#usually perfect capitalization and spelling

[emioliravioli]

Do I have a flavor or am I still to new to get a read yet?

i can certainly try!!

[cece693]

Where's The Trust? Pt. 2

pairing: bucky barnes x male reader tags: steve really is an asshole, bucky trying to gain forgiveness, you are bitter as fuck, the avengers are conflicted, Tony taking matters into their own hands, good bro Tony, was gonna end it here but a reconciliation is in order, part 3 if wanted

It had been weeks since that horrible confrontation—weeks since you’d walked out on Bucky, burning with betrayal and heartbreak. And in that time, your anger had crystallized into a cold, vicious wall that no one—least of all Bucky—could penetrate.

Bucky tried. God, did he try. He sought you out in every corridor of the Avengers Compound, cornering you near the training gym, waiting for you outside the labs, even tentatively stopping by your quarters. But no matter how or where he approached, you shut him down with biting words or frosty glares. Sometimes you wouldn’t even look at him; you’d just shoulder past, exuding the kind of scorn that made everyone around you flinch.

You became, in Tony’s words, “the biggest asshole known to man.” Normally affable and considerate, you were now short-tempered, dismissive, and cold as ice. You brushed off team bonding sessions, training spars, even the usual group movie nights if he or Steve were in attendance. The rest of the team was confused, to say the least. After all, you and Bucky had been the golden couple—two people whose trust and loyalty seemed unshakeable. Now, you were outright hostile, and Bucky looked like a hollow shell of the man they once knew. No one knew the details of what went wrong; no one dared pry into the tinderbox of your anger.

Steve, in the meantime, tried to exploit the widening chasm between you and Bucky. “You need to move on,” he murmured one day in the gym, while Bucky had been pounding at the super-soldier-enforced punching bags, trying—and failing—to vent his frustration in a healthier way. “They’re never going to forgive you, Buck. Maybe it’s time you—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Bucky snapped, punching the bag off the chain and sending it skittering across the room. Sweat dripped down his face, but his eyes blazed colder than ice.

“I’m just saying,” Steve continued, stepping closer, “maybe we can find comfort in each oth—”

Bucky nearly flew at him, fists clenched. “Comfort?” he snarled, voice trembling with rage. “Don’t you dare talk to me about comfort, you self-serving bastard. You think you can just swoop in when I’m at my lowest and pick up the pieces? You destroyed everything!” His voice echoed off the empty gym walls, making Steve flinch. The blonde raised both hands, palms out, but Bucky didn’t let him speak again.

“You ruined my life—my relationship—so you could chase some pathetic fantasy that we were meant to be. Let me spell it out for you, Rogers: I don't love you nor do I want anything to do with you. Whatever we had is gone, dead. You come near me with that bullshit again, and I swear I’ll make you regret it.” A tense silence fell. Steve swallowed hard, eyes flicking with hurt, but Bucky stormed off before he could respond. From that moment on, any semblance of friendship between them was shattered.

The tension rose within the team so much that it was Tony—yes, the man who normally avoided confrontation like the plague—who finally mustered the nerve to corner you about what happened with Barnes. He cornered you in one of the compound’s smaller lounges, a glass-walled room where you wouldn’t have an easy escape route. You glowered at him the moment he closed the door, already anticipating the lecture you didn’t want.

“Look,” Tony said, raising both hands in mock surrender, “I get it—you’re in a Bad Mood with capital letters. Usually, I’d say that’s none of my business, but this is starting to affect mission readiness. And that is my business. So talk.”

You folded your arms, lips pressed in a tight line. “There’s nothing to say, Tony.”

“Right. Because you and your ex–mister perfect soldier just decided to stop talking and run around with matching doom-and-gloom expressions for fun.” Tony snorted, crossing his arms in return. “Come on, I’m not asking for graphic details. Just enough to, you know, keep the team from imploding. And—” He hesitated, then added more softly, “I’m worried about you.”

Your chest tightened. You hadn’t heard that tone from him in a while—an undercurrent of genuine concern rather than sarcastic deflection. It reminded you, painfully, that once upon a time you and Tony had been…well, something. Not precisely soulmates, but definitely more than friends. A messy tangle of mutual respect, attraction, and comfort that had eventually fizzled out amicably. And while your heart now belonged to Bucky (or did, anyway), you still had a lingering fondness for Tony that was tough to ignore.

