#which she goes along with out of love? obligation? but not out of her own desires

[nessvn]

I CANNOT STOP THINKING ABT RAYMONDE

[mywritersmind]

Lando picking up drunk y/n from the club <3

CAREFUL -LN4

listen up : thanks for the request!! drunk!reader. that look of love. lando just being amazed at her.

word count : 915

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I got the call twenty minutes ago. I left my house nineteen minutes ago. I got here ten minutes ago and still can’t fucking find her.

Y/n called me, not unusual but odd for the time of night. When I answered all I could hear was her slurred words and music. She said something about me coming to the party and I came straight down.

I sigh in relief when I see the girl, her hair is a mess and she’s jumping up and down with her friends and some random guys on the dance floor. I push my way through the crowd and when I finally reach her, she grins wildly.

“Lan!” Her arms wrap around me and I hold her waist to stop her from falling. She’s wobbling on her heels when she faces me again, “You came! Drink time!” she goes to drink her own but is met with an empty cup.

“Hey… you wanna head home?” She frowns, her bottom lip gutting out.

“I wanna head to your-” she hiccups, “Home!”

When her hand meets my chest I suck in a breath. I look to her friends and they thank me, knowing I'm going to get her back safely.

We make it out with people yelling my name or guys hitting on Y/n. I’ve never been more relieved than when we get into my car.

She slumps across the middle console, looking up at me. Her eyes are the kind you could get lost in, and with her lip between her teeth and the sort of hazy gaze she’s giving me, I could really get lost.

I move my eyes away from her, reaching over and buckling Y/n in. She giggles when I push her over a bit so I can secure it.

“Lando!” Her window goes down, “Let’s make out!” I glance over to her, a small smirk on my face.

“Is that a yes?” She rests her head in her hands.

“That’s a no, but nice try.” she frowns again. I would happily oblige if the circumstances were different. The circumstances being if she were sober and actually felt like that for me out of her drunken mind.

“But we’re good!” She whines, putting her feet out the window now, “Soo good!” She leans her head back onto my arm like she’s remembering.

Maybe we had a bit of a makeout at a party some time ago. We were sober but drunk off my win and in the mood for something fun.

She pulls her feet back into the car, shivering a bit, “Tell me that when we’re sober, love.”

“Love…” She mimics my accent, “stop tricking me.”

“Tricking you?”

“Yes! You say ‘Love’“ she mocks me again, “and all I hear is ‘climb on top of me and suck my neck.” I let out a genuine laugh.

“Didn’t know I had that effect on you.” She sticks her tongue out, hearing my tone.

She unbuckles her seatbelt, her dress riding up and making me glue my eyes to the road. She turns her body, snaking her legs onto my lap and tilting her head out the window.

I eye her and am met with this look on her face.

Like she’s been waiting for me to look at her.

The wind is blowing her hair in all different directions, her lipstick is smudged, and she’s fucking glowing.

Her skin gleams under the moonlight, stretching her arms out of the window and leaning into the air more.

“Fuck.” I mumble under my breath, grabbing her thigh instinctively. My cool hand on her hot skin makes her squirm.

“Turn it up!” She yells at me and I do as I'm told. Head Over Heels by Tears for Fears comes through the speakers.

I can hear her wind blown laugh, her arms moving with the wind and then she starts singing… if you could even call it that. She’s screaming the words as I zip down the empty street.

“Something happens and I’m head over heels!” I join along, enjoying the view of her pure happiness.

She air drums which makes me laugh. I try to tell her to be careful but she can’t hear me, my hand tightens on her leg.

“Ahhh!” she screams out of joy, that same grin from earlier planted onto her face. Her eyes are closed, There’s glitter smudged around her eyes. It hits me in an instant how much I feel for her.

It’s ridiculous. How could one person be so beautiful? I reach over and pull her cheetah print dress down, she giggles. When she finally is back in the car, her hair is an absolute mess but the expression on her face is irresistible.

She looks at me once more, her legs still on me and her head against the closed window, “You’re really pretty.” It catches me off guard.

“Pretty?” I scoff a bit and she looks upset that I didn’t take the compliment so I look at her, my gaze softening, “Thank you, love.”

“Not going to say I'm pretty too?” She crosses her arms.

I laugh a bit, wiping my hand over my mouth, “You’re gorgeous, Y/n.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see her frown wipe away instantly. It’s like she sobered up in seconds.

She looks to the road for once, trying to cover her face but I could never miss the blush that joins her freckles.

[florencesf1blog]

Hi :) Can you write an imagine - enemies to lovers with Oscar. They both have been in love with one another but for whatever reason pretend to hate each other. They’re at the same party and some weird guy doesn’t want to leave reader alone so she goes for help to the first person she recognises at the party: Oscar. She goes to him and kisses him and he’s a little surprised at first but he returns the kiss and even grabs her waits (and maybe her butt) and deepens the kiss . And she’s like begging him to play along because that weird guy doesn’t want to leave her alone. And when he hears this he gets into a protective mode and then doesn’t let her alone/ out of his sight for the rest of the party. And the ending can be whatever you want - maybe they confess their feelings or not

please, please, please.

Oscar Piastri x Reader

In which you attend a party, and an unlikely someone saves the day.

Words: 964 Warnings: language, alcohol, inappropriate touching?

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Being close friends with Lando Norris was a struggle. Although, right now it wasn't about his own childish antics. No, this was about his teammate.

Oscar Jack Piastri.

It seemed that everything about him ticked you off. The way he always spoke in such a calm manner, the way he walked around the paddock, his stupid and yet adorable smile, his distracting biceps...

What you probably hated the most about him was how you couldn't seem to hate him at all. You had done a great job at hiding your feelings from him, especially since you two could only argue once you were in the same room. In reality, both you and Oscar are just terribly oblivious and everyone but you two could see it.

"What are you laughing at?" you almost sneer towards your friend, Lando, who couldnt hide the wide grin that was plastered on his face. "Nothing...nothing..." he trails off but he continues to snicker. You nudge his arm callously, a stern look on your face. "Oh come on...you can't expect me to believe that act you put on" he grins. You let out a scoff, brows furrowing. "What act?" you ask him, annoyed that he seemed to be catching on. "You can lie to yourself all you want, but you do not hate Oscar"

-

It was extremely hot in the club, feeling as if you could melt to the floor any moment. It was crowded, loud and flashy. Usually you'd avoid places like these, but with Lando getting his first win here in Miami you felt obligated to come.

You head over to the bar to get yourself a new drink, when you're suddenly reminded of what you hate most about these places. A man, a strange man you had never seen or spoken to before suddenly places a hand on your waist to pull you closer. Before you can even react, he leans down to whisper in your ear, completely invading your personal space as he speaks. "Let me buy you a drink, bonita. You look like you're in need of some company"

Immediately, you push him off of you. In a gentle manner that is, not wanting to cause any trouble. But even as you shake your head no and politely insist that you can pay for your own drink, he wouldn't go. He kept trying to get close to you, putting his hands on you and insisting he'd keep you company.

A sense of panic washed over you, especially once you realized this man was intoxicated. You looked around, continuing to brush the man off while trying to stay polite with your ways and words. Somewhere in the crowd, you spot a familiar face already staring back at you.

Oscar fucking Piastri. Of course. Usually, this would only make matters worse. The guy you hated (or at least pretended to) being the only familiar person around in a situation like this. He stared back at you. not looking away as he noticed the somewhat panicked look on your face. For someone who is supposed to hate you, he felt awfully worried.

"Excuse me..." you mutter, grabbing your drink as you hastily make your way through the crowd. Being left behind confused, the man takes a moment to realize you were walking away from him before he follows after you. He was determined, you'd give him that.

Once you reached Oscar, het put on his usual annoyed face. With an eye roll, he begins to ask: "What are you doi-" before being bluntly cut off with your lips crashing on his. You stood on your tiptoes, leaning forward to reach him with your hands on his neck to stabilize yourself.

It took Oscar a while to react, both his hands on your arms as if he was making sure you wouldn't fall over. He pulls you back for just a moment, but keeps holding on to your arms. "What is going on?" he asks, look behind you to see the same man that had been bothering you before.

"Please, please, please, just play along..." you begin to softly plead. "...this guy won't leave me alone and-" before you could finish your sentence, he leans down to press his lips back on yours. His hand moves down to grip your waist, moving you to stand chest to chest as his other hand moves down to your rear.

The man was left in shock, not wanting to disturb the scene in front of him. He leaves, and once you realize he's gone you pull away. Oscar looks down at you with an unreadable expression, almost disappointed now that you've pulled away from him. You let out a small sigh, feeling your cheeks redden from both the drinks you've had and the situation you put yourself in.

"Thank you" you give him a soft smile, and he gives you a reassuring nod in return. "Maybe it's best if you stay here with me tonight, you know? To make sure no one else bothers you"

The suggestion (though it sounded as if he wasn't going to let you out of his sight either way) makes butterflies swirl around in your stomach. The thought of Oscar being protective over you like this, making sure no one else would bother you, definitely did something to you.

And so for the remaining of the evening, Oscar was plastered by your side. At some point Lando even spotted you two standing awfully close together, his eyes narrowing with a knowing smirk.

You wouldn't tell Oscar how you really felt at the end of the evening, and he wouldn't mention how glad he was you came to him for saving. But after tonight, you could no longer pretend to hate the man you felt so deeply for.

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A/N: my very first work on this account. rewrote this a couple of times and im still not sure if its good or not. it ended up being a little shorter than i imagined, but i didnt want to go too deep into a story i wasnt going to continue. definitely enjoyed bringing this request to life, and i hope its what the anon wanted. let me know what you guys think! :)

[cozy-cinnamon-roll]

A Princess' Guide to Interrogating a Radio Demon (Part II)

(read Part I here!)

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Pairing: Ler!Charlie, Ler!Vaggie, Lee!Alastor (strictly platonic)

Content/Trigger Warnings: tickling, interrogation (in the most playful sense). If there are any trigger warnings you'd like me to add in the future (and/or to this fic), PLEASE let me know! I am always happy to oblige.

This is a ticklefic! If that's not your cup of tea, kindly move along.

First: MAJOR thank you for all the sweet notes and feedback on Part 1 of this fic! I was not expecting such an enthusiastic response, and it really made my week! So grateful to be part of this lovely community 💕

As promised, here is part 2... This one gets a little more intense than the last, but it's still all for fun (and Al can handle it 🤭) So excited to share it with you all!

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Vaggie is never quite sure what she's going to find when she hears a commotion elsewhere in the hotel - especially when it's coming from the direction of Alastor's room.

But nothing could have prepared her for the sight of her girlfriend pinning the most powerful overlord in Hell to the floor, tickling him to hysterics.

"Uhhhh..... Sweetie?"

"He won't tell me where he hid it!"

Vaggie just takes it in for a second. "So you're tickling him?"

"How else am I supposed to get it outta him?!"

"That's an... unconventional method, babe."

Charlie pauses her assault to shoot her girlfriend a deadpan look over her victim (who merely remains sprawled out on the floor beneath her, using his reprieve to take in as much precious oxygen as possible).

"You think I'm stupid enough to threaten real harm on The Radio Demon?"

That remark draws a maniacal little chuckle from the crumpled heap.

"Doesn't sound very effective," Vaggie observes.

But Charlie is too busy growling taunts at her victim again, tazing him in the sides. "Sorry, did I say something funny, giggles? Huh?! Did I?"

Vaggie can't help but smile herself at how hard it is for her girlfriend to keep a straight face during her "interrogation." She pokes and prods and scribbles all over the poor man, until his distinctive cackle echoes from the ceiling. And then she sits back on her heels, practically beaming with delight as he continues to shake with residual giggles.

At one point Charlie flashes her girlfriend a goofy grin. "I really think I'm wearing him down."

"Oh yeah. Absolutely, babe." Vaggie leans back against the doorframe with a smirk. "He really looks like he hates this, doesn't he."

As Charlie goes after his ribs again, Vaggie tilts her head. "He's lost his weird radio buzz."

"Oh!" Charlie abruptly clasps her hands to her chest, eyes wide with sudden worry. "Are you okay, Al?"

"Heh - yes, yes, of course..." While he is indeed too drunk on laughter maintain his usual tinny radio filter, the tiniest hint of a wheeze still edges his voice - which surprises Alastor himself more than anyone. His evil cackle is, after all, one of his signature intimidation techniques, and it's never affected his voice before.

But the uncontrolled, helpless hysterics Charlie's had him clutched in is very different from what he's used to. For all his practice intimidating his victims with a well-timed chortle, it appears his genuine laughter is rather rusty.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?"

Still breathless, Alastor can't help but chuckle at that too. "...Y-you are aware of what an 'interrogation' is, right?"

Charlie's look of concern drops to a mild glare.

"Alright, babe. Step aside." Vaggie curls a dangerous little grin of her own. "I'll handle this."

As he sees Vaggie striding toward him, Alastor scrambles to sit up. "Wait, wait- Vaggie, dear, can't we-" He presses backward, only to find himself cornered between the couch and the coffee table. "Er- can't we talk this over?"

Vaggie crouches down. "You wanna tell me where Angel's speaker is?"

"No."

Fingernails are crawling up both sides before he even registers movement. Poor Alastor is clutched over cackling within seconds.

Charlie may be a surprisingly effective ler, but it quickly becomes clear who taught her: Vaggie is ruthless.

"Get his tummy, that's his weak spot!" Charlie chirps, not even bothering to hide her delight any longer.

"Chahaharlie!!"

Alastor actually feels a spark of legitimate panic as Vaggie's nails find their way to his upper belly, tracing along the lower edge of his ribcage, sending his laughter silent for a moment.

"Hey, if you really want me to stop, you can just tell me what I wanna know."

"YOou cahan-" (gasp) "-PRY it from my-" (brief giggle fit) "-cold, dead-" (wheeze) "-fingers!!"

"Yeah? I'll show you cold, dead fingers..."

Alastor feels a hand slip under his shirt.

"AaaaAAAHH! No, no, Vaggie don't!"

"Oooh, this is a good spot, isn't it?"

"NO don't do that- please please please..."

"What? You don't want me to do this?" Her fingernails skitter across his bare tummy. The poor man can't remember the last time he laughed this hard at anything - which, for someone who literally hasn't dropped his smile for decades, is a pretty high bar to clear. And he's gotta admit, it's the best he's felt in weeks.

"Don't kill him," Charlie pipes up, "I still need him to help run the hotel after this."

"I'm not gonna kill him." Vaggie leans in close. "I'm just gonna keep tickling this sensitive, vulnerable, unbearably ticklish little belly, up and down, over and over, on and on..."

The surge of radio static induced by this one sentence is so intense that it leaves Alastor's own voice virtually incomprehensible for several seconds. He tries to summon a shadow creature, a tentacle, anything, but he's so disoriented the shadows dissipate before they can be directed anywhere.

And that's finally what breaks his resistance. Being rendered helpless under Charlie's fingers is one thing, but being unable to use his powers at Vaggie's mercy is considerably more unnerving.

"OKAY, OKAHAY! I'll talk! I'll talk!"

Vaggie lifts her hands off him, though they remain hovering just a few inches over his torso.

It takes a solid minute for Alastor to catch his breath. "For heaven's sake, you could've just asked me..."

Vaggie scrunches her fingers in the air a couple times, causing the radio demon to fold up like a lawn chair.

"Ack! Nonono I'm kidding!! I'm kidding!" He fights back a fit of nervous giggles.

"Ten seconds to spit it out before I go borrow Nifty's feather duster."

Alastor rolls his eyes. "Oh please. You think you can threaten me with cleaning tools? Don't be ridiculous..."

"Five seconds." Vaggie turns to Charlie. "Hey babe, have you tried his ears?"

A little squeak of microphone feedback. "13th floor hall closet, second-to-top shelf, under a dead rat."

Charlie recoils. "Ew! Al!"

"Pardon, two dead rats." As Vaggie withdraws her hands Alastor sits up, brushes himself off, and reaches for his microphone. "Second one came along as I was arranging the first, and... offered to help."

Charlie just stares at him in horror as he stands and twirls his mic with his usual classy flair, the very picture of eccentric elegance - as if he hadn't just spent the last twenty minutes being reduced to a hysterical mess on the floor.

"Is there any point in warning you not to pull something like this again?" Vaggie mutters, more to herself than the demon.

"No. But you can if it makes you feel better." Alastor grins and offers a hand to Charlie as she gets to her feet. "That was a lovely chat, my dears. Next time I need a good laugh I'll be sure to commit another petty theft."

Charlie rolls her eyes as he turns on his heel and strolls off.

"And let me know if you need help finding the batteries for that speaker," he tosses over his shoulder.

"OH you little piece of-"

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This was such a fun fic to write! Hope you had fun reading it too.... let me know what you think!

💜 - Cozy

[vernons-girl]

hi! yeah um i.. read ur newest fic 'not her' with kmg and i kind of wanted to add a continuation to that...? (only if u want to ofc!)

so basically reader got her heart broken by mingyu and her sister, soooo she goes on and vents her feelings and how heart broken she is to another one of her pals, seungcheol (without knowing seungcheol likes reader) so he comforts her and u can probably add the ending (fluff or angst or anything!)

im sorry this is too long.. i rlly tried to make it shorter lmao (btw i LUV ur fics so much)

not her | kim mingyu - choi seungcheol pt.2

PART 1 ; PART 2 ; PART 3 (final)

angst, fluff,wc:2.5k

taglist: @gaslysainz ; @graybaeismytae ; @mansaaay

a/n: did i completely put mingyu aside in this part? yes. will i make a part three where we really dive into the drama with everyone kdrama love triangle way? you guys tell me hehe

You couldn't bear looking at the scene that was unfolding in front of your eyes so you gathered your stuff in a hurry and left, completely forgetting the idea of shopping for a new outfit.

You made it home in record time. Rushing to lock yourself in your room once you made it through the door.

Mingyu choosing someone else than you was one thing, but your sister going behind your back to betray you, after you had confided in her? That was a whole other thing.

You couldn't help but cry as soon as you found yourself alone in the comfort of your room. You were feeling too many things at the same time and couldn't quite pinpoint why you were crying. Was it the pain? The anger? The disappointment? The heartbreak? Maybe it was all of it at once.

You couldn't bare the idea of having to face any of them about the issue right now, let alone having to see your sister when she would get back home, so you did the first thing that came to mind : you packed an overnight bag, texted your most trustful friend and headed over to his place.

You reached Seungcheol's place about an hour after you had texted him. You hadn't told him much over text, actually you hadn't told him anything besides 'can i come spend the night?' to which he agreed, of course, he didn't need to know why you needed to spend the night over at his place when you had a perfectly decent bed of your own, he just agreed without any further questions.

He greeted you at the door with a worried look on his face that he couldn't conceal no matter how hard he tried. You've confided in him before, but never did it feel so worrying. Without a second thought, he pulled you inside with a hug. The action broke down all the walls you had tried to build on your way there instantly. You felt as if you were falling apart in his arms, melting in his embrace perhaps, and you let the tears stream down your face, not caring about the embarrassing whines coming out of your mouth as you did so. He didn't seem to care either. Because all he did was hold you, closely, firmly but carefully, rubbing soothing circles on your back, shushing you like one would do with a baby. But it all felt so right amongst all the chaos around you that you let yourself be in the moment, until he pulled you straight on your feet to lead you to the living room, "Come on, let's talk about this around a warm drink, yeah?" he said, trying his best to show off a reassuring smile.

You obliged and sat down on the couch as Seungcheol got some snacks ready along with something to drink. In the meantime you allowed yourself to relax, sunking down onto the couch wishing it could somehow swallow you whole.

Thankfully, Seungcheol joined you pretty quickly so you didn't have the time to get lost in your thoughts once again. You straightened up to grab the cup he was handing out to you from the tray he had placed on the coffee table in front of you.

"Sooooo..." Seungcheol started, he didn't want to push you into it but he still needed to at least have an idea of what was going on.

You took a sip of your drink followed by a deep breath.

"So... I had a crush on this guy, and I genuinely thought that he could like me, you know?" you tried to hold back the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes once again.

"And I wasn't the only one thinking this.. my sister thought so too." Seungcheol now had a curious look and urged you to keep going.

"I was supposed to meet up with him in a few days and I really wanted to confess, I really did." this time, the tears fell from your eyes, you couldn't help it, it was so fresh, so hard, your body needed to express this unbearable inner pain it was feeling.

Seungcheol offered some comfort with his free hand coming to rub up and down your arm, "We don't have to talk about it any more if you don't feel like it," he reassured you.

