#where do you think the fire of change is stoked

[tododeku-or-bust]

"outrage is not activism" and just like that, I know you're a white person

[annwrites]

—midnight oil

i want a fire & a steady man. come on, show me if your love can. write my name in crimson red. cross my heart & back again. i want a kingdom where my love can stand. come on, show me if your love can. we're burning that midnight oil. — dark!jacaerys x servant!reader ; ✶:·•

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You tug against the soft black and red velvet ropes which bind your limbs to his bed, leaving you entirely at his disposal to do with as he wishes—as he desires.

He presses down with his palm on your lower stomach, his long, slender fingers arching upward, gently massaging that ledge inside of you before plunging away once more—mercilessly.

Dark curls fall over his warm brown eyes, which glance up to your flushed face, stricken with tears due to your sexual frustrations by his hand...among other parts of himself. He admires your soft feminine form, illuminated only by flickering candlelight.

He leans down, giving your swollen red clit a quick swipe of his speared tongue and your back arches as you quietly sob.

"Please, Jace...."

He chuckles. "A dragon's heat, I think, is very little, as compared to your own, my love."

You curl your toes, that wanton feeling building in your lower belly, fire racing through your veins at his measured touches.

Thunder booms overhead, reverberating through you, bringing you closer, rain pelting against the glass windows.

Somewhere, a dragon roars a familiar call.

He groans, his erect cock twitching between his legs as he sees solely to your own pleasure, deigning that his shall wait until you've reached that marvelous peak.

You bite your lip, unable to contain yourself any longer as you begin to draw in uneven, shallow breathes, panting in desperation.

"Jace... Ja—Jace, I—"

He raises a brow, continuing his ministrations. "Close are we, darling?"

You nod fervently. "Y—yes, My Prince."

He quickens his speed, then, setting a punishing pace, making you all the more sore between your trembling legs.

"Oh, gods," you whisper, breathless. "I—I can't—"

He hums. "But you must. Because I want you to," he states with a gentle shrug.

His eyes meet your own. "Māzigon."

For many moons, Jacaerys has been gradually teaching you High Valyrian. And this one word you know better than almost all the rest: come. And you obey, ever his faithful servant.

Liquid shoots out of your hot cunt which squeezes and contracts around his slick digits, soaking the dark silk sheets your naked body lies upon as you cry out his name over and over again.

"Jace, Jace, oh gods, Jace!" You say between pleased squeals of delight.

Eventually, his movements slow, his bed and bare lap covered in your arousal.

He smirks, crawling atop you, not nearly done. "Something meant to quench a fire only serves to stoke mine own," he mutters, sheathing his throbbing member inside of you and crushing his lips to yours.

the daughter of a chambermaid, you have resided upon dragonstone all your life. playing on the beaches, in the water, & exploring hidden caves & caverns are the means by which you entertain yourself.

once you grow into a young woman, however, you are put to work, same as the rest.

one of the rooms which is made your responsibility? prince jacaerys'. this fact does not change even after he & his family's arrival to the island.

rather quickly, he takes notice of & a subsequent liking to you, & the two of you become fast friends as you show him your secret places around & near & beneath the castle. he seems very sweet, if not shy & a bit unsure of himself. but once the dance begins, the boy quickly grows into a man.

and thus develops a man's appetites, which only one comely young maid may satiate...

headcanons:

gets off on spoiling reader. spends disgust amounts of coin on her: purchasing her new gowns, lovely undergarments, jewels, slippers, etc. really whatever her heart desires, even if she insists it's all too much (it gets him hard seeing her flustered)!

dominant as hell in the bedroom. loves tying her up & teasing her until she's a dripping mess.

likes to dine with her—prefers sharing all his meals, when able, with her. adores feeding her fresh fruit from his own hand.

'jokes' about wedding her.

trusts her implicitly.

she's terrified the first time he takes her to meet vermax, but the dragon, too, likes her instantly. jace tells her the creatures share a deep bond w/ their riders & are capable of feeling as they do.

secret sex in secret beach caves! with her dress up around her waist as he grips reader's thighs—keeping her legs wrapped round his waist as he pounds away inside of her.

moontea for days.

just loves & adores her like no other.

def purchases her ben-wa balls at some point. she's confused when she opens the small box held within his hands. "what do they do?" he smirks, shrugging. "they're for...pleasure." "o—oh." "will you lift up your skirts?" she does & he gets on one knee, placing one in his mouth, quickly wetting & warming it for her before he licks her between her legs a few times, then easing it in. "how does that feel?" "a bit cool...but good. i...i like it." he nods, repeating the action with the other. he then orders her to keep them in all day until he commands otherwise.

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Chapter 7 - Mon Ami M'a Donné

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: none really… some kissing and a wedding!!

Word Count: 2.5k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl! Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. Well, here we are; it's the wedding of the least convenient marriage of convenience in history, lol. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Montivilliers (just outside Le Havre), September 1939 

You are awoken by birdsong beyond the green shutters, and, more perplexing, a warm weight settled around you. It takes a few seconds to get your bearings. Your face is buried in the crook of Benedict's neck, a woodsy, citrus scent filling your nostrils and stirring your senses. Under the covers, his arms are wrapped around your body, one large hand splayed over your lumbar spine, the other rounding your shoulder. Your breasts are pressed into his broad chest, your legs entangled. One of your own hands appears to be resting on his hip. Moreover, something solid and warm pressing low on your belly makes your blood run hot. You must have both rolled into the middle of the bed during the night and are now clinging to each other.

It is different to waking up with Stanley in a way that makes you equally excited and confused. You are not innocent; you and Stanley have had sex. It is… fine, in your opinion. Mostly, you are mystified as to why so many women whisper breathlessly about it behind closed doors. In your experience, it was not unpleasant, but not precisely life-changing, either. He seemed pleased when it was over; that was enough for you. Or at least you used to think so. Laying now in Benedict’s arms makes you question that. Your fingers itching to explore, run over his body, touch, taste, and do things that never even occurred to you with Stanley. 

You try to stay still and modulate your breathing, wanting to savour this a little longer, even as your heart beats wildly. But all too soon, Benedict stirs, a slight moan as he stretches against you, half-conscious, pulling you even tighter against his body, all sorts of muscle and skin over yours. And yes, something hard pressed firmly between you now, your own body stirring so thoroughly, entirely without any effort on his part. Warm lips kiss your forehead, and his fingers flex on your nightgown, spidering across your back in a way that stokes a fire deep in your belly. It’s entirely possible this is a mere reflex to someone laying in his arms, but it doesn't stop you from hoping for more before he is awake enough to realise it’s you. 

A sharp inhale from him, and you know he is fully awake. A sudden awkward tension in his being as he tilts his hips away rapidly. You move at that point, too, pretending to be just awakening.

“Good morning,” you whisper, attempting nonchalance about how entangled you are, tilting your head to look at his face.

His hair is a chestnut riot, and his face slack from repose, stubbly cheeks and those expressive eyes glossy with sleep.

“Good morning,” he replies, rough and a little reticent, the sound echoing through his chest and rattling against yours, a sensation you want to burrow into.

There is a beat where you stare blinkingly at each other, his gaze falling to your lips, and your stomach swoops as it looks like he is about to kiss you.

Please…

But he seems to stop himself at the last minute and mumbles an apology, rolling away and detangling himself from you. A part of you is bereft even as you return the sentiment, edging out of bed and grabbing your robe, a need to cover up as if your body will betray your arousal too readily.

You head down to get coffee as soon as the bathroom door closes behind him.

—

Your stomach is a ball of knots, your hand clasped tightly in Eloise’s, as the taxi pulls up outside the town hall. It’s a few hours later - a bright, sunny late summer Wednesday lunchtime, the day before you are due to sail to England. But perhaps more significant to note…it’s your wedding day. And not the one you were ever expecting.

Benedict caught a lift earlier with Jérôme, and you are glad he was not around as Eloise and Marie helped you get ready, fixing your hair in an elegant style, your makeup understated but again chic. Marie has arranged for a photographer friend to attend so you have a few photos to take as evidence. Eloise and Marie will act as witnesses to the marriage. And that is the sum total of attendees. An acute contrast to your planned nuptials to Stanley. The last you heard about the guest list, which is very much your mother's domain, was close to 150, most of whom you are certain you do not know.

The building is handsome but primarily perfunctory; not an excess of decor, but still appealing in its clean simplicity. Jérôme meets you in an airy corridor with high ceilings and large windows and asks you to wait outside the room until you hear music from the grammarphone.

Somehow, the use of music surprises you. You assumed this would be very businesslike and transactional, a formality that would keep the worst of your conflicting emotions at bay. Until you remember, to everyone except the three of you, this is a real marriage. Of love. Jérôme is obviously going out of his way to make this the best he can, and it makes an ache lodge in your gut that you are lying to him.

“I guess you are giving me away, best friend,” you titter nervously to Eloise as she lingers in the corridor with you.

“It’s an honour,” she jests, even though you can see the apprehension in her stance.

“It’ll be okay,” you find yourself reassuring her, reaching out to rub her arm.

“I’m…I'm worried my brother might actually like you,” she confesses in a rush, making your heart rate spike. 

“That kiss was for show,” you quickly reply as if trying to convince yourself as much as her. “We will have to get good at acting such displays of affection if I am to escape.”

She nods and looks up from the ground, meeting your eyes. “I know… I just… there was something about it. You both looked… found and lost all at once…”

How she can sum up the jumble of exactly how that moment felt is jarring, but you are stopped in your reply by the start of the wedding march from behind the wall.

“Here we go…” you inhale deeply, a peculiar zip of energy racing down your body.

Eloise loops her arm in yours, face now resolute. “To freedom…” she mutters as the door swings open before you.

There, standing at the end of an aisle of empty rows of chairs, is Benedict. Looking handsome in a navy three-piece suit and crisp white shirt. He is all you can see as the strains of the music fade from your mind; taking each slow step with Eloise feels much more poignant than you expected.

His face is a kaleidoscope - softness, nerves, a gentle smile pitched to reassure, but something else you could swear, burning in his eyes as they lock with yours. It knocks the wind from you as you finally reach his side and see him up close. With one final squeeze of your arm, Eloise withdraws to take a seat. 

And then it is just the two of you, shoulder to shoulder, facing destiny.

As Jérôme begins the simple ceremony, you swear you can feel Benedict inching closer, a crackling energy emanating from his being. It makes you briefly look up at him askance.

You look beautiful, he mouths, and it fires something behind your ribs. 

You look so handsome, you mouth back, and his face is abruptly intense like before he kissed you when dancing.

The ceremony seems ephemeral, and before you know it, after declaring your intent and signing the marriage certificate, your hand is in his, trembling slightly as he quietly recites his vows after Jérôme’s prompts. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears, staring into his depthless eyes as he promises to love and cherish you until death. He pushes a simple, thin gold band onto your left ring finger, a mild quake in his movements as he does so. 

You cannot look anywhere but him as it’s your turn to follow Jérôme's prompts. Promising yourself to him in sickness and in health, to honour him. You can hear the tremor in your cadence, but it’s not fear. It’s the dawning realisation of how much truth lurks within your words. You’ve only known this man a matter of days, but somehow, in a short window, he has come to mean more to you than fifteen years of knowing Stanley. And it excites and terrifies you as you push the gold band onto his hand and see the flame in his eyes, wanting more than anything for this to be real.

“You may now kiss the bride,” Jérôme concludes with a cheeky lilt.

Time slows yet again as Benedict leans in, and his left hand tenderly cups your jaw, that wedding band cool against your cheek as your lips meet. It's the same fireworks inside as your lips slide together, and you cling to his jacket as you keep up the sensual dance. Just before it could be considered inappropriate, Benedict breaks the kiss but leans his forehead on yours, gaze locked.

“To the future…” he murmurs enigmatically at a volume only you can hear.

“To the future,” you echo mutely, knowing that could mean so many things.

Marie and Eloise cheer as you peel apart and turn to face them, your arms looping around each other's backs. The relief it is over is palpable; you try to put out of your mind just how monumental this moment really was. It feels like too much weight to bear when this is meant to be a means to an end.

“Mrs Bridgerton,” Marie smiles and hugs you as Benedict and Eloise embrace; you sense whispered words. In fact, you could swear you hear Eloise threaten Benedict with violence.

Then you swap, and Eloise draws you into a bear hug.

“Welcome to the Bridgerton family, y/n; it’s awful, you’re going to love it,” she quips in her usual droll style, even though you can see she is moved by the whole experience, a glassiness to her eye that makes you squeeze her tight again.

A steady but comforting arm - your husband's - wraps around you, and you walk back into the world as the new Mr & Mrs Benedict Bridgerton. 

“Mother will kill me when she finds out I eloped,” he whispers laconically as you pose on the sunny steps outside, the photographer snapping shots as you exchange quiet words, a warm breeze dancing through the tendrils of hair near your cheeks. It's obvious he is trying to comfort you in this rather odd, artificial situation, and you are so grateful for it, again that little lantern behind your ribs burns bright, just for him. It allows you to ignore the small crowd of onlookers any wedding party attracts in public.

“Your mother? Do not even get me started upon mine…” you respond dryly, and his laugh is a gentle, sympathetic ring that fills your being with light. In that instant, realising a simple truth—you have each other's back in some very fundamental way through this extraordinary time.

—

Upon your return to their home, you discover Marie has roped in her kindly neighbour to prepare a wedding feast. The house is alive with the scent of cooking. 

You all sit at their outdoor dining table under a pergola, resplendent with magnolia and jasmine, eating delicious courses of home cooking washed down with copious champagne. Many pleasant hours slip by, all afternoon and, in fact, into the early evening, until the sun slips low and the sky is brightly streaked with orange and pink.

