her in a way that brought both pleasure and relief. It was almost akin to the feeling of extending her arms when she woke each morning to banish her stiffness, but so, so much more.

Combined with his thumb still playing with that little bud, it was an intrusion she gladly welcomed. Even more so when the pads of his fingers curled inside her, finding something that lit a roaring fire of ecstasy throughout her veins. She keened as her toes curled within her slippers, and her fingers tightened on his shoulders.

“Aemond!” she cried, holding him tighter, tighter, tighter as he continued to stroke her, inside and out. The fire within her grew and burned and blazed, white heat gathering in her core. “Please!”

But then he withdrew his fingers, and she whimpered like a small child whose toy was snatched from their hands. Her head dropped against his shoulder, her budding tears of frustration wetting the velvet of his tunic. “Why did you stop?”

He turned his head to kiss her temple, and she vaguely registered the sound of rustling fabric. “I promise I will continue later.” His hot breath ruffled her hair as he half-laughed, half-moaned. “And then, I will not stop until you beg me to. But now, we unfortunately have rather limited time. As you already know, ābrazȳrītsos, I am quite impatient.”

Something new pressed against her entrance, wet and hot and heavy. She knew instinctively what it was, but still, she dragged her head away from Aemond’s shoulder just enough to gaze down between them and see it – her husband’s cock.

Truthfully, she did not know what a cock was supposed to look like. She knew she had seen them before – seen Aemond’s before – when they were little and were still bathed together. There were even vague memories of Aegon slipping away from his nursemaids before they could dress him, leaving him to run naked throughout the nursery.

Those memories were old, and the details of their cocks had long faded, for they were not what made those memories special. It was the way she had splashed Aemond and he splashed her in return, and the way he would run his hands up and down her arms when they got out of the water and she shivered. The way Helaena would also tear off her clothes to run behind Aegon while Aemond shouted at them for being uncivil, and she simply laughed.

But she did know that seeing him naked then had not inspired what she was feeling now. What had once been the source of mischievous laughter now fanned the flames of desire in her heart, her blood, her core.

Her mind was too hazy to take it – take him – all in at once. She noticed each detail individually.

The sheen of wetness on his reddened tip. Was it from her or from him? Perhaps both?

The stones that hung beneath. What would they feel like as they slapped against her? What would they feel like if she took them in her hand?

The large vein that crossed the taut, pale skin reminded her of a river across a map. She wanted to trace it with her finger, with her tongue. Would he enjoy it? Would it make him feel what she felt when he drew his finger across her?

Unconsciously, her hand fell from his shoulder, reaching for him. He caught her hand with his, halting its path. But he smiled at her, his eye filled with something like pride. Even with his cock pressed against her, that look made her blush like a silly, lovesick girl.

“Another time,” he returned her hand to his shoulder and his own to her hip, “you may explore me however you like.”

She smirked. “But now, you are ‘quite impatient.’”

“Udrimmi riñītsos.” Clever little girl.

Aemond trailed his hands from her hips to her thighs, grinning wickedly at the shiver his light touches pulled from her. “Syt nykēlo drāmmon, ābrazȳrītsos.” Open for me, little wife.

She obeyed, letting him spread her legs as far as he wished, not feeling the burning of her joints for the pure adoration and desire she saw in his gaze, unfaltering as he pushed inside her with agonizing slowness. Though her eyes watered from both the intensity of their closeness and the single moment of pinching pain that faded after no more than a heartbeat, she never looked away from him, either.

After a moment and an eternity, he stilled, raising a hand to cup her cheek as he kissed her again, soft and sweet. “Aō syt jaehossa avy sētetis.” The gods made you for me.

“Sesīr aō syt avy,” she whispered back, her voice soft and her words for him alone. And you for me.

Aemond had done his best to make them both presentable again, but as they snuck back into the Great Hall, he knew his new wife was paranoid that everyone in the room could tell what they had done. Her sweet, dark eyes were still somewhat glazed with pleasure as they darted about the room, looking for confirmation of her worst fear. It only made him smile.

“No one knows, ābrazȳrītsos,” he assured her as he led her back to their seats – her legs still somewhat wobbly. “They are too consumed with their own gossiping and drunkenness to even think about where we might have gone – if they noticed we left at all.”

She settled into her chair, shifting slightly before smiling at him as he sat. The deep blush on her cheeks had reignited, and he cupped her cheek to feel its warmth. It was nearly enough to make him steal her away again.

He got no further than reaching for her hand before their grandfather cleared his throat, leaning forward to glare at him. “You were gone some time,” he drawled, “I was beginning to worry.”

“There is no need for that,” Aemond replied cooly. He plucked the carafe of wine from in front of his brother, pointedly ignoring Aegon’s protests, and refilled his wife’s goblet. “The fresh air and quiet was quite beneficial, I assure you.”

Otto’s face was drawn with exasperated disbelief as they both watched the bride down half her wine in a single gulp, steadfastly avoiding both their gazes. “Yes, I feel much better now. Though I appreciate your concern, Grandsire.”

Aemond held back a smug smile as Otto’s attention was drawn away, leaning closer to his wife’s ear and brushing a still-mussed lock of hair behind her ear. “I have not forgotten my promise,  ābrazȳrītsos,” he whispered against her flushed skin. “When can at last leave this feast, I will keep you in our bed until you beg me to release you.”

She brushed her lips against his cheek, savoring the shiver it elicited. “If there is one thing I will never beg for, valzȳrys, it is for you to leave me.”

[lilislegacy]

The way haters just boil Annabeth's character to just insulting Percy and not seeing theres more to her really shows how much they dont get her. Honestly Percy would hate them for this...

thanks for the ask @emilia9622!

agreed completely. like if you want to dislike a character, go for it. but don’t lie to yourself. don’t base it all off of one thing or flaw and make it 100x bigger than it is.

for instance, i don’t like luke. but it’s for a multitude of reasons. he knowingly betrayed all his friends several times, fought a deadly war against them, and intentionally poisoned the camp. he was percy’s first friend at camp and was a mentor to him, but had no issues lying to him and deceiving him. he literally was fine with the idea of 12 year old little percy being dragged down to tartarus. he also let annabeth be kidnapped and forced to hold up the world. when he finally saw thalia alive, he fought her and tried to harm her. yes i know that there is very complex trauma and history that led to all his actions, and i really do feel so bad for him, but i can’t respect someone who betrays his close friends like that. no matter what. i could go on and on, and don’t get me started about him having romantic feelings for annabeth… UGH. but that said, i understand why people love his character. he’s complex and has a lot of really good history. he also has a wonderful, yet tragic, redemption at the end. he really deserved better. i don’t have love for him, but his character deserves love. i’m happy that there are people to love him so that i don’t have to, because i have personal reasons for not liking him. i think luke is an amazingly well written character and i think rick wrote him beautifully. the truth is, besides the singular part where he admitted he had feelings for annabeth, i wouldn’t change anything about him or his story. so personally, i don’t like him, but i think he’s a great character and objectively, i can see why people love him.

it’s okay to dislike a character. but don’t pick their biggest flaws, strip away all the good parts of the character, and fool yourself into believing that’s all they are. (and then continue to go on tumblr and scream about how toxic and terrible the character is 🙄)

this is what “people can’t handle complex characters” actually means. people often throw that phrase around. people say that about readers not liking jason all the time, but the truth is, people are fully entitled to not like jason. it doesn’t make sense to me, because i LOVE jason. he’s my cutie patootie. but the people who dislike him simply don’t like him. they don’t usually make him out to be someone he’s not, they just don’t like him for who he is. they often just don’t find him interesting enough to break down the more complex parts of his character. it breaks my heart, and i don’t understand, but that’s okay. they just don’t like him. there’s nothing else to it. most annabeth haters, however, make her out to be someone she’s not and then proceed to hate on that one self-generated version of her. it’s so toxic. THAT is not being able to handle a complex character

no, annabeth is not perfect. if she was, she would be unrealistic, and people would hate her for that too. yes, she has excessive pride. she tends to think herself above others, and yes that even includes percy at times. but you know what? she admitted to having that issue all the way back in book 2. she was literally 13 when she explained to percy what hubris is and how it’s her biggest downfall. she’s a self aware queen. she knows it’s an issue and she works hard to correct it in little ways and make sure the people around her, especially percy, know she values them and their opinions. anyone who read the heroes of olympus series unbiased and got to read her POV knows that annabeth holds percy in the highest regard. she respects the hell out of him. even though sometimes she says things that aren’t nice, she doesn’t truly feel that way and always corrects it in some way. she’s not selfish, she’s just tragically intelligent, and it naturally gives her a bit of a complex. it wouldn’t make sense if it didn’t.

and i love her for it. the fact that she has a real flaw that can affect relationships, but that she is self aware of and actively works on, makes her legit one of my favorite characters ever. she’s SO realistic.

but people take that one flaw and make it her whole character. they call her cold and harsh, when in reality she’s one of the most warm and sensitive people in the series. she takes care of her friends. she’s strong and she’s often the leader, but it’s because she’s so loving and kind all the time. she works hard and looks out for everyone. she makes friends fast for a reason. she’s a wonderful person. she’s so, so sweet, and it breaks my heart that people choose to take that away from her.

anyway, sorry i just word vomited so much. basically i agree 100%.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Who You Belong To

Pairing: Raymond Smith x Reader x Tangerine

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only

Notes: Aaaaaaand 800 years later, I finished writing one of those things I said I was writing. Not Beta-read.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content—cumshot, oral sex, fingering, rough sex, vaginal sex, threesome, creampie, cumplay

Summary: It’s in the way Tangerine’s jaw tightens; in how he yanks the cigarette from his lips and flicks it away rather than savoring the last drag. It’s in the way he yanks your car door open, snaps, “In,” Rather than hold it open for you with a wink like he usually does. Raymond trails you all the way to the car, giving Tangerine a knowing, scathing look over the top of his glasses before he turns down to you with a warmer, far more hospitable gaze.

You know it’s a mistake as soon as it happens. You and Tangerine aren’t exclusive, of course. You’re certain he’d balk if you ever called him your boyfriend, your significant other, or anything of the sort. He’s your fuckbuddy, and that’s that.

But he’s also a possessive little fucker. So you realize that the second he sees you with Raymond—the second he clocks your rumpled, untucked blouse and his ruffled hair—he’ll know.

You can see that he does. It’s in the way Tangerine’s jaw tightens; in how he yanks the cigarette from his lips and flicks it away rather than savoring the last drag. It’s in the way he yanks your car door open, snaps, “In,” Rather than hold it open for you with a wink like he usually does. Raymond trails you all the way to the car, giving Tangerine a knowing, scathing look over the top of his glasses before he turns down to you with a warmer, far more hospitable gaze.

“Lovely doing business with you,” Raymond says. Maybe he knows he’s twisting the screws. Maybe he had been able to tell before—from the way that Tangerine watches you, from how his tone would soften as he turns from speaking to Lemon to speaking to you. Maybe Raymond can tell, and truly didn't care as he bent you over his desk in the Lore of the Land, just after you’d finished talking business. You’ll likely never know. So for now, you just give him a smile and grit out your thanks.

Raymond nods and turns his gaze to Tangerine, shutting your door gently—the exact antithesis of Tangerine’s behavior just moments ago. You watch as he and Raymond share a contentious gaze before Tan is rounding the car to get into the driver's side. You flinch just a touch as he slams the car door shut and starts up the car. You glance at Lemon over your shoulder, and find him pointedly avoiding your gaze.

The ride back to the safe house is uncomfortably silent. You turn on the radio once, and hear three solid notes of Queen's Don't Stop Me Now before Tangerine's hand shoots out, whacking off the power again. When you look at him, he keeps his focus set staunchly through the windshield.

That's bad.

Usually he'll at least shoot you a wink and a smile before refocusing on the road. Now, you just get a good view of his tense jaw, his harsh expression, and one short, irritated sniffle.

--

Tangerine's out of the car first. You don't move; you don't even flinch when the car door slams shut again.

"...I'm just gonna sleep in here," You say after a moment. Lemon snorts.

"That's not gonna solve anythin'. He'll just come an' find you."

You groan, kicking your feet childishly before you finally get out. You shut the door, rounding the car to Lemon's side and looking up at the large, dark townhouse that you've rented for your short stay in London.

"...I'm gonna get some chips," Lemon says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Oh, great! I'll—"

"Go see if Tan wants anythin', will you?" Lemon plows on, beginning to wander away. "Text me. Thanks—and good luck."

You puff out an irritated breath, watching him go. You consider going somewhere else yourself, but a little bit of you knows that you're probably better off just taking your lumps now.

 --

You can hear Tangerine upstairs—stomping from room to room, opening and closing doors, cabinets. You sigh heavily, shrugging out of your coat and kicking your shoes off. You hang the coat up on one of the hooks, double-check that you've locked the door, and then make your way upstairs.