"No, it's okay, you affirmed, so, you started again, I wanted to make things right, I wanted to impress him, to make him like me any more than he might already do, so I went to the mall to do some shopping, a sob escaped from your dry lips, but then I saw them, him, her" you sniffled, letting out shaky breaths in an attempt to calm yourself down.

"Them ? Him? Her?" Seungcheol asked.

"My crush and my sister" you finally said, your heart breaking a little more. The look on your friend's face changed to... confusion?

"Wait so you saw your sister with your crush at the mall? What about it?

- They were kissing, Seungcheol. Kissing."

Upon hearing this last word, his expression morphed to anger in a matter of seconds.

"What the fuck?!" he suddenly exclaimed, almost slamming his mug down onto the table.

"She kissed him knowing you liked him? This is so twisted. I can't believe it." He let out in disbelief, rubbing a hand down his face.

"And he didn't tell me either. He never told me he was seeing someone. What if she told him about my crush on him and they both fucked me over? you put your face in both on your hands, crying softly, What am I supposed to do now Seungcheol?" you questioned desperately, almost pleading him for an answer.

He leaned back in his seat, looking up in thought.

"Who is he?" he finally asked.

"Who's who?" okay maybe it wasn't the best idea to play dumb, but how could you tell him that Mingyu, your friend who also happens to be one of Seungcheol's, broke your heart ?

"The guy, he said firmly, who's the guy?" ok so now he wasn't playing. You've never seen him look this serious before, the concern and anger still obvious on his face.

You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for the worst when you breathed out : "Mingyu."

He clenched his fists upon hearing the name leave your shaky lips. As a matter of fact, his whole body tensed.

"So you saw Mingyu kissing your sister who knew you liked Mingyu ?" he summarized.

"Yeah.." you confirmed, your gaze lingering on the floor, the carpet curiously looking much more interesting than you friend who was sitting across from you.

"Does she know ? he asked

-Mh?

-Your sister. Does she know you saw them ?

-No, they didn't see me and I came over before she got home, so we didn't talk about it.

-And do you think he knew?

-Knew what ?

-That you liked him ?

-I don't know.. I don't think so, you reasoned, he would never be so cruel. you affirmed

-Yeah, you're probably right.." Seungcheol agreed, even though he wanted nothing but to punch his dear friend in the face for hurting you, he also knew it wasn't his style to hurt people's feelings. I mean this guy literally apologized to his last girlfriend for breaking up with her so of course he wasn't going to hurt one of his closest friends.

Seungcheol sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "This is a messed up situation, no doubt about it," he muttered, his expression reflecting a mixture of concern and anger.

You nodded, feeling a bit of relief knowing Seungcheol was there to listen, even if he couldn't magically fix everything. It was nice knowing there was at least one person you could trust in this whole mess.

After a moment of silence, Seungcheol leaned forward, taking both of your hands in his, his eyes fixed on you. "Listen, I know it hurts like hell right now, but you're stronger than this. I'm not going to tell you to not think about it because I know it feels impossible right now but you need to focus on yourself, okay ?

- Yeah.. you replied.

- What do you need right now?"

You thought for a moment, wiping away the tears that still lingered. "I just... I need some time to figure things out. Away from all of this," you said, gesturing vaguely around you.

Seungcheol nodded in understanding. "Alright. I get it. You can stay here as long as you need. I'll be here for you, okay?"

You managed a weak smile, feeling a sliver of hope, "Thank you, Seungcheol. I don't know what I'd do without you."

He smiled back, a reassuring presence in the middle of all of this turmoil. "You don't have to figure it all out right now. Just take it one step at a time. And remember, you're not alone in this." he finally said, giving your hands a reassuring squeeze.

And as you glanced over at Seungcheol, you couldn't help but feel a flutter in your chest, realizing just how much he truly cared for you. Perhaps, in the midst of all this chaos, there was a silver lining after all—a silver lining named Seungcheol.

"Come on, let's get you settled in bed, yeah?" he said, standing up and offering his hand out for you to take. You did so and followed him down the hallway.

As Seungcheol led you to the spare bedroom where you would be spending the night, he couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions swirling inside him. On one hand, he was glad to be able to offer you a comfortable place to rest after everything you'd been through. But on the other hand, he couldn't shake the pang of jealousy he felt at the thought of you sleeping under the same roof in a bed that wasn't his.

As he pulled back the covers and fluffed the pillows, he tried to push aside those selfish thoughts. After all, what mattered most was that you were safe and comfortable. But as he glanced over at you, he couldn't help but notice how beautiful you looked in the soft light of the bedside lamp, your eyes heavy with exhaustion yet still so full of resilience.

"Here you go," he said, gesturing to the bed. "I hope you'll be comfortable here."

You offered him a grateful smile as you sank down onto the mattress, letting out a contented sigh. "Thank you, Seungcheol. I really appreciate it."

He returned your smile, trying to ignore the way his heart skipped a beat at the sound of your voice. "Of course. Anything for you."

As he turned to leave the room, he couldn't help but linger for a moment, his gaze lingering on your sleeping form. In that moment, he realized just how much he cared about you—more than just a friend, more than just a crush. And as he quietly closed the door behind him, he made a silent promise to himself to always be there for you, no matter what.

As you settled into the comfortable bed Seungcheol had prepared for you, your mind started to buzz with thoughts of the events that had unfolded earlier. Despite your exhaustion, sleep eluded you as you thought about your sister's and Mingyu's betrayal. A notification from your phone interrupted your thoughts, a message from your sister asking where I was, seemingly worried as to what you were up to. Against you better judgment, you decided to ignore it for the moment as you let out a heavy sigh and turned your attention to Seungcheol.

He had been so kind and supportive throughout the evening, offering you a safe haven and a shoulder to lean on. His actions spoke volumes, and somehow you couldn't help but wonder if there was something more behind his gestures. The way he looked at you, the tenderness in his voice—it all hinted at a deeper connection between you. And as you drifted off into a restless sleep, you couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps Seungcheol's feelings for you ran deeper than mere friendship.

After ensuring that the spare bedroom was tidy and comfortable for you, Seungcheol made my way to the living room to clean up the mess from earlier. As he picked up discarded snack wrappers and empty mugs, his mind also ended up wandering to the events of the evening.

He couldn't shake the anger and frustration he felt towards Mingyu for hurting you, someone he cared deeply about. And yet, amidst the chaos, he couldn't deny the flutter of hope that sparked within him at the thought of being there for you, of being the one you turned to in her time of need.

As he finished cleaning up, he reached for his phone and sent a quick text to Mingyu, his fingers hesitating over the keys. Despite his anger towards him, a part of him couldn't help but wonder if this was his chance to finally confess his feelings to you. But as he stared at the blank screen, he couldn't bring myself to send the message. Instead, he pocketed his phone and made his way back to the spare bedroom, his heart heavy with uncertainty and longing.

As Seungcheol lay in bed, the weight of the evening's events heavy on his mind, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the situation than met the eye.

As he mulled over the possibilities, a nagging thought tugged at the corners of his mind. What if Mingyu wasn't entirely clueless about your feelings? What if, somehow, he had sensed your affection for him, even if you hadn't explicitly confessed it?

The idea seemed far-fetched at first, but the more Seungcheol thought about it, the more it made sense. Mingyu was perceptive, after all, and he had always been attentive to the people around him. Perhaps he had noticed the subtle glances, the lingering touches, the way your face lit up whenever you were near him.

But if Mingyu was aware of your feelings, why would he pursue a relationship with your sister? Was it out of genuine interest, or was there something more sinister at play? Seungcheol couldn't shake the feeling that there was a piece of the puzzle missing, something lurking beneath the surface that he couldn't quite grasp.

As he drifted off to sleep, his mind buzzing with unanswered questions, Seungcheol's thoughts inevitably turned to you. Despite the troubles of the evening, one thing remained clear: his feelings for you ran deep. With each passing moment, his love for you only seemed to grow stronger, anchoring him amidst the storm of uncertainty.

As he vowed to uncover the truth about Mingyu's intentions, Seungcheol's resolve was fueled not only by a sense of justice for you but also by a burning desire to protect you from further harm. For he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would do anything to ensure your happiness, even if it meant confronting his own heartache in the process.

With that thought in mind, Seungcheol closed his eyes, feeling a sense of determination wash over him. Whatever challenges lay ahead, he would face them head-on, armed with nothing but his unwavering love for you. And as sleep finally claimed him, he couldn't help but cling to the hope that, somehow, everything would turn out alright in the end.

[zvtara-was-never-canon]

Have you noted that no one from Azula's family was shown to express love and affection towards her?

That is mostly true. Ozai's affection is clearly conditional (and full on manipulation at worse, like we see in the finale), Ursa canonically favors Zuko to the point that we never see her spending any alone time with Azula like she did with Zuko, and while Iroh gave her a toy like he did to Zuko the toy in question was so OBVIOUSLY wrong for a kid like Azula that it's comical AND show's he did not really know his niece at all.

But there is a constant exception.

Zuko's relationship with Azula is complicated. He clearly admires her strength and power, but he hates how she uses it. She lied to him many times, was seen apparently cheering Ozai on during the Agni Kai, tried to have him imprisoned and even said she'd celebrate being an only child - and then allows him to come home as a hero after Ba Sing Se, even though SHE had the control of the Dai Li and was not yet aware Aang could have survived, meaning she had nothing to gain from it.

And when she lets him know that if he's caught talking to Iroh people might think he is a traitor too, and explicitly says "Believe it or not, I'm actually looking out for you" Zuko drops his innitial suspicion that she wanted something and that's why she was helping him.

On The Beach, he just follows her when she say their old family home is depressing and they shouldn't waste their time there. When she's asking him who she is angry at, she mentions herself and Zuko explicitly says that is not the case.

He doesn't trust her and know she has a tendency to mock or full on lie to him... yet when he wants to know about Fire Lord Sozin he asks her about it, and lets it slide when she mocks him by saying he should make sure the royal painter got his good side - for a character as quick to anger as Zuko, that is a big deal. In Nightmares and Daydreams he also goes to her to find out if he'll be allowed at the war meeting.

More importantly:

1 - Iroh's infamous "She's crazy and needs to go down" line was only said because ZUKO, without anyone putting that idea in his head before, suddenly went "I know what you're going to say. She's my sister and I should be trying to get along with her"

2 - Zuko only jumped into the fight in Ba Sing Se when Azula was being cornered by Aang and Katara.

3 - Zuko looked genuinely shocked and even distressed when she was falling off that cliff. He just sounded so shaken saying "She's... not gonna make it..."

4 - In the writer's own words, Zuko felt no hate but only pity when seeing her breakdown. Katara tried to comfort him because, canonically, even though Zuko and Azula are enemies, this was never what he wanted because he still sees her as family. That's why the Last Agni Kai's music is not the epic you'd expect from a battle, but a tragic one.

5 - Aaron Ehasz, the lead writter for the show, probably the person with the most influence after Bryke, has REPEATEDLY said that he always felt Azula should have gotten a redemption arc, Zuko being an Iroh figure to give her advice and be the only one still by her side when all else was seemingly lost to her forever.

Even the comics (most of which I HATE, mainly because Azula's storyline checks nearly every box for "the mentally ill are inherently evil/less human, so it's fine if literally every other person on the planet mistreats them") didn't fully abandon their complex dynamic.

Zuko is not a perfect sibling, and for a long chunk of the story he seemed too focused on his own issues for Azula to ever be a factor in his mind (aside from the moments in which she was a potential/explict threat), but he DOES still feel a sense of obligation towards her, to the point that it made him do something no one else in their family had done before or since - actually look at Azula. Not the prodigious daughter/perfect weapon, or the problem child that is difficult to handle, or the pontentially deadly enemy that was in the way, but Azula.

His 14-year-old sister that got on his nerves a lot, was far from the kindest person alive, and that he had a ton of issues with, but that he could never fully hate or even be indifferent to. Because she's family. Because he remembers a happier time in which the gap between them didn't seem so big. Because if things had been slightly different he could have been her. Because he went from wanting to be her to seeing just how miserable her life ended up being - especially compared to the one he now had - and feeling deeply sorry for her.

Now if you guys excuse me, I'm gonna go cry in the corner. Have some wholesome/bittersweet fanart if you wanna cry too.

[pnfc]

20 or so years in the future, doof and perry talk in a pool, at 3am, about the past. for about 5k words. that's it

[ on ao3 here ]

~

Even in dead of night, sounds rattle up the tower’s old iron skeleton to the top. The noise of the residents below, their talking and thumping and TV, warps through metal pipes and chutes into a muffled mechanical soundscape. The aging building’s life functions, thrumming from underfoot, as the fan wheels gently in the air above their bed.

Perry wakes in the room to Heinz’s absence.

Alone like this, he’s left with the many necessities of Heinz’s sleeping arrangement. The carefully selected quilt with the chunky stitching, the snuggly texture. Systematic obliteration of the wrong lights, the wrong sounds. All the particularities that Perry loves. And there are remnants: the old teddy retired to a decorative chair in the corner. The grind guard she doesn’t wear so much now, some little weight has lifted.

Perry squints at the Big Ben miniature on the bedside table to confirm the late hour, and gets up.

He finds her out on the balcony, crosslegged at the side of the pool. The moon’s out of view, but it lights the clouds up like seedpod puffs, and they mirror on the water, underlit by turquoise pool lights. The air is hot.

Perry goes over and places a hand on her bare knee, makes an asking sound.

“Just the usual, Perry,” Heinz says in reply. “I had a stupid dream.” She slides a foot out into the water, where it glows, white in blue. Perry sits at her side. “You were out of character.”

“You’re always uncharacteristically mean in my dreams,” she continues, half smiling. “And you talk. You talk way too often, I think that’s the worst part. In like whatever stupid voice my subconscious thinks you should have. Which changes. I think you sounded French one time, which makes no sense.”

The light is enough for Perry to sign by. What’d I say?

“Oh you know,” she says, her tone compressing. “You regretted this.”

Perry sits with that, with her, pressed against her leg. It’s not an accusation, Perry knows well enough by now, not one made in earnest. They both have to live with Heinz’s self-ravaging mind. He rubs her hand with his.

Hard to know what to regret. He’s put a lot of work in, building this life for himself. Like his boys used to build those miraculous one-day contraptions in the summertime, or Heinz would make reality-cracking machines fueled on coffee and malice, so Perry had built something of his own, more common and slow, but something he was happy with. This partnership with Heinz, this thick-knit network of people he’s living for.

It’s a struggle to even remember the days when he’d been workshopping its contruction. Hard to blueprint a machine, harder to blueprint a life lived in flux, tripwired with secrets and obligations. He used to sweat through nightmares, trying to see the shape of his future, seeing only how easily it could be lost.

Her sitting next to him on smooth cement, 3 AM, poolwater ringing her calf, the bright night sky. He can’t express to Heinz how he never imagined having this much.

So he gets up, with a parting squeeze of her hand, and backdives into the pool, a lazy arc piercing silent and smooth. Might as well give her something to watch. He skims along the bottom, where the LEDs cast sixfold yellow shadows, overlapping like insect wings as he goes.

A few minutes of trawling the circumference, twisting, shooting through the duck-shaped floaty ring, rocketing off the sides with strong pushes of his feet. He weaves and skips between water and air in sinoid leaps. He’s learned to oscillate his body like a seal for these jumps — it’s proved useful sampling the broader animal kingdom for swimming techniques. They keep him limber, in this low-gravity environment his body was made for.

He pops up to check on Heinz, who’s looking. “No no no, keep it up, Perry the Platypus,” she grins at him. “You’re like my Windows screensaver right now. It’s soothing. I dunno if it’s putting me to sleep though, if that’s what you were going for.”

Perry floats over to where she’s sitting. She’s stirring both legs through the water. They’re pencil-skinny and they spirograph ripples that lap into Perry’s neck.

“Y’know what I thought when I found out this place had a pool?” she asks him.

“Well — I thought I’d be doing so much water aerobics. I definitely didn’t think I’d have someone semiaquatic in my life. But that didn’t pan out, the aerobics. So later I thought I’d put in some electric eels or piranhas, for you when you’d visit. Keep it zesty. But I always thought of it right when the aquarium was closed. And you know, after that first spark of excitement has passed, an idea like that just ends up being on your list. So it never happened. You got lucky.”

Perry rests with an arm around her calf, underwater. She’s wearing one of her long hotweather nightshirts, millennial neon geometries advertising a dance camp that Vanessa once attended. It has glow in the dark squigglies. So many little things to keep Vanessa around, her never-worn hand-me-ups.

Perry darkens the shirt fabric in his wet fist, and tugs it toward him. Heinz laughs. “You are not getting me in there,” she says, pushing a foot at him. “I came out here to brood, not swim.”

Perry doesn’t accept it. He pulls her in successfully, and she drops off the edge into the pool without much fuss, splashing him. “This is of my own volition,” she says. “You don’t get to boss me around in the middle of the night. You don’t own me.”

Yes he does. Perry swims a ring around her waist, framing her. The light’s playing off her grey hair, staining it teal. In this view you could mistake them for a matching set. He likes that.

“That is literally still on a list somewhere,” Heinz adds, “the piranhas. In one of my old notebooks.”

They’re piled in storage now, the plans and the blueprints, though she keeps a few sitting around from the later years. A while back they cobbled together a scrapbook of the better schemes, Heinz’s more impressive drawings, fonder memories. Perry got the B.O.A.T. schematic professionally framed, one birthday. Heinz had rolled her eyes at it and hung it in the foyer.

“I feel weird looking at those,” Heinz says. “It’s like oh yeah, that idea was living in my head for years. Thought for sure that one was gonna put one over on Roger, as soon as I got around to it.”

Years, multiple? Really?

“Oh yeah,” says Heinz, as Perry blinks up in question. “You know how I procrastinate, Perry the Platypus. But it was mainly the big plans that I kept putting off, over and over. The ones that required a real surge of hatred, to kick my scheming into gear. Ambitious stuff, you know,” she says, tilting her head. “Mind control, intimidation — stuff that works. Not like the stuff I’d do with you, most days.”

She lilts an arm out, snaring Perry’s hand. He lets her pull him through the water in a curve.

“The bad ideas were more fun — I think I was just trying to give you a laugh, at a certain point. Not that you ever did. The chicken replaceinator, the beam that made people’s ties comically long. I did not think turning everyone’s shoes into heelys would actually win me dominion of the tristate area, Perry, if I’m being honest.

“All those big diabolical plans, they kept me up at night. But I put them off, ‘cause it was more fun getting sugar high with you and bouncing off the walls. Making up an entire song and dance number for the satisfaction of watching you try not to tap your foot to it. Every year it was: oh, just a few more months with Perry. Next year I’ll get serious, for sure.

“And, you know. I can’t regret any of it,” Heinz says. “Because it worked. I got you to dance with me, spend time with me. I didn’t think that was my goal at first — but you know, in retrospect, what else could possibly stack up?

“. . . But I didn’t get to know that, that my time was well spent, until later. Because you can’t really know if you’ll regret something when it’s happening. Like all those bad relationships, all those times I went into debt. You have to wait until you can look back on it all in a decade or two and go: oh yeah, that was a wash.”

Heinz pulls Perry out in a slow-motion twirl, bopping at the water’s surface. She gives him a considering look as their hands detach.

“That’s why I think about you. Because you haven’t been around as long. It takes time to figure out regret. And you don’t have the luxury,” she says with a tight smile, “of regretting a decade. You didn’t fuck up the 90s. You didn’t even have the opportunity.”

Perry can tell she’s got some spleen to vent. Potentially a whole rainbow of humors. He sets up on a paddleboard shaped like a ducky foot — perches zen-legged in its center, balancing what little weight he has. He comes up past her chin now.

“Do you know how many times I’ve invented time travel, Perry the Platypus?” Heinz asks.

“Well, once. When I was in my twenties. For a generous definition of ‘invent’ — we all learned the Onassian principles in college physics. It’s not too hard to plug in the missing variables — sort of an open secret, in the evil science world, how to manipulate time. We’d all dabble, here and there. You overstep and there’s consequences, of course. By the time you met me I was using it for trifles and whimsies. Hyperspecific stuff, that’s less of a risk.”

She fidgets shapes through the water with her hands.

“You remember me, like — summoning the Roman army. That sort of thing.”