Your seat is next to Benedict, and during conversation, his arm is always around you, either your shoulder or occasionally slipping lower, sliding down the thin material of your silk dress to grasp your waist and pull you into him. Just that move alone has your lungs catch. You know it’s performative for your generous hosts, but you can’t help but lean into it, blurring the lines of your reality as the champagne fizzles pleasantly in your bloodstream. Letting your fingertips linger on his sleeve, the veins on the back of his hand, leaning into his frame as you listen as others talk. At one point, he turns his head and kisses your temple tenderly, a tingle lingering there long after. 

“What made you fall in love with this one, y/n?” Marie asks jovially at one point, nodding to Benedict as she refills your glass.

“His painting captivated me before we ever met. And then we bonded over our love of art,” you begin truthfully as you can feel his gaze upon you. “I’ve never met someone as taken as I am with its multidimensional beauty. But as I got to know him, I realised he is also the sweetest, most eloquent and generous man I have ever met. A quiet strength of character that is endlessly giving. He makes me believe there is true good in this world,” you have to stop yourself before it becomes too much. “And well…” you duck your head, knowing you are blushing, “he is so very handsome… how could I not fall for him?”

Jérôme and Marie cheer as Eloise shoots you a puzzled look over her crystal flute, and you feel Benedict’s breath warm on your cheek. You know he is gazing at you with a fierce devotion that will knock you sideways. Your name is a ragged exhale from his lips before he cups your jaw and tilts you to look at him. An inferno behind his hazy pupils as his lips claim yours. You swear this kiss isn’t for show; it's more like a spontaneous response to your words, burning brighter than any previous kiss. A simmering passion that makes you want to open your lips and surrender to him right here and now. You reach up and touch his face, his jaw stubble tickling your palm as you cradle his face like he does yours.

“Perhaps it is time we give the newlyweds some privacy…” Jérôme whistles as you and your new husband part, unable to do anything but breathe his air, every fibre of you wanting to be alone with him. Only him.

“Don't be silly; this is your home,” your delayed reply, turning to look at them.

“Oui, mais… we will be sleeping at Madam Blanc’s ce soir,” Marie informs, squeezing her smiling neighbour's shoulder.

“You are newlyweds; we do not want to know the details. Or hear it,” Jérôme adds saucily, throwing you both a salacious wink.

“Where am I going to sleep?” Eloise bemoans, playing along.

Madam Blanc pipes up in French, something about another spare room, you believe, and it appears Eloise agrees, toasting their glasses to seal the pact.

Suddenly, you are on tenterhooks that you and Benedict will be alone in an idyllic French cottage on your wedding night.

“It seems it is decided; who are we to argue?” Benedict pipes up next to you, but even you can hear the thread of slight apprehension in his tone.

Oh god. What on earth are we to do now?

Benedict taglist: @foreverlonginguniverse @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaaa

[hunterrrs]

photos from here, I NEED FOOTAGE OF THIS. also this article is a great read. he’s invited some families who lost their homes in the halifax fires to practice:

By the time you read this, Pittsburgh Penguins players will have munched on the pudding known as haggis, made from the livers, hearts and lungs of sheep. And learned how to shuck oysters, in all their slimy, gooey glory.

All courtesy of Sidney Crosby, the Pittsburgh captain, who brought team building to an entirely new level on Saturday. From the moment months ago that he learned the Penguins would be playing here, Crosby was stoked. A proud native of Cole Harbour, 10 miles from Halifax, the 36-year-old began planning out his transformation from NHL star to tour guide.

“I think just the feel of it, the people, and to see the excitement for the game,” Crosby said Friday. “And just to get around the city a little bit, those types of things.

“It’s somewhere that I’m really proud of, and I hope everyone enjoys themselves there.”

In order to do that, he set something up with a unique Maritime flavor. Welcome to “The Amazing Race: Crosby Edition.”

“When Sidney found out the team was coming here, he wanted to find a fun way to celebrate his hometown with his teammates and educate them on why it’s such a special place,” his father, Troy, said.

He seems to have done exactly that.

After a morning of golf Saturday, the unsuspecting Penguins set out on an “Amazing Race”-like scavenger-hunt competition that would take them through the streets of Cole Harbour, Dartmouth and downtown Halifax, and across Halifax Harbour on a ferry.

Under the format, the players were divided into teams. They were given instructions of where to go, what venues to visit and what tasks they were to do (e.g., eating haggis, shucking oysters), all while going up against the clock.

The instructions came on laminated cards featuring the Penguins logo and a “Welcome to Cole Harbour” greeting.

The message on one of the cards read, “Every player has to shuck two oysters and eat them or have a teammate eat them on their behalf. Careful with that knife, and don’t break any shells!”

Crosby enlisted the help of Paul Mason, one of his baseball and minor hockey coaches, to help plan the event. Mason was paramount in setting up the three Cole Harbour Stanley Cup celebrations in Crosby’s honor, and No. 87 didn’t hesitate when it came to the perfect person to set up this event.

“In organizing this, when he talked to me about it, he wants this entire weekend to be pretty special for the community, for his teammates, for everyone around him,” Mason said. “You can sense how much these few days mean to him. You could sense his anticipation for months.”

Mason said that even though Crosby is the host for his teammates this weekend, he’s going to try to win everything: golf, the scavenger hunt, the preseason game Monday, you name it.

“He’s competitive at everything, even as a little kid when I was coaching him,” Mason said. “And that hasn’t changed.

“When the NHL was shut down during COVID, his dad Troy and I played Sidney and one of his friends in a golf match. They should have won, but somehow we did. He didn’t accept that. He said it was two out of three. When we won the second one he said it was three out of five. We ended up playing seven of them. The seventh one was in December with snow on the ground. They won that one to take the series 4-3. Suddenly that was acceptable because they’d won.

“Once they’d finally won, it was over,” Mason said with a laugh.

During some of those summers, Greenwood has helped organize some of the offseason skates featuring Crosby, MacKinnon and Marchand at a local arena. The competitiveness gets intense at times, something Greenwood said helps all three drive each other.

“Yeah, they’re friends,” he said. “But when they start playing against each other at times, you’d never know it. They want to beat one another at any and all costs.

“You can see how that drive, that determination, that win-at-all-costs attitude rubs off on some of the younger guys.”

Count Drake Batherson as one of them. The 25-year-old Senators forward grew up in New Minas, 50 miles northwest of Halifax, and has been training during the offseason with Crosby, Marchand and MacKinnon since 2019. He calls those workouts “one of my favorite times of the year.”

As such, he’s looking forward to facing Crosby and the Penguins in Halifax on Monday.

“I've still got posters of the Penguins and Sid on my wall at my parents' house, so it's pretty fun now that me and Sid have built a relationship and we're buddies," Batherson said. "It's pretty cool looking back on it.”

It was a tough spring and summer for Nova Scotia.

In late May and early June, wildfires raged through the outskirts of Halifax and throughout the province. More than 16,000 people were forced to evacuate as a result, many eventually returning to find their homes were nothing more than heaps of smoldering ashes.

Less than two months later, the area was hit with record rainfall that caused historic flooding. Water did seep into Crosby’s home, though to nowhere near the extent of some others where people pretty much lost everything.

“The area has been through a lot,” he said. “But the great thing about some of these communities, and the area in general, is that everyone sticks together and everyone’s willing to help each other.

“I think when you’ve seen adverse times here over the years, you’ve seen people come together more and more. And I think we take a lot of pride in that here. The fact that people know they can depend on each other is huge. I think we’ve shown that time and time again, and there’s pride that comes with that.”

Crosby is doing his part to teach local kids exactly that.

On Sunday, the Penguins will hold a practice at Cole Harbour Place. Hundreds of children from the local minor hockey systems have been invited to attend and take part in a Q&A session with some Pittsburgh players and, with a select few kids getting to go on the ice with them.

Part of that group will be kids from minor hockey whose families lost their homes in the fires. Crosby specifically wanted them to attend, with Mason helping to make it happen. Given the trauma they and their families have gone through, it is Crosby’s way of trying to brighten up their lives, even if it’s just for one afternoon.

“That’s Sid, right?” Greenwood said. “He’s going to have an impact on these kids, both on the ice and off.”

He already has.

In 2009, Crosby established the Sidney Crosby Foundation, an organization that improves the lives of children who are sick or struggling. More recently, Crosby and several foundation board members created Nova Scotia Showdown T-shirts heading into the game Monday, with proceeds going to his foundation.

“He’s helping young kids who are going through hard times, and he’s being a role model for young hockey players in the province,” Mason said. “He’s going out of his way to show his Penguins a good time here, and he’s being a great ambassador for the community.”

Greenwood agrees.

“It’s a privilege,” he said, “to say you live in the same place as someone like that.”

[ma1dita]

🐥 a lil something for jason grace? just yk him meeting hephaestus!reader for the first time at camp half blood and she's this bubbly girl who befriends everyone cuz that's just how she is and like she offers everyone solutions to material problems like aphrodite kids with vanity mirrors that light up on their own, apollo kids with medical kits that look small outside but has TONS of storage, demeter kids with self watering pots, etc

reader gives him a welcome gift (leo and piper too), a compact watch sword thingy like percy's and jason's like new to this bcs all his life he's been treated like a prince in waiting, a leader most of the time and he hasn't had anyone do something for him cuz its usually him doing things

ooh and a lil bit of leo valdez teasing him bcs of him blushing when she's around cuz reader is his sister basically, same dad and all

Thank you and happy bday again!

🐥🐥🐥🐥🐥

jason grace x hephaestus!reader

a/n: this was so cute but pls lmk if i got his character right...i had to reference my irl pjo bestie for this i love this boy

wc: 766

Jason Grace thinks you talk too much.

And too fast. It’s one of the first things he noticed about Camp Half-Blood weirdly enough, besides the nagging feeling that he didn’t belong there. There wasn’t so much as a day where he wouldn’t see you whizzing past campers offering to tinker items to make their lives easier, and he could barely keep up—which says a lot for a boy raised to be a soldier.

It was like you set everything alight, and the flames you left in your midst could not be tamed; everyone was enamored by you, and admittedly, so was he. The son of Jupiter was sure his brain had short-circuited along with everything else going on but all of his worries were dashed when you presented him with a wristwatch shield.

Jason blinks slowly.

“Are you listening? Do you like it? I can change the finish on it or scrap it completely if you don’t think it’s cool, or maybe it's too big? Let me see your wrist—Jace?”

You wave your hand in his face before grabbing his arm, encircling his wrist with the metal links to make sure your creation fits him comfortably.

Too torn between the predicament of being raised by fucking wolves and training for a war that no one knows the start date of, Jason Grace has not had too much time to acquaint himself with the matters of the heart. So in his eyes, this poor sweetheart thought your welcome gift was the equivalent of a marriage proposal, or something like that…

Your half-sibling Leo thought this was hilarious of course, his teasing grin stoking the fire in the pit of Jason’s stomach when he asked to see it. The blond boy was gentle with your gift, shaking his head at the notion that it meant anything, that you were just kind to everyone, and nothing about it whatsoever makes him special.

Okay buddy…

So of course when you came to confront him about Leo’s taunting that had reached all of the inhabitants of cabin 9 (and the armory, and the counselors, and even Chiron and Mr. D—the biggest gossips of Camp Half-Blood), Jason Grace, a boy who usually has his shit together, was reduced to the phenomenon of being an embarrassed teenager with a crush.

You were standing a little too close for his liking and even if he towered over you, the blaze in your eyes could incite fear in the gods.

“Just because I'm nice and do things for you doesn’t mean that I like you, Jason Grace,” you say adamantly as you cross your arms over your chest. He notices the smudge of soot on your cheekbone, and thinks it looks quite pretty against your complexion.

“Of course.”

“I gave you the wristwatch shield as a welcome gift,” you say next, to which he nods since it’s a fact.

“Of course, I didn’t mea—”

“I mean you’re always protecting others, so I thought someone should protect you for a change,” you mutter, watching him scratch the nape of his neck as your smile spreads like gasoline touched by a lit match. He can’t help but embrace the burn (His serious demeanor is broken by the smile on his face, so big that it almost hurts).

“But you are right, I do like you. Suppose we’ll have to do something about that.”

Thinking hard about the confession that left your mouth, you look like you’re working through a methodical problem to solve— finding the missing piece to a puzzle instead of making the son of Jupiter's face heat up like a thousand suns. He reckons there’s an ambush inside of him as something starts to work harder than usual, not his brain overridden by battle tactics and that of survival— but his heart, beating fast like a well oiled machine (and more importantly like a normal teenage boy). 

Jason reaches out to rub the soot away from your cheek, but when you pull him in by the collar of his shirt to kiss him, he finds himself to be stained by you all the same.

[areyoudreaminof]

Worth The Wait: An Elucien Week Playlist

Happy Day One of @elucienweekofficial! Enjoy this playlist of songs about fate, love, and patience that I hope inspire you!

Tracklist and lyrics behind the cut!