As you round onto the landing, you spy Tangerine out of the corner of your eye, heading down the hall. For a moment, you consider following him. Then you turn, heading into the kitchen instead. You can probably get a drink in before he loses his sweet mind on you. 

You pour one for each of you. Hell, if he doesn’t drink it, you will. You push yourself up onto the counter, swinging your feet. You hear him stomping his way down the hall, then it goes quiet. You can feel his looming presence as he waits in the doorway. You don’t turn to meet his gaze; you don’t ask if he wants his drink. You just take a sip of yours. Tangerine brushes past you, taking up his glass. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him throw it back before he slams the glass down. You spare him a scathing glance before taking another sip from your glass. 

“What the fuck was that?” He spits. 

“I’m not sure what you mean.” 

“Oh, you’re not.” 

“No.” 

“Really.” 

“Not a clue.” 

“You’re going to pretend that nothing happened?” 

“What exactly do you think happened between myself and Mr. Smith?” 

Tangerine rounds to stand in front of you. You’ve no warning before he’s shoving his hand up your skirt. You suck in a nervous breath, but don’t move otherwise, even as he spears two fingers into your still-slick, tender cunt. He crowds closer as your pussy throbs around the intrusion. 

“You’re gonna tell me you’re this wet just from him holdin’ a fuckin’ door open for ya?” Tangerine glowers at you down the end of his nose. “Hm? You’re really gonna tell me that?” 

“...Depends.”

“On?” 

“Whether or not you’d believe it.” 

Tan’s expression closes off, eyes going dark, and mean. He begins to pump his fingers roughly, palm grinding against your clit. Your lips part in surprise, hips jolting into his touch. 

“Ah no. No no,” He shakes his head. “You an’ I both know what the fuck you did.” 

“And you and I both know that I can fuck whoever I goddamn wa—ant,” Your breath hitches in your throat as Tangerine gives a particularly rough shove of his fingers. 

“Sweet that you think that, sweetheart.” 

Tangerine raises his other hand to grasp your throat. He draws you close by it, forehead knocking against yours. He draws your lower lip between his teeth, giving it a harsh tug before he draws his head back. 

“Take my cock out,” He orders. You reach down, working at his button and zip, hissing as Tangerine’s fingers flex around your throat. “What’d you do for him? Huh?” Tangerine asks. 

“Who says I did anything for him?” You ask, grasping Tangerine and giving him a few strokes. “Maybe he did it for me.” 

“Would explain why your cunt’s so slick. What, he slobber all over it?” 

“Slobber has to be the most unsexy word in the English language.” 

“What, ahead of moist?” 

“I don’t think moist is actually all that bad—Sonofabitch,” You draw in a gasp as Tangerine draws his fingers out of you, pinching your clit. You try to squeeze your legs shut, but Tangerine muscles between them, shifting from foot to foot. 

“You gonna give me any more lip?” 

“I think that’s almost guaranteed, Tan, yeah.” 

“Christ alive—You just never know when to stop, do ya?” 

“Never have a good reason to—oo,” You hiss as Tangerine draws you across the counter, shoving his cock into you without warning or hesitation. “Fucking hell.” You reach out, curling your fingers in the fabric of his waistcoat. 

“There are those sweet words I like so much. You woo ‘im with those, too?” Tangerine’s words are punched out word by word, matched thrust for thrust. You whimper at his harshness, and the way his hand slips from your throat to squeeze the nape of your neck. It’s a treatment you’ve only ever been privy to when a job has gone wrong, or very nearly wrong. In your estimation, this had been a pretty calm interaction. You’d gotten in and out in one piece; you’d even managed to make a friend, in a sense—though Tangerine clearly hadn’t warmed to Raymond the way that you had. 

“What was he like? Huh?” Tan grunts, “Did he fuck you like this?” 

“N-No,” You mumble. 

“No?” “Nn-nn.” You let your lips curl into a malicious smirk. “He did it better.” 

“Fucking—” Tangerine pulls out of you, yanking you off of the surface and turning you around. He shoves you into the counter, bending you over hard marble and driving into you. Your breath punches out of you, head bowing forward. You’re glad he turned you around; he can’t see your giddy grin. You knew he’d take the bait. You’re certain you could come like this, but—

You whine as Tangerine pulls out. You begin to turn to look at him, to ask, but he presses his hand between your shoulder blades, keeping you down over the counter with a grumbled order of, “Stay the fuck there.” His voice is breathy, and low. You can hear his heavy breathing, and the slick stroke of his hand on his cock. You draw in a whimper, fingers flexing against the counter as you feel his cum splatter across your plumped, heated pussy. You wriggle, toes curling in your shoes. 

“Gimme your phone,” He orders. You fish into your pocket of your jacket, passing it over before Tangerine plucks ut out of your hand. You swipe your tongue across your lips. 

“What are you doing?” 

Tangerine doesn’t answer for a moment; you just feel him shoving your skirt up, followed by the sound of the camera shutter clicking a couple of times. Then the skirt is dropped back down, and you hear the tapping of Tangerine typing. 

“What are you doing, Tangerine?” 

“Showing your friend…” He tosses the phone onto the counter beside your head. “Who you belong to.” You flinch as he slaps your ass roughly, and you feel the heat of him falling away. “Get yourself cleaned up, love.” 

You push yourself up on shaking arms as you hear him walking away. You turn your head, eyeing the photo sent to Raymond’s contact—Tangerine’s hand, his signet ring fully visible, grasping your skirt and displaying your cum-splattered cunt. You shiver, bowing your head forward as embarrassment flashes through you. It’s heightened as your phone flashes with Raymond’s incoming call. You don’t dare not answer him. You reach out with a shaking hand and tap to accept the call before raising it to your ear. 

“...Bring him to the address I’m going to send you,” Raymond orders. 

“I have to get cleaned up—” 

“Don’t. Just come over here.” 

“Now?” 

“Now.” 

--  

You mumble your thanks as Raymond passes you a glass of scotch. You don’t take a sip right away. You just shift from foot to foot as you lean back against his counter. Raymond’s home is just like his desk at the Lore of the Land—pristine, neat, with everything in its place. Raymond shoots you a wink as he turns back toward you, and you have to bite back a smile. 

Tangerine’s watching closely, and you’ve been in enough trouble today as it is. 

You watch as Raymond rounds to where Tangerine is sitting at Raymond’s dining room table, proffering a glass to him as well. Tangerine’s gaze darts between it and Raymond; you can see his eye twitching a touch at Raymond’s boozy little olive branch. When Tangerine doesn’t take it, Raymond sets it down on the table in front of him with a mutter of, “Right.” 

Then Raymond turns, heading back toward the kitchen. He stops between the two of you, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“I seem to have ruffled a few feathers.” 

“You didn’t ruffle anything—” You start to insist. 

“That shit we handled with you an’ Pearson, she wasn’t part’a the deal,” Tangerine cuts over you.

“I didn’t think that she was.” Raymond’s brows raise. He seems more amused than annoyed; Tangerine seems like he’d like to rip Raymond’s head off just about now. 

“And I didn’t act like I was,” You counter. 

“If I’d known that…associating with your colleague would’ve made such an impact on your mood…” Raymond smiles, leaning against the counter beside you, “I would’ve done it twice.” 

You scoff a laugh, unable to help it. “You’re not making this better.” 

“Who said I was trying to?” 

“Wow.” 

“Alrigh’,” Tangerine hops up, grasping the glass of scotch and draining it before slamming it down so hard that you’re certain it’ll crack. “We’re going.” 

“I think you ought to stay,” Raymond says. “I could teach you a thing or two.” 

“There is not a goddamn thing you could teach me.” 

“I think there are a few things that I could teach you.” 

“Like what?” 

“How to treat a lady, for one.” 

“You think I don’t know how to treat my girl?” 

“Your girl?” Raymond repeats, brows tipping up as he glances between the two of you. “Oh…That’s not what she told me.” 

Panic and arousal surge through you as Tangerine’s gaze snaps toward you, eyes narrowing a touch. You just give a little shrug, raising your glass to your lips and taking a sip.

“Did you get cleaned up?” Raymond asks, glancing toward you. You shake your head. Raymond hums thoughtfully, holding his hand out to you. You hesitate, glancing warily toward Tangerine before you set your glass aside, taking Raymond’s hand. You let him lead you to the table, biting your lip as he nods for you to sit on the edge of it. You settle down, scooching back and letting him push your legs wide.

“Now,” Raymond slides his hands up over your bare thighs, “Typically, I do not abide by mess.”  

“You told me not to clean up,” You pout.

“I did. I think we could teach your friend a lesson.”

“A lesson,” Tangerine repeats, shifting from foot to foot and folding his arms across his chest. “You fuck ‘er once and you think you’ve got the lay of the land? You think she knows what she likes?” 

“Not at all,” Raymond smiles, fingers stroking over your plumped, tender cunt. “I know what she needs.” 

If you were a touch less tense, you’d be able to laugh at the way Tangerine goes red with irritation. 

“You don’t know jack shit, mate,” He seethes. 

“Oh?” Raymond glances up at you, shooting you a wink. “Well, why don’t you come and show me what I don’t know.” 

It’s all Tangerine needs before he’s practically charging across the room and shoving Raymond out from between your legs. Raymond hardly wobbles as Tangerine drops into the chair in front of you. You yelp as he grasps you by the hips, tugging you to the edge of the table and diving in. You draw in a gasp, eyelids fluttering as Tangerine laps hungrily at you. Your gaze flickers to Raymond, grinning as he rounds to lean down beside you. 

“Is that what you needed?” He murmurs, nudging his nose against yours. You smile hazily, tipping your chin up pleadingly. 

“Yes, Raymond.”

Raymond smiles, catching your lips in a kiss. You prop yourself up on your hands, wobbling just a touch as you raise one to cup his bearded cheek. You suck his plush lower lip with a soft sigh, parting your lips to tease his tongue with yours. You groan as you feel Tangerine draw back.

“Oi!” He barks, “The hell is it worth being down ‘ere if you’re just gonna suck fa—” 

Tangerine doesn’t finish his argument as you feel him pressing sharply against your cunt again. You turn your head from Raymond’s engrossing kisses, eyes widening at the sight of Raymond’s palm resting on the back of Tangerine’s head, shoving him down. You scoff out a stunned laugh as Raymond’s fingers tighten in Tangerine’s hair. You hinge forward as you feel Tangerine moans against you. 

“I didn’t think he’d take this from anyone,” You admit, shifting and propping one of your feet up on the table and easing your hips down against his lips. Raymond hums, nuzzling your jaw. 

“People like him can talk a big game, but they need someone to answer to.” 

“And that someone is you?” You tip your head to the side, raising your brows.  

“Right now,” Raymond smiles. “But if you play your cards right, it could be you.” 

“I’m usually the one taking orders.” 

Tangerine draws back with a sucking kiss, grunting. “She’s bloody good at it, too.” 

You pout, reaching down and giving his forehead a gentle push. 

“I’m right here, asshole.” 

“Be kind,” Raymond urges, squeezing the nape of your neck in a tender scolding. “He’s a little mouthy, but he’s a good boy who cleans up his messes.” 

“Don’t call me a boy,” Tangerine hisses.

“Don’t act like one,” Raymond bats back without blinking an eye. He just shoves Tan’s head back between your thighs, and you jump at the bristly scrape of his mustache, unable to help the way your thighs tense and twitch around his head. You expect more of a fight, but Tangerine just grasps your thighs, fingers tightening around your hips as he groans against your slick, heated flesh. 

“Do you think you can handle it?” Raymond asks against your jaw. 

“Handle what?” You breathe, and your head spins as he tips his chin up, murmuring low in your ear:

“Both of us.” 

--  

It’s not the fight you imagined. Tangerine has fallen in line just as well as you have, and is on far better behavior than you could've ever imagined. He hisses through his teeth as you blink hazily up at him, your lips parted and your jaw dropped as he eases his cock in and out of your panting mouth. 

You hear tandem groans, and you arch your back, tipping your hips down toward Raymond as he eases into your aching pussy. He shushes you softly, fingers skimming over your supple hips and gently nudging you to settle back down onto the table. It’s a struggle; your torn between obeying his command and fucking down against his length. You whimper as Raymond begins to fuck you with long, languorous strokes. It’s an almost lazy punctuation to the way that Tangerine’s hips thrust and jerk, spearing his dick into your mouth. 

“Slow down,” Raymond counsels as he draws his cock back, lingering with the tip tucked snugly in your cunt, “You’ll pop before she’s anywhere near.” 

You turn your head from Tangerine, letting him slip from your lips as you peer up at Raymond, quipping, “He usually does.” The words are hardly out of your mouth before you’re yelping, knees jolting around Raymond’s hips as Tangerine slaps one of your tits sharply, growling, 

“Cheeky.” 