Perry remembers it going wrong, yeah, and him sending Heinz back 800 years, in a perfunctory brush-off of that day’s scheme. He remembers finding Heinz back at DEI the next morning, in a sour mood, with a tirade prepared on the difficulties of refining metal ores in 13th century Mongolia. Heinz had lived there a month. Her age was now out of whack with the present date, and she had said something incomprehensible about it, like:

You’ve made me a Leo, Perry the Platypus. A Leo. That’s . . . well I’ve always felt like I should be one, deep down, so thank you. But it explains why horoscope advice has never worked out for me, which in hindsight is just plain embarrassing.

Perry doesn’t recall there being a scheme that day. Even with the freedom to bubble out extra time, Heinz hadn’t bothered prepping more than a long complaining story for Perry — adequate payback for the thwart, he supposed.

“But the first time I got it working,” Heinz continues. “I did some stuff I never even told you about.” She glances up at Perry. “I didn’t even make a plan, I just went back first thing. To Gimmelshtump. Wasn’t even dressed for the weather. And I saw myself there, walking around the outskirts of town. Carrying old breadloaves and rags, and whatever else — I had to be a packrat, back then.

“And I wasn’t even that far removed, at the time, from that kid. But he had a whole system worked out to survive. If you plunked me down in his haferlschuhs now I’d just collapse where he stood, in a matter of hours. Or I’d go crawling back to the ocelots — which wouldn’t end well, I don’t think they’d recognize me.”

Perry’s rather agog. What a length of time to hold this information inside. He realizes he’s perched unstably forward, off the foam board.

What did you do?

Heinz makes a dismissive noise. “What could I do? Nothing. Could I have stayed? Been a parent to that kid? I guess. At least until causality cried foul and wiped me out. But who wants to be a parent at 23?

“And it seems selfish, right, wanting to keep what I made myself into, at his expense. He had to suffer so I could sit warm and cozy in the 80s, failing out of American college because I was too smart for it, schtupping my way through town, selling bratwurst. But I am selfish, Perry the Platypus.” Heinz sets a hard look on him. “All I did was confirm to myself that it was real, all those awful things that happened to that kid. I wasn’t making it up. And I never went back.”

Perry stares at her — he’s sitting pensive on the board, cross-legged, and pushes himself an inch closer with his tail ruddered in the water.

I would’ve stayed, Perry responds, for that kid.

Heinz gives him a quizzical smile. “Would you? That’s easy to say. Would you live out the rest of your days helping him put his rumpkinhosen on the right way? Explaining puberty, that it’s not really the devil growing out of his body, like Mother says? Stealing him acne cream?”

Heinz’s face angles in a mean way.

“Are you gonna convince that kid his parents will never love him? Because that’s all that was keeping me there, apart from Roger. The dumb, burning hope that they might, eventually.”

Ok, so it’s a terrible idea. Perry nods anyway, to be contrary, cheek squished upon his fist.

You’d run away with any cute animal you met, he signs. And I’d kick their asses.

This repairs the mood somewhat, makes Heinz giggle in surprise.

“Oh would you?” she says behind long fingers, eyes sparkling. “Because I’d kind of like to see that. Grizzled platypus with a mysterious score to settle shows up, terrorizes my childhood home. Makes my parents beg for mercy.”

Perry nods. I’d treat you like a princess. Heinz can’t see that he’s blushing. She laughs, louder than before.

“Oh that’s cute, Perry. The Vanessa treatment! Wow. I would’ve turned out different, that’s for sure.” She’s trailing her fingertips across the pool tiles. “But going back in time, taking care of each other . . . let’s not, okay Perry the Platypus? Let’s not and say we would.”

But you did, Perry signs, because once he’s chimed into conversation with Heinz it’s hard to stop himself. Even when he realizes, too late, that he shouldn’t have said anything.

He drops his shaking hands to his lap. Heinz cocks her head with the same pretty smile, now thinner. “You’re gonna bring that up? When we learned how they got you? That . . . that was a mistake,” she says. “We were just getting to be friends, back then. It was exciting. I didn’t have my head on straight. ... And that would’ve been a different situation, in continuity terms, that was . . . ”

She opens and closes her mouth. Perry sees her stare fall to the water, thumb still tracing the putty grooves between the tiles.

“. . . I never really explained to you the technical nitty-gritty, the physics of it. There’s time-space transplantation, moving a body in its current state back or forward through time — that’s what I did going to Drusselstein. But there’s other ways to slide around.

“See, Roger was getting into golf — just excruciating, trying to spend any time with him, it was always ‘Pencil in a timeslot with Melanie and we’ll hit the back nine,’ or whatever.

“I found a way to fast-forward him, that I never got to use. Premature inator-destruction. It happens to the best of us. Usually to me, whenever you got too eager.”

Perry’s propped on his fist, contemplative. I wouldn’t know anything about that.

“See I think you would,” Heinz says, narrowing her eyes. “I’m pretty sure you were my caddie. In fact I’ve gleaned that most, if not all, of the platypuses I encountered in my evil heyday were you. That little guy had your eyes, and he looked unusually hot in golf shorts.”

Perry blinks, mouth trained in a line.

“C’mon, Perry the Platypus,” she wheedles. “It’s not nice leaving a girl in limbo, for so many years. This’ll keep weighing on me.”

Okay fine, Perry signs, shrugging. I was the hot caddie.

“I knew it!” She grabs the foam board and shoves it hard, sending Perry backwards with a splash. “You are such a jerk gaslighting me all the time! Steven.”

Perry shakes water off his bill and punches forward into her, though the effect is more of a cuddle. She tangles him in her arms.

“So that means you know,” she says, scrunching fingers into his chest, “why I wanted to speed through that. And if you can isolate a body, move it forward and back, you can isolate a mind, or a consciousness.

“That was the technique I used, for when . . . you know, when I did the.” She falters. “Really, really bad idea.”

Except you didn’t, Perry signs up at her.

“Yeah, but like. I think about it. How I almost did. How I could’ve screwed everything up. For both of us.”

Perry remembers it more through her recollection than anything. The day she’d cracked into the OWCA admin portal and Perry had let her. The day she found the timestamped geolocation from which Perry had been acquired. He remembers Heinz’s outrage, mourning Perry’s fate at OWCA’s hands, and the wave of giddy revelation that had quickly taken over at the chance to go back, intercede, take Perry for herself instead.

From where Perry had stood Heinz hadn’t vanished, hadn’t even blipped. He just knew that one instant he was rocketing a punch toward someone diabolically driven and the next, post-inator, was socking his fists into the braced forearms of a downed Heinz, cowed under Perry on the lab floor. And Heinz’s eyes had been so haunted, looking up at him from behind those arms, that Perry knew something had passed.

It was years before she’d tell him the full story. How she’d run out of the house as her 41-year-old self, to track Perry down. The bluegreen and red at the riverside. How Perry’s mother had died on the shore, bleeding out of bite wounds, accepting Heinz’s touch as she cooled under frantic hands. The last look she’d given Heinz. The wariness of the OWCA-trained animal control agents who’d found Heinz sitting there, keeping vigil. How Perry had nestled in the palm of her hand, impossibly little, and ate up what milk of his mother Heinz brought to his bill, fingertip to mouth.

He can’t remember any of it, of course, how could he. But he would always carry close to heart the knowledge that Heinz had inserted herself, in this small and careful way. Had been the first human touch he’d felt.

But it made Heinz cry, retelling it. So Perry never brings it up.

He holds the back of her hand, as she winds a thumb through his fur.

“It would’ve been so easy to change what you were to me, and ruin the weird thing we had with each other — even back then, when it didn’t seem like as much. I didn’t know at the time, y’know, that you’d want to stick around this long.”

Perry gives her a sad smile.

“Time travel’s the worst, it’s like an automatic culpability machine,” Heinz says. “It’s a terrible idea to go backward: everything becomes your choice. Any pain in the past is now stamped with your approval, you don’t have the right to complain anymore. Choosing to leave you with Monogram, choosing to abandon myself in Gimmelshtump. It’s so easy to change everything, with a few key edits.

“And greed always makes me want both. I wanna give that lonely little kid a charmed life, and I want to keep the one I have. I want to get to raise you into my perfect little companion,” she says, cuffing the back of his neck. “And I want to get to fuck you, too.”

Her fingers threaten to pince a collar round his throat and he stares up as her words shock his gut, her sick rapacity bearing down on him, heavy. But her face is unplayful: tired and vaguely nauseated, a disgust turned back in on herself.

So Perry swallows down arousal and steadies his composure, in turn. Heinz just closes her eyes, with a sigh, and pushes Perry’s body away from her into the water.

“I dont know how it worked for him,” she says. And Perry doesn’t know who she means, which averted version of herself, so he waits.

“How he could stand to have that power every day, to make any possible reality. And to risk not having one that really matters.”

Oh. Of course.

“I never did got the full story out of him. Professor Me. I wished I knew more — but there’s something so off-putting, seeing yourself from the outside like that. It’s like listening to a voice recording.

“I don’t think he had any extra-special skills, didn’t know anything I don’t — except whatever it was that convinced him pinstripes and a pink cravat were the go-to look for branding himself a big time travel genius. That I’ll never understand, why I’d wanna look like I’m selling snake oil from the future to the past. In fact I get the sneaking suspicion that’s exactly what he was doing. I can’t imagine wearing that costume full time.

“But maybe he didn’t, you know? Maybe he got home at the end of each day and he put his stupid top hat on a peg and he . . . I dunno, worked on jigsaw puzzles with you. Like we do,” she says. “Maybe he was more like me than I knew.”

They never saw him again, after that year. A decade plus of Heinz waiting, stressing, disavowing, dreading. And then at a certain point it dawned on both of them that their trajectory had quietly split from his. And relief overwhelmed curiosity at whatever might have been.

But when she first found out, Heinz had been excited, in a cute nervy way. It was every delusional dream coming true at once and smacking her in the face — right at a vulnerable moment, when another close-call spacetime catastrophe had left her shellshocked and aimless, in need of reinvention.

It’s crazy, right? Heinz would ask anyone who happened to be in earshot. And they’d agree, that it sounded crazy.

It’s like I predicted it! I — I wrote a TV show about it, me being a time traveler. They ripped it off and made me a girl — and then they made Perry the Platypus a human and cancelled it after one season — but I did! I was this hero from the future, and I knew karate. Do you think he knows karate? I bet he knows karate, too, he’s just being low-key about it, because that���s what cool karate experts do, when they know karate.

But then there was the month, the lowest of her life, as Heinz described it, when they weren’t talking. And in the depressive wreckage of their falling out Heinz was left to ponder how, in that glimpse of the future, bright with glory and wealth and eternity, Perry had not been in frame.

He was off to the side, probably. Surely. Though Heinz’s then-drinking buddy hadn’t offered any reassurances. If the future included Perry the Platypus, he was no famous partner of the great Professor Time.

And that’s rookie mistake number one, Heinz had said to Perry later. Traveling through time without a trusty companion. You just don’t do it. I . . . I learned that from cartoons.

Back in the present Heinz is chewing her lip. “It’s just that I had all this baggage, around time travel, that I didn’t even realize — I hadn’t sorted through any of it yet. I just knew I couldn’t go back. And I figured if I couldn’t give myself a perfect past, I’d just have to give myself a perfect future. I never actually wanted to learn about it though, never wanted to skip ahead and spoil myself, in case I got bad news.

“But getting good news was like . . . weirdly so much worse. Like — all that glory I wanted, people shouting my name. He already got it. And with a stupider name. So I didn’t know what to want.

“Except for the uncertainties,” she says, quieter. “The stuff I didn’t know he had, that I knew I had to keep.”

She reaches out a hand. Perry takes it in his paws.

“That’s a lot, I guess, just to say —” Heinz says. “I’m really happy where I am.”

Perry spent years of his life not holding Heinz, not touching. He’d never admit that fear was a reason. It was just a matter of propriety, truly, of acting right under OWCA’s watchful eye, under the spycams they’ve long since eradicated from around Heinz’s loft.

Now he pulls himself into her and she sinks down in the water, so he can wind his short arms around her neck. And Perry feels all those years of idiotic professionalism like a permanent injury in his chest.

But he gets to hold her now, dig his clawed fingers in the clinging wet folds of her shirt and push his bill to the back of her neck, inhale her body heat. Which lessens the sting.

She clutches him back.

“You wouldn’t like the stuff I think about,” she whispers, “the stuff that woke me up tonight, that weighs on me. Stuff I know I shouldn’t say to you.”

Perry pulls back, to give her a sidelong look. It’s strange to hear. There’s no rotten part inside of Heinz that Perry hasn’t learned to love by now.

She elaborates. “I hate how long it took me to get here with you, to figure out my priorities. It took until you existed.

“But you’ve been stuck with me from the beginning. I’m your permanent assignment. In every life you get, you have to make the best of me,” she says. “And that’s when I’m not an irredeemable monster who makes you my slave.”

Perry takes a firm grip of her shoulder and rears back a bit, so he can turn his bewildered face on her.

She waves a defensive palm in front of him. “I know, I know, Perry. Let me get this out.

“I just think,” she says.

“If you wanted a do-over, I could give you one. At the end of all of this, when we’re finally puttering out — I mean we’re getting old, Perry. I could rewind you. You could go back to where you started, live a whole different life. Ditch OWCA. Go out and meet any number of people, around the world, do whatever you wanna do with yourself. Make a life on your own terms. Get to know who you could be without me.”

Heinz was right about Perry not liking this. He’s not sure exactly where his shock turns into anger, but the net effect is hurt, at what she’s saying.

He gives her his wildest are you kidding me look.

“You know I didn’t actually think you’d say yes,” Heinz says. “It was more a question of how hard you’d hit me in the face for saying any of this.

“But I think you deserve the option, if it turned out you did regret a decade of your life, or two. Because that’s all you got. All you got out of life was me and the dumb choices I made.”

She’s hunched into the curved pool wall, tugging at her elbows under the surface. She won’t quite meet Perry’s eyes.

“I could build you a machine and you could use it to go back without me knowing — so it wouldn’t hurt my feelings, it’s not like I’d remember,” she says, and there’s a wretched emptiness as she voices this thought, like it’s rehearsed.

“You could hold onto all of this, or I could wipe it, give you a clean slate. I just wish you could have, like. . . one choice in your life that’s not built around me.”

Perry stares at her. It seems she’s at the end of her speech. Her pool-lit image is ghostly, flickering like a hologram. Her eyes face down.

He racks a hand up his face with a sigh, the sound gurgling in his bill — not to dismiss her pouring out her stupid heart. But what else can he do, faced with such an unpersuasive offer?

She looks at him then, so he signs one thing. You’re too old to hate yourself this much.

“Oh Perry,” she rebukes, as he swims around her to the poolside. “That’s really not the point. You get that it’s unfair, right? Your life versus mine. I got to have all this time, and you — got me, and that’s,” she falters, as Perry hoists himself out of the water.

“I — I don’t think you’re unhappy, that’s not what I’m saying,” she quickly adds. She grabs Perry’s wrist, to make him look at her.

“I don’t know how to deal with you — living less,” she says, staring into him with benthic eyes. “And me being the most you ever got.”

Perry grabs the outside of her hand with his other paw, and tugs. Heinz acquiesces, allows herself to be lifted, and clambers the rest of the way out of the pool.

She’s like a bedraggled cat, long silver hair strands dripping on the pavement. Perry retrieves a fresh towel from the wicker caddy, pads back over and swathes it around her narrow shoulders.

“I should just accept that it’s romantic,” she mumbles, while Perry rubs the towel into her hair. “Like a destiny thing. But it’s a lot of pressure, the universe setting you up with me.

“Are you happy with that, Perry,” she asks. “I bet you are. I bet you feel all cheesy and warm about it.”

Heinz and Perry have been rewatching the same old telenovelas for years. Perry just rolls his eyes, to say you know I do.

Heinz nods. “That’s a problem, Perry the Platypus. So my offer stands. If you ever want to fix it.”

Perry presses his face to her cheek, in lieu of the slap she deserves. When he drags his soft bill across her face she tips it into a kiss, automatically, the deep-grooved pattern of their motions betraying whatever self-injuring case she was trying to make, about the awful tragedy of Perry loving her.

It’s not a choice, he signs, pulling back from the kiss. Taking you out of my life. It wouldn’t be my life anymore. So no.

Perry holds a paw to his chest. The fur’s mostly grey there — a way he really matches Heinz now, no trick of the light required.

If you weren’t in here . . . I don’t know who I’d be. Just a very good pet and a very good soldier. That doesn’t interest me, he signs, and he’s thinking, with less tact: fuck that guy.

Heinz is quiet, staring. She’s slumped so soft in the summer haze, a vulnerable thing in front of him. A whole city behind her. One she gave up ruling, because she liked Perry more.

I’m built around you. No fixing it, at this point. Sorry.

Perry shrugs, and draws his hands into snatching claws: I’m selfish, too.

[cosmictyto]

💛⚔️ Villain Ambrosius AU - Tarnished Gold ⚔️🖤

I’ve listened to Will Wood’s “Vampire Culture” one too many times while stuck in the Nimona hyperfixation pit + after seeing some villain Amb fanart floating around, so enjoy these sloppy, partially finished mad ramblings edited/stylized a bit to (try and) make them a little more interesting to read. Also, you're all more than welcome to add on/ask any questions! I'll get to them when I can.

Just a heads up, this is looooong. Simply because ya girl’s a wordy bitch.

Basically, the point of this AU can be boiled down to “What if Ambrosius knew Ballister was innocent AND Nimona got to him first?” Kinda a role swap, but kinda its own thing at the same time? Idfk.

On the night of the knighting ceremony, as they’re both suiting up, Ballister verbally mentions his sword feeling off to Ambrosius. But neither of them have time to investigate that further.

The knighting ceremony goes just as horribly as it did in the movie. The queen is dead, Ballister’s lost his arm, and though they couldn’t exactly find Ballister’s body, he’s presumed dead. Lambasted as a traitor to the kingdom, but also treated as a sort of boogeyman since no one REALLY knows if he’s dead in that "I heard he's dead!" "Well, I heard he's still alive!" kind of way.

Ambrosius, meanwhile, is left completely crushed. Simultaneously being praised by some for “disarming the traitor” and mocked by others for being so close to that same traitor. For not recognizing the signs earlier. For not stopping him before their queen was killed. And though the Director reassures him that he’s done well as Gloreth’s descendant and that this will all fade as nothing more than a bad memory… he knows. Ballister didn’t do it. He KNEW something was wrong with his sword. And deep down he knew that his boyfriend was innocent. So he confronts the squire, sees the footage, and leaves with his whole world rocked.

Needless to say, the proof of ACTUAL INTENTIONAL regicide, treason, and corruption within the system, the same one he’s a literal living symbol of, isn’t on his mind at the moment. Just what he did to Bal. So full of regret and guilt. (At best, he mutilated the love of his life out of instinct which is still horrible!!) Normally when he wanted time alone to think he’d go to the top of the Glorodome. But, that spot hurt too much right now. That's where he and Bal first became friends. So, that same night, he went to the next-best place, Gloreth’s statue.

It’s late at night (he hasn’t been able to sleep much lately anyway,) and he’s sitting at the edge of that massive golden sword. Legs dangling as he stares at the ground. He’s normally not much of a drinker, usually too risky. But tonight he makes an exception. Before, everything felt manageable. The inherent weight he bore being Gloreth’s descendant, the press and citizenry looking up to him to be this bastion of goodness and pure heroism, internal familial pressures over how he should act, look, and think… with Bal at his back, he could handle it. But that stability’s gone now. And the only other person he could possibly lean on, the Director, was responsible for his lover’s death. Now, more than ever, he feels like he’s on the verge of collapsing under the weight this kingdom’s placed on his shoulders…

And then someone happens to come along.

Even despite everything, despite all the hurt this one person’s been responsible for… Nimona still carries fondness for Gloreth. And some nights, when she can’t sleep and she feels like howling at the moon, she’ll go to her old friend’s statue… tonight was one of those nights. And who does she happen to find? Her great-great-great-great… however many more, great grandkid. And he’s not looking too hot. A part of her knows she’s got no real obligation to help him, she's never talked to any of the Golden-groin brats before. But... she's had plenty of moments where she wished she had someone talk her down from doing something stupid, and she's feeling kinda sentimental n' sappy... so she strikes up a conversation.

He’s (reasonably) startled by this teen who just showed up out of nowhere. On a statue that requires a hoverbike to get to, no less. But he’s also drunk enough that he’s not as concerned as he maybe should be. One thing leads to another, and he just lets loose. Like, completely vents everything stored in him. (And, yes, “Arm chopping is not a love language!!!” Is thrown in there.)