You exhaled a shaky breath, your anger and sorrow warring behind your eyes. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine.”

His eyebrows lifted, and he gave a half-laugh. “Yeah, sure. And I’m the poster boy for healthy coping mechanisms.” Then his expression sobered. “(Y/N), please. Level with me. Something major happened, and if it keeps escalating, it’s not just you and Bucky who’ll suffer—it could jeopardize missions, our safety…everything.”

You closed your eyes. For a moment, your lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. You were so damn tired—tired of carrying all this anger, tired of everyone tiptoeing around you, tired of Bucky’s hollow stares. Part of you wanted to hold everything in. Another part was on the verge of bursting. And Tony…Tony was the one person who might actually understand. Hell, he’d seen you at your worst and never once thrown it back in your face.

Your eyes snapped open, and you found yourself speaking before you could lose your nerve. “He lied, Tony. Bucky lied to me. We were serious, and he never bothered to tell me about him and Steve. They used to…be together. And then I caught them kissing. I—” Your voice cracked, and you had to breathe through the sudden surge of raw pain. “I don’t know who started it. Bucky swears it was Steve, but I— I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Tony’s face flickered with surprise, quickly followed by something like sympathy. “Steve and Bucky…” he muttered, rubbing his chin. “Wow, okay. That’s a new one for me.”

You snorted, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Yeah, well, apparently it wasn’t new for them. They’d had some fling back in the day, never told me, and now I’m the idiot left wondering if he ever really gave it up, or if I was just—just some stand-in.”

You could feel the tears welling up, which only made your anger twist into something more acidic. Dammit, you hated crying in front of others, especially Tony. But the betrayal still burned, and it wasn’t going away. Tony watched you carefully. “Hey,” he said softly, shifting closer. “You can be mad, y’know. You can feel every bit of this. You’re not wrong for it.”

His words—simple validation—threatened to break the floodgates. Despite the resentment swirling in your gut, you felt a small pocket of relief that he hadn’t brushed you off or told you to “get over it.” In fact, he looked unexpectedly sympathetic. “Doesn’t make it hurt any less,” you muttered, wiping angrily at your eyes.

“No,” Tony agreed, “it doesn’t. But sometimes we need the hurt. We need to acknowledge it before it can heal—or before we can figure out if it’s even worth healing.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Trust me, I know a thing or two about screwing up relationships.”

A tired laugh escaped you. “I remember.”

“Har har.” He rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not defending Barnes’ secrecy—dumb move on his part, no question. But from what I’ve seen, the guy worships the ground you walk on. He’s miserable without you.”

“Well, he should’ve thought about that before he lied to me.” Your voice wavered between fury and sorrow. “I can’t just pretend everything’s okay.”

"And you shouldn't, (Y/N), but if there's one thing I know is that love is tougher than the shit we throw at it. If you're still this mad at him, it means a part of you still cares because if you didn't, you'd be indifferent. Anger is a sign there's something worth being angry over, you know?"

You stared at him, that sentiment rocking through you. You’d been so caught up in the betrayal, you hadn’t stopped to think about what your anger truly meant. If you truly wanted Bucky out of your life, why did the mere thought of him push your heart into overdrive?

“God, I hate that you’re making sense,” you mumbled, sniffing.

Tony quirked a small smile. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a rep to maintain.”

You barked a watery laugh, your shoulders sagging. The relief of finally talking to someone—really talking—felt like a weight lifting, even if just a little. “So what now?” you asked, voice quiet. “I can’t just snap my fingers and fix this. Every time I see him, I remember— remember them together.”

He nodded. “I hear you. I’m not saying you have to forgive him tomorrow. But maybe give yourself some breathing room. Let the anger settle a bit. Once the rage isn’t so blinding, maybe you can see if there’s anything to salvage—any explanation that doesn’t make you want to throttle him.” He paused, then added wryly, “And, well, if you can’t salvage it, at least you’ll know you tried.”

A weighted silence lingered. You exhaled slowly, struggling to keep your emotions in check. Finally, you lifted your gaze to Tony’s, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “When did you become the voice of reason?”

He patted your shoulder. “Probably around the time I decided I actually give a damn about the people on this team. Don’t spread it around.” Despite yourself, you laughed again—hoarsely, but genuinely. It was the first time in weeks you’d felt anything close to lightness. Tony gave you a half-smile, pressing a small handkerchief into your hand. You recognized it as one of his showier accessories, printed with tiny Iron Man helmets.