“Dickhea—” You hardly get it out before Tangerine grasps your head, shoving his cock back between your lips. You whine as you feel Raymond’s hands plant on either side of you, his hips beginning to punch more harshly, despite their slowed thrusts. You raise a hand, grasping Raymond’s forearm tightly as your body fights to recognize and categorize every feeling rippling through you. It’s difficult to focus. There’s heat all around you; your mouth is heavy with Tangerine’s weight, your lips stretching with his girth, your tongue, thick with his taste; your cunt stretches and aches as Raymond measures and doles out his thrusts with even, steady, measured composure. 

You want to rattle Raymond. It’s not fair that you can so reduce Tangerine to wanton neediness, but seem to have no such effect on Raymond. Why can’t you shake him? Why can’t you—

Your mind turns to static as Tangerine makes you gag, and Raymond’s cock brushes a spot inside you that makes you keen and throb. You’re so—so full. You’ve never felt so terribly overwhelmed, so horribly distracted while having sex. Tangerine is wonderful on his own, of course, and has been a taskmaster in his own right, but he shows an almost childish impertinence now in the way he shoves into your mouth with a force that has spit and precum spilling from the sides of your parted lips. Raymond’s measured pace is almost more of a hindrance than a help. His counter-pace is driving you to distraction. You can’t bring yourself to time your movements to Tangerine or Raymond’s thrusts. You’re caught too sharply in between. You’re—scrambled. Tangerine is in a race to the finish line; Raymond seems to have all the time in the world. You’re just grasping to each of them in desperation, practically struggling to breathe, let alone respond to the way the two of them use you so thoroughly. 

“You’re going to bust, aren’t you,” Raymond asks him almost boredly. Tangerine doesn’t even argue, just groans as his grip tightens in your hair. You splutter and choke, eyes watering as his hips rabbit, and his cock spills down your throat. You tighten your grip on Raymond, on the only thing anchoring you. Tangerine groans low in his throat, hips jittering before he plops back into a seat with a panting gasp. He doesn’t remain stationary for long—Raymond reaches out, gripping Tangerine’s head and steering him toward your still-stinging nipple. Tangerine seems to almost stumble out of his seat, hands planting roughly beside your body as he swirls his tongue around the pebbled flesh. 

--  

It’s almost mesmerizing, the way Raymond takes you apart. A single strand of hair springs loose from his neat style; his cheeks tinge pink from exertion; the swell of sweat makes his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose. Now and again, his tongue sweeps over his plush lips before they part in a shuddering pant. 

He’s rattled, just a little. It makes you preen, and arch down into his touch, tipping your head back to allow Tangerine more room for his bruising nips, and sucks, and kisses. He doesn’t let up, even as you grasp and tug his hair with a warning groan. 

“Poor baby,” Tangerine murmurs. “All wound up, aren’t ya.”

“Shut up,” You mumble shakily. 

“Took so long for fancy-pants to send you off, mm?” 

“Shut up.” 

“Should’ve told me you were such a soft-touch. Needed a little pamperin’.” 

“I don’t need to be pampered—Oh!” You shriek as Raymond lands a stinging whack to your hip. 

“Be nice,” Raymond tuts as he thumbs one of your tender nipples. 

“I am being nice,” You whine. “He’s being an ass.”

“Such pretty words from such a messy mouth,” Tangerine coos. You whimper despite his taunts, tightening your grasp on his hair and on Raymond’s forearm as the coiling feeling in your stomach winds tighter and tighter. Your hips tip down against Raymond, and against his attentive, slick fingers as he swipes them over your throbbing clit. Your orgasm wells up slowly, and you moan as you cum. The sensation seems to ripple through you, your jaw dropped in heated want as your cunt ripples around Raymond’s cock.

You’re vindicated by the grunt that seems to be punched out of him, and the way his cock pulses and twitches. The heat and slickness of his spend makes your nails rake down over his forearm. He hums softly, bowing over you. You shiver as he presses a kiss to the other side of your neck. 

“Atta girl,” Raymond murmurs. “Is that what you needed?” 

“Mhm,” You hum high in your throat, heavy eyelids dropping as you nod dazedly. Raymond squeezes your hip, giving you a moment before he draws back. 

“Fuck,” You breathe as he spreads your thighs. 

“Tangerine,” He urges. You watch as he grasps the back of Tangerine's neck, steering him back between your thighs. You jump at the first brush of his tongue, jolting up and eyeing Tangerine as he laps at your aching cunt, and Raymond’s spend. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Reminding him,” Raymond murmurs, brushing his beard roughly against your neck, “Who you belong to.” 

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ;  @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight; @recklessworry ; @amneris21 ; @ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ; @lorecraft ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; @nolanell ; @millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices​ ; @missswriter ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ; @phoenixhalliwell

[colourstreakgryffin]

Hello!

May I request platonic hc's of Rosie and a gender neutral reader who's similar to Senjuro in terms of personality? Thanks and have a good day/night!

Hehe! Awwww! Rosie is one of my fav characters. Best girl she is, to be honest. Love her! So, yes. Would be happy to write for our Cannibal Queen! I will have a great day, hope you do too! Once more, a bit short but I love it!

Rosie- Fire Lily

Now. Let’s get this right off the bat. Rosie just picked you off the streets when you dropped into Hell and landed right into her Colony. Rosie claims what she wants, no problem so she adopted you. You don’t have a choice, you are now Rosie’s little sibling and she uses her magic to make sure you look like her and her people so you better fit in

Rosie is your Kyojuro— not joking, she is

Rosie adores how sweet and helpful you are. Always cleaning and helping around her big colony as well as her own home. She didn’t even ask you to clean her floors or feed her people— oh. She doesn’t regret adopting you, she loves you so much already

Yes. Rosie threw you at Alastor when she first begun introducing you around and keeps throwing you at Alastor now so you two bond. Alastor knows you well and he often ‘babysits’ you for Rosie. Since the Radio Demon is your adoptive older sister’s bestie, it’s quite rare that you don’t see him exploring about the Colony

Rosie supports you… yes, you can’t become the next Cannibal Colony leader but you don’t need to be some mighty powerful Overlord to be worthy of love in her eyes. She loves you, as her baby sibling, the way you are and she doesn’t want you to change in any fashion; be yourself and big sis Rosie is pleased

Rosie does listen to you and your suggestions. Does she agree that she doesn’t want her people participating in the next Extermination fightback? Yes, she does. But she kinda has no choice so she comforts you and reassures you she isn’t personally even trying. She may be powerful and influential but she has little strength in that matter

Rosie needs more sweethearts like you. Kind, caring and who can usually see the best in a situation or person?! Goodness. She’s gotten a jackpot and she is quite proud of you. Her little sibling is a little angel, even in Hell and even when they came from the worst situation when alive

Eventually, more and more time you spend as Rosie’s adoptive sibling, you finally open up to her and express how bad your human life was; a dead brother to a unfortunate event, a abusive alcoholic father, a dead mother to a disease. You were upset, shaken and alone but you’re… better now

And when you tell Rosie every detail she’s been waiting to hear, she gives you much wisdom and comfort. You saw the way she helped Charlie? This woman knows what she is doing. She can handle heavy situations well and helps make you feel better, less tense and more relaxed

Rosie may be a doting loving big sister-mother to you but she does encourage you to be cannibalistic. Give you decapitated body parts as gifts, ease you into eating sinners and Hellborn demons. You’re a cannibal demon now, she wants you to be able to eat the way her people do

Rosie gives you hope all the time and she is forgiving so she will forgive you for ‘leaving such a scar on the Colony’s history’. Because, in reality, you may be her sibling but you don’t need to be her heir or her successor. You can live a nice life with her as her cute little assistant

Rosie is open and expressive with the people she loves, platonic or romantic, so she tells you almost everything and she drags you almost everywhere. She loves having you around, being able to link arms with you and dress you up in cute outfits!

Rosie is the type of big sister-mother-bestie to wear matching clothing with both you and Alastor. Suspect Rosie to give you a outfit that matches with hers, to her, it’s a symbol of her connection to you

Honestly. Rosie is raising you. Since you’re a very young sinner, maybe around 13-14 and have died a truly awful death at your father’s hands. You haven’t fully grown-up and dealt with so much so she takes charge of looking after you. Her relationship with you is primarily family-like but it’s adorable

You mean a lot to Rosie, even if she had scooped you off the streets and claimed you as hers less than four to five months ago. It doesn’t matter, she loves you and she hopes you love her back

“Oh… Leitora. That hat is adorable! Where did you find those flowers? Alasta gave them to you… oh, of course he did— nevertheless. I love it! It’s adorable! Goodness, yes! I should make it a new hat! Come with me, darling!”

[petrichorium]

his eyes are what you focus on the most, in that strange set of weeks that gojo, the newly crowned king (formerly the presumed dead crown prince turned coup leader turned heir apparent), spends courting you.

for a time, you wonder if you’re as simple as the rest, as easy to please. they’re beautiful, undoubtedly; you can see why his ancestors held them to such esteem, it’s difficult not to believe they must be a sign of divinity. he hides them most of the time behind that damned black cloth or an odd adornment upon his face—a pair of circular lenses colored deep black, connected with a frame of gold, an ornate chain attached to the earpieces and hanging around his nape. yet he takes off such things when he barges into your chambers, removes the blindfold and drops the jewelry so that it dangles from his neck like the pendants he so loves gifting to you, and with the way those eyes trail you relentlessly you wonder if it’s so that he can watch you unhindered.

soon enough you realize that you like his eyes for the same reason he hides them: because they give him away.

or rather, you suppose, because they give him away to you. you’d be surprised if he were so careless with his expressions around others—he’s smart, this you know, smart and strong and capable. certainly too smart to wear his emotions on his sleeve in court as he does around you, eyes soft and adoring every time they’re cast upon you. he hasn’t a taste for subtlety or reservation, not when it comes to you or anything else he covets. greedy man, you call him one morning, when the sun’s rays shine through the curtains and cleave great fissures of light across your bed which most resolutely should not be occupied by another. his long fingers curl around your wrist and bring it to his mouth. only for you, he whispers against your pulse, lies to you with blue irises glinting and tone dripping with saccharine syrup as if he hasn't toppled a regime with the very hands he holds you with.

(or perhaps it’s not a lie, perhaps all his greed truly does lead back to you)

you like his eyes, too, because they remind you of childhood. you recall countless times where he’d tug on your hair to drag your attention from a book, your gaze going from letters to that piercing blue. he still looks at you like that now, and you think you might hold his childhood in your palms just the same as he yours. yet despite that familiarity there’s something more you like in the changes—he’s grown so monstrously large, not simply in stature, and there’s a mature air about him that compels you. he's grown, which should be unsurprising; the surprising part is that you're not altogether turned away by his adult self the way you should be.

you still remember the first time you saw him again, that horrible night, and the way that single eye had stared at you. you don’t believe it’ll ever truly leave you. crazed, bloodthirsty, entirely devoid of warmth—unrecognizable to you, the eye of a man who had lost everything and come back to reclaim what was rightfully his. you’d be lying, frankly, if you said the prospect that you were among that list didn’t send a thrill through you, even back then; lying if you claimed your breath caught at the sight of his eye out of pure fear and not something much more shameful.

(your queen had been the first to notice—or rather the first to act, for his eye upon you had been plain for all to see. she’d offered herself for you; her throat or her hand, without fight, to let you go. you remember how he’d covered up that eye once more, how his smile had dropped, and how he’d left no room for misinterpretation of his intent. you think an old hag like you is a fair trade for her? sorry, auntie, no deal. i’ll have whichever of your ladies i desire)

you, to name the lady of his desire. you still don’t know if you’re flattered by it—whether the part of you that simpers at the thought of being special to him, cherished by him, outweighs the part which resents him. it’s difficult to detangle the threads of your feelings, anger and attraction and hurt and sentiment and more all roiling within you so turbulently that you’re never sure which will be most prominent the next time you meet that piercing blue gaze. you wake up in your bed to see his sleeping body next to you and you ponder whether to run off to the east, then you surprise yourself that evening when he returns by tugging him down by his collar and pressing lips to his cheek in greeting. you’re more than conflicted and you know he’s well aware, those eyes piercing like they can see every clashing emotion.

not fear, though; never fear, you’re not all that afraid of him anymore. not when he’s so careful with how he touches you, not when looks at you like you’re the most important thing gracing the halls of his newly acquired castle. when he’s in your chambers it’s like he’s the same satoru you grew up with—the utter disregard for tradition had practically been signature, and he so adored exasperating you with it. if someone had told you back then that you’d end up years later with him courting you, the fact that he’s so bold as to spend the night with no chaperone would likely be the least surprising of the circumstances.

and perhaps you ought to be more careful, more suspicious; your teachers, your parents, they’d all tell you that you’re a fool for allowing such a man to court you. he barrels through etiquette, has no concern for modesty, throws decorum to the wind—not that one would expect anything less from a usurper. he could ruin you, just as he has left the court in ruin, should he decide that playing with you is no longer amusing and choose to cast you aside.

and it’s a frankly foolish decision to marry you, to make you queen over any of the other more eligible candidates. you are good at working the court, this is undeniable, but your talents are certainly far more suited to an advisor than a queen and your title is so very low that you’re practically ineligible—not legally, but socially. he can marry you, in technicality, but you’re practically a commoner despite how indispensable you'd made yourself to the former queen. certainly not somebody to choose in the already turbulent political landscape he’s created. he’s been crowned in the aftermath of a coup, one which he led himself—he ought to be wed to a proper match, a zen’in or a kamo to appease the families or a princess from a nearby kingdom to reforge allyship.

of course when you’d brought this up he’d merely cooed, cupped your face in a large hand and rubbed soothingly at your cheek with his thumb.