Love Letter From the Sea to the Shore-Delaney Bailey

Cause you hold in my tide I would die a thousand times Just to see you in another life I think I loved you in a thousand ways 'Cause you remain stagnant on my trouble days No matter how far I drift away You'll be there when I come back one day

Silence-Before You Exit

Talking Why's everyone always talking? Noise in my head, but it’s nonsense I can't feel nothing Guarded Don't overthink how we started Knew from the second you walked in This could be something Everybody’s looking for a love to start a riot But every time I look in your eyes The world gets quiet

Comin' Around Again-Amber Marks

So let's see where the night goes Maybe love's comin' around again

Why Don't You-Cleo Sol

Why don't you just let go And quiet down your ego Don't complain about finance I know your daddy weren't a real man Go ahead and live your dreams To me you're stronger than a whole team

I wanna see you smile Even when you think I'm angry It's true it might take a while But it's between you and me

Homemade Holiday-babygirl

Homemade holiday Catching rays, wearing shades Inside, dead of the night Who needs pearly gates? You’re the same, hear your name I die, bye bye

Forever & Always-Zeph

Honey, now we're older, but we'll never age I don't think my love will ever start to fade My attachment to you isn't subject to change My heart's yours forever and always

The Day That I Met You-Matilda Mann

But then you called, only to say You'll never love somebody else this way And though I'm still battered and bruised I forgave the world the day that I met you

The people talk, it's background noise I don't wanna hear nobody else's voice There's somethin' sweet about your scent It's like lavender came and never left

Garden's Heart-Natasha Khan & Jon Hopkins

I hear a whisper in the trees Where I am you and you are me You need to find a way back here Remember what I said: The space that is in between You have to fight it

Love Sneakin’ Up on You-Bonnie Raitt

Fever turns To cold, cold sweat thinkin about things we ain't done yet Tell me now I gotta know, do you feel the same? Do you just light up at the mention of my name?

Till Forever Falls Apart-Ashe & FINNEAS

Out on our own Dreamin' in a world that we both know Is out of our control But if shit hits the fan, we're not alone

Jupiter-Flower Face

We can leave right now, never come back home You're all I need Forget everything that we used to be Take me to another place, fly me up to Jupiter We can run away But I'll always feel at home with you

Lucky For You- Novo Amor & Gia Margaret

Lucky for you I’m nothing without The thought of starting all my days With the mornings when I see you I’m bored of staring at my face Every morning when I need you

coffee-Miguel

Old souls we found a new religion Now I'm swimming in that sin, baptism Peach colored skies we feel the sunrise Two lost angels discover salvation Don't you wish we could run away now?

Sardine Song-Lav

If I had a home It would be our tin can Caught in your red hair Breathing in salt and making you swear Please Who do I have to be? I'll dip myself in honey Climb into the spaces in between your teeth

Ends of the Earth-Lord Huron

To the ends of the earth, would you follow me? There's a world that was meant for our eyes to see To the ends of the earth, would you follow me?

Unicron Loev-Raleigh Ritchie

There’s something about you That takes my blues away Life’s nothing without you I can’t get through the days I’ll never be cynical ‘Cause you wouldn’t have it I believe in miracles, I believe in magic

Morning Dove-Genevive Stokes

We don't talk much When I'm around you I'm a statue When you're running I can't catch you But it's not time There's a way to your defiance so I'll wait to break thе silence

I'm On Fire-Bruce Springsteen

Sometimes it's like someone took a knife, baby, edgy and dull And cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my skull At night, I wake up with the sheets soakin' wet And a freight train runnin' through the middle of my head Only you can cool my desire Oh, oh, oh, I'm on fire

Worth the Wait-Kali Uchis

Most people don't know how to love, that's why they're empty Nothing will ever be enough, that's why they envy Gotta be careful with my heart because I love deep

How Deep is Your Love?-PJ Morton

How deep is your love? I really need to learn 'Cause we're livin' in a world of fools Breaking us down, when they all should let us be We belong to you and me

Taglist: @born-to-riot @asnowfern @cauldronblssd @dawneternal @foundress0fnothing @goddess-aelin @goghwilde @kataravimes-of-the-shire @iftheshoef1tz @acourtofladydeath @chunkypossum @amandapearls @climbthemountain2020 @popjunkie42 @queercontrarian @rosanna-writer @tunaababee @temperedink @lainalit @xtaketwox @cursebrkr @octobers-veryown @separatist-apologist @separatist-apologist @the-lonelybarricade @jules-writes-stories @velidewrites @melting-houses-of-gold @panicatthenightcourt

[wartakes]

A Duty to Protect

Not gonna lie, I grappled with whether or not to do this one. I very nearly decided to trash it after having already written 99% of it. But, I've decided to share it anyway in an effort to talk about things going in Gaza (and elsewhere) right now while getting back to the roots of what I started doing War Takes content to begin with. Full essay under the cut.

Folks, I'm gonna be straight up and down with you: my heart hasn't fully been in it lately when its come to writing and posting and generally doing War Takes stuff.

That's not to say I didn't care at all about what I was writing about – whether its been in these essays, or in posts on social media, or what have you, but it definitely felt like ever since October 7th and the resulting Israeli War in Gaza, that I've been stuck in an ever deepening malaise (something that I'm sure many people who feel trapped watching events unfold feel). Obviously, what's going on in Gaza in particular and the Middle East in general not the only conflict I care about; I still feel very strongly about what's going on in Ukraine, Myanmar, Sudan, and on many other battlefields against fascism and brutally the world over, but what's going on in Gaza seems to specifically epitomize how the world feels right now. That there's a million fires burning, with innocents screaming in the middle of the flames, and the response of so many governments appears to be to hand gasoline to the person stoking the fire (if not pouring it on themselves) and then turning to you to say "actually, you're terrible for not thinking that this is okay" and yelling at you on Twitter for it.

The point of this long winded allegory is, I've been in a rut, the result of which is I've started to slip into becoming too focused on the here-and-now or the near-future in these essays, when one of the main reasons I started writing them is to try and think to the future, to a time when maybe, hopefully, we'll be in a better position to actually take action against the myriad of problems at home and abroad. Talking about the here and now is important, but you quickly become reminded of just how powerless we can be in the current moment, and then drive yourself insane by the perceived need for you to do something to fix all the world's problems right here, right now, when you quite simply cannot.

None of this means you should give up, nor give into apathy, despair, nihilism, doomerism, or whatever -isms you may be tempted with succumbing to. You can and should still do what you are able to make things better in the near term, but with the understanding that there are hard limits on what you can accomplish (barring massive, sudden, seismic shifts in society that you will probably only recognize once you're in the middle of them or on the other side). As one of my good online friends November Kelly recently said, you need to make your peace with powerlessness and keep your powder dry, while holding out hope and biding your time for the moment in the future when you and others will finally be able to make a substantive difference and change things for the better.

One of my ways I have always dealt with this feeling of powerlessness in the here and now, is thinking about how I would try to do things differently in my field in that hypothetical future where the United States tried to exercise its power in a more just, humane, and progressive manner. It was really the crux of why I started writing these essays, feeling that many on the Left were unprepared for a hypothetical, hopeful day when we'd be able to actually exercise power. Many of my first wave of essays dealt with thinking forward to that hypothetical better future, but I feel like in the last year or two I've gotten away from that for a number of reasons (the sheer hopelessness of some current events being one of them), so in this essay I'm going to try my best to try and get that mojo back.

In the hopes of tapping back into that original spirit of why I started writing War Takes essays, I'm going to try and link some thoughts for the future, to the ongoing event probably most responsible for my recent funk and lack of inspiration: the War in Gaza. In thinking closely about Israel's actions in Gaza since October 7th, and the response (or lack thereof, rather) of the Western world towards it, I managed to find some renewed vigor in considering how I would deal with the ongoing conflict and associated genocide if I was in a position of power.

Oh, but before we go any further, one quick housekeeping measure that probably doesn't matter but I'm going to do anyway just for the record because its been a while:

Hamas are not good and I don't support them.

I am focusing on Israel here because the scale and scope of what Israel is and has been doing to Palestinian civilians so utterly dwarfs the things that Hamas has done (which are also bad) and because the things Israel has been doing since long before October 7th set the conditions that caused October 7th to happen in the first place by making it inevitable.

Ok, that's out of the way. Let's get down to brass tacks.

Murderers Hate Him! Stop Genocide With This One WEIRD Trick!

After nine months of war in Gaza, I recently came to a realization.

I believe at this point, based on my own personal gut assessment, that even if the United States finally came to its senses and began to exert serious pressure on Israel – diplomatic, economic, and otherwise – that it wouldn't stop what its doing in Gaza and in Palestine and the Middle East in general.

I think even if the United States brought all manner of power to bear, enacting more stringent economic sanctions and arms embargoes, supporting prosecution of Israeli political and military leaders as war criminals in international venues, and so on, that Israel would not stop its actions.

Something in Israeli politics and society snapped on October 7th. To many of us who have looked upon the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict with clear eyes, we knew from the start what might happen and that what Israel is saying and doing now is not necessarily new. But while not new, Israel's actions against Palestinians and throughout the Middle East have reached new extremes, going into overdrive. The proverbial mask has truly come off, as the many videos and photos from Israeli soldiers documenting their numerous war crimes in Gaza have already demonstrated.

As a country that views any criticism what-so-ever as a borderline existential threat, if the United States and other countries actually chose to impose costs on Israel for its actions, it would go into absolute mental breakdown of derangement. After simply delaying one shipment of bombs (not canceling mind you, just “delaying”) while other arms have continued to flow, Israeli Prime Minister Bibi Netanyahu recorded a video temper tantrum lashing out at U.S. President Joe Biden for only giving him 99% of what he wanted. A country only used to doubling down on its bad actions would triple if not quadruple down, fully embracing official status as a rogue state. Even if cut off from its primary foreign weapons supplier in the United States, Israel would leverage its own domestic arms industry and other like-minded partners (like Modi's India, for example) to keep its war – and accompanying genocide – going. It would not stop, because it would be even more convinced that it could not afford to stop lest it risked the very existence of the Israeli political project (something that may not really be that far-fetched given how the way things may go in the mid to long term).

Now, none of this to say that the United States and other countries shouldn't undertake the actions I laid out regardless of Israeli actions. I strongly believe there is an absolute moral imperative to do so, like, yesterday. But that being said, as I looked back on the history of such actions in the face of various forms of state violence of both the intra- and inter-state fashion, that they'd likely do next to nothing to stop the slaughter. It was that reflection on the past that reminded me of the only thing that can stop a genocide, or any kind of armed aggression, in its tracks: armed intervention.

Maybe I'll be proven wrong on this, but so far we haven't been an opportunity to see otherwise, as the few actions leveled against Israel so far have been so minimal as to practically be non-existent (not that its stopped Israel and its boosters from screaming bloody murder about them). And I think the longer Israel is allowed to continue its actions without non-military forms of pressure being levied against them, the less likely such actions would actually stop them if they were used.

This state of affairs leaves only one option as the last resort to stop the violence: large-scale military intervention.

Historically speaking, the only thing that has ever actually, conclusively stopped a genocide is military intervention. This was pointed out very clearly by the non-governmental organization Doctors Without Borders during the 1994 Rwandan Genocide, when they called for military intervention based on one simple reality: doctors can't stop genocide. What can be said for doctors can be said other forms of aid or action short of military intervention. If Israel chose to continue its actions even in the face of sanctions and embargoes and arrest warrants, none of those actions would likely stop them. Even if the world decided to send in all the food and medicine and more that Gazans would need to survive for as long as they needed it, none of that would matter if the IDF would be preventing it from entering in order to perpetuate the genocide further than its weapons were doing directly.

Such a military intervention could not, by definition, be limited either. It would almost certainly need to be extensive, and involve actual boots on the ground. Past perpetrators of genocide have continue to carry out genocide in the face of military intervention, even at the expense of their own war effort. Nazi Germany continued its execution of the Holocaust in the face of Allied advances from both the East and West, taking personnel and resources away from the war effort to do so and continuing to do so right up until its final surrender in May of 1945. In Rwanda in 1994, the genocide of the Tutsi ethnic-minority by the majority Hutus took place even as the Hutu-dominated regime and its military were pushed back by a successful offensive into the country by rebel forces. Not only is military intervention required to stop genocide, overwhelming, fast, and – more likely than not – complete and total to put a stop to the killing as quickly and completely as possible.

I realize such an action would not be without significant costs and risks, as well as almost certainly violating my own strongly held beliefs that I've stated before that regime change should not be imposed from outside and must come from within. To address the latter issue first, I acknowledge this apparent contradiction, and my only answer would be that I continue to stand by that view – to a point; and that point is the case of genocide. Once you reach that point, I think imposition of regime change from the outside not only becomes acceptable, but morally and ethically necessary to ensure that all the apparatus of state power in that regime are no longer being used to carry out genocide. In that sense, I see it less as a contradiction, and more of an order of priority.

To the point of costs and risks, I have less good answers other than I simply acknowledge that they exist and are hefty. In terms of costs, a massive military operation to put an end to a genocide in Palestine by way of direct combat with the IDF would cost a great deal in blood and treasure and would result in a long-term occupation that could potentially go very badly if not planned and executed properly. In terms of risks, aside from the risks associated with conventional warfare with the IDF, the issue of it specifically being a (undeclared) nuclear-weapons state is a necessary specter to raise – one that has given many a U.S. and allied planner sleepless nights envisioning a conflict on the Korean Peninsula ever since North Korea acquired its first nuclear weapon. Again, I have no good answers here other than, the risks are high and the costs could be just as high if not higher. But, it if we are truly to stand by our principles and not simply pay them lip service as others have, we have no choice but to accept certain risks and incur certain costs in the name of our shared humanity. Additionally, there is an additional cost imposed by the absolute imperative to ensure that one genocide is not simply met with another in response – something that cannot and must never be acceptable. The invading forces would be duty bound to go to great lengths to ensure that it prevented such a response and did not engage in one itself, working to set the stage for some kind of workable reconciliation in the end state to follow.