“Here,” he said. “Use it to dab away those tears before someone catches on that you still have a heart.”

You rolled your eyes but accepted it gratefully, wiping the dampness from your cheeks. “Thanks, Tony,” you murmured. “For listening. For everything.”

He shrugged in that trademark Stark way—casual but genuine. “Anytime, (Y/N). Just don’t go ballistic on me if I try to get you two in the same room. I’m not saying I will, but, you know…hypotheticals.”

You shot him a half-hearted glare, tempered by a ghost of a smile. “Don’t push your luck.”

He grinned. “Noted.”

With that, he opened the lounge door, allowing you to slip back into the compound’s corridors. But somehow, the air felt a fraction less suffocating—and for the first time in weeks, you dared to consider the possibility that, maybe, healing wasn’t entirely off the table.

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part ii)

a/n: such a cute chapter seriously, kooky Claere tries very hard to fit in and nearly succeeds

Cregan Stark felt an unexpected warmth stir within him as he stood at the cold threshold of Claere’s chambers that morning. She hadn’t noticed him yet, past her table overcrowded with steaming choices for her finicky appetite, her attention fixed on her slumbering dragon outside the frosted window. It was the first time, in weeks, he had seen Claere appear so... alive. Always, she remained untouched by the glow of the fires or the company of others. Yet here, framed by the muted sunshine, she was no longer the spirit of assumptions, but something more tangible—more real.

Her ivory hair, neatly brushed and woven into elegant braids, glinted in the soft morning light. A rare flush graced her ashen cheeks, lending an unexpected warmth to her pallor, while her lips, usually discoloured, now hinted at a shocking vibrancy. Her thickset leather gown, tailored to fit, cinched snugly to her form, warding off the biting winter chill. One could question her sanity or wisdom—but never the timeless beauty that clung to her like a second skin, untouchable and undeniable.

"Leave us," Cregan announced, breaking the quiet spell that lingered in the room.

The subtle command had Claere's handmaidens hurrying to obey, scurrying as they retreated from the room. Only one remained—the worried young girl who had raised her concerns to him—hesitating for a breath as she passed him.

"My lady is yet to break her fast, my lord," she mentioned before slipping away, casting a fleeting glance at Claere as though she feared leaving her alone.

Cregan’s gaze wavered on the closed door before shifting back to his wife. Claere’s violet eyes met his unflinchingly, but there was something delicate beneath the surface, a thread of tension woven through the air between them.

He divested his weighted fur cloaks and sword, then turned his attention to the table. He surveyed the spread before him—an abundance of food, more than enough to feed a small army. Golden loaves of bread, platters of roasted meats, a tray brimming with two hot pies, and rich, steaming pots of chicken porridge adorned the surface. Yet, despite the lavish display, it all felt strangely hollow.

His brow furrowed as he took in the untouched offerings. “This is more than enough for a feast,” he said to her, casting a sidelong glance. “Yet you’ve chosen to starve yourself.”

She was gaunt enough, pale enough—he could not bear the thought of her fading further into herself. Claere did not spare him another look or a reply, tucking her knees under her chin and continuing to stare blankly at the grey skies beyond.

"Come, try this. The venison is one of my favourites, the best you’ll ever taste," he attempted, his voice quieter than he intended, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile silence between them.

He skewered slices of the tender meat and placed them on her plate. "Especially rare this season. Smoked to perfection."

It was met with nothing. She didn’t move, didn’t even blink. It was like talking to a marble statue. Cregan’s tolerance waned, but his determination remained. He tried again.

"Perhaps some fruits from the capital?" His eager eyes flickered over her pale frame. She had grown up surrounded by the opulence of King’s Landing, maybe something from her past would awaken her hunger.

At last, a response—her gaze shifted, just barely, in his direction.

"Apples, cranberries. Oranges from Dorne," he murmured to himself, unaware.

That caught her. Her violet eyes brightened, if only for a second. Her head turned ever so slightly, just enough to show she had heard him. It was a faint glimmer of interest, the smallest shift in her otherwise impassive demeanour. Cregan seized the moment.

"Yes. Blood oranges, all the way from Sunspear," he continued, his voice gentle, as though coaxing her from some distant reverie. He reached for the bowl of oranges, their vibrant colour standing out amidst the endless grey.