“nobody in this castle can tell me what to do,” he’d told you cheerfully. “except for my darling betrothed, of course.”

the unsaid implication there is hardly subtle—nobody can stop this union, except for you. he’d break it off if you insisted.

but… you don’t want to. you’re not sure what it is exactly. ambition, perhaps; the allure of the crown—or affection, the allure of him, because despite how you ought to feel (he’s upended your life, thrown the court into disarray, imprisoned or killed nearly a quarter of the peerage including more than a fair share of his own family members) you find yourself charmed by him; his easy smiles and his schoolboy teasing and even his incessant need to touch you despite your endless lectures on propriety. it’s likely both, to be frank with yourself.

(perhaps he’s rubbing off on you, selfish man that he is, taking what he wants without thought for what might come of it. perhaps you are looking before you and what you see is a man more devoted to you than you’d ever dreamed you might find, who also happens to be a king, and though you know it isn’t what’s best for your country it is what you want for yourself)

in the end you don your ornate wedding dress and you bind yourself to him and you don’t regret it—in fact you’re pleasantly giddy throughout the whole ordeal. you don’t think about how many men he’s cut down with the hands that take yours at the end of the ceremony, and you don’t wonder how much blood he spilled in these very halls with the same grin on his face that he gives to you now, and you don’t ruminate on the number of lives likely lost in the king’s chambers as he’d stormed it. in fact your mind is quite clear when he tears that blindfold from his face, lifts you easily with a single arm around your thighs despite the extravagance of your skirts, and carries you through those connecting rooms to the bedroom where, he swears to you against your skin, you’ll spend the rest of your nights until your dying days.

and if it weren’t he’d surely have dashed any thoughts from your head when his lips met yours, searing and fervent and hungry.

usurper!gojo masterlist

[daystarvoyage]

The Dana Terrace Vs Vivienne Medrano, The Great Debate of Two Female Creators

Hello Starry Knights, This is the lovely Kyoko Cane, The Brown Sugah Queen, & cosplayer who performs and visits numerous cons throughout, while making blogs/vlogs on animated media & entertainment.

as you know or are new to this page, I am an artist who also dedicated my fashion in drag, on all my platforms along my artwork & discussions (be it anime or Western) that can affect real-life even fandoms, with a variety of videos.

the title of the post is about The two proclaimed talked about animators, Dana Terrace & Vivienne Medrano, I'll be critiquing how these two women of animation tackle the industry. This will have strong opinions from recent interview videos I've watched.

(I'll be calling Vivienne VIVI FOR SHORT & letting you know, if I were to watch ones in the future affecting my post come on the comments to ask freely, AND YES ALL PROJECTS AND TOPICS ARE NOT WITHOUT THEIR CRITIQUES, FLAWS IF YOU CAN'T HANDLE IT, CHECK OUT THE DAYSTAR VOYAGE, DON'T HATE, APPRECIATE! )

OK LETS GET STARTED In this 3-part segment

1. The Different Artstyles That Made Us Love These Shows.

Vivis work (Helluva Boss & Hazbin Hotel)

Now We all know as fans & lovers of animation when we hear a series that's greenlit after viewing on a television screen, in a magazine, or sponsored in commercials, right? As for these two,

The first time I heard of VIVI's work was on a YouTube ad commercial in line & premiered for the pilot, I was fully captivated by its groundbreaking story, from hazbin hotel to the comedy in helluva boss, along with its ghoulish Beetlejuice-inspired art style.

(which I'm a sucker for the niche, indie projects & gothic horror.)

observing her sketchbook on YouTube, I was drawn in by the captivated humanoid shapes she sketches, along with her fluid & flowing style.

the worldbuilding version of heaven & hell drew me in, after watching hazbin hotel. The pilot had a lot to offer from its dreary horrific turns/obstacles from its character debut, story & distorted beauty that there was a lot to tune Into along my first episode of Helluva Boss,

Now we are gonna get down to lore storytelling and character growth.

(and im fully aware of how the fandom treats the rest of the main & supporting cast not letting them flesh out including the females, btw)

Vivi has so much to offer, after watching the latest episode of Helluva Boss and finishing Hazbin Hotel, I see she has the potential to make a good show on drama & sell it, however with her controversy coming through I feel she needs to learn on how to perceive herself online, so makes it hard for me not to hate her series, be it art and her work.

(its truly good when it wants to be as for the writing ima get to that later. with the stolitz & lumity discourse on part 2)

The owl House by Dana terrace

Now you all know by now, I am a full-on Owl House fan regardless of its show ending early, and my many critics on Dana Terrace drew me in with her macabre art and full-on passionate skeletal pieces after looking at her socials and sketchbook online, as a debut showrunner who made her great stance on lgbt representation she has cemented herself as an acclaimed cartoon creator.

However, she does have her flaws ever since rewatching the series, and a lot to learn about the business, after rewatching The Show and yes I have notes written to prove them,

To add I felt if alex Hirsch wasn't on the project, everyone wouldn't watch that show since yall want it to be the next GRAVITY FALLS,

I love the fandoms that discuss the errors of these creators cause it give more insight on how to portray yourselves on in the real world, cause lemme tell you, it was all watered down I'm get to that in a minute

one problem i have with particularly since she's a good artist & creator is her depending on certain tropes to carry out her cast, cause some may be harmful & the writing be generic.

She needs work on being a better showrunner cause those skills need Cleaning up including writing certain characters on who gets the spotlight.

NEXT SEGMENT

2. The Good, Great, Bad & Ugly in Fandom Discourse,

Vivis Work (Wow Yall can be Wow)

Vivienne Has made her mark in the YouTube market ever since making her pilot debut on Kesha video & hazbin hotel pilot,

I'm so glad for her contributions towards the indie market making her way to showing great representation in the general audience for an adult show, yes an adult show and that's not without its controversy,

with her grand debate, I feel everyone took this woman's artwork turning it into something ugly, which is so uncool.

and I for one will not stand for the hate trains of now popular shows flip-flopping and then float back to it cause your series is acclaimed now, let's be real she deserves her crowns and laurels Just keeping it real, regardless cause its a fire show

The fandom has shown their love of the show cause it knocked down so many doors in many ways, but let's be real the audience is now geared toward children cause we all know, this generation can be doing some crazy things, cause they all need to tone down the language,

which I feel viv needs to work on the jokes I get, it's an adult show which is concerning and it's a Gen Z world where people have access to computers 247, which contributes to all the nasty discourse and crass behavior not to mention,

viv needs to calm down her fans when it comes down to her work and the way stoliz is perceived.l can be questionable, not to mention how the females are written which I do know the key word for this below.

cause i rarely do find the females are compelling, but yet to fleshed out like the rest of the male characters so misogynist comes into mind in this show and how it sells

there some moments it only aims to the infamous ship Stolitz (and doesn't let other characters breathe (this is a problem with the owl house which ill get to right now cause the pacing is wow smh)

(next to the owl house which I'll get to cause OMG)

THE OWL HOUSE FANDOM (GRRRR) lemme calm down

If you haven't seen my posts, including the bashing and discourse there's also a list I swear lemme quote

in the words of Biggie Small - if you don't know now ya know.

The owl house fandom i was on ride or die for the lumity however we all know how that ship got it start and built up cause they expected it to be this thing to say F you to Disney which is good cause disney had it coming howver, after the show ended

Yall have become the most foulest ugliest & disrespectful fandom ever since the Steven Universe, Voltron and miraculous incidents,

its sad to see how these two franchises fell into the worse cases, the two creators may come across not caring of there fandom acts cause there's a saying

The captain always goes down with his ship MEANING

A captain should not have to sacrifice their life simply because the vessel they are in control of is in distress

There’s two fandoms such as Steven universe & voltron fell from grace into toxicity down below that are prime examples

The Owl House fandom has got to be some of the most entitled, uppity if not (racist) fans!

yall clearly have not listened to other fans or can't take criticism, yes the show did make very feminist undertones and the male characters didn't shine at all in their titular episodes or moments, which doesn't help at all.

Since Dana drew inspiration from Powerpuff Girls

(which comes on and the writers being all female, is gonna have damaging effects)

Cause stifled the male characters in a way where there not as prominent or impactful,

So this word MISANDRY comes to mind

The fandom has gone down to the point of no return, I mean,

one fan from a webcam interview WANTED DANA's ADDRESS EWWW!

its not that the Disney drama was too blame for the project, (to an extent) which I'm proud for the fandom for banding together on animation, but need to take off the lgbt glasses cause boy the show's writing was pushed in favor of that.

CONGRATS You did at the cause of Harassment and bad behavior in fandoms,

NEXT TOPIC

3. Make The Business Makes Sense & epilogue

THE OWL HOUSE

Dana Terrace has the makings of doing good shows however when it comes down to an audience to kid she has some major damage control on how the fandom will come across,

i mean have we not learned from the Lilith and Camilla toxic issues, you can tell the show likes to demonize the adults which is unacceptable, and can damage storytelling and characters.

the truth i feel there needs to be proper staff on how to write POC, and ethnic and cultural representation In the show, Amphibia, Molly mcgee, Haileys on it and other break-out shows did it better,

hell yo had Amphibia doing those dishes in Frogworld, can you imagine the boiling isles taking on Hispanic cuisine.

Which i felt could've hit a mark on luz home life and culture if written & fleshed out,

Like the staff didn't know how to write those topics, they've coulda gone so far with it but unfortunately fail flat not to mention the fashion. UGH

sigh.

ViVI WORKS ( i try not to make this quick but e can discuss more on comments be NICE)

Vivienne Medrano has good fashion and business sense

its important to have that cause having a Cloud Nine franchise coming from nothing can do wonders for how you are perceived as an artist,

The discourse has come due to her take on the controversy on platforms talking on her many harsh topics

(in my opinions she too needs to work on controlling scenarios & damage control that can affect her

So tried but yeah

vivi is a dominant artist who takes her business seriously so I am glad to have her flourish in Spindlehorse,

butt just i wish i cant help but fall outta love with her work, knowing of the problems in today's animation comes certain things you can say even snowflakes can break under if heard by there favorite creators.

lets be honest these two can learn from each other. and vivi does sure know angles and promoting

very glad to get this written so I put some thought into this

i wish nothing for the best for these awesome artists and creators thank you all for coming so far and have a wonderful voyage thanks.

[eileen-crys]

Had a lovely experience yesterday in Milan at the press opening for Peter "Ratty" Hince's exhibition "Queen Unseen" 🥰 it's the same exhibition I visited last April in Turin and that's been touring around Italy, together with a beautiful collection of Queen memorabilia owned by Niccolò Chimenti. The same pics are in Ratty's book "Queen Uncovered" that came out last year.

What can I say, Ratty is so lovely and clearly passionate about his life and what it gave to him, at some point a journalist asked him "do you have any regrets?" And he replied "No, I think I've been lucky. And if I think about it more, I feel even more lucky!" 🥺💕

He could really talk all day about his memories and how much he loved being with Queen, and it was super sweet to see his huge effort to talk in Italian! All his respect and love for the band filled the exhibition, I could totally understand how eager he was to recall the story behind every photo and it was incredibly moving 💕💖💜💕💜💖💕 I've always loved his photos, but hearing him talking about the bond he felt with Queen and especially with John and Freddie was very special. Someone might think he's just profiting off Queen, but what I felt was that he truly just wants to share his own experience with this extraordinary band and what his passion for photography gave him. He is a great photographer, and the bond with Queen made his photos even more special imho.

He contributed to Chimenti's collection by giving him an ashtray Freddie took from the hotel in Sanremo and a microphone used by Freddie in Knebworth '86.