Nims is just kinda in shock. In all those stupid commercials and interviews he seems so calm and put-together. Perfect, even. But, he's actually kind of a wreck. And now he’s unraveling real fast and is a bit too wobbly to be up this high- So she talks him down a bit. Calms him. Eventually asks, “If you never had any of this stupid “Gloreth” stuff pushed on you, who would you be? What’d you want to do?”

That legitimately stumps and breaks him. He’s thought about how nice it’d be to have this pressure off of his back. Where he could be his own person and not “the descendant of Gloreth.” But he never ONCE considered what a world like that would really look like. All he’s ever known was THIS. Being a knight, being a symbol and not a real person… there’s really only one thing he could actually say.

“Um… My hair wouldn’t be blond..? Y’know, it’s funny, this isn’t even my natural color. They make me bleach it so that I… that I can look more like her…”

And it’s at that point that Nimona decides right then and there, if she couldn’t get the kingdom to change its mind, she’ll at least get through to Gloreth's heir. Break at least one cycle. (And totally not because she feels the teensiest bit regretful he's been put in this position, naaah, nothing like that.~) She coaxes him down from that statue, and the two of them proceed to do nothing but get into mischief…

“~Blood… didn’t they want your blood? So why apologize for being blue and cold?~”

Specifically, the kind that you don’t remember until well after you wake up. All Ambrosius knows is that he’s in some strange dim dreary place and someone’s cooking something. Oh, it’s just Bal. He usually handles any meals since he doesn’t burn them like he does… but, as he’s snuggling back into the couch, he realizes there’s the sound of a girl humming? What? He sits up. Aaaand she’s there? The girl from the statue? He tries to blow some of his unkempt hair out of his face, and-... he freezes. Grabs his phone, ignores the many, many missed calls and news notifications, opens his camera app, and… black. His hair is black. Why is it black?! It’s not supposed to be-! He NEEDS to be blond! And-!

“Mornin’, sleeping beauty!~ Not gonna lie, never knew a fancy-pants knight like yourself could cut loose like that... Hm? Oh! Right, the hair! You were telling me all about how much you hated bleaching it last night. Sooo, we dyed it! Eventually, you can cut all the dyed stuff off and just leave it your real color if you want. But, for now? Bye-bye, blondie! Like it?~”

No. No he does not. He’s basically having an anxiety attack over the unsanctioned change. Then he gets a notification on his phone and starts reading the news articles. All about HIM, a “mystery girl,” and several animals going wild throughout the kingdom.

“Dude, chill. What’s done is done. We got a little crazy, you saw some pink elephants, and we dyed your hair. So what?”

“So what?! What do you MEAN “So what?!?” I’m a DESCENDANT of GLORETH! I-I can’t be doing things like that! Or be seen like this, or-!”

“Woah WOAH! Hey, look at me. Breathe. You wanna really know why you asked me to dye your hair? YOU said it was so you could be free."

“Free..?”

“Yeah! From now on? You don’t have to live by their stupid rules and expectations. You don't have to be like her, you can be YOU! You can do whatever the hell you want, whenever you want! Wanna change your name? Do it! Wanna go break stuff? Hell yeah! Want a piercing or tattoo? I can give you some. I know how! You wanna make those bastards pay for what they did to you and your boyfriend? I'm more than happy bring the matches and help you burn that bitch to the ground!~"

From that point, things just click. His whole life, the Director… no, the whole INSTITUTE forged him into nothing more than a gilded sword. One that they turned on the person he loved most. The ONE thing in his life that he chose and stuck by… and the system he was supposed to symbolize MADE him kill the love of his life… and he didn’t have to play by their rules anymore. Thus starting his fall into "Villainy."

“~Blood, didn’t they want your blood? So don’t apologize for being blue and cold…~”

Slight time skip!~

Truth was? Ballister was still alive. Heavily wounded, dazed and confused at how everything went so wrong, but alive...

Ballister's story continues as it did in the movie. Months later after the knighting, he's being hunted by the law with Sir Thoddeus Sureblade as the captain of the guard. In the meantime, he's built himself an arm and is still aiming to prove his innocence... Except his attempts to find Ambrosius, or convince the Director that he was set up, are a complete failure. Like in the movie, he's arrested and thrown in the dungeon... Except with no one to break him out. According to whispered gossip from the guards who bring him food, Ambrosius has been missing for a while, now. A fact that would not be revealed to the public anytime soon...

"It's only culture! It's only CULTURE!! It's only- Culture's not your friend..!"

At least, not until an individual in scuffed black-and-rose-gold colored armor (?) shows up with... a bear, or a tiger, and a wolf, and horse, and... even a rhinoceros?! The two of them running through the halls. Breaking things, lighting stuff on fire, and spraying paint on the walls (along with the floor, ceiling, and any statues,) and scrapping with any knights they come across. They'd already uploaded that clip of the Director swapping those swords. This? This was a diversion to keep the Institute from possibly removing or censoring that clip before the public got to see it. And Ambrosius LOVED it! He got to be loud! To make a mess! He finally got to punch Todd in his stupid dude-bro face! When you've kept someone shackled their whole lives, and then take those harnesses and leashes off? The freedom's enough to make ‘em go a just a teensy bit crazy. More than anything, since everything that happened the night of their knighting? He felt alive.

"Hey, fuck your culture! I ain't got no culture! It's only culture and it's more afraid of you than you're of it!"

During the assault, just as things are starting to get dicey for Nims and Brose, they do something so that the power ends up cutting out. Freeing Ballister and giving him his chance to escape, and... for a moment Ballister sees him. His Rose, ebony-haired with cuffs and studs on his ears. Riding on the unsaddled back of a raspberry-pink horse. A can of neon spray-paint in one hand, a sword in the other, a whole squad of knights behind him… and for a moment they lock eyes. Ambrosius’ world just comes crashing down, trying to stop and turn Nims around (Who refuses. ‘Cause, y’know, the bunch of knights behind them?!) she shifts into an ostrich to get a boost of speed, and the two just ride off with Ambrosius staring wide-eyed… looking like he saw a ghost… meanwhile, Ballister’s wondering just what the hell’d happened since the ceremony, and just -what- his boyfriend’s been hanging out with.

From this point my plot-related notes are thinner/less thought out. But here they are anyway:

- Ballister’s still firmly stuck in the Institute’s brainwashing since he’s had absolutely no time hanging out with Nimona to influence that. He’s seen the footage, but still believes that the fault solely lies with the Director specifically. That the Institute as a concept can still be preserved. A part of him hopes that by capturing this pink monster he might be able to redeem himself in the eyes of the kingdom. Prove his loyalty as a knight. (And conveniently finally meet with his boyfriend who’s apparently lost his damn mind?! Or... or has been corrupted by this thing?) So, while on the run from Todd and the other knights, he’s also trying to track down Ambrosius + Nimona and stop them from inciting a rebellion. Because all he knows is that this isn’t the man he fell in love with. (I won't lie, the Ballister side of things feels pretty shaky. I need more time to sit and stew on it.)

- If we’re using D&D alignment charts as a reference, Ambrosius is basically going from lawful-good to chaotic-good. Identity crisis and shift to anarchy aside, he genuinely doesn’t want to hurt anyone. Especially not the general populous. Yes, he happened to be raised to be a “hero of the realm” but, at his core, he’s still a good guy. Any acts of arson, destruction, or anything of the like are done with the knowledge that the spaces have been cleared out as best they can, first. And he doesn't even want to kill his fellow knights because he knows that, ultimately? They've all been forced through the same system. Children thrown into a mold to be forged into weapons. He’ll fight them. But, he doesn’t fight to kill… that being said, he doesn’t necessarily stray from violence, either.

- At some point I do see Ballister and Ambrosius getting into a fight. But, of course, Ballister’s the top of their class. No matter how hard they both sparred or competed against each other, Bal’d always managed to come out on top. In everything. So Rose is, of course, disarmed and thrown to the ground. A sword pointed at him as he looks up at the man he loves-.

“What, do you think this is some kind of a game?! You and that… that thing are tearing this kingdom apart! I… I don’t even recognize you anymore… what happened, Ambrosius?!”

“What happened? She set me free, Bal. And if you can’t see that this is who I really am, deep down..? Then you never really knew me at all…”

More miscellaneous/fun notes:

- It’s less boss/henchman in this AU. Instead, Rose and Nims 100% have a brother/sister dynamic. They bicker and tease when they’re together. But, the moment the other’s in trouble, it’s strict “No one messes with ‘em except me!” vibes. Who’s the older and who’s the younger sibling changes depending on the moment.

- Ambrosius always liked rock music. His parents and the Director always disapproved because it was “noise unbefitting of a Goldenloin” (ie. It wasn’t classical or opera therefore it was “wrong.”) but he always listened to it in private or with Ballister. So when Nims played some stuff and she caught Rose singing along to all the words? That earned instant respect points for him.

- These two also share one braincell between them at any given time. How they haven’t gotten caught is a damn miracle. Like, seriously, these two are goofballs. The moment he saw Nimona change into a shark? Oh, he totally stuck his head in her mouth. He never thought once about how “the wings” would be too noticeable. And when Nims brought up the plan to wreck the Institute? Eloquently putting it as: “We break-in, we break some stuff, smash some helmets, something-something-something, we win!~” He could only reply with a nod and, “Alright, sounds good!” And when they're playing a board game and she's going on some tangent? He's laughing his ass off. The only other person he's been this dorky around was Ballister.

- Once it clicked that he could swear?! And no one would get mad at him or clutch some pearls?! Nimona had to give him a crash-course because he was using it a bit too much. And it just kinda sounded ridiculous. Like giving a tween free rein to swear.

- He also went more crazy with his appearance. He was already used to the idea of makeup (Gloreth forbid her ancestors ever had *gasp* acne!!!) Eyes? Lined and smokey. Often with dark or fun colors. Nails? Painted. 24/7. Fingers adorned with a buncha rings. Lots of layered necklaces and bracelets. Plus silky black shirts with low necklines. And he did get his ears pierced. Both lobes, a couple in the helix of one ear, and one on an eyebrow. All of which was done courtesy of Nimona. (Needless to say, Ballister was shook the first time he got a good look at him.)

- He is still a Ballister Simp. Always gonna be his number one fan. At first, he tried to convince Ballister to join him and Nimona, but Bal wouldn’t listen. Their relationship doesn’t start to fracture until Ballister starts actively hunting them both down for the sake of capturing her. Because, while Ambrosius adores Ballister, and wants nothing more than to be with him… Nimona’s been the only one to help him see the truth. To help free him of all his expectations, she’s been there when he was at his lowest. She’s his friend. And he’s not willing to sacrifice her just so that he can go back to being the “Descendant of Gloreth” with Ballister. So, though it hurts, he still loves Bal. But he’s always waiting for the moment his lover admits he’s wrong about this.

- Speaking of Nimona’s and Ambrosius’ friendship… she’s in an awkward spot. Because, especially now with all those prissy-noble-layers stripped away… she sees so much of Gloreth in Ambrosius. In his smile, how confident every step is, that glimmer in his eye when he’s about to do something rebellious, even the way his eyes crinkle and his lips get tight when he’s mad. In so many ways he’s absolutely his own person… but it’s like she got her best friend back. And maybe that’s why she stayed and talked with him. Because she saw a chance to try again…

(Psst, you seriously read this far down? Thanks a ton! Have a cookie.~ 🍪 )

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood S1 Epilogue-S2 prologue

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 99: Epilogue-Prologue

AO3 - Masterlist

I will not fail you.

Fenrick lay stretched out by the fire, feeling the rough weave of his cloak beneath him and the faint warmth of the flames at his side. Above, the night sky stretched endlessly, the stars cold and bright against a velvet blackness, their light sharp and distant like the glint of steel.

The forest around him was deep and quiet, the kind of silence that carried weight, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant hoot of an owl. The trees loomed close, their branches entwining overhead to form a canopy so dense that only scattered patches of starlight broke through, dappling the ground in a pale, ghostly glow.

The air was thick with the earthy scents of pine and moss, mingling with the faint, woodsy smoke from the fire. Fenrick was two days out from Duskendale, his destination before he would bribe a fishing vessel to ferry him to Dragonstone. The journey had been a tense one, marked by solitude and vigilance. 

The day he had been released from the dungeons of the Red Keep and escaped King’s Landing, played through his mind. The bustling city teemed with eyes, any one of which could betray him. As he had ridden through the crooked streets, a member of the City Watch had approached him–an action that nearly stopped his heart. But the mane merely handed him a folded note with an all too familiar handwriting.

The message had been brief and direct, leading him to an unassuming brothel tucked away in a less-traveled alley. He had hesitated at the threshold, his pride warring with necessity. He’d never set foot in such a place and wouldn’t have under any other circumstances.The madame had greeted him with a knowing smile, her sharp eyes appraising him. She had said nothing, only gestured for him to follow. The back room she had led him to was simple, with a cracked mirror and a basin of water. 

There, Fenrick had shaved his beard–which had been a defining gesture for years–and his hair cropped short. The madame had handed him a threadbare set of clothing, far removed from his usual attire–worn, patched, and meant to pass him off as a man of no standing. His own attire was given to another man with the same color skin as his own, dark eyes and hair, with a thick beard. 

By the time he left the whorehouse, he was a different man. 

Finan had arranged for him to board a cart headed out of the city, the kind used to transport goods and unlikely to draw attention. He had sat in the back, hidden among barrels and sacks, his sword concealed beneath the folds of his new clothes. When the cart had reached the outskirts, they stopped in a quiet groove. There, a horse awaited him, saddled and stocked with supplies, along with a modest pouch of coin. 

Since then, Fenrick had been on the road, always moving, always wary. The fear of being followed keeping him vigilant, his eyes wary of every passing traveler. He kept to the quieter paths, avoiding towns and larger roads where questions might arise. 

Tonight was the first time Fenrick had truly allowed himself to stop. He’d built a small, crackling fire, its faint warmth a feeble shield against the creeping chill of the night. The flames danced, casting flickering light on the surrounding forest, their glow barely penetrating the deep shadows between the trees. Overhead, the canopy shifted and sighed, leaves rustling softly in the light breeze as though whispering secrets to the stars.

The ground beneath him was hard and unforgiving, the cold seeping through his thin bedroll and the worn cloak he had wrapped tightly around his shoulders. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling the ache of his journey in his bones. The air carried the unmistakable bite of the changing season, crisp and sharp, a reminder that summer had truly ended.

Fenrick exhaled slowly, his breath misting faintly in the firelight, and pulled the cloak closer, trying to ward off the encroaching cold. The night was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the fire or the distant rustle of the forest. It was a stillness that should have brought peace, but instead it left him restless, his mind turning over thoughts of what lay ahead–and the memories of what he had left behind.

He thought of Daenera and Patrick. 

Their faces lingered in his mind, a bitter ache that refused to fade. His chest tightened as she recalled the boy–his cries still ringing in his ears. Patrick had clung to him with desperate strength, screaming for the guards to stop, screaming at Fenrick not to leave him. His small hands had grasped at Fenrick’s clothes, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear. But there had been no choice. He had to go, no matter how much it tore at him. 

And then there was Daenera. Her face lingered in his mind with relentless clarity, tormenting him during every moment of his imprisonment. It was her that had kept him awake at night, worry and regret gnawing at him like the rats in the dungeon that swarmed whenever he stayed still for too long. He should have done more. He should have insisted.

He cursed himself for his inaction, for his failure to protect her. He should have forced Daemon and Rhaenyra to take her back with them immediately, regardless of the cost. He should have told them everything–the whispers he’d overheard, the suspicions that coiled in his gut like venomous snakes. But he hadn’t. He had kept his mouth shut, fearing her reproach to the betrayal should he have said anything, and in doing so, he had left her exposed to the dangers he’d feared the most. 

Aemond. The Kinslayer. The thought of him filled Fenrick with cold fury, a bitterness that clenched his jaw and burned in his chest. He’d seen the way Aemond looked at her, a predator circling its prey. Fenrick should have taken action then, should have stopped him. And now, that hesitation felt like a betrayal all its own. 

He would have betrayed her again if it meant saving her. He would have faced any consequence, shouldered any guilt, and bared his neck for her fury, if it could have ensured her safety. The cost meant nothing compared to keeping her away from him and his family.

The leaves above whispered softly in the gentle breeze, their rustling a delicate, almost lilting cadence that filled the forest with an air of quiet solitude. The world around him was shrouded in stillness, broken only by the occasional beat of wings or the distant scurry of unseen creatures. In these moments, deep into the night when the fire was roaring with life, Fenrick allowed his thoughts to drift where he rarely let them go: to Joyce.

Her name lingered in his mind like a faint melody, bittersweet and haunting. He could almost see her, the way her laughter had lit up the dullest days or the way her hair caught the sunlight just so. It was a memory he both cherished and avoided, a fragment of a life that now felt impossibly distant–a life that had never really been. When he thought of her, the ache in his chest was sharp, raw. The quiet forest seemed to echo the void she had left behind.

Fenrick leaned back against the makeshift pillow–his satchel– the cool night air brushing against his face. His eyes fixed on the canopy above, where slivers of moonlight filtered through the leaves, creating shifting patterns of light and shadow. He could almost hear her voice, soft and teasing, urging him to let down his guard in a way no one else ever could.

“I always said you brooded too much,” she’d once told him, her tone light but her eyes warm. “One day, all that weight you carry is going to sink you.”

A faint smile ghosted his lips at the memory, but it was fleeting, replaced by the familiar heaviness he’d carried since her absence. He clenched his hands into fists, the rough texture of the dirt beneath his fingers grounding him. He couldn’t afford to dwell on Joyce, not now. Not when every thought of her threatened to unravel the fragile composure he clung to.

His resolve hardened like steel tempered in fire. Justice. He would see it done–for her, for every one of his men who had suffered, and for those who would never again draw breath. 

A sharp crack echoed through the forest, the sound of a branch snapping in the distance breaking the stillness. Fenrick sat up abruptly, his body tense as his eyes scanned the darkness. The shadows between the trees seemed to deepen, shifting and twisting in the flickering firelight as though taunting him. Every instinct told him to stay alert, to trust nothing in this silent, unfamiliar wilderness.

His hand found the hilt of his sword, his fingers tightening around the worn leather grip as his heartbeat quickened, pounding a steady rhythm in his ears. He strained to hear past the fire’s soft crackle, his breath shallow as he focused on the distant sound. The forest gave nothing away, the silence now heavy and oppressive, as if it were waiting for something.

His horse, a plain brown mare tethered nearby, shifted uneasily. Her hooves stamped against the ground with soft, irritated thuds, her head tossing as she huffed in agitation. Fenrick’s eyes flicked toward her, noting her flaring nostrils and the tension in her posture. She sensed something–or someone–nearby.

Lowering himself onto his knees with deliberate care, Fenrick pulled his sword partway from its scabbard. The faint scrape of steel against leather sounded loud in the quiet night, and the weight of the blade in his hand brought a grim sort of reassurance. His awareness prickled, every nerve on edge as he listened, watched, and waited, his gaze fixed on the shifting darkness beyond the firelight.

“Who goes there?” Fenrick called out, his voice firm, cutting through the stillness of the forest. 

“We mean no harm,” came the reply, calm but edged with caution. The voice belonged to a man who stepped slowly out of the shadows, the crunch of leaves underfoot betraying his approach. His hands were raised in a gesture of surrender as he pressed forward. He stopped just at the edge of the firelight, his face partially illuminated, the rest still cloaked in darkness. 

Fenrick rose to his feet, his sword scraping further free of the scabbard. The blade glinted in warning. His eyes darted towards the darkness beyond, scanning the shifting shadows, his unease sharpening at the man’s choice of words. 

“We?” He echoed, his voice colder now, edged with suspicion. His grip tightened on the hilt, the muscles in his forearm tensing as he prepared for anything. The forest was too quiet, the firelight too narrow to reveal the answers he sought. Somewhere out there, he knew, there were others, and he wasn’t about to let his guard down until he saw them–and understood their intent. 

Another branch snapped. The first man’s gaze shifted to the side, his head tilting, and Fenrick instinctively followed it. From the opposite edge of the firelight, another figure emerged–a boy, no older than twenty. He moved hesitantly, his steps cautious as his wide, wary eyes flicked between Fenrick and the man who had spoken first. The boy looked ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. 

“We only wish to warm ourselves by the fire,” the first man said, his tone smooth, almost too casual. He took a step forward, but briefly stopped when Fenrick turned his full attention on him, his piercing gaze halting the man in his tracks. His hand remained steady on the hilt of his sword. 