Of course, sadly, all of this discussion is purely academic at this stage, as such an armed intervention is in large part, impossible under the current geopolitical circumstances. Such an intervention would require the acquiescence, if not the active support and involvement, of the United States of America. Such involvement is completely unimaginable, given the United States' unshakable "rock solid" and "ironclad" support of Israel, even as its violence against civilians has grown more blatant, wanton, and brutal since the war began. Even if intervention was attempted without the United States, it would almost certainly engage all levers of national power – including its own military force – to prevent such an intervention from being carried out, having already utilized military force to protect Israel from outside attack after its own actions threatened to expand the war in Gaza into a true regional war (something that still, unfortunately, remains a very real possibility in the weeks and months ahead).

So, we find ourselves once again in a low point due to unwelcome and harsh truths about the reality we currently face vis-a-vis the ongoing genocide and other acts of mass violence and aggression tossing cold water on what may be the only real route to put a conclusive end to it. But, as always, we can't give into despair and give up. So, what can we actually do? It is that topic that I will close us out on (and hopefully maybe pull you up out of any funk I may have dropped you down into – sorry).

Never Again (But This Time, For Real)

Right now, as powerless as we may all feel, we can and must still do everything we individually can to try and help the people of Gaza – to say nothing of all the other peoples suffering from aggression or the threat of genocide, be it in Ukraine, Sudan, or elsewhere. As much as it may feel like a single lonely drop of water in a very large ocean, our actions do mean something, even if they aren't directly silencing Israeli guns or stopping U.S. bombs from being shipped to them. But while I'm not admitting defeat, I'm accepting, grimly, those previously mentioned limits on what we can do now with the way things are in our current domestic political system in the United States and the current international system.

With those aforementioned limitations in mind, I turn my mind to the future, as I've tended to in previous essays and have in some ways gotten away from. I turn my mind to a day when we have a government and a society in this country that has a different view of the world and our role in it. I turn my mind to a day when we as a country and a people view the world through a more just, progressive, democratic socialist, humanitarian lens. Quite frankly: I look to the day when we take all the truisms and platitudes and cliches of liberalism at home and abroad and actually hold ourselves to them – because at the end of the day, how much of socialism is simply taking all the nice fluffy things that liberals say that they want to do (both at home and abroad) but then actually, in good faith, doing them?

When that day comes – and I have to believe in my heart of hearts of that it will come – even as the world is better, it won't be perfect. There will still be forces that seek to do harm and commit grievous acts in the name of any number of causes. As long we exist as people, there will be those with the intent and access to the means to do harm that will be able to motivate some to do that harm in their name. To be blunt: there will still be "Israels", even if there is not still an Israel, and to that end: there will still be “Palestines” that they wish to subjugate and "cleanse" through violence; and when the opportunity presents itself, those who wish to commit another genocide will take their chance to do so.

When that day comes, it won't be enough to simple condemn those who are committing genocide or working towards it; it won't be enough to sanction them, embargo them, isolate them and turn them into a rogue state (if they aren't already). Likewise, it won't be enough to offer our profound apologies for our past inaction towards or active enabling of past genocides; it won't be enough to commit to various material ways to try and offer penance for our past sins towards those we wronged in the past, working tirelessly to repay a debt we will never be able to fully to repay. All of these things won't be enough (though to be absolutely crystal clear, we should do all of them anyway).

No matter what else we do in response to genocide, it won't be enough in the face of a new one emerging, unless we take actual, direct action to stop it – preferably in its infancy; and as has already been established, the only way to do that will be by force of arms, on the battlefield. If we are not prepared to do that, we will quite simply fall into the same "say one thing, do nothing" patterns of behavior that have been the norm for decades. Despite coming out of World War II and the aftermath of the Holocaust with a proclamation of "Never Again", the geopolitical competition of the Cold War provided cover to an assortment of mass-murder campaigns that we now only retroactively and belatedly recognize as genocides. When these became impossible to ignore post-Cold War in places like Bosnia and Rwanda, the developed world doubled down on "Never Again" with the "Responsibility to Protect" - but functionally very little changed. While in some rare instances, great powers and developed nations may do the right thing and intervene to stop slaughter of civilians, the reality is that what gets to be called a genocide and require action has depended on how politically convenient (or not) it is for those with the power to take action. If we do not take actual steps to break with this broken and heartless system when we are in a position o do so, we will become everything we have ever hated. We have to go further than a "Responsibility to Protect"; it must become a "Duty to Protect," one that is impossible for us to ignore or shirk no matter what the circumstances.

This need to be able to actually stop genocide by force reinforces the need for the democratic socialist project to be serious about actually achieving and maintaining power and accountability. Protesting (and even posting) is admirable and indeed necessary, but in the long term we still have to be serious about actually engaging successfully in politics and eventually being in a position to make and enact policy that is in keeping with our ideology and its core ethical and moral beliefs. We have to eventually be in a position where when the time comes, we have the means at our disposal – military and otherwise – to ensure "Never Again" is no longer a sad and infuriating punchline in history that is only selectively applied (if at all), but has meaning; "Never Again" won't ever mean anything, unless it comes from the barrel of the rifle and we are in a position where we have the will and ability to order a person carrying that rifle into combat to do so. Likewise, “Never Again” won’t mean anything if we don’t take such action in a way consistent with the ethical, moral, and legal principles we claim to be upholding, working actively to prevent another genocide in response to a genocide.

Time and time and time again, whether its in these essays, or on social media, or just in conversation, I talk about how I resist doomerism and strongly believe that we can, must, and will make things better both in this country and in the world. There are many reasons for that. One small, but not insignificant reason for it, is admittedly: cope; it helps me from falling into total dysfunctional despair in the here and now when I feel powerless. But the biggest and most positive reason I maintain hope that we can make things better, is simply because we're all worth it. We as people, all of us – ourselves and our friends and families and more – have value and worth and are worth fighting for. But that comes with the understanding that sometimes that operative word of "fight" will need to be literal and not just figurative. When it comes to preventing and stopping genocide, the literal interpretation will be essential if we are to be true to everything we claim to believe.

It is with that, I leave you once again. I hope with everything going on at home and abroad that you all find your own ways of fighting through the morass of despair and hopelessness and fighting on in the good fight. Until next time, keep your chin up and stay safe. Photo credit: Mikhail Evstafiev

[solcorvidae]

I've been thinking about how Lambert, Eskel, and Geralt all deal with the trials and how it shapes them into the people they would grow to become.

Lambert remembers his past. He is angry, upset, bitter, and vindictive. He's got this fire in him that is only stoked by the pain and suffering forced upon him. He remembers the boys who did not make it: the hell they all had to go through, and he has a complicated relationship with Vesemir that surrounds it. Lambert does questionable things that Geralt is bothered by in his grief and anger. Geralt calls him out for killing in cold blood, needlessly and mercilessly.

Lambert avoids Vesemir at Kaer Morhen and mocks him when he is not around. He may come off as childish and like an asshole, but Lambert knows what he feels. Lambert doesn't lash out because he can't control his emotions or because he doesn't understand the path of least resistance. He knows. He chooses to avoid conflict with Vesemir at Kaer Morhen by keeping out of his way. He knows he can't control his emotions effectively if he is face-to-face with him for too long. He knows, and he isn't stupid.

Lambert talks to Geralt about the trials and the injustice of it all. He probably looks up to Geralt, hoping his brother feels just as angry about it as he does. He went through the Trial of the Grasses twice for Christ's sake! Why is he not more angry? Why is he so apathetic?

And Geralt brushes him off time and time again. Such is life, is his attitude. We all went through it, he says. Geralt can't be upset because there is nothing he can feasibly do about it. He didn't choose to be a Witcher. He wouldn't have chosen this life. He would have some other job somewhere else, just like he told Regis. He can't change the past. He can't go back and fix something he never had control over in the first place. Besides, they can’t inflict the trials upon a new generation of kids, not anymore. It’s in the past now, so why dwell on it? What’s done is done and thank god no other kids have to suffer the way they did. It’s over. It’s time to move on.

Geralt doesn't enjoy fame. He tells Eskel this in To Bait a Forktail. Geralt is the famous twice-grassed White Wolf. He is The Witcher. The famed Geralt of Rivia. He has expectations piled upon him the size of mountains. He's got to be the perfect Witcher, he's got to be a loyal brother, a lover, and a best friend… Geralt had expectations put upon him that set him aside from the rest since he was a kid. He hates it. Underneath the banter and the wit, Geralt accepts that this is his life, but that doesn't mean he likes it. He tolerates it because it is his reality and nothing more. If he thinks about it for too long… maybe it will consume him.

"You remember her?" he asks Eskel about his mother.

Unlike Lambert, Geralt hardly knows what it means to live another life. He doesn't have that following him like it does with his brother. What little he remembers is not enough to erase the apathy drilled into him at such a young age. Maybe he has a more strict moral code than say, Lambert, (or if you want to bring in the other Witcher schools, most of the Cats and the caravan) but that doesn't make him the most ethical person on the Continent. How could you be? After all that he has endured, the things he was taught? Where do you draw the line? He kills monsters, but like in Velen, it's hard to see where the line's drawn in the sand.

Humans are monstrous too.

Eskel, however? Maybe he's jealous. He did everything right, why shouldn’t he be? He is superiorly skilled in magic, one hell of a good Witcher. He has a reputation for it. Maybe he's not as kind as your average person, but he gets the job done. He's got a more relaxed demeanour than his brothers which reveals itself in his reputation. He's reliable. He is damn good at what he does. So why does Geralt get all the attention? The fame? He clearly doesn't want it.

While Lambert got turned into a vindictive prick and Geralt became a quick-witted nihilist, Eskel? He's exactly who he should be. Why shouldn't he be praised for it like his brother? Why should he be forced to bend over backwards to accommodate people and keep up with his reputation? For what? His skills? Ha! He lives in the shadows of Geralt who's notably a good Witcher, but he's not quite as good as Eskel.

Eskel was beaten shaped into the man he is today because of the trials, his training, and everything else. Should he not get credited for that too? Why does someone who doesn't even want his fame get all the recognition? Genetic predisposition? Shouldn't his hard work be given more consideration and praise? Thank god Geralt survived the hell of being subjected to two rounds of mutagens rather than one, but why should that overshadow the efforts, the time, and the sacrifices that everyone else around him has made? Eskel is exactly the man that they intended him to be by the end of it all. He is an efficient hunter, he is outstanding with signs, and he works diligently for his reputation. He did everything right. He does everything right. Why is that not enough?

TL;DR: Lambert, Geralt and Eskel handle their traumas in different ways. Lambert gets vengeful, Geralt gets apathetic, and Eskel gets borderline jealous. (And it breaks my heart)

[azrielgreen]

remember why you started

it can be so easy to start creating for others and stop doing it for yourself, but that's where it fucks up every time. there has to be a pure vein of creation just for creation's sake, for your own wild and weird indulgence in the things that caught your attention and stoked your passion. when you trade that for external praise, you begin to lose your natural love for the core experience, and it becomes work. you become obsessed with numbers, with interactions, your "place" among others and before you know it, some bullshit hierarchy has formed and all that matters is no one overtaking you, no one doing the things you were doing first because what if they do them better? what if people stop looking at what you're creating? what if you gave everything you had, and everybody leaves anyway?

create for yourself. create for YOU and you alone, in at least one area of your life. not for money, not for attention, not for validation. just one little piece of fertile earth preserved for your weird little universe of exploration and inspiration and delightful failures and unexpected brilliance.

of course it feels wonderful to have people praising your work, to have touched people in some small way, to be SOMEONE, but here's the thing. you already were someone. you were you. and this attention, this validation and praise and interaction... it never lasts. it can't last. everything passes. the only way to truly get people to stay longer than they would, is to give everything you have and more, to break yourself down into pieces and sell them off one by one, become a content machine, or worse, to become a person who steps on others to be taller. someone who polices what others create.

but none of it is real or lasting. tumblr isn't real. twitter isn't real. the cliques aren't real. of a hundred people you know in your fandom experience, three of them might be true friends.

what is real, and what lasts, is what you create.

that's what people will find in ten years time when scrolling AO3 at one AM after a horrible fucking day, if the internet hasn't gone down forever, and that is what touches people. not the things you made purely for validation or comments or popularity. the art you made for you. imagination through the lens of a person whose experiences have shaped them uniquely, beautiful and strange and unknowable to someone else who has not had that same life experience, yet there, available, open and inviting, would you like to feel something new?

so please, when you find yourself dedicating more time to your socials and the construct of your online persona than the actual thing you were creating that first set fire to your passion, think about this. if it won't matter in five years, don't give it more than 5 minutes.

when you find yourself thinking "if i write this, people will really love it and respond to it, it's what's popular right now, everyone's talking about it, this will get me back where i was before" my darling, no it won't. creating for the sole outcome of interaction and praise and attention is a waste of your beautiful energy.

i've made plenty of mistakes, i'm still making them as i go along, but i have never stopped creating for myself and i never will.

people will write the thing better than you, they WILL get more attention, comments, reblogs, impressions, likes, kudos, you'll never hold onto the height of it, because everything changes, everything passes and that's how it should be. passion is river; depriving your interests of momentum and variation will make it a stagnant pond. embrace the new, trust that it will feel good again in new ways and just keep creating what you love, for the one person who needs it most - you.

you make art for yourself first.

that's why you started.

you made the thing you couldn't find anywhere else, your way.

and THAT is what will last.