^ Also I almost screamed at this photo of John that is NOT in the book ahhhHHH

Here's me with Ratty, and his signature in my book 🥰 (he wrote Rachael but it's ok hahaha)

Sadly I'm awfully shy and among all the journalists dragging him around and asking him questions I couldn't really ask him anything, someone was even getting pissed that I was explaining him about the drawing I made and gave him 🙄🤦🏻‍♀️ But it's ok, I managed to give it to him and I hope he liked it 🥰

[bedlamsbard]

Greetings from a Fan, I felt compelled to send this message after reading your posts regarding Queen's Gambit. My intent is not to upset or harm you, but I sincerely apologize if I do so nonetheless. I just wanted to say how much I absolutely *adore* the Ouroboros series. It's one of my favorites of all time across all the fandoms I'm interested in. It's also the reason I fell head over heels in love with the Obi-Wan/Anakin/Padme pairing. You've written the characters so incredibly well and I just cannot get over your amazing worldbuilding. I am an absolute sucker for the way you wrote Padme and the rich culture/history you created for Naboo. Those little details just added so much breath and flavor to your stories that to this day I remain speechless as to what you've created. With regards to Obi-Wan, oh my dear lord, what a heartbreaking masterpiece you created. The sheer level of love and anguish you brought forth after he lost Anakin was just devasting. He's such an incredibly complex character and you did a smashingly exceptional job with him. You really did him and his relationship with Anakin justice and I truly thank you for that. And Anakin, what can I say, there are so many layers to Anakin that there's never an easy way of writing him. But through his relationships with Obi-Wan and Padme, we can peel back those layers and you really took the time and care to do that. The entire series was an incredible concept in it's totality, and I love weird alternative universe/time-travel/fix-it fics. I will eternally lament that the series will never be finished because I would have loved to have read what happens in the next entry of the series which is where Obi-Wan fell to the Dark side (unless I'm mistaken). Nonetheless, I like to think that in the end they have their happy ending with one another (wherever it may have led them) and I thank you for sharing and posting this series with us. I know it meant a great deal to me and I would like you to know how I much I do sincerely mean that. Thank you. ❤️

Aww, thank you, I'm flattered to hear that! I know that Wake and Gambit (as well as the ancillaries Tales and Sound) are very loved stories for a lot of people, even when I get grief for them, which has been going on for more than a decade now. I'm always very glad to hear that readers do enjoy those stories.

The third Ouroboros story, which takes place in the universe that Padme arrives in during the last scene of Gambit, was supposed to be called All Along the Watchtower. There are bits and pieces of it in the all along the watchtower tag dating back about a decade now. It is a universe where Obi-Wan fell to the dark side and a bunch of other stuff happened as a result -- the three universes in Ouroboros are all meant to be the worst fears of the main three characters, thus canon (Wake) being Anakin's (he goes dark side and kills everyone he loves), Gambit being Padme's (she becomes a warmongering demagogue who causes a Jedi to betray himself for her), and Watchtower being Obi-Wan's (he goes dark side and is responsible for the downfall of the Republic and the Jedi Order). This is the most recent summary of what I remember that I was thinking; it went through a lot of development over the course of ten years, and as late as 2021 I was still trying to back into it via Rebels: the alternate universe where Ezra had been during The Starry Crown is the Watchtower 'verse, during the point in time where the Wake trio was there -- a.k.a. the Rebellion era, so they're also time traveling again. The Wake trio had all ended up in different locations in the Watchtower 'verse: we see Padme where she ended up at the end of Gambit, Anakin was on Coruscant, Obi-Wan was on Tatooine, and they're all dragged into the political events of that universe, which are very different from Wake, canon, or Gambit.

The intention was always for the Wake trio to end up back in their own universe, probably picking up Rex along the way; the base Wake universe is obviously suffering from Code Name Retribution, but the situation is not as bad as it could have been.

[murfpersonalblog]

IWTV S2 Ep3 - Random Musings (Spoilers)

This was the best S2 ep by far; they're just getting better & better. I have so much to say; I can't even keep up. This is just the random stuff I don't have AS MUCH to comment on (yet).

AMC, we GOTTA get some flashbacks of Papa DPDL. We know so much about Les' folks, but nothing about Lou's pops. :(

Not "Real Rashid" going bar for bar vs Sartre abt morality & evil!? 👏

"Wolf Wrangler," I hate this effing show so much, please stop it.

SANTIAGO BACKSTORY LFG; we're finally being fed!

Ohhhhh.... Francis "Santiago" Naughton, I see~! They're definitely leaning into the Sant-"iago" of it all from Othello--nice touch!

1921--Santiago's a BABY vampire. (And omg he loved Annika's "performance" so much that he incorporated it into his regular lineup! Sickos! XD) I saw the Siophmedia review call it the Mimic Gift, which I love--expanding the AR lore.

Thoughts & prayers to this dude, being stuck for all eternity as an old man; relegated to backstage work with the noob stuck for all eternity as a little girl. (Hilarious how this is in blatant violation/disregard of Marius & Rhosh's Great Law #2 about beauty.)

Vampires sneeze?! 😂 Estelle is the ONLY Theatre vamp I like, bless!

ROTFLMFAO. Humor on this show comes from the WILDEST of places; I love it.

Someone's saaaaaaltyyyyyy~! 👀👀👀👀

Welp, now we know where Louis'll spend "ETERNITY IN A BOX," when they drag him in that burlap sack.

Louis' a strong independent man don't need no coven! 😤👏 Especially not you WEIRDOS. Monsieur LDPDL would NEVER allow anyone to make him act like a clownish BUFFOON on some stage, or write/film creepshows everyone points and laughs at, are you crazy?

Louis said SKILL ISSUE. 💀

Don't act coy now! XD You go and OWN your bussypowers, Louis of Troy! ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

I am STUNNED this trash liar won a Pulitzer for investigative journalism. Truly a dying industry.

Armand, my love, you have no idea. 👀

Deflection & misdirection, as usual with these vamps.

SHADE.

Roget the "FIRST" eh?... 🧛🏼 This completely removes Nicki as the founder of the Theatre, but I guess it makes sense that Armand would be the one communicating with Roget, cuz lord knows Nicki wasn't "fit to pick an apple off a tree in his current state...." 👀👐 Louis, Armand's fed you a crock of lies; don't be fooled by his pretty doe eyes! You were SET UP, my guy; he was SICK of that coven for hundreds of years; WAY b4 Lestat AND YOU showed up!

Then he hangs Lestat's portrait on the wall as a shrine and says he's their co-founder, while breathing not a word about how Lestat gave the Theatre TO NICKI, NOT ARMAND. Where's Nicki at, Armand!? 👀👐 Where's Claudia at, Armand!? 👀☀️ Why do all of Lestat's fledglings go missing under YOUR supervision, Mr. I Could Not Prevent It? I swear, those 🥺👉👈 eyes are lethal weapons!

STUNT QUEEN. Behind every gay man is a gayer, more evil man!

And he took that PERSONALLY.

Siri, google when butt-plugs were first invented.

Armand's FACE! 😭 Yeah, Lou don't make a lick of sense sometimes. Thank god he's pretty! But for every ounce of pretty there's another TONNE of mental trauma. If I were Armand, I'd've cut my losses and left Lou's arse to "Bruce" right then & there. Now look at you!

Incredible episode. 👏

Preview for Ep4:

I hate it here. 😱

I'm sorry, but I simply CANNOT with Loumand, knowing what's coming. I never have, and at this rate I NEVER WILL! Armand, I don't care what weird dynamics you & Lou are always up to, but by putting your hands on MY daughter!? DISHONOR!

Armand, Louis is right: you just earned yourself a spot on my hit list.

I'll rant about Loumand specifically in a separate post--this ep was A LOT, omg I'm exhausted.

[janeway-lover]

gasp! i left off on a cliffhanger! here's the next part of the royal/knight abbiel au

"Uriel!"

No one stops Abby as she rushes down to the field, where a couple of squires are already removing Uriel's helmet.

"Abby?" Their voice is strained, and so, so quiet. The second she makes it to their side, she's on her knees beside them, prompting at least three gasps from dressmakers in the crowd. "That damn bastard."

"I'll handle him, don't worry, my heart." She looks down at the tip of the lance, embedded in their shoulder through their armor, just a scant few inches above their heart. "He could have killed you."

"His plan was - ah! - always to cheat. He asked me to let him win."

"Shh, shh, just stay still, please. I will handle him, fear not." But she can't worry about a wayward prince before worrying about Uriel. "You, squire! What is your name?"

"Muriel, your highness."

"I need you to go get a few of the knights, Muriel. Find Sir Michael and Sir Gabriel and bring them here. Quickly!" The young squire scrambles off immediately, running to find the knights.

"I have been stabbed, not beheaded, I can walk on my own."

"Humor me, my love. Please?" She smiles at them, and they stop trying to get up. They would do anything for that smile.

"So I am your love now?" Uriel asks, and Abby can't help but laugh.

"I fear I grow sentimental at the sight of your blood. You must promise to never be stabbed again, or I shall call you more horribly sweet names."

"I shall try my best."

"That is all I can ask for, truly."

"Your highness!" Pushing through the crowd gathered along the edges of the field are Gabriel and Michael, Muriel close behind them. "What can we do?"

"I need you to take Uriel to the royal physician." All three knights exchange glances. "Did that sound like a suggestion?"

"The royal physician will not treat a knight," Michael says.

"We bring in a physician from the city when we need one," Gabriel explains.

"He will treat them on the order of the princess."

"And if he does not? The man is as stubborn as a mule."

"If he refuses," she says calmly, "then cut off his head and promote his apprentice. I'm sure in his gratitude, the young man will be more than willing to comply." There is not a hint of humor in her voice; this is not her standard empty threat. This is a promise.

"Of course, your highness." Carefully, so as to not worsen the injury, the two help Uriel to their feet, while Muriel offers their hand to Abby to help her up. The knights leave, heading up to the castle slowly.

"Muriel? Did you perhaps see where Prince Reginald went?"

"To the barracks, your highness."

"Of course he did," she says with a scoff. "What good is a man who won't even face his crimes? I have one more thing to ask of you, Muriel." The squire nods. "Tell Sir Aziraphale where our visiting prince has gone, and have him bring him here, please."

"Shouldn't - shouldn't we bring him to the king?" Abby looks back over her shoulder, to where the king and queen are still standing in front of their seats, discussing something. Probably her. Great.

"No. Bring him to me."

"Yes, your highness." Muriel hurries off again, and Abby turns away from her parents. She can worry about that later.

-

Reginald is practically dragged in front of the princess, muttering curses under his breath the whole time.

"Thank you, Sir Aziraphale." Her golden gown is caked in mud, yet it still seems to glow. She glares at Reginald with fire in her eyes. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?" She holds herself, not as a princess, but as a queen.

“Of what crime am I accused? There are no laws surrounding the joust.”

“Indeed, there are not. But there are laws about attempted murder, same as there are in your kingdom.”

“I did no such thing. Your accusations are baseless,” he spits out.

“And your squire seems to have more of a conscience than you,” she shoots back. “He told us of his own will that you had requested a sharpened lance shortly before your joust. Not only that, but Sir Uriel informed me that you approached them before the joust and asked them to let you win.”

“You trust the words of a squire and a knight more than that of a prince?”

“Yes.”

“Is it because you have allowed the knight to defile you?” Reginald shouts. “Is that why you trust them over me?” A gasp goes up from the surrounding crowd, but Abby doesn’t even blink.

“You would to well to learn when to hold your tongue.” She turns her attention away from him and instead speaks to Aziraphale. "Have the stable hands prepare his carriage immediately. The prince will be sent home in shackles with a list of his offenses."

"Of course, Princess."

"And have Sir Sandalphon accompany him home. We wouldn't want any...trouble...on the journey." Aziraphale nods, before dragging the prince along with him in the direction of the stable.

The crowd stares, their energy focused on Abby. Occasional whispers pop up here and there, but for the most part, they are silent. She hates it. Confrontation, she can deal with, but this is another story.

"Good people, worry not! Our tournament continues. I believe the archers are awaiting their audience, are they not?"

"Indeed they are," a voice says behind her, and it takes everything in her not to jump. Her father has always been good at sneaking up on people. The crowd disperses in the presence of the king, although the whispers do not stop. When most of the crowd has moved on, he turns to his daughter, but she is no longer there.

Lucifer may be good at sneaking up on people, but Abby has always been better at slipping away.

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (8)

The Beach

After overhearing a conversation between Prince Daemon and Corlys Velaryon at dinner, Aemond recruits Arianwyn to help him achieve a lifelong dream.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)

Warnings: none

Author's Note: Me? Struggle with one scene for almost an entire month before deciding I hated it and just scrapping it? It's more likely than you think...

Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

The dining room at High Tide seemed warmer that evening, more inviting.