The man’s lips quirked in a faint smile, something unsettlingly amused flickering in his eyes. He spread his hands again in a placating gesture, but there was an ease to his movements that Fenrick didn’t trust. 

“It’s getting cold,” the man continued, his voice light, conversational. “Summer is fully over.”

“Leave,” Fenrick growled, his tone sharp. “Build your own fire. I don’t care for company.”

The man chuckled softly under his breath, a sound that grated against Fenrick’s nerves, and instead of retreating, he pressed forward again. Fenrick stepped back, his grip tightening on his sword, the tension in his body coiling tighter as the man casually moved closer to the fire. 

Once beside the flames, the stranger bent at the knees, lowering himself to sit. He stretched his hands towards the warmth, his posture relaxed as if Fenrick’s–now drawn–blade were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. “Come now, ser,” the man said smoothly. “Would you begrudge a fire to a lad barely old enough to lift a blade?” He glanced at the boy, whose wide eyes lingered on Fenrick’s sword. “The boy’s seen no end of trouble. But then, haven’t we all?”

Fenrick didn’t lower his weapon, his instincts screaming at him to stay on guard. His eyes darted between the man and the boy, watching every move they made, every shift of their posture. 

“It’s dangerous times,” the man said, his voice low and measured as he took a slow, deliberate breath. The flickering firelight danced across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his features and casting shadows that seemed to deepen the suggestion of something sinister lurking beneath his calm exterior. “Being on guard is wise–very wise. You never know what might step out of the shadows. But then, sometimes the blade you draw tonight earns you the dagger in the back tomorrow.” He tilted his head slightly, his smile faint but unsettling. “Better to make a friend than an enemy, wouldn’t you agree?”

Fenrick’s grip on his sword tightened, the steel glinting coldly in the firelight. His gaze didn’t waver as he leveled the man with an unflinching glare. “Leave, I won’t ask you again,” he said, his voice steady, cold, and unyielding. The single word carried all the weight of a warning, a final barrier against whatever game the stranger was playing.

The man let out an exasperated breath, his shoulders sagging slightly, and in a tone that was almost bored, he hummed, “Very well.”

Fenrick kept his eye locked on him, but out of the corner of his vision, a flicker of movement caught his attention. Before he could fully turn, something struck him hard and fast–a brutal, unforgiving blow that exploded across his cheekbone. His head snapped to the side, pain lacing through his skull as his vision blurred.

A second blow followed, this one slamming into his ribs, sharp and punishing. He staggered, barely holding his balance before something hooked his hoot, wrenching it out from under him. He went sprawling on the ground, the rough forest floor scraping against him as his sword was ripped from his grasp. It clattered against the dirt, spinning just out of reach. 

Pain flared in waves as a meaty hand latched onto his hair, yanking him up from the ground in a cruel, unrelenting grip. Fenrick grimaced as the jagged pull forced him onto his knees, his body aching from blows. The cool, deadly pressure of a blade pressed against his neck, a silent promise of violence. 

The forest seemed to swim before his eyes, the pain in his ribs and the pounding in his skull making the world tilt and blur. Blood filled his mouth, metallic and bitter, and he spat it onto the ground with a frown. Slowly, his eyes focused, glaring up at the man who now loomed over him. 

A round, fat face sneered down at him, the firelight playing cruelly across the grotusque details. Half the man’s nose was missing, the torn flesh still fresh and pink, the edges raw and angry in the glow of the fire. The sight was almost as unsettling as the reek of his breath, rancid with decay, that hit Fenrick like a wave as the man laughed, a low, guttural sound full of cruel amusement. 

“Well now,” the man sneered, his grin widening to reveal blackened, rotting teeth. “Yer not so quick with that blade now, are yer?” His grip tightened on Fenrick’s hair, jerking his head slightly to expose his neck further to the blade’s edge. 

Fenrick swallowed hard, the metallic tang of blood lingering in his mouth as he gritted his teeth against the pain. The fat hand gripping his hair yanked, forcing his head to tilt slightly, and the blade at his throat bit ever so slightly into his skin, cold and unyielding.

The first man, who had spoken with such calculated ease earlier, straightened to his full height, his movements languid and deliberate. His air of nonchalance made the scene feel all the more oppressive. “You are a difficult man to find, Ser Fenrick Locke,” he said smoothly, as though they were discussing something as mundane as the weather.

Fenrick’s glare burned into him. “Who sent you?” he growled, his voice low and ragged. He hissed as the grip on his hair tightened further, pulling hard enough to strain his neck, while the edge of the blade pressed more firmly into the delicate skin just above his collarbone.

“Let’s just kill ‘im and be done wit’ it,” the noseless man barked, his voice thick and guttural, the slurred words warped further by the strange nasal whistle of his mutilation. His eyes gleamed with a savage glee as he looked down at Fenrick, his sword held tightly in his other hand.

The first man shook his head, his expression turning hard and calculating. “No,” he said firmly. “We’ll kill him, but not before he tells us what the Lord wants to know. How he escaped.” His voice dropped slightly on the last word, as if savoring the idea of prying the information from Fenrick. He turned his gaze sharply to the young man, who still hovered uncertainly near the edge of the firelight, clutching a dagger with trembling hands.

“You,” the leader said, his voice snapping like a whip. “Search his belongings. Now.”

The boy flinched, hesitating for a moment before obeying. He knelt near Fenrick’s small pack, his hands fumbling as he rifled through the few items Fenrick had carried with him. The firelight caught on the edge of the dagger he held, the weapon shaking slightly in his grip as he cast nervous glances at Fenrick and the other men.

Fenrick’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing even as he kept his face set in a defiant scowl. The noseless man’s grip and the blade at his neck were unrelenting, but his thoughts burned with fury and the desperate calculation of how to turn the situation in his favor.

As the young man rifled nervously through Fenrick’s belongings, the first man stepped closer, his boots crunching softly against the forest floor. His voice dropped to a low, almost conversational hum, but there was a sharp edge to it, like the blade hovering at Fenrick’s throat. “How did you get out of the city?”

Fenrick kept his jaw clenched, refusing to utter a word. The risk was too great–he would not betray Finan, nor let any hint of information lead back to Daenera.

The noseless man sneered, shaking his head violently as though Fenrick’s silence was a personal insult. He leaned closer, the reek of his rotting teeth hitting Fenrick like a physical blow, twisting his stomach. 

“Answer,” he snarled, his voice guttural and sharp, the blade at Fenrick’s throat pressing just enough to send a warning sting through the skin.

He didn’t flinch, his gaze locked on the firelight flickering in the first man’s eyes. His silence seemed to do more than frustrate them–it amused the leader, who let a faint smile curve his lips. 

“Who helped you escape? Hmm?” With a slow, deliberate motion, the man stopped and picked up a long, dry branch from the forest floor. Turning it over in his hand, the held it just above the flames, watching as the fire licked and bit at the wood, sparks snapping as the branch began to catch. 

“We’ll get you to speak,” the man said, his voice low, the firelight casting shadows across his face. “One way or another. My lord has taught me many things in his service–things I’m quite adept at applying when someone needs a little… persuasion.”

Fenrick’s eyes darted briefly to the branch as it began to burn, the flame traveling up the dry bark, casting a sinister glow against the man’s face. His stomach knotted, but his expression remained resolute. He would endure whatever came next, for the alternative–betraying those he swore to protect–was unthinkable. 

“And which Lord is that?” Fenrick bit out through gritted teeth, his voice sharp with defiance. He didn’t expect an answer–not one that mattered, anyway. The question was more for himself, a small act of resistance as he stared down the man who loomed before him. If he were to die here, a little knowledge wouldn’t change his fate.

The first man offered no response, only a slight shift of his expression, as if Fenrick’s words were nothing more than a passing breeze. Fenrick’s eyes lingered on him, studying his movements, his attire, every detail that might offer a glimpse into his intentions. The boy continued to rifle through his belongings, upending the pack and spilling its contents alongside the satchel, but Fenrick knew he would find nothing of use. He had ensured that before he set out.

The first man seemed unconcerned with the boy’s search, his attention riveted to the branch in his hand. The wood was burning steadily now, the fire eating through its end, glowing red and hot. He watched it with unnerving focus, his dark eyes alight as he leaned forward and blew out the flame, leaving the charred end smoldering. He turned the branch over in his hands, as if mesmerized by the glow of the embers, his fascination almost childlike.

Fenrick’s gaze flicked over the man’s attire. The worn black leather he wore was sturdy, practical, and covered by a heavy wool cloak that hung about his shoulders. His hair was trimmed short, his jaw partially shaven, though weathered lines etched deeply into his face spoke of a hard life. Whereas the other two were clad in tattered rags patched together with carelessness, their garments soiled with mud and who knew what else. Their weapons matched their appearance–rusted, poorly maintained, barely reliable. But the first man’s blade was different, of far better quality–a long dagger. Its hilt gleamed faintly in the firelight, a detail that marked him as something more than a common brigand.

“Nothin’,” the boy muttered at last, rising from where he’d knelt, his voice tinged with unease.

The man’s lips twisted into a grimace as he turned his dark eyes back to him. There was no amusement in his gaze now, only cold purpose. “Search him,” he ordered flatly, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air.

Fenrick’s muscles tensed, his body coiled like a spring as the noseless man moved closer, his hands reaching for him with a cruel eagerness. His mind raced, calculating his options as the firelight cast long shadows, and the embers of the branch smoldered ominously in the hand of his captor.

The noseless man’s hand slipped under his doublet, his fingers rough and invasive as Fenrick thrashed against him, struggling to tear the hand away. The blade in the man’s other hand hovered dangerously close, its tip grazing Fenrick’s side as he fought to free himself. Despite his efforts, the man’s filthy smile widened, his blackened teeth gleaming in the firelight.

“Well, what do we ‘ave ‘ere…” the noseless man sneered, his voice thick and guttural as he yanked something free. Fenrick froze, his heart lurching as the man withdrew the letter Daenera had entrusted to him. The pale parchment seemed to glow against the darkness, a fragile beacon in the grim night.

The man held it aloft with a twisted grin, passing it to the leader with a mocking flourish. “Lookit this,” he muttered. 

The leader’s eyes sparked with interest as he discarded the branch into the fire, the smoldering wood hissing as it landed. He plucked the letter from the noseless man’s hand, the firelight reflecting off his sharp features as he unfolded it.

Seeing the letter in the leader’s hands, Fenrick surged forward with a desperate roar. He twisted sharply, driving his elbow into the noseless man’s chest, forcing him to stumble back. Fenrick threw himself toward the letter, his knees scraping painfully along the forest floor as he lunged. His fingers reached out, straining, but closed around nothing as a heavy boot struck him hard in the ribs, sending him sprawling.

He hit the ground just beside the fire, the searing heat from the flames licking dangerously close to his skin. The acrid scent of burning wood filled his nose as he scrambled to recover, but the noseless man was on him in an instant, slamming a knee into his chest. The force pinned him down, driving the air from his lungs.

The blade returned to his neck, pressing harder this time, its cold edge biting into his skin. Before Fenrick could react, a swift, brutal blow landed against the side of his head. Pain exploded across his skull, his face snapping toward the fire as the impact split his brow open. Blood trickled down, warm and sticky, as his vision blurred.

“Yer fuckin’ cunt!” the noseless man bellowed, his face contorted with rage. Spittle flew from his lips as he screamed, some of it landing hot and wet on Fenrick’s cheek. “I’ll fuckin’ cut yer throat, I swear it!” His grip on Fenrick’s hair tightened, jerking his head back as the blade hovered ominously close, the promise of violence heavy in the air.

Fenrick blinked against the throbbing pain in his head, his vision swimming as he turned his face toward the leader. He watched, helpless, as the man broke the seal on the letter, his fingers unfolding the parchment with deliberate ease. A bitter sense of failure burned in his chest, searing through him like a brand. Daenera had trusted him with that letter, and now it lay in the hands of men who would twist its contents to their own ends.

Pressing his hand against the damp, leafy forest floor, he searched blindly, his fingers brushing over the dirt and debris, desperate to find something–anything–that could serve as a weapon.

“What does it say?” the boy asked nervously, stepping closer to the leader. His voice wavered slightly, betraying his unease.

The leader shrugged, tilting his head as he glanced down at the letter. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his tone laced with irritation. His dark eyes lifted, locking onto Fenrick with a cold, calculating glare. “What does it say?” he demanded, holding the parchment aloft like a prize.

A bitter laugh bubbled up from Fenrick’s throat, spilling out in defiance as he grinned through the blood streaking his face. He said nothing, his silence as sharp as any insult. The grin only deepened the lines of his defiance, even as the leader’s expression darkened.

The response earned him another savage blow. The noseless man struck him hard, the impact radiating through his skull and sending fresh pain shooting through the still-healing bone of his broken nose. His head snapped back, blood spilling anew from his nostrils as he struggled to stifle a grimace.

“‘E asked ya a question!” the noseless man snarled, his voice rising with frustration. Spittle flew from his cracked lips as he leaned closer, his blade pressing harder against his neck. 

Despite the pain, Fenrick refused to speak, his defiance burning just as fiercely as the flames beside him. He would give them nothing, even if it cost him everything.

His fingers inched closer to the edge of the fire, the heat biting at his skin, blistering with each moment he lingered. He couldn’t reach the dagger tucked into his boot, but his eyes locked onto the burning logs within the flames.

Gritting his teeth, Fenrick fought through the searing pain and closed his hand around a fiery piece of wood. The bark scorched his palm, the agony immediate and sharp, but he swung it upward with all his strength, slamming it against the noseless man’s skull.

The log exploded into glowing embers and charred fragments, swirling through the air as the noseless man let out a guttural scream. He staggered backward, clutching at his head as flames licked at his hair, the acrid stench of burning flesh and hair filling the clearing. His howl of pain echoed through the forest as he crumpled to the ground, swiping desperately at the fire consuming him.

Fenrick surged upward, his heart thundering within his chest. His injured hand throbbed, but he ignored it, reaching down to his boot. His fingers wrapped around the familiar hilt of his dagger, and he pulled it free in a smooth, practiced motion. The weapon glinted menacingly in the firelight as he turned to face his attackers.

Scrambling to his feet, he moved with ruthless precision, driving the dagger into the noseless man’s side. The blade sank deep, angled upward with grim intent, finding its mark. The man let out a guttural, animalistic howl, his voice raw with agony.

When Fenrick yanked the blade free, a sickening, wet swoosh followed, the unmistakable sound of a lung collapsing. Blood poured from the wound, dark and viscous, soaking the man’s tattered clothing and pooling beneath him as he crumpled to the ground. He choked and gasped, his breath coming in sharp, ragged stutters, each attempt at air a losing battle.

The noseless man writhed, his screams giving way to gurgling noises as blood bubbled in his throat, while the boy, wide-eyed and trembling, rushed forward in a desperate attempt to intervene. Fenrick pivoted sharply, his dagger held steady as he lashed out–not with the blade, but with the back of his free hand. The blow cracked across the boy’s face, sending him stumbling to the ground. Fenrick loomed over him, his voice a guttural growl. “Stay down.”

The boy froze, his dagger falling from his hands as he raised them in surrender, his face pale and streaked with tears.

The leader, however, wasted no time. The rasp of steel sliding against leather filled the air as he drew his blade, the weapon gleaming wickedly in the firelight. He stepped forward with deliberate menace, the blade held steady as his dark eyes locked onto Fenrick. The flames cast jagged shadows across his face, making him appear even more sinister as the tension crackled between them, heavy with the promise of violence.

Fenrick shifted into a defensive stance, his dagger held firmly despite the pain in his burned hand. His gaze narrowed as he faced the leader, the clearing alive with the echoes of the noseless man’s howls and the distant crackle of the fire. The fight wasn’t over yet.

“It matters not who helped you escape the city,” the leader hummed, his tone maddeningly casual as he held the crumpled letter in his hand. His eyes flicked down to the parchment, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “We’ll find them eventually, rat them out one by one.” He shrugged, the gesture slow and deliberate, as though the weight of his words didn’t carry the threat they truly did. “The Lord will have to content himself with this letter.” His smirk deepened, twisting into something more sinister. “It seems quite important, judging by your reaction. I wonder…” He tilted his head mockingly. “...how it might implicate the bastard princess.”

The words were a spark, igniting a fury Fenrick couldn’t contain. With a roar, he lunged forward, his body driven by desperation and rage. His dagger slashed toward the man, but the leader moved quickly, blocking the blow and countering with one of his own. The clash sent them grappling, their arms locking as Fenrick clawed for the letter.

Their struggle threw them off balance, and both men tumbled to the ground in a heap. The impact sent a grunt of air wheezing from the leader’s chest, but Fenrick barely registered it as they scrambled dangerously close to the flames. His eyes locked on the letter, which had fallen free, the wind pushing it closer and closer to the fire. The edges of the parchment curled as the flames licked at it, darkening and charring.

Fenrick stretched toward it, his fingers scraping the ground as he reached desperately for the letter. His fingertips brushed the edge just as the leader twisted, throwing them over again. They rolled, his body colliding painfully with the forest floor as the leader wrestled for control. Gritting his teeth, he threw his weight into the struggle, managing to twist them once more. He lunged for the letter again, grabbing it just as the fire began to consume the parchment.

With a desperate motion, Fenrick flung the letter away from the flames, saving what remained even as the edges smoldered. His relief was short-lived. The leader’s fist came down hard, striking his cheek and snapping his head to the side. Stars danced in his vision as the man surged forward, flipping them yet again.

The leader straddled his waist, his expression twisted with grim determination as he pried the dagger from his grasp. The blade glinted in the firelight as the man gripped it, raising it high, his weight pinning him down. He snarled, his arm driving the dagger downward, aiming for Fenrick’s chest. He bucked against him, his arms straining to catch the descending blade.

The blade inched closer to Fenrick’s chest, its sharp tip pressing against his doublet, the worn leather giving way under the relentless pressure. The pain began as a sharp pinch, a needle-like intrusion that deepened into a searing burn as the blade broke through his skin. He growled low in his throat, his muscles straining as he bucked his hips against the man, disrupting the downward force just enough to shift the blade’s trajectory.

Gritting his teeth, Fenrick adjusted his grip, his hands scrabbling for purchase before he grabbed the man by the collar. With a burst of raw strength, he yanked himself upward while pulling the man down. His forehead collided with the man’s face in a brutal crack, the impact reverberating through his skull. Pain flared momentarily in His brow, but he felt the sickening crunch of cartilage beneath the blow and knew he wasn’t alone in suffering. Finally, he wasn’t the only one with a broken nose.

The man reeled, his head jerking back as blood poured freely from his shattered nose. He snarled, trying to drive the blade downward again, but Fenrick twisted sharply, throwing their bodies to the side. The two of them tumbled, scrabbling along the edges of the fire, embers sparking around them.

Fenrick slammed his fist into the man’s face, the force snapping his head to the side. The leader’s eyes rolled back briefly, dazed, and Fenrick seized the fleeting opportunity. He reached for the blade, prying at the man’s grip, his fingers curling around the hilt. Just as he was about to rip it free, something barreled into him from the side, dragging him off the leader with surprising force.

Reacting instinctively, Fenrick twisted around, driving the blade forward in one swift, practiced motion. The resistance of flesh and muscle met his strike, and a gasp of shock broke through the chaos. He blinked, registering the boy’s wide, astonished eyes as he staggered back, the blade jutting from his stomach.

The boy looked down at the weapon embedded in him, his expression a mixture of disbelief and pain. His brow furrowed deeply, his voice soft with astonishment as he stammered, “Y-yer stabbed me…”

Fenrick shoved the boy away with a grimace, snatching the blade from his trembling hands before spinning on his heels. He turned to finish the leader, only to find the space where the man had been laying now empty. The trampled forest floor bore the marks of their struggle, but the leader was gone, vanished into the surrounding shadows.

His heart thundered in his chest, a drumbeat of battle and anger. His breaths came quick and shallow as he clutched his side, his ribs aching with every inhalation. The sharp pain in his lungs burned like fire, but he forced himself upright, his gaze darting across the darkened forest. He spun slowly, surveying the trees for any sign of movement, but the silence pressed heavy around him.

Behind him, the boy’s voice cut through the stillness, faint and trembling. “Yer stabbed me…” he murmured, his tone full of disbelief. He repeated the words, over and over, each utterance weaker than the last. Stumbling backward, the boy’s legs gave way, and his spine hit a tree. He slid down the trunk until he sat crumpled at its base, his wide eyes locked on the dagger protruding from his stomach. “Yer stabbed me…” he whispered again, his voice barely audible now.