[tj-dragonblade]

[FIC] The Beauty of the Beast

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling (Hob x Dream) Rated: E Word Count: 3153 Tags: Top Hob, Bottom Dream, Dream of the Endless is a Horny Little Weasel, werewolf Hob, rough sex, mildly rough and very enthusiastic on all counts, werewolf, werewolf sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, knotting, wolf sex, for just a minute

Notes: We're a touch late for everything this was meant to be a part of, shh. Written for: Smoctober day 1, full moon Smoctober day 10, scenting Smoctober day 13, claws Monsterfucktober bingo, were-creature square Dreamling Nation House of Horrors, making out prompt And also pulling in Smoctober day 16, in the woods

Summary: Recently-turned werewolf Hob wants to protect Dream from this new side of him. Dream is. Not interested in being protected.

On AO3

~~~ "Moon's coming up soon."

The words are muffled against Dream's throat, followed by the faint drag of teeth; Dream shivers. "Yes."

"It's full, tonight." The wet warmth of Hob's tongue follows behind his teeth this time, and Dream purrs.

"Yes."

"You should—you should go."

The way Hob is clutching at Dream belies his words, and Dream's mouth turns down in a smug little moue of disagreement. "I think not."

Hob whines. "It's not—you know I'm happy to see you, always, I just—" His hands paw at Dream's waist, seeking skin beneath the layers and layers of sheer silk that make up Dream's robes. "Just…can't…"

Clearly his instincts are warring with his capacity for words, and Dream is moved to help. "This is only your second moon, since being turned."

"Yes, right, and it's—I'm not very good at—at controlling everything yet. I don't…I don't want you to see me like that."

"Hob." Dream cards gentle fingers through Hob's sweaty hair, cradles him close. "I am not in the habit of casting judgment upon you, not in all our centuries of acquaintance. Do not think me so callous as to start now."

Hob shudders, noses hotly from Dream's shoulder to his ear, breathing him in the whole way. "I might—hurt…I don't want to hurt you."

Dream threads his other hand into Hob's hair as well, guides Hob's eager mouth up the length of his throat and over his chin, tightens his grip and pulls Hob's head back until their eyes meet. "You cannot harm me, Hob Gadling, nor can you. Hurt me, in any way that matters." Hob's eyes are dark with lust, with the shadow of his impending transformation, and something in Dream thrills to the sight. "I would have you share this new facet of yourself with me, that I might know all of the ever-changing man who lays claim to my heart."

The noise Hob makes at that is very canine, a whimpering sort of whine, and he buries his face in the crook of Dream's neck again, inhaling shamelessly.

"Do you know how incredible you smell?" He's nosing into Dream's hair, panting, clutching at Dream's ribs.

"Tell me," Dream breathes, enchanted by this side of Hob, the rapid waning of his inhibitions by the moment.

"Always smelled good," says Hob, nosing down the side of his neck, kissing his bare shoulder where his robes have slipped. "But now it's so much more. Soft sheets n' clean air. Starlight." His parted lips trace over Dream's skin, back up behind his ear, and Hob inhales again. "Winter skies. When the moon is rising an' the frost's like diamonds in the trees."

"Such poetry, Hob Gadling," Dream breathes, and pulls Hob's head up and around to kiss him.

It is a thing of heat and urgency, this meeting of their mouths; Hob whines, surging forward, Dream pushing back, deftly avoiding the nip of Hob's teeth, biting lightly at Hob's lips in return. He coaxes Hob's tongue into play, stoking the fires of arousal between them until he feels near to combusting from the fervor of Hob's attentions.

"Wanna fuck you," Hob slurs, all breathless raw lust and desperate unfiltered passion as Dream finally draws back from the kiss.

"I should be gravely disappointed if you did not," he agrees, a gasping acquiescence, vanishing his robes for the sake of having Hob's hands upon him faster.

"But I'm about t'change, I can't—" Hob shudders all over, head to toe, hands splaying over Dream's narrow naked back despite himself. "You want me like that? You don't mind I'll get…feral?"

"Do you think, truly, that the king of nightmares would disdain the affections of a werewolf, whatever his state of transformation?" Dream presses himself up against Hob, groin to chest, pushes his hips brazenly forward and pulls one of Hob's hands to grip his arse, to indicate to Hob that he should take such liberties himself. "Feel, how you arouse me, how I want you—"

With a whine, Hob seizes the backs of both thighs and yanks them apart, lifting Dream up and around him, and Dream is. Delighted, to note the thrill that runs through him to be manhandled thus. His arms have wrapped behind Hob's neck already and he dives in for another kiss, eager, demanding.

Hob meets him with tongue, with teeth, the promise of devouring in the growl that rises in his throat, and then Hob is turning, stumbling forward; he throws Dream onto the bed with a soft bounce and crawls after, panting, trembling.

The moon is nearly cresting the horizon.

Dream opens his legs, wide, inviting Hob between them. "Take off your clothing, that it might be spared—" He is tugging at the hem of Hob's t-shirt, yanking it up and off over Hob's head, and then Hob falls upon him as he is attempting the confounded buttons of Hob's jeans. Hob's mouth is hot and wet and desperate, mauling Dream's with delicious fervor; Dream manages to open Hob's fly at last and immediately he plunges a hand inside, beneath underwear, seizes the hard length of Hob's cock with a groan.

Hob cries out, gasping, rutting into Dream's fist until Dream lets go, grasping at the opened trousers and wrestling them down Hob's beautiful hairy thighs. Hob drops his face to Dream's chest, mouthing at his skin with abandon and wriggling to help be rid of his jeans, kicking them off at last and grabbing Dream's arms, pushing them up over his head. Dream stares back with challenge and invitation simmering in his gaze, but Hob has buried his face in Dream's chest again, inhaling deeply and moving over a nipple with a passing lick, dipping down to scent up the side of Dream's rib cage to under his lifted arm, where he laves his tongue in long licks.

"Want you," he whimpers, eyes fever bright when they turn to meet Dream's from that vantage. "God, Dream, I want you so bad—"

"Then have me, Hob Gadling." Dream's own want shivers through him, prick throbbing where the hair of Hob's belly drags against it, and he is bereft at this point of all but the thinnest veneer of patience and pride. "Have me as you wish to; let the moon shape you anew and sate your appetites upon me—"

A sliver of moonlight spears through the window and Hob rears up, head thrown back, lets out a fearsome cry as his form shifts. His arms and legs go sleek and sinewy, claws growing in on his fingers and toes; the hair on his body thickens and spreads into proper fur, rich and golden brown. His cock juts proudly between his thighs, glistening dusky red and dripping, and he has sprouted a tail which bobs eagerly behind him as he falls forward again, caging Dream between his arms. His hair is longer, shaggier, ears tapering up into tufted points; his face is somewhat elongated, velvety fur along the burgeoning shape of a muzzle, nose keen and twitching, sharp teeth bared in excitement. And his eyes—

They are still Hob's eyes, dark and warm beneath the feral veneer, and they still burn with want of him.

"Hob, my Hob—" Dream wraps eager legs around Hob's body, draws Hob in to where he has made himself slick and open and ready, and Hob slides easily home with a whine. His hips move on instinct, immediately finding a rhythm until he is fucking with glorious abandon, and Dream arches his head back, moans his pleasure, digs his heels into the sleek fur of Hob's buttocks. Hob's tail brushes his toes intermittently; Hob's clawed fingers rake over his skin, clutching, possessive, soft pink lines rising along Dream's arms and ribs in their wake. Dream reaches up, buries his hands in the thick glory of Hob's mane and kisses his jagged mouth, tongue skirting the dangerous teeth with ease.

He caresses the soft velvet tip of Hob's ear and Hob tilts into it, needy noises spilling from him as he breaks the kiss; he licks a stripe up the length of Dream's throat, bites at his chin, tucks his reshapen face into the crook of Dream's neck, scenting him as before.

"Smell good," Hob manages, voice a guttural fractured shadow of his usual tones but lavishing the same ardent praise upon Dream, who thrills at the duality of it. Hob is still fucking him with delightful abandon; he rises up, leans back on his knees—knees which are still more human than canine—and grasps Dream firmly by the hips, careful with his claws. The full moon through the window casts the golden tones of his fur in molten highlight, magnificent to behold as he towers above Dream. He pulls Dream down onto himself in the same motion as he's thrusting in, and the deep jolt of pleasure has Dream's head lashing back, voice rising, back arching. He lets his arms fall above his head, the picture of passive debauchery even as his legs clench and shift about Hob, heightening Hob's rhythm, and when Hob speeds up just a little bit Dream cries out as orgasm tears through him like wildfire.

Hob grunts his satisfaction as Dream comes down from it, draws out despite the fact he clearly has not yet come. He shuffles about, clawed hands careful as they push Dream higher along the bed until Hob can dip to the mess on Dream's stomach. He laps it up, cool nose and warm tongue going everywhere—Dream's abdomen, the spent length of his cock, his testicles and the creases of his thighs. Dream arches into the attentions, already wanting for more, petting restlessly through Hob's hair as Hob finishes cleaning him up.

"Taste good," Hob says, looking up, overlong tongue curling across his semi-canine nose and licking his own short muzzle clean. He rises up and his claws grasp Dream's hips, and there's a sound in his throat halfway between growl and purr with nothing of humanity in it. It is clear in his demeanor that he wishes to resume fucking; it his clear in his eyes that he wishes assurance that Dream is amenable to whatever happens next. "Dream—" His claws flex, grip tighter.

His name spoken in that gutteral, primal voice swells the currents of want within Dream, makes him ache with need. He pushes up on one elbow, reaches to caress Hob's face with tender desperation, thumb running soft and restless over the fine fur, reaching to stroke behind his pricked-up ear. "Do as you please with me, beloved," he pants, keyed up, fraught with anticipation. "I am at your mercy, I submit to your ardor, willingly—"

And abruptly he finds himself thrown onto his front, lifted and turned and tossed down again so swiftly as to seem instantaneous, with Hob heavy atop him, pressing him into the bed. He is not rough, precisely, but neither is he gentle; his hands are all over Dream, grasping, claws pricking. His breath huffs hot against the back of Dream's neck, followed by his tongue, which then travels in lapping strokes down the knobs of Dream's spine to his open hole. Hob noses into him with an eager huff and Dream whimpers, clutches at the bedclothes and spreads his legs wider. Hob licks at him enthusiastically, little grunts and whines of delight, claws pricking at the backs of his thighs as he presses them still further open; his thumbs brush along their soft inner curves, claws gentle, and Dream is left trembling with want at the perfect balance of care and danger implicit in that touch.

He whines, bereft, when Hob at last abandons his hole and licks back up, up, until Hob is looming over him and setting first tongue and then teeth to the nape of his neck, a careful scrape that makes him shudder, makes him moan, makes him beg.

"Hob—please—"

Hob rises up, plants one clawed hand between Dream's shoulder blades, presses him down with a breathless growl. His cock bumps along the cleft of Dream's arse and Dream shudders, ready, wanting, his patience spent. Hob's hips move, the tip of his prick nudging at Dream's hole and Dream whines, trembling, thighs spread as wide around Hob's splayed knees as they will go. His voice spills from him, short and desperately eager.

"Have me—take me—Hob, please—" Hob's cock slides swiftly into him all at once, all the way to the hilt, and Dream gasps a short shuddering moan, squirms fruitlessly in pursuit of more. "Be ruthless in your use of me, Hob, my Hob—!"

Hob is nothing if not obedient.

Dream surrenders readily to the molten relief of finally being well and thoroughly fucked face down in Hob's bed, one of Hob's clawed hands gripping the back of his neck and the other laced with his own from behind; he gladly allows himself to be pinned thus. His face is mashed sideways into the pillow, muffling his open-mouthed cries somewhat; his hips are pushed up to welcome every fierce thrust, open and greedy, wanton in his need to let Hob claim and consume him. He struggles experimentally, mewling like prey; Hob's clawed grip clenches tight on his neck and the snarl that tears out of Hob's throat nearly has Dream coming again.

Hob somehow increases the ferocity of his thrusts and Dream trembles in his implacable hold, giving voice to his pleasure as Hob slams into him again and again and again, crying out as Hob moves faster, harder. It is exquisite, everything, a savagely beautiful inferno kindling within him, roaring to life in a glorious conflagration of possession, of claiming, of lust and want fulfilled.

He will feel Hob deep in the core of him for days.

It is precisely what he wishes.

He knows full well that he will not last, not in the face of Hob's primal vigor; indeed, all too soon he is verging on climax and frustratingly, exhilaratingly, there is absolutely nothing he can do about it. Hob pins him down and pounds him inexorably up to the precipice and then over into the throes of orgasm, continues relentlessly as Dream shakes and sobs with it, fucks him mercilessly through it such that his eyes are streaming with the sharpness of his pleasure and his voice has gone ragged, hoarse. He thrashes in Hob's grip, crying out breathlessly, body spasming around Hob's pistoning cock again and again; Hob pins him all the more firmly, fucks him snarling and growling all the harder until he is coming again, helpless, screaming and overwrought, mindless in his pleasure and soaking the pillow with his tears and saliva.

And then, and then Hob comes, at long last, howling to the heavens, and the heat of his spend flooding into Dream is exquisite; the way his body swells to keep them locked together after is the most precious and priceless sensation that Dream can imagine. He sobs and squeezes himself tight around it, unable not to, still shaking, and revels at the feel of yet more spend jetting weakly into him, oozing from Hob as Dream clenches hard on his knot and bears down again and again to milk him dry.

Hob collapses to his side at last, Dream caught close up against his velvety chest, furry-sinewy arms wrapped about Dream's ribs and stomach. He noses contentedly into Dream's hair, snuffling his scent, and Dream lies fucked out and slack and blissfully content, the fullness of Hob swollen within him, lets all of his disparate thoughts drift idly together, slowly coming back to himself.

He is not offended when Hob falls asleep still tied inside him, wrapped possessively around him. He is the Shaper of Forms. It would be less than a thought to shift himself free of the knot, out of Hob's lax hold, to return to his own realm and find Hob there.

He waits it out, content in Hob's embrace, warm, sated, coveted and treasured.