Before, Arianwyn had only noticed the imposing pointed spires of the chairs and how the ashy wood of the table seemed to enhance the cold stone of the walls – a coldness reflected in her father’s eyes.

Now, as Arianwyn entered the room along with the queen and Helaena, warm yellow candlelight filled the room, along with the voices of the gathered crowd. Having spent their tears at the funeral and subsequent reception earlier in the day, the family had moved on to cautious nostalgia. They still held each other for comfort – whether through embraces, joined hands, or arms around shoulders – but rather than sharing their woes, they instead told stories of joy.

As she moved through the crowd, Arianwyn heard tale after tale of Lady Laena. Of her prowess as a dragonrider, claiming Vhagar, the largest dragon in the world, when she was only thirteen. Of how she had skillfully maneuvered the massive beast in careful dances with Caraxes, awing the royalty and nobility of Pentos. She heard of Laena’s warmth and grace, how she charmed everyone she met within mere moments. She heard of her deep love for her daughters and how, in her final days, she had begged Daemon to let them return to Westeros to raise the girls – and their unborn child – in their true home, amongst their family.

How such a woman not only married but seemingly truly loved Daemon was beyond Arianwyn’s understanding.  

Still, Arianwyn listened with great interest to the stories of her late stepmother until the party was finally called to eat. Thankfully, Arianwyn was placed on the opposite end of the table as her father. The entire Velaryon family – including Princess Rhaenyra and her children – took the seats surrounding the head of the table, where Lord Corlys himself sat. For any other lord, the consequences would have been severe for setting the king and his family so far down the table, but Viserys had always given the Sea Snake an unusual amount of grace.

Arianwyn was comfortably seated at the opposite end of the table, among those she considered her own: the king and queen, Aemond and Helaena, and even Aegon and Otto Hightower. If she focused enough on the conversation surrounding her, she could almost forget anyone else was there.

Nevertheless, whenever she slipped into that sense of security and belonging, she was inevitably torn back to reality by Daemon laughing at the other end of the table. Arianwyn quickly decided that it was her least favorite sound in the world.

After one particularly infuriating bout of laughter from Daemon toward the end of the meal, as someone at his end of the table was telling a gruesome war story, Aemond reached out to place his hand on Arianwyn’s wrist.

Aemond had not seen her since the reception that afternoon. Nor had his mother told him anything about the meeting with Daemon, but from the hardened look on Aria’s face and the slight tinge of red around the rims of her eyes, he knew it had not gone well.

She froze at his touch, turning to look at him for the first time that evening.

He offered her a weak smile, but when she did not return it, his smile fell, and his stomach dropped. “What did he say to you, Aria?”

“Not much,” she grimaced through her answer, dragging her fork through what remained of the pale pink frosting that had covered her dessert. “Nothing kind.��

Aemond dropped his hand. “I’m sorry,” was all he could think to say. His own father had not shown much interest in his younger children since the birth of Rhaenyra’s sons, but at least Viserys acknowledged them – to a small degree – and he was never cruel to them. Aemond could not imagine living without a father for so long, only to have him be unkind when he finally showed his face.

He looked down at his dessert, a small cake flavored with rich butter and vanilla and shaped to resemble a sea star. He had already eaten one of the five “legs” but now felt himself losing his appetite. So Aemond reached across Aria’s plate to grab her fork and carefully transferred the cake from his plate to hers with both hands.

“Here,” he said. “You really liked yours, so finish mine.”

She did smile back at him then – she had never been so sad that cake could not cheer her. As she ate, Aemond found himself staring at her. She looked different tonight. There was a hard set to her eyes that had not been there before. It made her look older, stronger, and even more beautiful.

When had Aria become beautiful?

Before he could answer the question, his attention was drawn to a discussion at the far end of the table, as if some invisible force had turned his head.

“How long do you think Vhagar will remain on my beach, Daemon?” Corlys asked. “Her presence here has started to unsettle my men. Especially with no rider to control her.”

Vhagar. Laena’s dragon – the oldest and largest in the world – was still here?

“I imagine she’ll depart with us tomorrow,” Daemon answered. “She followed us from Essos, so I imagine she’ll fly with us wherever we head next.” He smiled proudly as he lifted his cup towards his youngest daughter. “Our hope is that Rhaena will claim her, once she’s had some time to recover from the loss of Laena.”

Aemond’s pulse quickened. Not only was the most fearsome dragon in the world here, on Driftmark, but she remained unclaimed. Excitement raced through his veins, but he forced his face to remain passive – as if he hadn’t just heard the answer to years of prayer. It truly must have been the gods who nudged him to listen to Lord Corlys.

He spent the remainder of dessert formulating a careful plan. When, at last, their host stood from the table and began to invite his guests to the library for drinks, Aemond grasped Arianwyn’s hand with all his might.

“What is it?” she asked.

Aemond looked deep into her silver eyes, hoping that his voice carried enough weight in his voice to show her how serious he was. “After we’re sent to our rooms, wait half an hour, then sneak out and meet me in the hall, the alcove where that giant shark is hung on the wall. There’s something I must do, but I need your help. Promise?”

For a few heart-pounding moments, she just stared at him, bewildered. But then she turned her head, examining him as if seeing his face for the first time. With a mischievous smile, she nodded. “I’ll be there.”

Aemond thanked all the gods – old and new – that Aegon was finally old enough to join the adults for the post-dinner festivities. He could not have stood his brother’s prodding and teasing as he tore through the books on the Velaryons and Driftmark he had brought to pass the time on the ship. Nor did he trust that Aegon would have stood by while he snuck out of their shared quarters. If he were lucky, his brother would be so drunk that he would not find his way back until morning.

He only had to wait a few moments in the shark’s alcove before Aria appeared, flashing a wide smile. She wore the heavy black cloak from her riding leathers, the thick material sweeping along the floor as she approached Aemond.

“You snuck past Ser Sterlan?” Aemond asked as he took her arm and led her to a more secluded corridor.

“No, but I told him we were sneaking down to the kitchens to try and find more of those starfish cakes,” she whispered.  “He said it was fine, so long as I brought him one, too. So, I guess we’ll have to actually find one at some point. Where are we going?”

Aemond unrolled a piece of parchment he had tucked in his belt. On it was a crudely drawn map of Driftmark, with a large “X” marked just south of the castle. He held the map out, indicating the marked area with his thumb.

“There are only a few beaches large enough for Vhagar,” he said, excitement ringing in his voice. “I thought that since –”

“Vhagar?” Aria exclaimed, looking up from the map to stare at him incredulously. “Why would you want to find…?”

Realization dawned on her face, followed immediately by an overwhelming dread. “Aemond, you cannot possibly mean to claim her!”

He sighed, lowering the map. His desperation ran so deep that it hurt. “There are no more dragons in the world that have not already rejected me, Aria. If I cannot claim her, I shall never be a dragonrider.”

“But you don’t know that for sure! Syrax and Dreamfyre could lay new eggs. And there are dozens of reports of wild dragons every year!” She pulled her cloak tightly around her.

Aemond scoffed. “Rhaenyra will keep Syrax’s eggs for her own family. And any eggs from Dreamfyre will be set aside for Aegon and Helaena’s heirs.” He stepped toward Arianwyn, forcing her attention to his face. “Besides, do you really think I have a better chance of finding and taming a wild dragon than I do of claiming Vhagar? She has been ridden by a Targaryen for nearly two hundred years. This is my last chance, Aria.”

Arianwyn could not deny Aemond’s logic nor the determination on his face. She had never seen him so sure of anything. But she had seen the aftermath of his failed attempts at claiming other dragons – weaker dragons. She could not bear to see what Vhagar might do should she reject him.

“What about Rhaena?” she asked. “Vhagar was her mother’s. What if she hopes to claim her?”

Aemond blinked as something like regret passed over his face, but it soon vanished, replaced by a resolute fire that set his violet eyes ablaze. His voice was calm and steady as he spoke, “If Rhaena is meant to be Vhagar’s rider, then she will not accept me.”

That was precisely Arianwyn’s fear. She had seen the aftermath of his attempts to claim dragons that did not accept him. But as he held her gaze, unwavering, she knew there was nothing she could say to dissuade him. “If I refuse you and remain here, you will still go?”

“I don’t want to,” he said, “but yes. I need to do this. I have no other choice.”

Arianwyn nodded, attempting to calm her nerves. “Very well. Then you will not be alone.”

Aemond, in the little time he had to prepare, had made an excellent plan, though Arianwyn was loathe to admit it.

His map, which he had copied from the navigator aboard the King’s ship, showed that only a few beaches on the island would fit a beast as large as Vhagar. Only one was close to the castle. And, as Aemond reasoned, if the she-dragon was loyal enough to the memory of Lady Laena to follow her family across the Narrow Sea, she would want to stay close to them at High Tide.

So, Aemond and Arianwyn ventured through the dark corridors of the castle. They moved in complete silence, relying only on the tilt of a head or the subtle movement of their eyes to signal their route. Keeping to the shadows Aemond knew so well to avoid detection, they made their way to the Sea Gate, a covert escape route explicitly built for the Velaryon family in case of invasion.

The path led to a narrow stairway descending a steep cliff. Arianwyn’s first instinct was to call for Emrys to fly them down. But sensing her intentions, Aemond took her hand and squeezed to stop her from whistling. It took her a moment to realize that doing so would alert all in the castle that something was awry. If the king, queen, or any other adult knew what he was trying to do, they would stop him.

Walking hand in hand for balance, the two slowly made their way down the stairs to the uneven rocks of the beach below. Though they were no longer at risk of falling, Aemond still held Arianwyn’s hand in his own. Curiously amused by his newfound confidence, she did not move to let go. Instead, she allowed him to take the lead, pulling her behind him as they crossed the beach.

Rock gave way to loose sand the further they strode from the castle, slowing their progress. Tall, dry grasses and large patches of scrub were their only relief from the rugged terrain. With no sun in the sky, it was hard to tell exactly how long they walked.

Whether it was mere minutes or long hours, Arianwyn did not care. Though her heart pounded, anticipating the worn bronze scales of Vhagar over every dune they climbed, this was still the most peace she had since arriving on this gods-forsaken island. She had only begun contemplating why she didn’t feel as afraid as she should when Aemond gave another sharp squeeze to her hand, pulling them both down to crouch beneath the crest of a large dune. Arianwyn shivered when he released her hand, pointing just ahead of them.

Vhagar.

Though she had long heard stories of the three great dragons that her ancestors had used to claim Westeros, nothing could have prepared her for the sheer size of the ancient she-dragon. Seven hells, she had nearly mistaken her for a hill!

If Emrys was large enough to carry two riders, Vhagar could hold an entire army. Her skull alone was larger than most of the dragons Arianwyn had seen, and just one of her massive, leathery wings – even folded in as she slept – was longer than Emrys’ wingspan twice over.

As she beheld the beast, Arianwyn couldn’t help but wonder why Aegon and his sisters had stopped with the Seven Kingdoms. With dragons like this, they could have conquered the entire world.

She was broken from her thoughts when Aemond began to raise himself from the ground, his fists clenched. On instinct, she reached out to grab his ankle. He turned, looking down at her with a questioning gaze.

Though her heart was nearly bursting with things she wanted to say, all she managed to choke out was, “Please.”

That one simple word meant so many things.

Please. Do not fail, for I long to see you fly.

Please. Be careful, for I do not want to see you hurt.

Please. Do not die, for I cannot bear to live without you.

She could only hope that he understood it all before releasing his leg. Aemond smiled down at her. Then, he was gone.

Arianwyn watched as he approached the sleeping beast. Her heart thundered in her chest, drowning out the sounds of the wind and sea.

Aemond approached slowly, though his steps were heavy in the coarse sand. Still, Vhagar did not wake. Even when the birds resting on her back flew away as he drew ever closer, the great dragon remained asleep.

He stopped at her side to gaze at her saddle. It was made of well-aged brown leather and held on by countless ropes around the dragon’s chest, woven to form a ladder up her massive side. His hands and feet itched to climb it – to mount the fearsome beast.

His blood was burning with the urge to throw off his fear and sense to seize his destiny at last.

But he remembered his lessons with the Dragonkeepers well. Without a dragon of his own to distract him, for years, he had little to focus on but the words of the acolytes and elders. He would not mount her yet. Not until she was his, and only his.

Resuming his approach, he reached out his arm, his fingers tingling in anticipation. He slipped past one of the massive ropes, at last laying his hand on her. Her scales were not as smooth as Emrys’, each one rough and weathered – though whether by age or battle, Aemond did not know.

SNAP!

Aemond looked over to see a pair of massive orange eyes staring at him. He stepped back as the dragon lifted her head, nostrils flaring and teeth bared. Those golden eyes narrowed as she assessed him.