Fenrick ignored the boy’s words, his focus unyielding as he twirled the stolen blade in his hand, adjusting his grip with practiced ease, his palm burning. His stance shifted, remaining vigilant as his eyes roved over the clearing, searching for any sign of an ambush. With careful steps, he approached the fire, scanning the ground for the letter.

His heart sank as his eyes found it. What remained was little more than a charred scrap of parchment. He crouched by the flames, picking it up gingerly, his blood-streaked fingers smearing the crumbled remnants. The edges were blackened and curled, and only a few paragraphs of text were still legible. The intricate glyphs on the paper were foreign–High Valryrian–their presence confirmed the letter’s importance–and the magnitude of its loss.

He stared at the damaged letter, his chest tightening with frustration and regret. The weight of failure settled heavily on his shoulders, even as his grip on the blade tightened. He couldn’t dwell on it now; the leader was still out there, and the danger hadn’t passed. Standing, he cast one last glance at the boy slumped against the tree before turning his attention back to the shadows.

Fenrick tucked the charred remnants of the letter back into his doublet, pressing it close to his chest as though the act alone could shield its significance. Whatever was left of it would be delivered to Rhaenyra–he swore it, even if he had to crawl to Dragonstone with his dying breath. He would not fail Daenera, not again. 

He strode across the clearing, his steps steady despite the ache in his ribs and the searing pain in his hand. Kneeling down, he retrieved his sword from the dirt, inspecting it briefly before sliding it back into its scabbard. Without delay, he began gathering his scattered belongings, shoving them into his bag in haste. His movements were efficient, his mind already turning to what lay ahead.

Stopping momentarily, Fenrick grabbed his waterskin, pulling the cork free with his teeth. Holding out his burned hand, he tilted the waterskin, letting the cold liquid pour over the blistered, raw skin. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, the pain immediate and biting, his jaw clenching against it. The blisters had already formed, some burst from where he’d gripped the daggers, leaving patches of tender, exposed flesh. He bit down hard on the cork, hissing softly as the water cleaned the wound. 

Tearing a strip of cloth from his pack, he soaked it with water before wiping it over his face. The cool fabric stung as he dragged it across the cuts and bruises marring his skin. He scrubbed away the blood from his brow, beneath his nose, and along his split lip. Through each movement, his eyes flicked towards the shadows surrounding him. The forest seemed to press in on all sides, its dark recesses alive with the possibility of danger. 

Fenrick’s ears strained for any sound–the snap of a branch, the rustle of leaves–anything that might signal the man’s return. The clearing smelled of charred wood and blood, it clung to his nose as he tossed the rag aside with a grunt and reached for another, cleaner strip of cloth. 

“Yer stabbed me…” the boy muttered again, his voice trembling, the same words tumbling from his lips like a broken refrain. “Yer stabbed me…” Over and over, the sound grated on Fenrick’s nerves, the repetition needling at him. 

He ignored the boy, his focus remaining on his injuries. He wetted the clean cloth with water, wrapping it carefully around his burned hand. The cool dampness offered some relief, though the seared skin throbbed relentlessly. 

Fenrick grimaced as the pain in his hand and ribs flared with every movement. He flexed his burned fingers gingerly, the makeshift bandage doing little to dull the persistent sting. His mind drifted briefly to Daenera–her calm, confident hands tending to the injuries. She had always known how to find relief in the simplest things, and one memory surfaced clearly: the willow bark.

He’d have to find some. The thought struck him with practicality rather than hope, a small step toward managing the pain. 

Corking the waterskin and tucking it into his bag with a decisive shove, Fenrick pushed himself to his feet. His muscles ached, his ribs protesting every movement, but he ignored the pain. Raising his sleeve, he wiped the lingering blood from his nose and split lip, the rough fabric scraping against his skin.

His eyes swept the forest, sharp and searching, scanning the darkened treeline for any sign of movement. The firelight flickered faintly, casting dancing shadows across the ground, but the surrounding woods remained eerily silent.

Turning his attention to the boy, Fenrick approached him slowly, his steps measured. The boy’s wide, tearful eyes remained on the blade protruding from his stomach, filled with shock and disbelief. He didn’t try to move, his back pressed against the tree he had slid down. 

Fenrick crouched, bringing himself to the boy’s level, the flickering firelight casting grim shadows across his face. His hand reached out, gripping the boy’s shoulder firmly but not cruelly. He stared into the boy’s eyes, his expression hard but devoid of any cruelty. There was no pleasure in what he had done–or in what he was about to do. It was a necessity. 

He had seen wounds like that before, and he knew the signs. The blood pooling beneath him, the pale, clammy skin, the way his breath came in short, ragged gasps. Even if help were nearby–and it wasn’t–the boy would bleed out long before anything could be done to save him.

Fenrick looked down at him, his jaw tightening as the boy’s wide, frightened eyes flitted between him and his wound. 

“Who sent you?”

“Yer stabbed me…” the boy croaked again.

“I did. Who sent you?”

“Yer stabbed me…”

Fenrick’s patience frayed, a low, frustrated sound escaping his throat. He couldn’t afford to linger here, not with the leader still out there. His hand gripped the hilt of the blade embedded in the boy’s stomach, tightening just enough to send a fresh jolt of agony through him–and through his own hand as well. The boy let out a shocked gasp, his legs kicking weakly as his fingers clawed at the roots of the tree he was slumped against. 

“Who sent you?” He asked a again, leaning closer as he twisted the blade slightly. The boy choked out a scream, a high, shrill sound that cut through the stillness of the forest. 

“Tell me,” Fenrick hissed in low menace, “and I will stop.”

“I–I don’t know!” The boy gasped, his voice hitching between sobs. “P–please! I don’t–”

His words dissolved into a desperate, incoherent plea, his pale face streaked with tears. Fenrick’s jaw tightened as he studied him, searching for any hint of deceit, weighing his options against the boy’s evident panic. There was no triumph in the act, only necessity, as he tried to force the answers he needed from a dying boy.

“Who is this Lord of yours?” He demanded as he twisted the blade just enough to elicit another gasping cry from the boy. Tears streaked the boy’s pale, dirt-smeared face as he choked on his cries, his thin fingers wrapping futilely around Fenrick’s wrist, their feeble grip shaking. 

“Did Prince Aemond send you?” Fenrick pressed, his voice darker now, edged with suspicion. The thought gnawed at him–Aemond was cunning and cruel enough to orchestrate something like this. They might call this mysterious figure a lord, but he couldn’t shake the belief that the Kinslayer’s had was behind it. 

It wouldn’t surprise him if Aemond had gone back on his word, sending men to eliminate him under the guise of bad fortune on the road to Dragonstone. Yet, at the same time, it didn’t make sense. Aemond had been so set on sowing discord–and he needed him alive for that. Killing him would serve no purpose. He still remembered his smug expression he had worn when had him dragged into an interrogation room. 

The boy’s head shook frantically, his whole body trembling as sobs wracked his frame. “I don’t–I, please stop!” He begged, his voice breaking. “I don’t want to die. I don’t know. I don’t know,” he repeated, tears mingling with the blood that dripped down his chin. His breath hitched, and his words tumbled out in a rush of desperation. “They said I’d be free if I did this one thing. I never–I didn’t want to hang. I didn’t want to be sent to the Wall.”

The boy’s pleas rang hollow and pitiful in Fenrick’s ears, but the raw fear in his voice made him pause for a heartbeat. The boy’s sobbing echoed in the stillness of the forest as he stared down at the boy, his expression hard and unyielding. He did not doubt the boy’s ignorance–it seemed clear enough that whoever had sent him, along with the noseless man, had preyed on their desperation. Promised a chance to avoid the noose or the Wall, they had latched onto this grim task as their only hope of survival. Yet ignorance was no absolution.

Without a word, Fenrick drew the blade from the boy’s stomach. Blood gushed from the wound, spilling over his hands as it soaked his shirt, spreading across the fabric like a grotesque, blooming flower. The boy’s eyes widened in shock, his trembling hands instinctively pressing against the wound as though he could somehow hold the life from spilling out of him.

“You should have stayed down,” Fenrick said, his voice low and cold as his grip tightened on the boy’s shoulder. He leaned closer, his gaze sharp and unwavering. “Or led a better life.”

Before the boy could utter another plea, Fenrick drove the blade into his neck with unceremonious precision. The boy’s eyes shot wide in a final, silent gasp. Blood sputtered from his mouth, a crimson spray that spilled down his chin as he gagged around the steel. He held the blade firm for a moment before pulling it free, the withdrawal accompanied by a sickening wet sound.

“May the Father judge you kindly.”

Blood poured from the wound, gushing over the boy’s chest in rhythmic spurts as his life slipped away. His eyes fluttered, his lips parting in a faint, futile effort to breathe. His arms fell heavy into his lap, limp and useless, as his gaze drifted upward. Fenrick watched as the boy’s glassy eyes fixed on the canopy above, the flickering firelight reflected dimly in them.

The boy’s chest stilled, the light fading from his wide, unseeing eyes as death claimed him. Fenrick swallowed hard, the lump in his throat refusing to ease as a heavy weight pressed against his chest. The boy’s death lingered in his mind, unwelcome and bitter, though he forced himself to suppress it. There was no room for guilt now; survival demanded his focus.

He straightened slowly, his body aching from the struggle, and made his way back across the clearing. His bag lay where he had left it, scattered amidst the remnants of the scuffle. He grabbed it, slinging it over his shoulder with a grunt of effort. His ruined bedroll lay nearby, abandoned beneath the lifeless form of the noseless man. Pink froth clung to the corners of the man’s slackened lips, his eyes frozen wide and empty in death. He spared him only a passing glance before turning away. The dead were beyond his concern now.

As he retraced his steps across the forest floor, something caught his attention–a faint glimmer amidst the scattered leaves. Fenrick paused, narrowing his eyes as he crouched down to investigate. Brushing aside the debris, his fingers closed around a small, cool object.

He lifted it into the firelight, inspecting it carefully. It was a pin–small and brass, faintly tarnished but still catching the light. He turned it over in his hand, his brow furrowing. The shape came into focus: intricate and strange, crafted to resemble something organic. At first glance, it resembled a toe, but as he rotated it, the unmistakable form of an insect revealed itself.

Fenrick frowned deeply, his thumb brushing against the pin’s detailing as unease prickled at the edges of his thoughts. The object was peculiar, out of place amidst the blood-soaked ground and scattered belongings. It must have fallen off the leader in the scuffle.

Tucking the pin into his bag, Fenrick rose to his feet again. His eyes swept the darkened forest, the clearing now quiet save for the crackle of the dying fire. Whatever the pin meant–if it meant anything at all–he couldn’t linger. He adjusted his bag, steeling himself, and moved toward his horse.

Fenrick secured his bag tightly to the horse’s saddle, his movements slow and deliberate as pain throbbed through every fiber of his body. His ribs ached with every breath, his burned hand stung with raw intensity, and his muscles screamed in protest as he hauled himself into the saddle. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the reins, steadying himself before nudging the horse forward.

The mare stepped cautiously at first, sensing his unease, but his urged her into a steady pace. He would not stop–not for the pain, not for the exhaustion pressing down on him like a weight. His goal was clear: Duskendale. From there, he’d find a ship to Dragonstone. Nothing would keep him from fulfilling his mission.

I will not fail you, he had promised her.

The memory of those words lingered, a solemn vow carved into his soul. Fenrick straightened as much as his battered body would allow, his grip on the reins tightening. He would endure, fight, and push forward.

Whatever it took to keep that promise, he would do it.

Mother,

I am alive and well, though my thoughts are never far from you. I have entrusted this letter to Fenrick, trusting him to ensure it reaches you safely. 

I write to you with a heart heavy with grief and sorrow, knowing no words can truly comfort the ache that now resides within us. Lucerys was my brother and his loss feels like the loss of a limb. And yet, I cannot begin to fathom the depths of your grief, for you carry burdens far heavier than mine. 

It takes a rare strength to continue after such loss–a strength I know you possess. You passed it to me, Mother, and for that, I am endlessly grateful. We endure. I know you have been searching for him. But please, in the midst of this search, do not forget yourself.

The realm depends upon you, and we, your children, cannot bear to lose you too. You must think of your health, for your sake and for the sake of the baby you carry–little Visenya. I long for the day I can meet her. I hope she brings you a measure of solace amidst your grief. 

When that time comes, tell her of me. Speak my name to Aegon and Viserys as well; I do not wish to be a stranger to them when we finally meet again. Of that, I am certain: we will see each other again. 

I know that my absence has cast doubts upon my loyalty, and I ache at the thought of being a source of pain or uncertainty to you. Though I am far from you, know that my thoughts remain with you and our cause. 

I ask for your forgiveness–for not being at your side, for the choices forced upon me, for the deeds I cannot speak of. Though I may not stand beside you, my heart remains yours, bound by love and sorrow alike.

They adorned me in white and called me a bride, they cloaked my shoulders in green, but my heart remains black. They speak of love and choice, as though my marriage to Aemond is anything but a shackle. Any love I bore for him died along with Lucerys.Yet, he clings to me still, as though he might tether me to him with force, where affection has long since withered. This marriage is a cage, its gilded bars forged in blood and ambition. He seeks to keep me close, not out of love, but to control, to possess, to ensure I cannot be used against him. I am not his wife but a pawn, held in place by his will and the chains he has wrapped around me in the name of duty. Know that I do not yield to him in spirit, Mother. Though I must tread carefully, wear their colors and play their game, my heart remains free, untouched by his and his family’s schemes. I am but a piece on the board, moved at their whim. 

I am haunted at the thought of rumors of my supposed support for the traitors that may have reached you and cast doubt upon my heart. Let me be clear, Mother: my heart, my loyalty, and my faith belong solely to you and our family. You are the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and I have never wavered in my belief.

My smiles are a weapon as much as it is a lie. Every step I take is in service to our family. Trust that my loyalty has not wavered, even if I am forced to speak their words and play their games.

Do not fear for me, Mother. I endure this for us, for the greater cause, and for the hope that one day, I will return to your side. Until then, hold me in your thoughts, as I hold you in mine.Your loving daughter, Your loyal subject, Daenera Velaryon.

[wanderingsoul6261]

Credit for the gif goes to spagooterx

Hodari Pavel x Human!OC

Warning: sexual content below the cut. Minors do not interact. Swear words. Lots of them. I think that's it.

Enjoy this sin of a piece. Don't write this kind of stuff often so please bear with me. Ending is kind of rushed.

Emrys sat at the kitchen table, a cup of what she had known in her previous life to be coffee, in her hands. Her chapaa sat nestled in her lap. Hodari stood opposite of her, leaning back against the counter, void of a shirt, which Emrys had rightfully stolen the night before. He wore pajama bottoms, his legs crossed slightly as he took a sip from his own cup, his other hand propped up on the edge of the counter. 

She gazed at him, her eyes and smile soft as she took in his appearance. The way his hair is in disarray, having not yet combed it out yet for the day. The subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He caught her staring, the corner of his mouth lifting into an amused smile. 

“You're starin’, darlin.” Emrys snapped out of her stupor, catching his eyes with her own. 

“Sorry. It can't be helped.” She smiled cheekily, feeling appreciative that the two, although very hesitantly, had decided to take a day off from work. Emrys thoroughly enjoyed the domesticity between the two. 

Hodari didn't have much to say either, as his eyes moved down her body, at least what wasn't blocked by the table. He adored the way his shirt fit over her form. The way her pajama shorts fitted around her soft and plush thighs. She wasn't a model like the ones you would likely see in Bahari City, or as fit as the other humans, but he loved the little bit of extra skin on her thighs and stomach. It gave him a little extra to hold onto when he was-

Hodari let out a small cough,adjusting his stance as his head filled with pleasurable thoughts. It was Emrys’ turn to smirk in amusement, just as Najuma practically jumped out of her room, obviously excited of spending the day doing absolutely nothing with Her dad and Emrys. 

Then she registered that he wasn't wearing a shirt. 

“Eugh, dad. Put a shirt on.” She complained, skipping over to embrace Emrys in a quick good morning hug. Hodari only rolled his eyes and let out a huff, but obliged. He set his cup on the table next to Emrys, eyeing her chapaa as he stirred awake and pressed a lingering kiss to the top of her head. 

She had raised her hand slightly, her touch lingering on his hip, her fingertips touching his skin and the cloth of his pajama bottoms. Hodari shivered slightly, moving away from her and pressing a kiss to Najuma's head as he walked pass her towards his room. 

When he returned, Hodari was dressed in mote day appropriate clothes, donning a regular t-shirt not claimed by Emrys and a pair of pants, leaving his jacket in the room. He returned for his cup, Emrys flashing him a wink as he turned to Najuma. 

“Go get dressed kiddo and I'll help you with one of your projects in the workshop.” When she disappeared, Hodari turned back to Emrys, who was presently taking a sip from her cup. 

He caged her against the table, one hand remaining on his cup while the other came around to settle on the table next to her. His breath fanned across her ear, causing her to shiver as he spoke. 

“That means you too, darlin. Change out of those clothes and into something more comfortable.” her breathing hitched, but she knew what Hodari was doing, and decided to play along. It always made the end of the night activities more exciting. 

“But these are comfortable.” as much as she tried to keep her cool, her voice gave her away, and she knew that Hodari caught it. A deep hum vibrated in his chest and she could feel it against her back. 

His hand moved from the table, moving down to the ends of the shirt, lifting it slightly as his fingers lightly ran along her bare skin. “I believe they would be a bit more comfortable on the bedroom floor.” His hand softly gripped the plush of her hip, letting out a noise of satisfaction in her ear as her breath hitched in her chest. “But we promised Najuma a day with her.” And with that, he withdrew his hand, but she still felt his touch lingering, as he walked towards the livingroom just as Najuma came bounding out of her bedroom. 

“Ready?!” She asked excitedly. 

Emrys coughed, regaining her composure as she squeezed her thighs together.

“You guys go ahead. Let me change out of my pajamas.” hodari looked back at her a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“don't take too long darlin. We’ll be waitin.” and with that, the father daughter duo wandered out of the house, Najuma’s excited rambling and Hodari’s soft chuckle being heard as they moved away from the house. 

Emrys ached to relieve herself right then and there, but in the end, had decided not to, quickly changing and meeting the other two at the workshop. She had arrived as Hodari crossed the workshop to grab some tools, looking at her with a smug look as she approached. He waited until she was in front of him and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, before leaning forward to finish grabbing the tools he and Najuma needed. 

“Did you touch yourself?” his voice was so soft, Emrys almost missed it. Her eyes widened slightly and her cheeks grew red. Hodari looked at her briefly, reaching for the last tool, awaiting an answer. 

“No.” She answered quickly, but honestly. Hodari let out a noise of satisfaction, content with her answer. 

“Good girl.” He breathed out as he walked back towards Najuma. Emrys grew weak in the knees, leaning against the work bench to support herself. 

“Are you okay Emrys? You look a little hot.” Najuma asked, genuinely concerned for her well being. Emrys glanced briefly at Hodari, who watched her with a knowing look, proud of how flustered he had made her with those simple words. 

“I alright kiddo. Probably just need to cool down.” 

“There's a pond right behind you.” Hodari pointed out. 

“Good point. Maybe I'll go for a swim.” 

“Oh! Me And dad are almost done!  We can join you!” 

And that's where they ended up. After a small swim, Emrys sat on the dock, her feet dipped into the water while Hodari casually floated on his back. Najuma sat on the bank across from the dock, her own foot dangling in the water, mindlessly tinkering away at a small gadget, excited chatter coming from her every now and then. 

Emrys watched Hodari float for a few moments, watching him and his rare moment of peace, before completely destroying it. Using her foot, she splashed water in his direction, startling him, snickering as he paused his floating, glared at her playfully, and then proceeded to swim towards her. 

He caged her on the dock, both hands on either side of her as he hoisted himself partially out of the water, hips settling in-between her legs. 

“That was very uncalled for, darlin.” 

“I thought it was very called for.” She grinned, her hands coming up to play with his wet strands of hair. 

“Goin to get y'self in a heap of trouble.” He warned, his eyes filled with desire, watching her. 

“Sounds fun.” She whispered, just as she used her other hand to swipe briefly over his clothed dick. Hodari shuddered, His arms threatened for a brief moment to collapse and send him back into the pond. 

“Darlin.” He warned dangerously. 

“My love.” She mocked back, a mischievous grin still on her face. He was quick to replace it though with surprise. Hodari slid back into the pond, and then proceeded to settle his hands on her plush hips, pulling her into the water to join him. 