When nature has run its course and Hob's cock at last shrinks from within him, Dream slips free of Hob's corded and clawed arms and out of the bed, turns and leans over Hob's half-shifted form, presses a kiss to the furry slope of his forehead. "Sleep, Hob," he murmurs, breathing his power into it, and Hob's body loses all tension, transforms smoothly and quietly into his full wolf shape. He snuffles into the pillow with a little whine, still deeply asleep; Dream gives him another kiss, this one brushed to his snout, letting Dream's scent waft into his twitching nose. Hob snuffles again, contentedly, and Dream draws up the bedclothes to where Hob can easily reach them when he changes back in the morning. Dream has seen the vague shape of Hob's worries in nightmares, of running rampant, of causing harm; his power will ensure that Hob sleeps soundly through the night, at home and at peace.

He expects to find Hob in his usual human shape when he slips naked back into the Dreaming with the leavings of their lovemaking leaking from his body, but it is Hob's full wolf form that greets him—whining happily, tail wagging, nosing eagerly between Dream's legs to lick at the mess spilling down his thighs. Clearly Hob's appetites are yet unsated, as Dream had hoped, and Dream entertains the thought of kneeling for him just like this, of allowing Hob in wolf form to mount him and claim him while he yet wears his human shape.

But such privilege, he knows, is sweeter if one is made to work for it.

He shapes himself as a wolf, then, sleek and night-shaded where Hob is broad-chested and finely colored, and drops to all fours while Hob is still nosing about his genitals, eagerly scenting and licking. He draws away, presents his backside with tail raised in invitation; he allows Hob a few licks of interest there, where the remnants of their waking tryst have left him wet and open and ready. But when Hob sets paws about his flanks and moves to mount him he jumps away, flicks his tail lightly across Hob's snout and dashes off, checking over his shoulder to see that Hob follows.

Hob is leaping after him in an instant, jaws grinning open; Dream shoots into the underbrush and races deep into the dense woods of Hob's dreamscape, thrilling to the sounds of Hob's pursuit. He leads him a satisfying chase, always barely out of reach among the trees just ahead, tantalizing, a tease, and when Hob howls with exhilaration, Dream echoes him in kind. And when at last he allows Hob to catch him, to wrestle him to the ground with teeth clamped in the fur of his neck, to mount him and fuck him and knot him again, the surrender is all the sweeter for having been earned.

=== Started: 10/13/23 Drafted: 10/31/23 Posted: 11/2/23

Title from the Nightwish song of the same name: You told I had the eyes of the wolf Search them and find The Beauty of the Beast

[blueraineshadows]

*slams credit card on the table*💳💥 💳💥 i would sell my soul for a continuation of where seb and mc left off after he slipped that ring on her finger

😆 gotta love a cliffhanger! Here is the fic where Seb slipped a ring on her finger ---> HERE

Picking up where Seb has Apparated MC and himself away from the confrontation in Hogsmeade, and they are now in his Feldcroft cottage. NSFW 🌶🔥❤️

She didnt know how long they had sat, kissing, on the floor. She thought that maybe it could never be long enough. They had so much time to make up for. But then, Sebastian stood and held out his hand to her. MC took it and he helped her to her feet. He cupped her face, gently. "Are you alright?"

She nodded. The adrenaline of facing up to William like that had worn off, and tiredness pulled heavily at her, but she felt safe. "If someone had told me I would be standing here with you at the end of the evening, I would have thought them quite mad."

"Same," he said, smiling. His thumb brushed against her cheek, his smile fading. "Any regrets? I mean, what he said about your reputation, your job. Would he really make life that difficult for you?"

"He might," she sighed. She put her hand over his, her finger tips grazing gently over his knuckles. "But I could never regret leaving with you. I just wish I'd had the nerve to find you sooner."

"Well, we're together now," he said. "Let's not worry about William tonight. He can't get to us here. We can figure out our next move tomorrow, but whatever it is, I am going to be right there with you. And next time, I wont think twice about hexing his arrogant mug."

She nodded. At his mention of being here together, alone, her eyes drifted towards the curtain that closed off the sleeping area of the cottage. Her pulse skittered and she looked back at him.

"There are two beds," he said. He really had a talent for reading her like a book. "We don't have to share one if you'd rather not."

MC was reminded of the offer William had made to her only that morning, the very reverse of this one, trying to convince her to share a bed with him. The very thought had made her blood run cold.

Now, standing here with Sebastian, she realised that the thought of being parted from him, even if only across the room, was too much to bear right now. It had taken them years to finally be able to hold each other. How was she supposed to let go?

She cleared her throat. "Is there somewhere I can freshen up?"

"Of course," he said.

He warmed some water for the basin, and found a shirt for her to wear. When he went out to fetch some more fire wood, MC went behind the changing screen and began to loosen the ties for her dress. The corset was so tight, the back having been laced by William's house elf, a grim mouthed little thing she hadn't much cared for.

MC tugged and gave a frustrated groan at the blasted thing. She hated corsets and frivolous silks. She missed the freedom of cotton blouses and duelling trousers, much preferring sturdy boots to little kitten heels. She kicked off the offending heels and tugged the stockings from her legs.

The sound of the door announced Sebastian's return, and MC paused to peek around the changing screen. He put the logs in the basket before kneeling before the fire, feeding it to boost the flames. A swirl of chill night air had come into the cottage behind him and goosebumps spread up her arms.

She bit her lower lip, watching the way his shirt moved across his shoulders as he stoked the fire. Her intake of breath was a little shaky, and she pressed fingers to her collar bone, smoothing along the skin he had kissed, remembering hia searing kisses. She shivered.

She ducked back behind the screen, turning to face the wall, hand pressed to her throat against her fluttering pulse. "Sebastian?" She called. "Would you mind? I could do with a hand."

She heard his footfalls as he approached, her heart in her mouth, but she didn't turn to look as he paused by the screen. She could hear his breathing, feel the burn of his gaze on her back. "Could you help loosen the laces of my corset, please? It's too tight for me to do it properly."

"Of course, seeing as you asked so nicely." She could hear the smirk in his voice.

He joined her behind the screen, and anticipation made her body burn, the seconds stretching between the pause of his step and the feel of his fingers on the laces.

Her own fingers toyed with the silk of the gown, the bodice of which was pooled at her waist. He tugged at the laces, a knuckle brushing against the skin of her back, and she felt the corset begin to loosen. She sighed a little in relief, her breasts relaxing after being squished behind their bonds.

Once the corset was undone, her hands fluttered in front of her breasts, nervous. Should she hold the corset in place and dismiss him? Or, should she let it fall away from her flesh? She felt the last lace pull free and the corset sagged. She realised she was breathing a little faster, the sound soft in the confined space behind the screen.

Sebastian placed a warm palm between her shoulder blades, the touch gentle, and then his hand smoothed up to the nape of her neck. She sighed again, closing her eyes. She felt her breasts tighten at the touch, the peaks hardening against the loose corset.

Then, he was sliding the pins from her hair, slowly, one by one, his fingers easing her locks free to spill down her back. Another shiver washed over her at the feel of his hands in her hair. It was intimate, personal, and it filled her with a need so strong she could almost taste it.

His hands cupped her shoulders, smoothing down her arms to her hands where he linked their fingers. He lifted her arms just enough and the corset slid forward, exposing her. He was closer, she could feel the heat of his breath at her ear, it was as fast as her own soft gasps. She squeezed her fingers around his, hungry to feel those hands on her skin.

The heat of his mouth moved lower and he pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. She tilted her head to give him more access. His lips moved, his kisses becoming firmer at her willing invitation. The corset slid to the floor, forgotten, his hands releasing hers to skim her waist, sliding smoothly over her skin to settle below her breasts.

Her head fell back with a gasp, the movement lifting her breasts, begging for his caress. He was so gentle, a whisper of skin against skin as he cupped her, a thumb teasing softly over one hard nub. She moaned, the sound so close to his ear, it made him exhale sharply.

So intent was she on the feel of his hands caressing her breasts, she hadn't even realised that one of her own arms had reached up to thread fingers through his hair. His caress moved to her sides, finger tips smoothing over the reddened marks where the corset had pinched her. He bent to press a soft kiss there, just below her breast, his tongue swirling over the sensitive skin.

She turned, needing to see him, his face was soft, his eyes darkened by his desire. She felt a sudden shyness, her arms hovering in front of her breasts. He held her close and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "We can stop," he whispered. "As much as I want you, I would never do anything you didn't want. You're safe with me."

She fiddled with the front of his shirt. "I want you too," she said. She felt a blush warm her cheeks. "It's just...I've never done anything like this before. I've never..."

She swallowed and looked down, but he caught her chin with gentle fingers, lifting her gaze to his. "Never? Not even with your fiancé?"

She shook her head. "He wanted to, but I couldn't. I didn't want to because...he wasn't you."

Sebastian's eyes widened in surprise, he even blushed a little. "I'm not sure I deserve such an honour."

Her gaze dropped to his mouth and she wondered how many girls he had kissed, how many times he had taken one to his bed. It hurt her heart to think of it, but how could she blame him? He had owed her nothing. But, how could she ever live up to the girls who had come before her? She wanted to please him, she wanted him to feel the pleasure that he gave her. The brief touches she had already tasted held so much promise, her body burning desperately for him. She wanted to return that.

"Can you show me how?" The words were a whisper. "I don't want to disappoint you."

He held her face. "Listen to me," he said, firmly. "You could never disappoint me. You must never think that. Look at you! You're beautiful, just one look at you sends me spiralling. It drove me crazy seeing you in the pub earlier, so close and yet so out of reach."

"When you touch me it's like I'm going to be swallowed in flame," she admitted. "I've never felt like that with anyone. Just you."

"I have to admit, I do like the way that sounds," he said. A gleam entered his gaze. He leant his forehead against hers, his eyes on her mouth, his breath hot. "Mine, and only mine."

Her pulse fluttered and she stared at his lips, her tongue sliding to wet her bottom lip. "Will you take it?" She breathed. "Take what is yours, please."

The passion in his kiss seared through her, his tongue sliding into her mouth, claiming her as she had asked. She clung to him, arching her body to feel the warmth and safety she craved from him. He tugged at the last fastenings of the dress, his patience now gone and he yanked hard, the rending of torn silk reaching her ears. The dress sank to the floor and he lifted her out of it, carrying her to the bed.

He placed her on top of the blanket, pausing to shed his own clothing before joining her. Her eyes were greedy, taking in the toned muscle, the soft trail of hair that led down below his navel. And, of course, the hard shaft of his arousal.

She leant up on her elbows, a little breathless at the sight of him, even a bit intimidated by the size. She squeezed her thighs together at the thought of him inside her. But then he was kissing her, his mouth tasting her skin, moving down to take a breast into his mouth. She gasped, her hips lifting to aid him as he slid her underwear free. Now, they were both naked.

She pulled him against her, moaning at the feel of their skin finally pressed together. She moved against him, delighting in the friction.

"You feel so good," he gasped. His hand moved to her hip, rocking her against him, his arousal digging eagerly against her thigh.

She smoothed her palm over his behind, moulding it, loving the feel of it after admiring the way it curved through the fabric of his trousers. She moved her hand over his hip, hovering close to where he throbbed eagerly for her. He took her hand and guided her, wrapping it around his length. She looked down, fascinated, as he showed her how to stroke him. A sound left his throat and she smiled. She was making him feel good. It made her feel empowered. He wanted her and she could give him what he needed.

He returned the favour, his fingers seeking out her heat and she gasped, her thighs instinctively parting for him. He stroked with slow, deliberate caresses, her slick spreading to ease his teasing. She couldn't help the sounds that fell from her lips, her head fell back, and she was like a desperate, wanton thing. He swirled over her clit and she cried out, a pressure building as he stroked to a rhythm that had her panting and clutching at him.

She didn't think it could feel any better, but then he slid downwards and she stared, wide eyed as he moved his mouth close to where his fingers worked. Heat flooded her cheeks at the intimacy of this gesture and then he was kissing her there. His tongue replaced fingers and she thought she might actually die, the fire inside her flared so dangerously. She was soaring to a height that made her head spin, her pelvis rocked, the need to grind against him almost unbearable. "Sebastian," she panted. Her fingers gripped at his hair. "Oh...oh..."

She felt the dip of his fingers, probing gently, sliding slowly into her as his tongue drove her higher. He pumped his fingers, twisting and curling them, picking up the pace. She could hear the wet, desperate sound of herself, the pressure almost unbearable but Merlin's beard, she did not want it to stop. Her arm flung out, fingers gripping the blanket, tugging at the fabric as though she was about to slide off the edge of the world.

And then she felt a deep clenching sensation, fiery waves of delicious release washing over her, and her eyes squeezed shut, an animalistic sound bursting from her lips. She was breathing so hard and fast as her body became fluid, sinking back into the mattress, spent.

Sebastian withdrew his mouth and fingers, she whimpered, not just at the loss of him, but also at the little pulses of aftershock. He gathered her in his arms, pressing kisses to her breasts, her neck. His hand smoothing along her waist and down to spread her leg wider for him.

"You're amazing," he whispered. He kissed her mouth, his lips and tongue hot and wet. She could taste herself, and wondered briefly how he would taste if she took him in her mouth. She moaned, her hips flexing. She felt him reach down, the press of him against her slick folds.

"Relax," he urged. "Deep, even breaths. You're doing great, so fucking perfect."

He moved to kiss her ear, his tongue sliding along the outer edge. She could feel the fire reigniting, the coil of her need twisting into life. He pressed into her, his tip nudging gently, in and out, easing her. "That's it," he whispered into her ear. "Good girl. I'm going to fuck you, I'm going to make you mine. Is that what you want?"