Aemond knew she was relying on a sense he could not detect himself. It was one of the first things the Dragonkeepers taught young riders – the dragons had the mysterious ability to peer into a person’s soul, judging them for who they truly were in the deepest parts of their being. It was through this sense that a dragon judged an aspiring rider – whether they were worthy enough to claim or a stain to be burned from the earth.

Look at me, Aemond thought. See me for all that I am. I am the second-born son of Viserys Targaryen and a Prince of the Realm. I am the descendant of your first rider, Visenya Targaryen, with whom you conquered this land. I am kin to Laena Velaryon, whom you so recently lost. I am the Blood of the Dragon, and I am here to claim you.

With a single, slow blink, Vhagar turned away.

Taking the gesture as an invitation, Aemond reached once more for the ladder.

But Vhagar whipped her head back to him and released a low, rumbling roar. Distantly, he heard Arianwyn begin to pray aloud as the she-dragon opened her jaws, and the night was illuminated by the fire churning in the back of her throat.

“Dohaerās!” Aemond shouted, raising a hand as he refused to shrink back. “Dohaerās, Vhagar! Lykirī! Lykirī!” Obey. Obey me and stay calm.

Though her fire still burned, Vhagar let it cool slightly as she again looked down at the boy in front of her.

His breath shaking, Aemond again reached out with his thoughts for the she-dragon, this time admitting to her the truth he had never given voice to before.

Look at me. See me for all that I am. I am a second son; I will never ascend a throne, and I will never wear a crown. I shall never claim glory as Visenya did, nor be as fierce and well-loved as Baelon or Laena. Though I may ride you into battle, I will never conquer a land as you did with Balerion and Meraxes. When your legend is told, I shall be counted least among those who were blessed to ride you. I am fearful, and I am unsure. But I am the Blood of the Dragon. I am a true-born Targaryen Prince.

I am Aemond Targaryen, and I mean to claim you.

Her rumbling roar faded, along with her fire. She brought her snout closer to the young Prince’s outstretched hand until her warm scales rested against his palm.

As the contact was made, a surge ran throughout Aemond’s blood, warming him to his very bones. As the pupils narrowed in Vhagar’s orange eyes, he could almost hear a low voice in the back of his mind.

I see you, Aemond Targaryen. And I claim you.

Arianwyn let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding as she watched Aemond at last grasp the ropes that hung on Vhagar’s side and climb into the saddle. She felt his joy reflected in her face as he held the reins and commanded the Queen of Dragons herself.

“Sōvēs!” He shouted. Fly. “Dohaerās, Vhagar! Sōvēs!”

The ground itself seemed to shake as the dragon pulled herself up from where she had rested. She let out a mighty roar, nearly throwing Aemond as she shook the sand from her hide.

Arianwyn stood, lurching forward with an arm outstretched as if she could catch him from the crest of her dune. But he hung on, gripping the horns of the saddle with all his might as he was at last carried into the skies.

Vhagar roared again, the sound almost like laughter as she climbed higher and higher in the air until she was so far above her that to Arianwyn, she seemed the size of a hatchling.

Then, she dove.

Arianwyn was too enthralled by the sight of Aemond riding his dragon that she did not realize that Vhagar was diving directly towards her until there was no time left for her to run.

“Daor, Vagus!” Aemond’s scream was muffled by the beating of Vhagar’s wings and the blood rushing in Arianwyn’s ears. “Sīmonās! Ziry ōdrās daor!” No, Vhagar. Rise! Do not hurt her!”

The dragon roared – whether in protest or reluctant acquiescence, Arianwyn could not tell. All she knew was that after Aemond’s command, Vhagar surged up with an agility that far outmatched her size. As Vhagar passed her, Arianwyn only suffered a light spray of sand as the end of her tail brushed over the next dune.

Arianwyn watched the great dragon soar above her, graceful and terrifying all at once. Her heart soared as she heard Aemond’s screams of fear transform into whooping shouts of victory that echoed throughout the cliffs and waters of Driftmark. She had not felt joy like this since her first flight on Emrys.

Vhagar continued out over the sea, an amused shriek escaping as she maneuvered through a flock of gulls. She dipped slightly, flying close to the surface of the water and tilting to dip the tip of each wing under the surface before pulling up, a rain of her own creation falling from her back as she once more climbed toward the stars.

After a few more heart-pounding moments that seemed to Aemond to last both heartbeats and an eternity, he finally landed Vhagar back on the beach where they had left Aria. He dismounted and walked to her head, running a hand over her snout as he whispered his gratitude. She let out a puff of hot air, warming him from the chill of the sky and mussing his already windblown hair. While affectionate, it was a gesture of dismissal. Vhagar was ready to resume her rest.

So Aemond patted her scales once more before running back up the dunes to meet Aria. She stood atop the hill, hands clasped in front of her, entirely unprepared for the tight embrace he claimed her in, lifting her up and spinning her around in circles before tripping in the sand, sending them both tumbling down the dune.

“Did you see, Aria?” he asked, undeniable joy in his voice. “Did you see her? Did you see me?”

Laughing, Aria scrambled to rise to her feet. “I saw! I saw it, Aemond! It was simply amazing.”

His cheeks flushed as she offered her hand to help him stand. It was only when he was again facing her that he realized she was shivering. Curious, the night air was cool, but not cold. Perhaps it was simply thanks to Vhagar that he was still perfectly warm.  

“Here, take my cloak, too.” He did not allow her to protest as he draped it over her shoulders and fastened it around her neck. “There.”

Her smile had become strange – smaller, but no less happy – and her cheeks were rosy. “Thank you, Aemond.”

“Let’s hurry back to the castle,” he said as he retook her hand. This time, he realized that she was cool to the touch. “I want to tell Mother straight away!”

He squeezed her hand, his only warning before he ran back across the beach as fast as he could, dragging her along with him. They laughed the entire way, Aemond recounting his flight with all the dramatic flair he could muster, as if Aria had not witnessed the whole thing. She humored him, reacting to his words with enough enthusiasm that even he could believe she was hearing it for the first time.

They did not quiet until they were back in the tunnel of the Sea Gate and saw four figures running toward them.

“What are they doing here?” Aria whispered, her grip on Aemond’s hand tightening.

It was their cousins – Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena. They all stared at Aemond with a measure of surprise and fury. He dropped Aria’s hand and pushed her behind him, protecting her from the threat he saw in the gaze of his half-sister’s bastards and the daughters of Daemon.

“It’s him,” Baela spat.

Yes, she was Daemon’s daughter indeed.

It did not matter.  He was a dragonrider now – the claimant to the largest dragon in the world. Say what they may, his cousins could harm him no longer.

With all the confidence of the world, he replied, “It’s me.”

[weirdrandomtina]

My favourite cartoon ships 2.0!

1. Broppy, Branch and Queen Poppy, Trolls

Such an adorable couple with highly entertaining interactions, anything from bickering to heartfelt encouragement.  Great yin and yang with very opposite yet very compatible personalities.  These two truly have changed each other’s lives for the better, bring out the best in each other, and would do anything for each other - you can’t have one without the other.  I’m not much into reading fanfics in general, but have read all kinds of Broppy ones!  Hopefully we’ll get another special and series!

2. Elixie, Eli Shane and Trixie Sting, Slugterra

Close friends who are always there for each other, loyal teammates who work really well together, who both pester and support one another.  Cute interactions that, to me, give the vibe that they could become more than friends in the future.  I don’t know, there’s just something about them that catches my attention, so many options for fanfics!

3. Embade (not sure if there’s a ship name for them yet), Wade Ripple and Ember Lumen, Elemental

About as opposite as two people can be!  I fell in love with these two immediately - their dynamic is highly entertaining, being fire and water they have unique interactions no other couple could have, their dance scene / first touch gives me butterflies, their first date is the cutest thing ever, and I like how it wasn’t ‘love at first sight’ - they got to know each other first, then fell in love, and they really improved each other’s lives.

4. The Love Square (Adrinette, Ladynoir, Marichat, Ladrien), Adrien Agreste / Chat Noir and Marinette Dupain-Cheng / Ladybug, Miraculous Ladybug

Four ships in one, so lots of options for different fun stories between the characters!  I’ve read a few neat fan-comics of them, their varying dynamics are always interesting.  This ship also moved down my favourites list, because I personally thought their ‘just friends’ status dragged on too long in canon.

5. Simonette, Simon Seville and Jeanette Miller, ALVINNN!!!

Close friends who have similar hobbies and compatible personalities, I love the episodes where they interact, especially helping each other on projects or just hanging out.  They would make an adorable couple, I’d love to see them on a sweet little date.  I’m not a huge fan of the CGI movies, but I watch Chipwrecked solely for their interactions.

6. Guep (no solid decent ship name for them so I’m going with this), Guy and Eep Crood, The Croods

I love the fact that she’s stronger and bigger than him, and far from a typical girly girl, it makes a unique and unconventional couple.  Also, they take care of each other, it’s never one-sided (the macho guy rescuing the dainty damsel, or the powerful woman rescuing the weak guy).

7. Eugunzel, Eugene Fitzherbert and Princess Rapunzel, Tangled

Tons of excellent interactions in the series, a healthy relationship and another couple who has given each other better lives.  She’s not the typical dependent princess, but not an overly powerful female either, just the perfect balance.  And like Guep, he rescues her, and she rescues him; both have strengths and weaknesses, making them a very realistic pair.

8. Hiccstrid, Hiccup Haddock and Astrid Hofferson, How To Train Your Dragon

Another couple where she’s the stronger one.  I like their teamwork and interactions - even though she’s much bolder than him, she respects his leadership and is loyal to him.  At the same time, he respects her and is open to her suggestions.

9. Jilaire, Jim Lake Jr. and Claire Nunez, Trollhunters

Their development from barely friends to a close couple was natural and realistic.  There is literally nothing these two wouldn’t do for each other (Jim risking his life and breaking the law to save Claire’s brother, Claire fully accepting Jim no matter what physical form he’s in)

10. Snowlin, Prince Merlin and Princess Snow White, Red Shoes and the Seven Dwarves

Excellent messages about true beauty.  The rare movie relationship where the main female does not represent ideal beauty standards, yet still ends up in a happy relationship.  These two learned to truly love each other for who they are on the inside, regardless of their appearance, and will surely stick by each other’s sides no matter what.

[my-favourite-zhent]

New Tricks - Chapter 19

Status: Work In Progress

Version: 1.01

Pairing: Rugan x AFAB!OC

Rating: NC-17 (This chapter PG-13)

Genre: Adventure/Romance

Summary: Misadventures of Rugan and the original Zhentarim Gate's crew before and during the year of three sailing ships.

Notes: When one chapter becomes three. The main scenes for the next two upcoming chapters were written way back when I was struggling with chapter six. It was meant to be chapter eight but the plot got away from me a bit. This chapter started out as a little extra tidbit at the start but ended up growing into its own thing and for once I didn't delete an Izzy POV chapter.

Thank you to @fistfuloftarenths, @captainsigge, @dustdeepsea for always being my wonderful betas and providing me with encouragement. If it weren't for you all I think I would've deleted this chapter.

Dust also had the great suggestion of including the clip from Izzy's notebook and showed me how to do all the lovely formatting you will see in this chapter <3. (Check the AO3 link for that and additional footnotes as it's not in the tumblr post)

Also a shout out to @coreene for having such a treasure trove of lore on her tumblr! Always super helpful for fleshing out the background world lore.

Table of Contents

Read Here on AO3 or below the cut.

By now rotten luck had coloured most of Isolde’s life. 

It seemed to her that it had all begun after her parents' untimely deaths when she was sixteen.

What had begun as one bad year became two, with her exile to some gods forsaken farmlands and her first heartbreak at seventeen. 

The following year had appeared to break the trend—she had been offered the position of sizar at the university where her parents once taught. Only in reality it had simply been a year spent building the framework for a truly devastating nineteenth year and an end to her academic aspirations. Her first lover came and went. First friends came and went. Corra was the only good thing to come out of her short-lived scholastic career.

The jobs had been like that too. Someone would turn traitor or stupid. Load bearing beams would give way. Priceless urns would be full of fucking venomous spiders. Only now she had been prepared for rotten luck. Moulded by it.

Now she always slipped a spare trinket under her blouse or in her boot just in case the job didn't pay. Now she kept her valuables in a safe deposit box on the off chance her room got ransacked again. Now she slept in her road breeches with a knife under her pillow, and while she'd never been trained to kill, jabbing someone who wasn't expecting it gave you a good head start on an escape. 

Seventeen years of bad luck had taught her to be prepared and to be persistent. She had survived and even sometimes thrived because of it.

So now, as she watched the sailors drag her chest up onto the deck of the ship, she felt especially stupid.

“My tools are in there! I've paid you good coin to transport those!” She screamed, but her voice could barely be heard by the man next to her over the crashing of the waves. 