She let out a startled noise as she was plunged into the water, but kept close to Hodari as he pushed her up against the one of the dock supports. He pushed his groin into her, showing her just how excited he was by just the simple teasing between the two of them. 

“If it was just us, in this moment, I'd have already taken you against this dock.”

A spark ran through her body as he brushed his fingers against her clothed pussy at the very same time he had said that. She swallowed, trying not to show him how much she was enjoying the moment, but could tell she was failing. A glint of amusement showed in his eyes as he took in her state. Eyes glazed over with lust. Breathing just a slight bit heavier. He did it again, taking pride in the way she bit her lip to stop the needy moan from escaping. When he pulled his fingers away, she released a frustrated grumble. 

“We can always go inside.” She almost sounded like she was begging, desperate for his touch. He tutted. 

“The day is for Najuma. Remember?” He asked. She let out an annoyed huff, and made a move to grab his cock, but he stopped her, just as Najuma called out to him. 

“Dad! What about muujin for dinner?” Hodari gave Emrys a cheeky grin,before turning to look at his daughter. 

“Sounds good kiddo. Want to give me a hand?” 

“What about Emrys?” She asked. 

“She wants to cool down a bit longer. She'll join us in a bit.” Emrys had opened her mouth to say something, but Hodari beat her to it. She jolted when she suddenly felt his hand slip inside her swim suit bottoms, rubbing against her clit and teasing her before withdrawing his hand just as quick as it slipped inside. Emrys bit her tongue, preventing an even louder and more frustrated moan from coming out as Hodari swam to the shore, his deep chuckle drifting to her ears as she focused on controlling herself. 

“Two can play that game.” She mumbled, throwing a mischievous glance at Hodari as he looked back at her, the threat of a dangerous game glinting in her eyes. He only looked smug, meeting Najuma at the entrance of the house. 

When Emrys had finished swimming, ultimately diving under to shock herself with the cold water, she had wandered inside, having wrapped herself in a towel that Hodari brought out for her while Najuma was tasked with watching the Muujin on the grill. She had gotten changed, using the probability of a picnic to further tease Hodari. Jel had been gracious enough to design a few sundresses for her, as she remembered them to be. She was never sure as to how Hodari would react to them, but upon wearing one for the first time several weeks ago, there was not a single doubt that the miner didn't appreciate her wearing one, because he most absolutely did. 

So here she was now, bringing out a few items to the father and daughter duo as they requested when she went inside to change. Najuma had been the one to snatch them from her hands, excited with the process of helping her father cook. Hodari, who had turned around to look at her, likely with the probability of saying something, had stopped short. 

He took in her appearance, the way the sundress went to just about mid thigh. The way it showed off her soft body had his mind going places that were not appropriate for the moment. When his eyes finally met hers, he saw the glint of amusement in them, knowing that she was playing this game with the intention to win. 

Emrys walked over to him, standing as close as she could get. 

“Cat got your tongue Pavel?” He let out a hum, swallowing as he looked at her. 

“No.” He leaned forward until his mouth brushed against the shell or her ear. “But it will later.” 

Not expecting that comeback, Emrys’ eyes went wide, a noise of surprise emitting from her lips. It was Hodari's turn to look smug, gripping her hips and pulling her closer, the ghost of a kiss on her lips. 

“Don't worry that pretty head of your's darlin. The teasin’ will amount to somethin’. Promise.” He whispered against her lips before turning to help Najuma. Emrys’ face glowed with a blush, her eyes on Hodari's back. “Lookin gorgeous by the way darlin.” Her blush grew brighter as she let out a meek thank you. She saw the smirk on his face, But she couldn't even be mad that it seemed to be that she was losing this game they had been playing all day. If anything, she didn't mind it.

“Anything I can do to help?” She asked. 

“Nope. Just take a seat and look pretty. Shouldn't be too hard.” He turned and winked at her. Her cheeks grew read again as she took a seat, almost instantly noticing the smile on Hodari’s face. Or was it a smug grin, knowing he could get her to do anything. Like a good girl. Arousal suddenly pooled between her legs and she clenched her thighs, taking a seat. She watched as Hodari taught Najuma the basics of cooking a Muujin steak, smiling softly at the duo. Lately it seemed as if the two were on far better terms, arguments being less frequent. 

“How do you like your steak darlin'?” Emrys blinked a few times, noticing both Najuma and Hodari staring at her. Najuma stared at her excitedly, clearly having enjoyed the day between the two of them. Hodari had an eye raises in amusement, as if the cogs in his mind were trying to work out exactly what she was thinking about. 

“Medium well.” She answered. A deep hum from Hodari followed, as he turned back to the grill to help Najuma cook her steak. 

A short time later, all three steaks were finished and the other two had taken a seat at the table. Hodari sat to Emrys’ right and Najuma sat across from them. The three of them held pleasant conversation, talking about their day together, with Hodari even commenting that it might have to happen a bit more often, that he wanted to spend some more time with his girls. Her heart swelled at the comment, noticing how Najuma's smile had also widened at the mention. 

About halfway through dinner, Hodari placed a hand on her thigh, underneath her sundress, and tried not to react to it. Her body grew warm though, enjoying the feel of his rough palm on the smooth and soft skin of her thigh. Instinctively, her legs fell open slightly, but Hodari definitely caught the movement. She noticed his smirk as he put another bite of food in his mouth. However, he made no movement to give her anything further, and instead rubbed his thumb along her skin. 

And it continued like that, even after the three of them were done eating. They conversed after dinner, sitting for about an hour and talking. It was actually more Najuma talking about her inventions, while both Emrys and Hodari listened, and when it came closer to an hour and a half having passed, Najuma had asked if he would be willing to help with one last thing in the workshop before he went to bed. He agreed and pressed a kiss to Emrys’ temple. 

“I'll be inside once I'm done Darlin’.” Emrys watched as Hodari walked side by side with her daughter to the workshop, already concocting her plan. As the father daughter duo reached the bridge to the workshop, Emrys stood up, cleaning up quickly from dinner and headed inside. She made a b-line right to his room, finding the dresser put in there just for her. 

Emrys easily found the lace lingerie she had snuck in there, slipped out of her sundress, only to put the lingerie on. And now she laid on the bed, waiting almost anxiously, for Hodari. It had been the first time she decided to wear such a thing for him, not having been much comfortable doing so before, and as she finally heard the heavy footfalls of his steps throughout the house, she grew even more anxious. 

She had held her breath as he opened the bedroom and took a step in, barely closing it when he looked up and at her. His eyes focused on her and he paused briefly for several seconds, before he slowly closed the door behind him. Emrys noticed that his pants appeared tighter and his eyes moved up and down the entire length of her body, darkening with lust. 

“First the sun dress. Now this? Are you tryin’ t’kill me darlin’?” Hodari asked, his voice thick with arousal as he took slow steps towards the bed. 

“Wasn’t sure you’d like it.” She answered honestly. 

“Like it? Fuck. Darlin’. I love it.” Relief spread through her body as she allowed herself to relax against the bed. He let out a hum of approval, finally reaching the bed and climbing onto it. His hand reached for her ankle, his fingers slowly and teasingly drifting up her leg as they fell open for him. “You're gorgeous in anything you wear.” He slotted himself in between her legs, pressing his groin against her, swooping down to press a passionate kiss to her lips. His hands fell to her hips, rubbing and gripping the soft skin as He grinded into her. “I'll make you feel good darlin’. Tonight's all about you.” A weak whine escaped her lips and he swallowed it with another, even more passionate kiss. His lips moved along her jaw, and then down to the hollow of her neck. “Took my teasin’ so well earlier. Such a good girl.” 

Hodari sat up, staring down at Emrys as he pulled his shirt over his head. He took in the sight of the lacy bra over her chest, the sight of her below him knocking the breath out of his lungs. Her eyes were glazed over with lust, breathing a bit heavier than she was several moments before. 

He climbed off the bed briefly, pulling his pants off, albeit a little bit too excitedly. He had almost fallen over, and Emrys couldn't help but let out a giggle. His eyes snapped to her, a playful grin on his face. 

“Not a word.” 

“I won't if you get over here and make sure I don't.” Her eyes twinkled as he let out a low groan. 

“Fuck darlin’.” 

“We aren't yet.” He let out a huff of breath as he climbed back onto the bed, his lips ghosting over her stomach, his hands rubbing over the soft plush skin of her waist and thighs. 

“We'll get there.” He mumbled softly, his lips leaving soft, barely noticeable kisses over the expanse of her stomach. Hodari wanted to worship her, show her just how much he loved her and every other part of her, and the soft plush skin of her waist and thighs were a top contender.

Her hands came down to run gently through his hair, the two of them making eye contact as he moved lower down her stomach. Her breath caught in her throat and he smirked against her skin, moving one hand from her waist and to her clothed center. His fingers teased her, rubbing up and down her pussy through the lingerie, before focusing on her clit. Emrys jolted, a sharp exhale escaping her lips at the sensation, the hand in Hodari's hair tightening. He let out a hum of approval against her skin, continuing his ministrations for several minutes, leaving her a heavily breathing and whining mess above him. 

“Hodari, please.” She begged, rolling her hips against his fingers in an attempt for more friction. 

“Since you asked so nicely, darlin’.” Hodari pulled her panties down. “Told you the cat would have my tongue.” He mumbled, and before Emrys could say another word, he attached his lips to her pussy, two fingers slipping inside easily for extra stimulation. A sharp inhale, followed by a low whine, filled the room, creating music for Hodari's ears as he pleasured her. He sucked on her clit as he slowly thrusted his fingers in and out of her, reveling in the way she squeezed his fingers, his cock growing impossibly harder. His other arm wrapped around one of her legs, spreading it a bit more and keeping it still as Emrys started to squirm. Hodari grinded his groin against the bed trying to seek some friction for himself as his tongue lapped at her clit, while also collecting the juices that escaped from around his fingers. He moaned, the action providing more stimulation for Emrys. She let out a high pitched moan, throwing her head back and arching her back. Hodari removed his arm from around her leg, and instead, splayed his hand across her stomach.

“Come on Darlin’.” He spoke against her clit, and then reattached his lips to it with renewed fervor. Between that and the fingers that continually thrusted in and out of her, stroking that bundle of nerves inside of her, she quickly reached her orgasm, her body trembling as Hodari continued to pleasure her through it, holding her still. He only stopped when she relaxed against the bed, her breathing heavy and fingers running through his hair as he looked up at her, taking in her blissed state as he pressed kisses to her inner thighs, his hands running up and down them. She was a beautiful sight, being fucked or not. 

She looked down at him, offering a shaky smile as he crawled up the bed and pressed a kiss to her lips, allowing her to taste the juices from her orgasm. One of her hands moved down to push his boxers off of him, and he helped her, replacing her hands with his own. 

His boxers were lost to the room, thrown somewhere out of sight as Emrys laid a hand upon his cock, stroking it gently. Hodari sat back, closing his eyes as he let out a low groan, his hips bucking. 

“Fuck darlin’.” Her thumb played with the tip, causing him to shudder. She strokes him several more times, before he stops her.“Keep doing that and I won't ever make it inside of you.” Hodari pulled her in for another kiss, unclasping her bra and helping it off to her, before it too was also lost to the room. 

Hodari positioned himself against her, giving her a few seconds before he started to sink inside of her. Emrys instantly squeezed around him, causing him to pause and for another low groan to escape his mouth. Expletives escaped his mouth, before he continued to push inside, her own whines and whimpers filling the room.

He sat like that for several minutes, watching as Emrys squirmed, filled to the brim with his cock. Hodari looked down at where they were joined together, his thumb moving to flick her clit. She jolted, a whimper escaping her mouth. 

“Hodari, fucking move, please. Before I push you off of me and get myself off.” 

“Can't have that, now can we darlin’. Gotta make my girl feel good.” Hodari started to thrust his hips, letting his cock sink inside of her before pulling back and doing it over and over again, loving the instantaneous reaction he received from Emrys. Her pussy clenched around him, drawing noises from Hodari as he thrusted into her, moving his hips at a quick pace. He looked at her, catching her blissed gaze as she stared up at him. Emrys’ eyes were glazed over with pure pleasure, hooded, mouth dropped open slightly. Her breath was caught in her throat from the immense pleasure, barely able to make any noise. He looked down at where his cock thrusted in and out of her pussy, reveling in the noise and juices. One of his hands moved from her hip to her sternum, where she moved it to her throat instead.

Hodari snapped his gaze back to her, back to the hooded eyes. In her fucked out gaze, held a challenge, and he squeezed slightly, testing the waters. A moan slipped out from between her lips, filling the air, followed by more whimpers and whines. He snapped his hips a bit harshly, enjoying this newfound information,getting another sharp inhale and moan from Emrys, her back arching.

“That's it darlin’. Let me hear you.” A whine escaped her lips as she reached a hand down to rub her clit, and Hodari kissed her, drinking in the noises she emitted from the added stimulation. His lips moved along her jaw and down her neck, finding her pulse point. Both of his hands moved down to her waist, grabbing her soft and plush body, increasing the speed in which he fucked her. Her body started to tremble, legs shaking as Hodari felt the familiar feeling growing in himself. “That’s it darlin’. Cum for me. Show me how pretty you look when you do.” Her back arched again, and Hodari pressed his lips to her breasts, pressing a dozen kisses against her skin, feeling cocky and even leaving a few hickeys across her skin. She squeezed around him as her breathing picked up, before the string of pleasure finally snapped and she let out a wanton moan, her orgasm knocking into her full force, her hand halting their ministrations on her clit as her orgasm took over. 

Hodari drew in the sight, appreciating how wonderful she looked, a mess from being fucked, the smell of sex in the air and clinging to their bodies, how blissful she looked as he fucked her through his orgasm. It only took a few more thrusts from him before he spilled inside of her, her neck swallowing his own moans as his hips stuttered 

Hodari held himself above her, his face buried in her neck, before placing gentle kisses on her shoulder, moving to place a final one on her lips. He eased himself out of her, a low whine escaping her at the loss of him. His eyes focused on her though, a soft smile on his face, a blush growing on her face. 

“Absolutely gorgeous.” He pressed another kiss to her lips, his hands coming up to hold her face. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.” Emrys watched as he tossed his shirt in her direction, before putting on his boxers. He trekked towards the bedroom door, peeking outside before leaving, only to return a few moments later with a wet towel. Hodari walked back over to her, gently spreading her legs to clean up the mess. She jolted slightly at the sensitivity, but relaxed as he wiped her clean. 

“I love you.” Emrys spoke softly, a fond gaze rested on Hodari. He turned to her, a smile on his face as he finished, tossing the towel in their basket for dirty clothes. Crossing the room, he climbed back into the bed, wrapping himself around her. 

“Love you too darlin’.” 

[emcapi-gaming]

...damn it the lore I came up with for Ardwin's voidsent avatar means I'm like obligated to do the stupid chaotic raid aren't i lmao.

(lore ramble under cut)

Her avatar goes by Other. It's her 13th shard, but it's, well, a little fucked up.

It got eaten by the Cloud of Darkness a long, long time ago, and was stuck in there for millennia, crammed in with countless other weaker voidsent. At least, until Ardwin kicked the Cloud's ass in the Crystal Tower raids.

Even in the perpetual-motion-machine that is the Void's cycle of life/death, that kind of experience is going to have some negative effects. And frankly, the fact that Other came out of that with any shred of self intact and not fully feral is almost a miracle. (Although not quite as surprising when considering that Arkadios's shards have a habit of being weirdly resilient.)

The biggest effects:

Other is relatively weak compared to most reaper avatars. This was partly a result of time spent in the Cloud. After being freed, it ran and hid in the furthest reaches of the Void instead of hunting to regain its strength, which also did it no favors. The vast majority of the raw power in their partnership comes from Ardwin's side.

Its ability to communicate was severely impacted. Even with the aid of the communication spell built into most voidsent summonings and Ardwin's Echo, it mostly only speaks by stringing together one or two word long sentence fragments. However, it's still able to understand communication pretty well, and Ardwin has gotten good at understanding it.

Other does not want to go back to the Void under any circumstances. When not actively assisting with combat, it chills in the reaper soul stone, and Ardwin left the stone safe at home on the Source during the Endwalker patch void expeditions.

...So yeah I may be obligated to do the Chaotic raid because VENGEAAAAAANCE.

On the brighter side: some things Other likes!

ARDWIN! (Also likes Arkose a lot, but Ardwin is its favorite - she killed the Cloud AND has extra tasty aether.)

Fighting/hunting with Ardwin

Spare materia as snacks/treats (that stuff is literally crystallized spirit goop, it's like hard candy for voidsent!)

Jokes! (Other figured out the idea of humor impressively fast - even faster than Zero did! - and has now inherited Azem's legacy of being a bit of a chaos gremlin.)

Also, since Other is Arkose's reflection as well, they can also work as a reaper team if Arkose borrows the soul crystal. Arkose fucking loves this because if there is one thing the Arkadios shards love almost as much as each other, it's whacking shit with huge blades lol.

Arkose definitely still isn't at a point where they can keep up with the physical demands of reaping on their own, but they're able to solve this by keeping up a perpetual Enshroud. This works decently well, but is also really exhausting for both of them. They can keep it up for around 15 minutes, closer to 20 if they really push it or mooch some of Ardwin's aether, before it wears off no matter what. (Note: this would be an incredibly stupid idea with like any other voidsent, because that is how you get possessed a la Drusilla-dad, but "getting along really well (arguably a little too well) with each other" has also been a very persistent thing with Arkadios shards.)

Even if they don't hit the time limit, they both need to rest right afterwards. Arkose will fall asleep shortly afterwards with shorter durations or pass out immediately if they hit the time limit, and Other can't stay physically manifested and has to rest in the soul crystal.

Extra Other fun facts:

In addition to (limited) speech, makes sounds similar to howling/whistling wind.

Was a Hrothgal before the flood and still has a few occasional cat-like behaviors

Ardwin tried to ask if it was a man or woman and got no answer, so she tried going with "they," but Other disliked that because "One. Not many." Hence the it/its pronouns.

Edit: OH WAIT I FORGOT ONE MORE! Other really wants to like Zero, but it's still having a very hard time getting over its fear of her because even in human form, she reads exclusively as "stronger voidsent" and Other's default reaction to that is "RUN THE FUCK AWAY"

Bonus! Rough design for pre-flood Other:

I haven't settled on an actual name for her. But I'm tempted to totally break the similar-to-Arkadios tradition and name her Otherwise. Which. My irl parents were seriously considering naming me, and while it is kind of a cool name, I am extremely grateful they went with something else XD

Also she is THE funniest bitch in the 13th and draws on cat whiskers every fucking morning in the middle of the apocalypse.

[verdemoun]

@alphabetpal your beautiful mind

Kieran constantly doubts his relationship with the gang. The slightest hint of annoyance and he is mentally preparing himself to be thrown out. Overthinks interactions constantly. He still thinks he needs to be useful to have a purpose to the gang, which is why asking him to 'help' with something is such a quick way to over-ride the change is scary part of his brain and introduce new things. He keeps a backpack ready with the bare necessities for survival if he did need to run. Over years, later decades, it might collect dust, but the backpack never goes away.

One of the reasons he retreats into his room when distressed is to re-pack his bag and make sure he has everything he couldn't live without. When Hosea was in hospital, he was not doing well. He cried because not only would losing Hosea be devastating, because Hosea is decent to him and they spend so much time together, but he was preparing himself to lose his home. He went through his bag a dozen times trying to figure out what he would need, certain Arthur or Bessie was going to turn around and blame him for Hosea getting sick and throw him out.

But Kieran and Bessie. If he ever thought Bessie was actually mad at him, it might kill him. Bessie is a lifeline because she wasn't there in canon era. She has no obligation to him. He whole-heartedly believes Hosea, Lenny and Arthur, despite being some of his favorite people, are only so much nicer to him in modern era because of the guilt of seeing what happened to him: both during the VDLs and his death.

He still feels like the pretender. Hosea might be like a dad to him, but he isn't his dad the way he is for Lenny and Arthur. Hosea is still Mr Matthews, right-hand of the VDLs, and he is still a former-O'Driscoll. That feeling never goes away, and every time someone else timewarps it comes back tenfold. It is a subpoint in picking up someone new from canon era is making it clear that Kieran is one of them and the 1899 gang will defend him if needed because they know how sensitive he is to that fear of being thrown out or pushed aside.