She flushed hotly at his filthy words. Her breathing hitched madly in her throat, her body arching greedily. "Yes," she moaned.

He pressed in deeper and she felt the sting, the stretch. He stroked her, kissed her ear, easing back out and then in again. "Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned. "I need you."

She gripped his hips, lifting her own to meet him, her heels digging into the bed. With each gentle slide of him, in and out, the sting lessened. She moaned as the new, full feel of him began to send waves of tingles deep inside her. She glanced down, watching as he thrust.

His face was set in concentration, his brow creased, his lips parted with his pleasure. She could see the restraint he was clinging on to. The sting was gone, and he felt so good, so right.

"More," she urged.

He met her gaze. "Does it feel good?"

She nodded. He watched her, eyes lidded, and he thrust deep. She groaned and he slid right back, for a desperate moment she feared he would pull out all together, and she sank her finger nails into his hip, urging him to stay in. He smirked and thrust firmly, sinking all the way in. Her moan was his reward.

She couldn't tear her eyes from his as he kept up these deep, hard thrusts. She could feel that pressure building, making her soar higher again. This time, she knew what it meant, and anticipation tingled on her tongue.

He looked down at where they were joined. "Oh fuck," he panted. "Fuck, yes."

His words sent sparks of flame through her. Who knew she liked dirty talk? The rough edge to his voice was a massive turn on, she wanted more. She slid a palm down his chest, her finger tips trying out a teasing pinch of his nipple. He moaned, the sound giving her a thrill, so she pinched again, harder.

He shifted to lean on one elbow and then he began to thrust harder, faster, his other hand reaching down to grip under her knee. He bent her leg up, easing her open so she could take him even deeper. She felt the slide of him against somewhere deeply sensitive inside of her and she arched, his name spilling from her lips.

Her release gripped her, a sudden deep clench that made Sebastian utter a low growl, he buried his face into her neck, his teeth biting down into her skin. She whimpered, stunned at the raw emotions rushing through her, her body pulsing around him. And then he, thrust deep, holding himself there as he spurted his own release. She could feel the throb of it, her arms holding him close, his heart thundering against her chest.

For a while they lay quietly, holding each other, savouring the closeness. She nestled her face against his warmth, breathing in his scent, feeling a tension slide from her. This was absolutely where she belonged. She had known it back in the Three Broomsticks, and now it was confirmed.

She brought her hand up to look at his mother's ring on her finger, no, her ring. He had given it to her. He wanted her by his side forever. "When do you leave?" She asked.

"We leave in two days," he said. She looked up at his choice of words. He smiled. "How do you feel about Italy?"

"Isn't that where you just travelled from?"

He nodded. "It is, but I want to take you there. I want to see it all again through your eyes."

Her heart danced in her chest. This was actually happening! "I will need to fetch my things, and say a few goodbyes, Poppy will have wondered where I ran off to."

"We can do all of that," he smoothed her hair back from her face. His eyes grew serious. "I will never forget how you stood in front of me, blocking me like you did. When you reached back for me, holding yourself to me..."

He paused, swallowed hard. "I already knew I loved you, but what you did, it said more than any words. When he caught us, I thought you would have gone to him, but you didn't."

"I realised it was what I had always wanted," she said. "I had to stop letting William make my choices for me. It would always be you, Sebastian. Always."

....*....

When MC awoke, the bed beside her was empty. Immediately, she sat up. Wrapping a blanket around her, she moved out from behind the curtain and saw Sebastian with an owl, a letter in his hand. "What's that?" She asked.

He turned to her, pulling her closer to kiss her forehead. "Good morning," he said. He held up the letter. "From Ominis. I sent an owl after you fell asleep last night. This is his reply. He is meeting us in London when we collect your things."

"Really?" It would be nice to see him again, she realised. "What about William?"

"Oh, you don't have to worry about him," Ssbastian said, his smile smug. "Ominis thought him a right prick, and has already used his connections to make sure he won't be a problem. Your reputation is perfectly intact. As for William's..."

MC widened her eyes. "My goodness! But, why would Ominis do all that for me?"

Sebastian frowned. "Why would he not?" He took her face in his hands. "I love you, he knows that, and he also cares for you, he wants us to have what we have always wanted. Each other. Like me, he would do whatever he had to in order to keep you safe, happy. People care about you, MC, people love you. You will never have to suffer the likes of William again as company."

Her throat felt rather thick all of a sudden. "Thank you."

"Ominis is also going to bear witness for us," he said. He slid a thumb over her lips, pressing a kiss there. "After collecting your things, we will marry. We can leave for Italy as man and wife. If you still want to, that is?"

"Oh, yes, Sebastian," she said. She wrapped her arms about him, the blanket slipping free of her grasp, but she didn't care. She was no longer shy of him. She clung to him, his arms strong and warm as they held her close. "It is exactly what I want."

[geraltofriviacollection]

Chapter Eight

Paring: Geralt x Reader

Summary: Reader is thrown into the Witcher’s world. Will she survive? 

A/N: sorry that I haven’t posted anything in a while. I got a promotion at work and things have been crazy. Please enjoy this next chapter. I have not edited or proofread. Please do not repost, translate or copy my work without permission. Please leave comments! ❤️

The journey to The Temple of Melitele is a tense one. All of us are on edge for different reasons. Ciri because we wouldn’t let her kill herself. Geralt because he thinks Ciri is always hurling herself to deaths door and myself for well all of that and what’s coming next in this fucked story. The panic of what’s going to happen to Ciri comes crashing against me in waves. I know they are both picking up on my strange behavior.

Our first night away from the Witchers keep is oddly quiet. Once we have finished eating Ciri immediately settles into sleep. Something that I find out of character for her. Normally she is a chatter box full of questions, asking Geralt and I for stories. I walk over to the other side of the fire where Ciri has tucked herself into her palette.

“Are you alright? You’ve been rather quiet today.” I ask her softly as sit looking down at her young face.

“I’m fine.” She says not meeting my eyes. I narrowed my eyes at her before replying.

“Is this still about us not letting you become a Witcher?”

“No, This is about me not being able to make my own choices.” She explains finally looking at me.

“Ciri, I know why you want to sacrifice yourself so badly, but even after you will still have the guilt you feel at surviving what others did not. We want you to make your own choices. We also want you to make those choices for the right reasons.” I gently stoke back a loose piece of her hair before pressing a light kiss to her forehead. “Get some sleep.” I tell her before leaving her.

I walk back over to my spot on the other side of the fire. I stare at the flames so deeply I don’t notice geralt's return until he places a few larger sized logs he found on the fire. He comes and sits next to me while we both watch the warmth dancing in front of us.

“Is something going to happen?” Geralt ask breaking the silence. I look at him with shock and a questioning look. “I can tell now. You start behaving differently before.” He admits.

I feel that light ache as if warning me from saying too much. “Things have changed in ways that I didn’t expect and knowing but not knowing always sets me on edge.” I sigh, placing my head in my hands, rubbing my eyes with my palms. Geralt pulls my hand away from my face and I find myself staring into golden eyes that reminds me of the sun itself. He looks at me gently stroking the back of my hand with his thumb.

“ Most would have ran off by now but you are still here. Stop overthinking and underestimating your ability to handle whatever may come. You can’t let fear consume you. Ciri needs you….I need you.” He admits. His words bring heat to my cheeks.

The softness of how he looks at me makes my heart begin to pound in a new way. I swallow as my throat feels dry in the intimacy of this moment. My tongue darts out to wet my lips and his eyes dart down to catch the movement.

I take his advice and bring my lips to his before I can overthink it. My eyes close as I move my lips against his, it takes a second to realize he’s not kissing me back. As I start to pull away he places a on the back of my neck as his thumb strokes my lower jaw and he kisses me back. The kiss is full of emotion that I can’t place. His tongue darts out and licks the seam of my lips. I squeak in surprise. I feel him as he pulls away. His thumb lightly strokes over my swollen bottom lip. I open my eyes to see a strange expression on his face.

“What is it?” I ask, pulling his hand from my face.

“I may not be able to give you what you want.” He says looking down at our entwined hands. He stands and starts to pull away from me. The reasonable part knows I should let this go and never speak of this again especially because of what’s yet to come. I start to let him go but a voice whispers “He might not choose her.”

I grab him tighter, stopping him from pulling away from me. “I want you to give me what you can and I will do the same for you. Only what we can.” I emphasized,looking up at him. He pauses for what feels like a dozen beats of my heart. Then he turns back to me and looks back down at my hands before meeting my eyes.

“Only what we can.” He agrees before sitting back down next to me. Geralt grabs my hand again and we simply sit there staring into the fire.

The next day I’m consumed with the thoughts of Geralt's lips on mine and the ‘only what we can’ agreement will mean when we get to the temple. Even after Geralt's encouragement not to worry I can’t help but have some anxiety of what’s coming. The day has passed by with my being stuck in my own head. I have to force myself to tune in to the beginnings of an argument between the two of them.

“…..We were safe.” Ciri says. This is the first time I have head her speak since we left Kaer Morhen.

“The trial of grasses isn’t safe.” Geralt replies. I sigh already knowing where this conversation is going. It’s enough to make me want to throw myself off Roach just to not have to hear this argument again.

“Not Listening again.”

“You want to kill yourself trying to become a mutant so if you survive you can killl yourself trying to get revenge. Which part did I miss?” Geralt dully remarks. Ciri opens her mouth to reply, I cut her off.

“We are not starting this all over again. I feel like I can literally say what is coming next from each of you. You both make good points. I mean for goodness sakes both of you…”

Geralt pauses Roach and looks up at the trees. A small tingle runs down my spine. As the air becomes still. We continue forward reaching the lake.

“This is the shallowest part of the river. I’ll check that it’s safe to cross.”

“What do you mean safe?” Ciri ask

“I’ll try and draw it out first.” He says look out to the water.

“Draw what out?” Ciri frowns. If he could just give a little more detail on the front end I swear we could save hours worth of this.

“It’s some type of chernobog.” Geralt answers.

“I don’t know what that is.”Ciri Replies.

“I’m sure whatever the hell it is, it's not good.” I mutter under my breath. Geralt tells us to say where we are and he walks into the water. He’s only thigh deep when a monster with wings appears out of the sky. Ciri calls Geralt back as the beast nears. My heart starts pumping harder.

Geralt pushes the monster back with an invisible blow. It recovers before flying back, geralt tries to hit the beast again but only catches the foot. The thing screeches and makes a dive toward us. Geralt shouts for us to get down. I push ciri from the horse. She tumbles to the ground. I push off just as something catches the back of my right shoulder. I cry out as I finally hit the ground. Geralt shouts for us to run.

Ciri and I get up and run for cover as Geralt looks around for the monster. After a few moments Geralt motions us out from where we’re hiding. Ciri runs to roach , seeing her on the ground. The deep cuts on the end of her body from the monster. Ciri and Geralt both lean down to comfort her. I look away, tears forming in my eyes.

“Is there anything we can do?” Ciri ask. Geralt pulls a small knife. Ciri walks to me and places her head on my shoulder. I hear the sound of roach’s last breaths. I hum to ciri to cover over the sound of the knife cutting into Roach. Geralt stands, I pull gently away turning from Ciri and place a hand on Geralt's arm. He brings his large hand to cover mine.

“I think we might have a problem.” Ciri calls out a bit frantically.

“What is it?” I ask turning back to her. I grab her face turning it from side to side. Pull away and look over her. “Are you hurt?” I ask still inspecting her. She steps back from my hands and look behind me with wide eyes. I turn to Geralt. “What on earth is wrong?” I almost shout panic is rising in my throat.

“You’re injured.” He says walking up and turning me around.

“I don’t feel anything” I tell him to try to pull away.

“That’s either shock or adrenaline.” He places his hand on my right shoulder and I jolt away from him. The pain slams into me at his touch. “I think you got caught by the claws jumping from Roach.” He explains. I twitch in pain.

“Stand still.” He almost growls.

“Well now I can feel it and it hurts.” I say still squirming. He holds a firm hand on my neck and shoulder to stop me from moving as he places a bandage on it. “That will have to do for right now to slow down the bleeding.” He says tying the last knot I wince a bit. The monster screeches coming back for a second go around.

“It’s time.” Geralt says walking over to ciri. “Are you ready for this?” He asks, looking at her. Ciri nods her head saying yes and Geralt gives her instruction to go up on top of the rock. She looks at me and I nod encouragingly. She heads that way and Geralt turns back to me, pulling a small bottle from his pouch drinking the contents. The black webs form around his face and when his eyes open blackness. Has covered the golden hue I have found myself so fond of. “Stay here.” He says before stalking forward into the forest.

The beast spots Ciri from the rock and aims right for her diving down. I feel the warmth come and my skin begins to glow as the beast gets closer. I have a ball of light aimed and ready when Geralt appears from nowhere and slices through the best causing it to fall crashing to the ground. The forest shakes as the huge body lands.

We continue on our journey and my back stings in pain from the rake of the bog monster's claws. I’ve definitely slowed down the pace of the entire group. The Temple of Melitele finally comes into sight after hours of walking. I stumble as we pause to look. Geralt shoots me a look before walking over to me and placing a hand on my head then grunting. He turns me around my back facing him and I stand there looking at Ciri.

“You’re losing too much blood.” He says pulling the quickly made bandage away.

“Will she be alright?” Ciri calls out looking past me to Geralt as I hear something tear behind me and something presses against my wound. I grit my teeth at the feeling.