The ship rocked under another violent tumult of wind. The tempest had come upon them without any warning, clear blue skies had become turbulent greys streaked in black and white in mere moments. There wasn't even supposed to be storms like this on the Sword Coast for another month. It was just her luck. 

Distantly she heard cries to cut the main sail.

The sailor looked as contrite as one could in the midst of a squall. “Sorry lass, bitch queen needs her offering!” 

And despite the pelting hail and whipping winds it was the word lass that made her flinch. 

‘Should have never gotten aboard a ship out of Neverwinter,’ she thought bitterly as she watched them tip her chest into the sea.

The contract she had taken in Baldur's Gate was an easy forgery job. She could've sat nice and safe in a room at the Elfsong scribbling away before meeting Rugan. She would've made a mint for doing hardly anything at all. But now her seals were gone and with it the contract.

Standing on the docks, Isolde weighed her options. It was alright. This was manageable. She still had the clay impressions of her fake seals in her pack. The sheep’s bladder she kept them in had protected them from any water damage from the storm. A half-way competent smith could recreate the seals from the pressings easily. But just how much would halfway decent cost her? More than she had left, it turned out. Most of her coin was now at the blacksmith's, and that was only the first half of the payment.

Her hand strayed time and again to where her insurance necklace would be, but she had pawned it. Pawned it for the same reason she had come to the city. The same reason she was flat broke. At least she could make that bastard buy her a drink. Blame him heartily for her misfortune. And if he smiled at her even once her fool heart would find the whole venture worthwhile.

“Sorry, miss, believe his caravan is on the road right now. Haven't seen him in a tenday.” The man behind the bar at the Elfsong shrugged.

It was just her rotten luck.

In weaker moments of her life she had considered leaving offerings to Beshaba at those little roadside shrines made of antlers and twigs. But no, fuck that deer-headed bitch. And fuck Umberlee too, while she was at it.

The barkeep looked apologetic, just as the sailor had, but that wasn't going to help her out in any way, shape or form.

She would need to find another job to take on. Isolde considered the other local contract she had ignored on account of the risk. There was nothing for it now. She leaned back in her stool and sighed. So long and low and frustrated that the man gave her another sympathetic look.

“Drink might help with that, miss.”

She opened her coin purse and eyed the few bits she had left.

“Give me the strongest thing you've got for two silvers.” She said sliding the coins across the table.

The man nodded and exchanged them for a pitcher of wine and a tall glass.

“If it's not a pressing issue,” he added as he poured the first glass full for her. “Could leave a letter with me if you like. He's in here every night when the caravan’s not on the road.”

Isolde perked up at that. “If you wouldn't mind.”

“Half the point of an inn is to have a place to send letters. I even mail some out if you've got a coin for the ship’s captain.”

Isolde almost took out her pen and ink right there, but then thought better of it. No sense trying to hastily scribble a note at the bar where some other patron would knock their elbows against hers and make the barman regret his offer.

Scooping up her glass and pitcher, pack slung over her shoulder, Isolde tipped her head in thanks and made for one of the alcoves at the far end of the taproom.

The Elfsong was much nicer than she had expected. The floors were worn but well-maintained, the drapes were not frayed and had minimal patching. She had been told more than once this place was a tourist trap, but when Rugan had called it his local she had presumed it to be something more akin to a dive bar. Had that been unkind of her? The Blackstaron and the Prow in Waterdeep had both been nicely kept inns, even if they had managed to get themselves kicked out of the first one.

She was broken from her train of thought when another patron collided into her, the wine from her glass sloshing over her hand.

“Sorry, love.” The man offered though he didn't even bother to meet her eyes as he and his date brushed past and grabbed the seat she had been eyeing. The date gave her a look that was half amusement, half pity, and Isolde muttered a curse under her breath as she stalked down to the next alcove.

Carefully she placed her wine down on the table, mindful of how it still undulated in its confines. With her clean hand she withdrew a rag from her pack and wet it with her waterskin, wiping clean the other before finally seating herself. 

As she unpacked her writing tools she wondered idly if this was the same seat Rugan liked to frequent. Would he have a regular seat? She should've asked the barman. No, on second thought that was a terrible idea. Isolde had seen and chosen to ignore the pitying look the man had given her when Rugan's name had slipped her lips. Didn't need to let him know how badly besotted she was, admitting it to herself was embarrassing enough.

She drained her first glass before setting pen to paper. This one was easy enough to write, and feeling a bit bold she applied a thin layer of vermillion to her lips as the ink dried. She marked the page with her lips and hoped it would make Rugan suitably unhappy about standing her up.

There was another letter she should write, though she wasn't too pleased about it. 

‘It might not be necessary.’ She tried to tell herself. 

She pulled out her leather bound notebook. It was a tiny thing, worn at the edges, about as wide and long as her hand but maybe two finger-span thick.

The contact information for the job had been hastily scribbled on one of the thick pages, just in case.

It had been Isolde's father who had taught her how to bind books, but it had been her mother who had taught her how to spot traps.

There were many things to take into account, but it came down to a few large considerations:

Was this culture known for booby-trapping tombs? Was this a place or person of importance?

An Imaskari noble would have a much more dangerous mausoleum than a Tharrian peasant.

Was there irregular wear on the ground that might suggest its builders walked a specific, safe path?

Pressure plates were a simple trap and thus effective trap. They stood the test of time better than more complex machinery.

Were there intricate patterns on the structure that could conceal glyphs?

Metal lasted long but magic lasted damn near indefinitely and could do far more damage.

One should be wary on any job, but if the answer to any of these questions was yes then doubly so.

Isolde had a similar list of tell-tale signs when it came to selecting jobs.

Was this client known to her network?

One tended to see the same familiar faces handling these operations. Sure muscle and labour would be locals, but the showrunner was usually one of two dozen folks who had the training to identify a site or the connections to fence the goods. Some characters were more trustworthy than others.

And no, the folks named here were not known to her or anyone she had asked.

Was the site near a city centre?

They oft times were—cities tended to grow on the bones of their forebears, like Luskan and Illusk. This meant more secrecy was necessary, but also less violence. Harder to hide a body and its eventual rot. Out in the wilds you didn’t even need to bury a corpse for it to never be found.

This job was definitely not near a city.

Was the pay reasonable?

Too high meant this was a con, you were lucky if you only came out empty-handed. Too low meant whoever was in charge didn’t even know what their goods were worth, if anything, and they didn’t know the running cost of a black market archaeologist.

Too low, far too low.

She had already known all this, but somehow had hoped the details might have changed since she last looked at the notebook. Isolde groaned and threw her head back against the wall of the booth. She was going to have to write the second letter.

Isolde poured and downed two more glasses of wine before she was sufficiently over her shame of having to ask Corra for money. If the forgery job was still around when she returned she’d pay Corra back two-fold.

Maybe she could just wait till Corra’s letter of credit came through, there were cheaper inns in the city, certainly. Gods, maybe a flophouse? But no, after hunting around the lower city and Norchapel it turned out Baldur’s Gate was almost as overpriced as Waterdeep.

‘Should’ve sent the letter and waited before paying for the tools.’ She thought dejectedly.

There ended up being roughly enough coin for a night or two in a flop house, some food for the road and a ride on a caravan heading west. So that was what she resolved to do.

Hopefully, stupidly, she looked for his face amongst the various caravans on the morning she made her way out of Baldur's Gate.

The wagons outside Basilisk Gate were packed end to end—or end to horse as it were. Some people pushed handcarts, perhaps to visit the nearby farms. She also saw oxen hitched to sturdy wagons loaded down with heavier goods. Merchants with lighter goods like the one she accompanied had horses to carry them along faster.

It was a decently nice carriage. Nothing fancy like the wooden conveyances that nobles used, but it had a sturdy canvas roof which was more than most.

The air by now was rank with the dung of a hundred beasts of burden, idling while their masters impatiently waited behind the traffic of a several dozen handcarts.

‘Just like Crimmor.’ She thought with an amused sort of wistfulness.

Isolde noticed then a group dressed in that familiar black and yellow, and her heart struggled to break free from the confines of her ribs. She leaned out the back of the wagon to get a better look. Though she squinted hard there was no one she was acquainted with. Just some red-head with clownish hair, though he had a familiar sort of chin.

“Don't want to be looking too long, dearie. Not a friendly bunch.” Warned the old woman across from her, not unkindly. The merchant’s mother as she understood it.

“Of course, my thanks.” Isolde bowed her head and sat back down on the wagon floor. 

They began moving at last, just as the dawn's early light was obscured by heavy soot coloured clouds. A wry smile twisted Isolde's lips.

“Something funny, dear?”

Isolde turned to meet the woman's gaze. “Just my luck, that’s all.”

[elliemarchetti]

The Gift

Since I had a lot of fun writing the fourth chapter of The Queen of the Quills - Jily Edition (it features Petunia's PoV!), I couldn't resist the temptation to reply, but this time with Sirius as narrator. A very James-is-a-fool-in-love centric piece for @jilymicrofics prompt 14.

Prompt: Hidden

Words: 865

Although he wasn't the most rational fellow in his group of friends, James had always been a logical person, perhaps with twisted thoughts, inclined to justify acts that otherwise would have seemed crazy, but at the moment he was evidently losing his mind. Sirius had been by his side through every stage of his relationship with Lily, he had supported him even when she seemed to hate him and want nothing to do with him, he had been the shoulder he cried on when anyone would’ve given up, and his wingman when the beautiful redhead had finally come out of her shell a bit and started throwing a few too many glances in the corridors to be by mistake, but he had never behaved like this. Maybe his girlfriend had put a love potion in his morning pumpkin juice, or a bludger hit him on the head during Quidditch practice, otherwise the only sensible explanation was a sudden mental illness. Maybe they should’ve gotten him admitted to St Mungo’s, or maybe asking Fleamont for advice on how to deal with his son’s sudden wavering in self-confidence was the best way to deal with it.

The drama started on a cloudy morning, right at the beginning of May, when he announced during breakfast that their one-year anniversary was approaching too quickly for his liking.

“What do you mean too quickly?” Remus had asked, so shocked he left his fork full of food suspended halfway between his plate and his mouth.

It was probably Sirius’ fault: he knew he should’ve never told him what he had learned from Marlene in the peace and carefreeness of post-coital limbo, especially information regarding the gift Lily bought for him well in advance for the imminent milestone, but when it came to James and his doe eyes, the look of an innocent puppy he showed off only when he needed to manipulate others to get what he wanted, Sirius was a weak man, and as always he had given in, revealing every word and asking him not to divulge how he had found out that indiscretion. And James, who never broke a promise, had kept everything to himself, including the insecurity that not being able to think of the perfect present was causing him, until he exploded.

“You don’t know for sure if you will like what she got you,” Peter had pointed out, but Sirius knew that even if Lily had chosen to give his friend a stone collected on the shores of the Great Lake he would’ve appreciated the gesture, finding a hidden, deeper meaning behind it, and it would become a paperweight, or a lucky amulet to keep in his pocket when he flew on his broom and juggled between treacherous Slytherins and ruthless Ravenclaws.

“Maybe I should just hide in the infirmary until the day it’s over,” James had sighed, but Sirius knew he wouldn’t do it just as much as he knew he could find something, he just wasn’t able to picture anything worthy of representing how he felt for her. When they talked about it the last time, truly talked, his best friend made a premise, which had something to do with being aware he was exaggerating and that they were still young for that kind of thoughts, but the sentence still ended with him stating he believed she was the one, the only person he could picture himself married to and the future mother of his children.

“She’s my other half,” he had said, “and I want to grow old with her. I can’t wait to introduce her to my parents, and I can’t be more grateful to you, Remus, and Peter for having welcomed her into out little group as a sister.”

Two weeks had now passed since that moment, the day of the scheduled visit to Hogsmeade, the last before the big day, had arrived, and Sirius was dragging a distressed James – truly an anguished soul, since he had even taken off his glasses to rub his eyes so hard he declared he could see starts dancing in his field of vision in plain day light – on the muddy road leading to the only all-wizarding village in Britain.

“I’d go for something light-hearted, to not scare her,” Sirius suggested, in a desperate attempt to stop his companion from ripping his hair out and eating his nails to the bone. Doubts were consuming him, and although he was probably aware that one day he would surely laugh at how stupid and childish he had been, at the moment they must’ve seemed well founded concerns worth losing sleep over.

“What about a bouquet of edible lilies made of her favourite candies?” he went on, half joking. “If we go to Honeydukes first, they might be ready before we have to leave.”

“Wouldn’t it be a rather cheesy way to say I want to eat her out?” James asked, seemingly pleased with the idea. Maybe his gift was going to be divided in two parts, both physical, albeit in different ways, and both capable of eliciting pleased, and annoying, since Sirius slept in the same room as James, sounds of delight from the Head Girl.