Bessie is his mom. She is so overwhelmingly kind and patient, and she has no reason to be. He was so suspicious of it at first, because people aren't just nice. Begging to know what he can do to repay her for buying him clothes because no one just gives people things. Maybe she would turn around one day and suddenly demand everything returned or repaid? She was already referring to him as her son when Kieran was still working his way through 'is she doing this because she pities me or could it actually be possible someone doesn't mind my presence'. Of course it took months for her to convince him to call her Bessie instead of Mrs Matthews.

Hosea being in hospital was actually the event where Kieran's brain finally clicked 'yes Bessie does actually like me as a person' only to steamroll into 'this is my mom and I love her and would kill or die for her'. Hospitals are sensory hell, and Kieran has his own trauma with hospitals after the first day he timewarped he is flinching and holding his sleeve over his nose because the smell of disinfectant feels like it burns. The fact he even came along was deeply touching to Hosea, how explicit the action in itself made it clear Kieran does worry and care about him. But hospitals are hell. Once he was satisfied Hosea was actually going to be okay, and was doing better, Kieran politely excused himself.

After making sure her silly husband and their poor emotional sons were okay, Bessie tracked Kieran down like a man on a mission. Sure enough, Kieran had found his way to the smoking area, because he is also one of the more useless members of the gang when it comes to quitting - and a smoking area is usually quiet, tucked away from everything, and smoking in itself is a sensory break. When Bessie Matthews held out a hand, Kieran was so shocked he almost dropped his own cigarette.

Bessie laughed and told him not to look at her like that. She has quit, quit long before the gang got to modern era - but sometimes she just needs a cigarette. Her husband being in hospital and son about to get arrested for assaulting the next nurse to walk into the room was a good enough reason to need a cigarette. It would have to be their secret. Immediately Kieran is at ease because being trusted with a secret as scandalous as the Bessie Matthews smoking is hilarious.

She proceeded to tell him about her plan to hide the cigarettes at home, which Kieran found very amusing (honestly they all have at least one pack tucked away for bad days), and also warning him that Kieran was not to give him a cigarette. She knows her husband is a bastard and would ask Kieran first because he thinks Kieran is too much of a gentle soul to say no but she was expressly giving him permission to say no and to go to her if Hosea tries to pull any funny business. When he agreed, she smiled, very gently put a hand on his shoulder and said something to effect of 'that's my boy'.

Even if she's said it a hundred times before it was the first time his brain noticed. The two of them stood there together, not needing to talk, having a very sneaky cigarette outside of the hospital, Kieran feeling a little warm and fuzzy because Bessie Matthews had decided he was her boy and it felt nice. She proceeded to let him sit in the car to avoid the escalation that was no doubt going to happen in the hospital room and it really just sank in that all those efforts to make sure he's content and happy is because she genuinely cares and thinks of him as one of her boys.

[heaven-is-in-your-arms-series]

The Romance of Inao

The story of Inao originally comes from the Javanese and Malay Panji stories, centered around Prince Panji and Princess Kirana.

The stories have spread throughout SouthEast Asia and they have their own versions of the tales with different names for the characters.

I am going to focus on the Thai dance drama version where Prince Panji is called Inao.

Brace yourselves, this one is long and complicated and a lot of information is not easily available in English so it's not as complete as I would like it to be but here goes.

Inao is the son of the king of Kurepan

Bussaba/Kirana is the daughter of the king of Daha

At birth they are betrothed to each other

When Inao is 15, his grandmother passes away in the kingdom of Manya.

The kings of Kurepan and Daha send him to represent them at the funeral.

In Manya, Inao meets and falls in love with princess Jintara.

After the elaborate funeral celebrations are over, he wishes to stay in Manya with Jintara.

But his father orders him home and Inao leaves, after sending a lovelorn letter to Jintara.

At home in Kurepan, his father decides to speed up that marriage! (Clearly sensing trouble.)

But Inao refuses to go along with this plan and goes off hunting.

Having left the palace, he takes on a disguise, along with a few loyal followers and after an encounter with a bandit, he acquires two captured princesses.

They all head to Manya where the king happily welcomes him and Inao makes Jintara his wife.

Jintra, clearly drunk on love, decides to magnanimously invite the two princesses to be Inao’s concubines (polygmy was standard in this time.)

Inao’s father orders him to return home and marry Bussaba but Inao send’s word that he is no longer willing to go along with those plans.

The king of Daha felt slighted and angry and Bussaba too, felt shamed by Inao’s actions, although at this point, they had never actually met each other. (Can you guess what is going to happen?)

Rather recklessly, the king of Daha decides to marry her off to the next person that asks and the king of Joraka, famously ugly, promptly proposes, much to the King of Daha (and Bussaba’s) dismay. Unable to back out of his rash declaration, he reluctantly accepts the proposal.

But, plot twist, the king of Kamang Kuning ALSO wanted to marry Bussaba, because unlike Inao, he knew what she looked like and he was prepared to fight to have her.

Daha Vs Kamang Kuning

Fight!

The King of Daha was obliged to ask Kurepan for help (which must have sucked) and Inao was ordered to go to Daha and help the king sort out this mess since it was all his fault for backing out of the betrothal.

Jintara does not want Inao to go, fearing the worst but Inao decides that this is one summons that he cannot ignore. Perhaps a twinge of guilt at work there too. He promises to return though. (do you think he will?)

(now in SOME versions, an alternative situation occurs where poor Jintara is tricked away and murdered and Inao goes mad with grief for a time before finally regaining his senses when his original intended comes to save him. In this version poor Jintara is usually a commoner and so, sadly, easily got rid of.)

Inao rides in to the rescue and kills the king of Kamang Kuning.

Entering the palace of Daha to celebrate, he finally comes face to face with Bussaba.

(I like to imagine a Bollywood slo-mo moment here, where a mysterious wind blows Bussaba’s hair back from her face, as their eyes meet and a song starts to play.)

He instantly falls in love and realises what a MISTAKE he’s made. (It’s really all your own fault Inao. Minimal sympathy right now.)

I particularly enjoy the accounts where he is standing by Siyatra (Bussaba’s brother) when he spots her and he is so overcome with passion that he repeatedly kisses her brother, mistaking him for her. (Ok, Inao, you tell yourself that.)

The King of Joraka was ALSO on the way to help Daha but he arrived too late to be of any assistance. (Ugly and useless!)

Inao was now desperate to prevent Joraka’s marriage to Bussaba and the king of Daha was sympathetic but he had already given his word. (Unlike some, he doesn’t renege on a promise.)

Beach holiday filler episode time!

Ok, not really but the king of Daha and his wives and followers decide they simply must climb the mountain Wilismara to make offerings and worship to the Buddha image there.

Madewi, the king's second wife, suggests that Bussaba go and ask the image about her fate. Using lighted candles to decipher the Buddha’s message.

She lit three candles, one for Joraka on the left, herself in the middle and Inao on the right.

Bussaba asks the sacred image to extinguish the candle of the person who is not her soulmate.

Inao had secretly followed her and overheard this conversation and he plays a trick, pretending his voice is that of the god’s and persuading Bussaba and Madewi that Inao is her true soulmate.

He sends his follower Prasanta to drive out the bats and extinguish the candles and the darkness he finds and embraces Bussaba.

Madwei is furious about this (Bussaba less so,) and she argues with Inao who has the audacity to claim that he never refused Bussaba. (I think your dad has a letter suggesting otherwise buddy.)

Inao reluctantly hands Bussaba back to Madewi but asks Bussaba for a piece of cloth from her clothes, to hold when he is missing her. (smooth.)

What comes next is a cycle of adventures where the lovers are separated and have to search for each other before they are eventually reunited in a happy ending but they are not all told in the Lakhon Nai dance drama.

In many versions, Bussaba has to temporarily take on the disguise of a man and she has an active role in trying to help rescue Inao.

In a Javanese version, a demon takes her place and pretends to be the princess, called Candra Kirana in this story and the real princess appears at the court, disguised as a man to win back her man.

[idontusethissiteeither]

My thoughts on Gray and Gruvia

Hey everyone.

I’ve been a fan of Fairy Tail for a long time, and one character I’ve always liked is Gray. He’s consistently shown depth, integrity, and a strong sense of right and wrong. However, there’s one aspect of the series that’s been bothering me for a while now: Gray’s relationship with Juvia. Despite all the red flags, uncomfortable moments, and outright toxic behavior from Juvia, the narrative seems determined to force this relationship into something it’s clearly not.

What follows is a breakdown of why I believe this relationship is problematic, how it undermines Gray’s character, and why it’s not the romantic story that some fans, particularly “Gruvians,” seem to think it is. As well as talk about the 180 in Gray’s personality in the 100 Year Quest.

Let’s break down the ridiculousness of Gray and Juvia’s so-called “relationship” after the battle in the last arc.

First of all, after all the build-up, Gray still didn’t give Juvia an answer. Instead, he tried to use the Ice Shell spell—a move that would erase him from existence. It’s a clear indicator that Gray was ready to sacrifice himself for the greater good, but of course, Juvia had to make it about herself. She "sacrificed" herself for Gray during the battle, and this is where the narrative completely goes off the rails.

While Gruvians see this as some grand, romantic gesture, it’s painfully obvious that Juvia’s “sacrifice” wasn’t as selfless as it’s made out to be. Her body can turn into water, meaning the blade could have gone through her without causing fatal damage. But instead, it feels like she deliberately made herself vulnerable to force Gray into a corner, emotionally manipulating him into acknowledging her feelings. And unfortunately, it worked. Gray, being the good-hearted person he is, said he’d take her feelings into account now, which just feels like an obligation rather than genuine affection.

To make matters worse, the creators claimed that the transfusion Juvia gave Gray is the reason he starts falling for her. What? That’s not only ridiculous but also a flimsy excuse for Gray’s sudden change of heart. It undermines all the growth and depth Gray had as a character. He didn’t fall in love with her because he was emotionally or romantically invested in her—he fell in love because of a blood transfusion? That’s not love; that’s poor writing.

And even after all of that, Gray still doesn’t give her a straight answer. He promises to do so after the 100-year quest, which he doesn’t even bring her along for. Yet, fast forward to the sequel, and suddenly, Gray’s done a complete 180. He’s talking about being the best man for Juvia and, apparently, thinking of her when the topic of romance comes up. Really? After years of rejecting her, setting boundaries, and making it clear that he wasn’t interested, we’re supposed to believe that now, all of a sudden, he’s deeply in love with his stalker?

Gruvians take this as a huge victory, but the reality is that Gray isn’t acting out of love—he’s acting out of guilt and obligation. Let’s not forget that Gray has a tragic history of losing people who sacrificed themselves for him, starting with his mentor Ur and later Ultear, both of whom truly cared for him. When Juvia “sacrificed” herself for Gray and survived, it’s not hard to see why he might feel indebted to her. But that’s not the same as romantic love. It’s survivor’s guilt, plain and simple. Gray is putting Juvia’s happiness above his own, disregarding his own feelings because he feels like he owes her something for what she did.

And honestly, if Gray truly is in love with Juvia now, after everything he’s been through and after rejecting her repeatedly, then it’s nothing short of character assassination. The writers have completely twisted his personality to appease Gruvia shippers, ignoring all the red flags in their relationship and pretending like Gray’s long-standing discomfort with Juvia never existed. This new Gray feels like a hollow version of the character we once knew, crafted solely to pander to fans rather than stay true to who he is.

What’s even more frustrating is the lack of discussion around how bad this writing is. Why aren’t more people talking about how Gray’s character has been butchered in the sequel? It’s disheartening to see fans celebrate these new developments when they clearly ignore all the signs that this relationship is built on manipulation, guilt, and toxic behavior. Gray deserved better than to be paired with someone who stalked him for years and ignored his boundaries. Instead, the writers decided to force this unhealthy dynamic into something it never should have been.

[vashatxt]

anonymous asked: Can you… write Blade getting hor knee for Kafka when he’s Mara-struck?

i absolutely can <3

there is no obligation to send any tips but if you feel like passing on a good deed, my kofi is https://ko-fi.com/idolelysia

cw: nsfw

"Bladie," Kafka's eyes are wide, and she's trying her best not to let on that she's enjoying this. "Your strength surprises me more every day."

He's different. Usually, she can gain control over him with just the slightest command, her spirit whisper only giving him the push over the edge that he needs before he comes back to himself, but this... Blade is resisting that pull. And he's taking that energy out on Kafka, and she sure as hell isn't going to strain herself to put a stop to it. It's not her fault that she enjoyed the feeling of the rough, scarred hands that once belonged to a uniquely talented crafter of weapons on her shoulders. Blade shoving her against the wall and pinning her there, his eyes darkening, a smirk spreading across his face as he pressed his crotch against Kafka's thigh and heard her gasp at the feeling of his cock, hard, throbbing - he's hungry. He needs her.

"Do. Your. Worst."

She punctuates each word with a pause, her lips parted, running her tongue along them and watching as Blade's gaze followed it. "Submit to me, Kafka," he says.

It's a risk. But she has enough faith in her abilities to know she'll be able to regain control over him and soothe the ill effects of the mara once they're done - she's just cocky enough to not feel fear.

"Please, Bladie," she blinks, shrugging her shoulders so that he can release his grip just long enough for her to let her coat fall to the ground. "Make me yours."

A switch is flipped; Blade grabs her and buries his face into her neck, sucking and biting, intent on leaving his mark, on finding out how loud he could make her scream. It's new for Kafka, to not be in control, but she wants this - so, in a way, she still is. She leans her head back and gives him what he needs, the more she yelps and moans his name and digs her nails into his back; the harder he goes in on her.

His hands trail to her button-down shirt, and he pulls away from her now purple and red neck to watch as he rips it open, his strength popping each plastic fastener and sending them flying. Blade can feel himself begin to salivate, like an animal hunting its prey, at the sight of Kafka's chest, her tits pushed up by a translucent maroon bra. He cups them through the fabric first, and Kafka looks down, too, burning the image of his gorgeous hands on her into her mind.

Impatient as she is, Kafka then reaches behind her to unclasp the bra, and while she does, Blade follows the curve of her waist to her hips and her ass, where he can help her rid of her shorts.

"There's still a barrier," Kafka points out, once she's standing in front of him in nothing but fishnet tights.

"Not really," his voice is deep and hoarse, a darker tone to it than usual. "They're pretty easy...,"

His fingers drag down to her thick thighs. "...to...,"

They hook into the web of thread between them, and Kafka feels a shiver down her spine.

"... adjust," Blade spits the last word, which accompany another rip - Kafka spends a hell of a lot of money on her clothes, but she doesn't give a shit today - creating a perfectly positioned gap in coverage, just in the crotch of the tights.

"Beg me," he's taking enjoyment in it, Kafka moans his name as he grabs at her cunt, like it's a toy, something of his own to rough around. He then lifts his hand to his mouth, just to taste her slick that now coated his fingertips. "Come on, Kafka. Beg me."

"Please - please, Bladie," she allows the desperation to come through, her breath hitched, blinking at him like an innocent girl. "I need - I need you to f-fuck me...,"

He scoffs, then undoes his zipper, letting his pants fall to his ankles. Kafka doesn't waste time, she wraps her arms around his neck and allows him to hoist her up against the wall, holding her around the waist, her thighs spread and grinding against his cock, slowly bouncing up and down. "You want me inside you?" he whispers. "You gonna show me how loud you are for me? You fucking cock whore?"

"Please, pleaseeee," she moans. "I need... I need...,"

"If you need me to destroy your cunt, Kafka, then you're in luck."

He thrusts inside of her, and it feels different than all the other time's they've fucked, the times she's sat on his dick and spilled dirty words from her mouth while the pathetic, pretty little boy who looked at her like she was a goddess tried his hardest not to cum too quickly. This is an entirely different Blade. The Mara... it made him different. He's relentless, she can feel his thrusts all through the body, not just the familiar burning desire in her tummy to be filled up. Blade doesn't pause or take a breath, even as Kafka's eyes well with tears and her nails begin to draw little trickles of blood because of how hard she's clinging on to him, her body weak and limbs like jelly. He feels so big, her cunt tight. He kisses her while she screams and bites her bottom lip hard, until it swells and a metallic taste fills her mouth. "Bladie...,"

"You sure you can fucking take me? Or do you want me to pull out and let you fall to the ground, discard you like a piece of trash who doesn't even deserve the chance to do so?"

Kafka can feel her cheeks burning, her entire body is ablaze, she clings on tighter - "I can take you, I can, I can....,"

They cum at the same time; he spills his load into her as the pressure against Kafka's clit sends her over the edge, she's dizzy and so, so messy down there, Blade saying her name, weaker and softer each time, draining his balls with each final thrust. Kafka can feel her own cum as well as his leaking out while Blade slowly pulls out.

"Good boy," she soothes him, snapping back to reality and regaining control with her spirit whisper before the Mara can hurt him. "Thank you, Bladie."

He slumps to the ground, and Kafka follows suit. "It's okay, sweetie. You made me feel so good. We can rest here, if you need."

Blade is exhausted; she feels almost bad. But his hand reaches out for hers and their fingers intertwine; they lie down together on the concrete floor and he cuddles up on her chest without ever letting go. Maybe they both needed that. Maybe he was finally figuring out what she already knew: that he loved her, that he was weak for her and only her.

[madisonmontgomeryimagines]

no coven alternative universe, in which reader who’s a fan of her, and her movies recognizes madison in a bar (or any place you want really), and asks for a picture. Except that madison’s a little mean and annoying (as she usually is, and we love her for that), so reader goes "yeah no you know what i’m not a fan anymore bye", and it strikes madison’s huge ego so she kinda tries to win her back

Everyone was entitled to their own privacy, and they should be granted their own anonymity if they so desired, but when every action they took only defined who they were with all of their dazzling star-studded accomplishments, it didn't seem like that was the desire at all. Still, you hung back at the table with your brother's date, watched the way other people interacted with her as you tried to quell your excitement enough for your heart to stop deafening you.

Madison Montgomery seemed to cast away nearly anyone who wanted her attention, though to be fair you had mainly seen men approaching her. There were a handful of lucky individuals who she seemed to appraise and tolerate for a few minutes, drinking in their companionship until they were dismissed. You couldn't really distinguish the deciding factor for her, and you hung back as your excitement crossed the line into anxiety.

By the time you'd worked up your nerve to even say hello, you were alone at the table and the bar was mercifully more quiet. Deciding it was as good a time as any, you finally pulled yourself from your chair and walked to the bar, still figuring out what to even say when she turned her head as if feeling your presence the second it broached the barrier of space she had claimed. Madison's piercing gaze nearly made you stop short, but the hint of a lazy smirk on her lips encouraged you to take those final two steps.

"Hi, I don't mean to bother you. I really admire your work, Madison, and you along with some of your roles have been real sources of inspiration for me." A measured breath, steadying yourself. "Would you mind if I got a picture-"

Her voice overlapped with your question.

"Then don't. If you don't want to bother me, just turn back around and..."

You missed the last few words as your brain backpedaled to process what she'd just said, letting them soak in enough for you to realize you were shaking your head. "Right. Forget it, I thought you were someone else. One less fan to breathe down your neck. Have a nice night."

And then you'd fled, turned away from her to go close out your tab and go home. Your body blazed with an inferno of discomfort, and you knew it was only a matter of time before the stunned anger evaporated to leave the hurt raw and sensitive.

"Wait-"

You didn't. You didn't want to, at least, yet you found yourself rooted to the spot. For a second everything around you felt fuzzy and too far away, making you close your eyes against the dizziness. When you opened them, you were sitting on the stool beside Madison's. You didn't remember turning back around or sitting with her, but you were again close enough to smell her perfume.

"Hear me out."

You couldn't explain it, but her words seemed to shimmer in the air between the two of you, and as much as you wanted to get up and leave, a blanket of pacification was weighing you down. In the back recesses of your mind, you felt a little like a hostage. She seemed pleased enough with your immobility.

"Look, I'm not saying it's right," that was as close as you'd get to an admission that she might be wrong, "but when so many people put you on a pedestal towering above them, tell you how much better than them you are, it's your obligation to be better than them." She paused, nodding to the bartender when a glass was set in front of you. Her elegant fingers trailed along the creased fold of the napkin beside her own glass as she studied you.

"I'm not sure this is helping your case."

"Shut up and drink your drink. Why do you love when I'm a bitch on screen but no one can take it in person?" Madison's dark eyes rolled, and you contemplated your drink, really not seeing where this was supposed to be turning around. Still, you took a sip of something that tasted like peach.

"Do you still want a picture? I'm not staying here all night."