“I'll be fine. I’m sure the temple has talented healers that will fix me right up.” I reassure her. She comes and holds my hand in comfort. Geralt puts more pressure on my wounds I grunt. He holds it there for a minute until he begins tying things back in place. Once he finishes he moves in front of me and just stares.

“Can you make it the rest of the way?” He finally asked me. I nod my head, I start walking to prove how fine I am. Something happens behind me and I hear their footsteps join mine. A short time later Geralt scoops me into his arms.

“You can put me down. I’m fine.” I tell him quietly glancing over a Ciri who is strangely interested in the sky without clouds. I look back up at Geralt who just grunts and rolls his eyes.

“You’re slowing us down and I would like to reach the temple before night falls.” He says looking dead ahead. I start to open my mouth but he cuts me off. “This is me giving you what I can.” He leans down and whispers. My mouth closes and I settle back in his arms with pink cheeks.

@freegardenbanananeck @kas0417 @lillianacristina @mxtokko @wonderlandfandomkingdom @lovemesomuchhh @novaacanee

[son-ofthe-father]

"Father told me to tell you that dinner is ready."

"I'm Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, my father is the priest of this village. I'm nineteen, and when father retires, I'll inherit his church. I usually spend all of my time at home in our modest little house an hour away from the village where father works. 'To preserve my innocence, he says.' I spend my time doing household chores, since mother passed when I was young and father has no time for house-keeping."

Fyodor looked up from where he was nibbling on the end of his thumbnail, bringing his hand down quickly when his father came into the room.

He looked down innocently and nodded his greeting as his father dismissively waved Fyodor off with a, "Be sure to get dinner prepared, the minister is coming over tonight."

Fyodor sighed again before looking back up. "The minister is a close friend of father's, which means he gets to do more than just look at me as I do small things like stoke the fire in the fireplace or change out the ashtrays. It's not something I particularly enjoy, but I have no say."

Fyodor thought for a moment, mumbling to himself before speaking again. "Oh, ah, sometimes people visit while on their way into town, and sometimes they stay the night. Father lets them sleep in the barn, since the home is only big enough for the two of us. Occasionally, those men called cowboys visit. Father doesn't like them, calls them the dirt of the civilized world, but he lets them stay anyways since he's so generous."

"I think that's all, did I answer all your questions?"

Hi! This is my 6th Fyodor blog! This blog is based on a fanfic called Homegrown Soteriology by Cash_Drabbles on AO3. This is purely my spin of him and I do not claim the idea of this AU. This is simply an idea I got after reading the fanfic.

Warnings for this blog: Religious trauma, potential (explicit) NSFW, religious themes, period-typical homophobia, homophobia, religious guilt, suggestive themes, negligence, implied abuse

I recommend not interacting with this blog if you do not wish to come across any of these themes.

Main blog - @vinnncentias

Tag list - @juniper-bunch

Other links:

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[jiubilant]

Does Shurri get up to visit frozen Winter(hold) wonderland much to see her pa after the two reconcile?

In some particulars, Shiv thinks, she's sipping tea with a stranger. So is he. But some things haven't changed.

"The game," she announces like a bookie, unfolding the pegboard across the page-strewn desk, "is halatafl—"

"Mind my cup," says the Archmage of Winterhold, and whisks it out of the way with one hand. His face cuts peevish through the steam. "We can't just play draughts?"

"—in the vernacular," Shiv continues virtuously, ignoring him, "known as wolf"—she drops one of the two red-painted pegs into its hole, then taps it with a claw—"and sheep."

She places her second wolf with predatory delicacy, then arranges the rest of the pegs on his side of the board: twenty of them, white as lambkins, to her two. Her father, swathed in the sort of sumptuous silk dressing-gown that he'd once eyed wistfully in Taarie's store—and a frumpy fur rug, because silk's not worth a sneeze in his freezing hold—begins to look interested.

"Ah," he says, smiling with one side of his mouth. "Well. If the odds are in my favor."

Shiv grins at him with all her sharpest teeth.

* * *

"Again?" she asks after the third game.

"Ai," says the Archmage. It's the sort of gusty Velothi exclamation she'd heard every day of her childhood—after climbing down from the roof, usually, or coaxing him to buy her a bag of havreflarn. He turns a despairing smile on her. "It hasn't been an hour?"

"Half." She smiles back with just her eyes. "You might win this time."

The old man makes an eloquent face. "Set the board."

It's one of those northern nights best spent, Shiv thinks drily, in the south. Or playing board games. The stone walls of the study, glacial to the touch, muffle the wailing wind. Ice crusts the eye-shaped window behind the Archmage's desk; it rattles in its frame, battered by the blizzard's white fist. But she's stoked the fire bright, and the little room is warm where the firelight spreads.

It glints on two empty teacups and the Archmage's rings, garnet and gold, as he reaches across the board. His fingers twitch above the pegs. They curl, but don't bend. He watches his hand contort itself like a spider for a moment, patiently, then leans forward in his wheelchair and—with his other hand, the steady one—closes the spasming fingers around one of his sheep.

"If only," he murmurs, amused, "one could magic the pieces to move of their own accord."

One could, in a college for wizards. Almost everyone could. Shiv watches him move the peg. He practices with the palsied hand, stretching it, writing, picking things up and putting them down, for at least an hour a day. He's getting better at it. The letter he'd sent her after his latest fit—apoplexy, he'd called it later, and gently explained that it would likely happen again—had been so scrambled and smudged that she hadn't even finished it before throwing herself at the High Queen's feet, like a trophy pelt, to beg leave of her court.

Now, two months later, he's well enough to stay up late and lose at tafl. She can probably bring up things that might distress him. She hasn't.

"I've been thinking more, of late," he's saying, "on that sort of thing. The, ah, the everyday good that magic could do—the great help it could be to those with, with hands that shake, or bones that ache, and suchlike, if it were only more commonplace." His eyes travel, thoughtful and sharp, across the board—navigating his next three moves, as usual. "My cane leaps into my hand when I drop it. Why doesn't everyone's?"

Within a year, Shiv thinks, every walking-stick in Winterhold will be doing somersaults. "Used to be that Rafe would crawl under tables for it."

"You, too," says the Archmage. A smile creases the side of his face that still moves. "Well, not everyone has a Rafe, or a Shurri."

For a moment, looking at him, Shiv forgets the past ten years: the fantastical old hierophant enthroned in the wheelchair, bejeweled on every finger and robed in brocade like a picture in a book, is just Da. Then she blinks, and she sees in his smile the thing that makes him a stranger.

"You're happy," she says gruffly. It sounds like an accusation. She hadn't meant it to. She hadn't meant to speak at all; she listens to her own voice with vague surprise. "You old sharpster."

"It took some doing." Da moves one of his pieces with a soft, contemplative clack. "Are you?"

Something in her face must answer him, because he hesitates, then lays the palsied hand half-open on the desk. She blinks down at it. Then she puts one hard, scarred hand in it and covers it with the other, so that his fingers close.

"Probably I should have just piked," she says, very seriously, "and taken up toll-collecting."

He laughs. She'd hoped he would. "The dread bandit Pushpin?"

"Bodkin."

She wonders how to tell him that the smell of boiled leather makes her sick. That her mail-shirt's rusting to bits in a Haafing chest. That she's stuffed her sword and all the smaller pigstickers under her pallet, and hasn't polished them all month. Her shield-sisters would look at her askance. Her old drillmasters, Terentius and stern Rikke, would clout her on the head.

Da gives her a long, level look. Then he glances down at the board.

"Do you know," he says, surprised, "I think I've won."

Shiv looks down, then snorts. He has. He'd probably rearranged the pegs when she wasn't looking.

"But, yihla," says the Archmage, not ungently, "we play more than one game in this life—"

"Da."

"—and if you don't like the outcome of the last," the Archmage continues, raising the eyebrow that moves, "you can always—"

She wrinkles her nose like she used to do at his arithmetic lessons. He laughs again and relents.

But he does turn the tafl-board, with a calm and pointed look, so that she finds herself playing sheep.

[dotthings]

So over this. Arrogant and officious, narrow minded and phobic entitled stans thinking they have rights to boss anyone else around (while they deny being phobic of course! Couldn’t be them! They’re never the problem! It’s only those evil hellers!)

The idea that to be a good fan you must ignore queer coding and deny the canon intimations when it comes to bi Dean, queer Cas, and Destiel, to be a good fan you can only see it as platonic and straight, needs to DIAF.

So…if we don’t lie about what we see in canon we’re bad fans.

If we don’t comply with fandom fascists telling us we didn’t see what we watched, if we don’t discard our own media literacy, we’re evil and ruining the fandom.

If we don’t go to our knees trying to placate antis then we’re “bullying” and “divisive” and “disrespectful.”

What absolute absurdist dreck fandom theater nonsense.

What an inane media illiterate hateful tire fire.

Every time some twit makes a post screeching that Dean is straight and if you don’t agree you’re violating a fictional character, or that the love of Dean and Cas can only be platonic because spnstan1000 or jaredluvr2brosonly or Jensen4everDeanstan said so they’re stoking the flames on purpose. While they virtue signal about being sane and good fans.

And blaming spn itself misses the point, especially when we know how much work the creatives did to get around the corporate owned entertainment system.

Blame for lack of openness falls on the corporate system. Because the board and the shareholders of entertainment corporations are mostly a bunch of old, white, straight, conservatives who fear change and cling to status quo due to their own biases, where even the CEOs who want change have to tread carefully.

We need to stop trampling over the spn writers on this and also acknowledge antis aren’t reasonable and they will not stop. Sometimes antis happen to benefit from a crummy system.

But even for a show that was queer coded we have every right to our reading and we should own our reading.

Waiting around for open acknowledgment of the kind that has magazine spreads and declarative official PR statements before we’ll do it is just leaving the patio doors open for the fandom wolves who don’t deserve to be given the time of day.

SPN IS MY HOUSE. And I will not be told what to do by destielh8terbrolove3000, or straight Dean evangelists, destielsucks80 or the downright media illiterate gatekeeping, othering culture, and denialism games of arrogant stans.

[sevensoulmates]

A bit bummed buddie is going canon on such a short season but the writers are doing an awesome job (and you guys have waited long enough I just got here lol) so I’m stoked!!! There’s some much potential for fun storylines here I’m so excited!! What are some storylines you’d like to see once they are together? Could be comical or more series

Well, I mean I guess it depends on what your definition of "canon" is. To me, based on the last episode alone, they're already canon (meaning it's basically irrefutable to me that they're going to eventually be in a relationship or be endgame). If by canon you mean "starting a relationship" I actually don't think that's going to happen this season. I think it'll be next season at the earliest. I do have faith that now that the writers/creators are getting a bit more freedom, they're first going to put Buck and Eddie through the personal arcs they need to go through first. For Buck, realizing he's bi and feeling more secure in who he is as a person. For Eddie, realizing he's lived with comphet his entire life and finally accepting who he is and finally living his life in a way that will actually make him happy.

Once they've done that then they'll be able to get them together.

Some things I'd like to see:

-(This might be unpopular but) I want the sperm donor stuff/ Connor/Kameron to come back up. I want Buck to reckon with that choice he made, and truly recognize that he's been a father figure to Chris this whole time. I don't need the baby to be in his life, but just a reference or even a run-in with Connor/Kameron. Something to put a bookend on that storyline now that Buck is settled with Eddie/Chris.

-Chris wants to learn to drive/get a license, and Eddie + Buck have to navigate that worry together

-My heart's biggest desire is for them to just work side by side like normal but just have more small moments that very obviously are indicators that they're together (something along the lines of the scene where Eddie suddenly knew a bunch of fun facts about Goat Yoga, or the scene where they're just chatting while they patched up the dude who broke his leg in the fire at dispatch). Scenes where they work in sync together, but maybe before something dangerous, they share looks or have a private code that means be safe.

-in the same vein MY KINGDOM for Buck and Eddie to have a scene like Bathena had in 2x01 where they meet up between the firetrucks and one of them pushes the other up against the side of the truck and kisses him. My entire life would be made.

-I would like a storyline where Buck gets to meet Eddie's family from Texas a little better. I don't believe that there wouldn't be conflict with them (maybe not straight-up homophobic but I just can't imagine Helena accepting it all so easily. I just know she'd be a queen of microaggressions). I DESPERATELY need Eddie to stand up for himself to his mom in particular.

-(this would be very far in the future) but I want Buck to eventually go out for fire captain. I think he would be a great fit and I think it'd be very interesting for them to have to adjust to such a big change in their work dynamic after X amount of years.

-a motherfucking WEDDING. And I don't want it to be a small thing like a backyard wedding, or a courtroom wedding, or an elopement in the hospital or something. It doesn't necessarily need to be HUGE but I would like a semi-traditional wedding. Idk why but I have a MIGHTY NEED to hear Buck and Eddie's personalized vows to each other and I NEED to see them have their first dance. Honestly, I take back the traditional wedding thing. As long as I get to hear every word of their vows and see them slow dance, they could do it at the firehouse or a dumpster for all I care.

-I'd be interested if Shannon's relatives show up and want to be a part of Christopher's life or something. Or even like, just want to visit him but Eddie's unsure because it brings up bad memories and stuff. I'd be interested to see Shannon's relative's reaction to Eddie with a man.

-OOHOOHOOH EDDIE CHILDHOOD SCENES a la Buck Begins. I want to see what he was like when he was younger to see how much of him has changed since he had Chris, since he went to the military, etc. Dear God I want an Eddie Begins Again.

That's all for now! I gotta make my drive home!