"Sweet and ripe." He peeled one slowly, letting the tangy scent of citrus fill the room. "The taste of sunshine, I hear," he remarked, cutting into the orange and setting a few slices on her plate beside the untouched venison.

For a moment, the room held its breath.

He sat beside her, not prodding further, allowing the zest of the fruit to permeate through the chill in the air. It waited as a peace offering between the two of them. Although his hands itched to reach out, to grab her, shake her, force her to acknowledge the danger of her disinterest, he held back, knowing that force was not what she needed. Not now. He would start slow; small.

The moments stretched on, though his patient gaze never left her.

Then, slowly, almost unnoticeably, Claere reached forward. Her fingers touched one of the slices, and she brought it to her lips. The smallest trickle of juice touched the corner of her mouth, and something unspoken shifted between them. Another followed and another, until the orange slices disappeared.

Cregan said nothing, only watched, as though witnessing some small, hard-won victory. He reached for a second orange, peeling it with care, and setting the fresh slices in front of her.

"I don’t eat meat," Claere said suddenly, her voice clear as day, shattering the silence.

He blinked. For a moment, the absurdity of it all struck him. This was Claere Velaryon—the mysterious princess they all feared, who, in their minds, feasted on flesh like some beast from old Valyrian folklore. The one who terrified even her own attendants.

And here she was, delicately picking at oranges, refusing meat, no more grotesque than a rose bracing against the cold.

It hit him then—why she had not eaten a morsel at their wedding feast, why she never showed face at suppers, why she had been refusing to eat all this time. She wasn’t what they claimed, made of stone and shadows. She was simply, achingly, human.

Cregan stifled an amused grin, the irony too sharp to ignore. "Duly noted," he murmured, glancing at the untouched venison beside her. "I’ll take that."

He took her plate and switched his empty one with it. He managed to fill it with natural foods on the table—bread, butter, and fruits. Certainly, Northerners depended on their beef and mutton rather than daily grains. Anything hot and juicy to bear the brunt of the cold.

Whilst silently biting into a slice of buttered bread, Claere continued to scrutinize her drowsing dragon through the windowpane. Luna could’ve been mistaken for a snowy cliff by the treeline, her silver scales tough enough to brook the battering breezes outside. It should have been awake by now, trilling for Claere to come join her. Yet, peculiarly, the she-dragon continued to doze through the day.

Cregan followed her gaze, a frown tugging at his features. "Did you fly too far last night?" His concern edged through his voice. "It's been asleep too long."

Just then, Luna unfurled her leathern wings, flapping away the snow before digging her snout back into the earth. Steam sizzled off her throat and belly, a spot of the everlasting fire she harboured.

Claere took her time to respond, her voice almost proud. "She is overfed."

He scoffed under his breath. "That beast could swallow half the North, and still—"

"I took her out to hunt, my lord," she interjected, her tone soft but deliberate. "Just this morning."

His hand froze mid-motion, tightening ever so slightly around the knife as her words settled in.

"You took her to hunt," he repeated, glancing at her once he’d wrestled his wrath back under control.

She nodded, matter-of-fact, as though she were recounting an uneventful ride instead of defying his explicit orders. To Cregan, it was a quiet betrayal.

"You flew alone? Down to Castle Black?" His voice dipped into treacherous waters, barely containing his growing irritation.

"We only rode a little past Last Hearth, never crossed the Wall," she responded patiently, her tone so measured it made his irritation feel misplaced. "Luna caught some wild boars there. I reckon she’ll be sated for a few days."

Her calm, composed words felt like a blade twisting in his side. The frustration simmered beneath the surface, no longer containable. He leaned back, tossing the half-sliced apple onto the table with a heavy thud, the act punctuating the helplessness he felt. There was no forcing her, no bending her will—just standing by, powerless, as she made decisions he could neither influence nor control.

"Have I defied you, my lord?" she asked abruptly, her violet eyes watching him closely, an unexpected spark of interest flickering within them.

Claere held his gaze, unblinking, unperturbed by the smoldering in his eyes. There was no trace of fear, no hesitation—just that infuriating calm that always seemed to shield her from his concerns, as though the dangers of the world brushed past her without consequence.

He inhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to dispel the misplaced rage bubbling up. She hadn’t crossed the Wall; she hadn’t endangered herself, not in the way he feared. She had simply done as she had always done—navigating the wilds with a certainty that unnerved him.

He sighed despite his frustration. "No, you have not."

He reached for a cluster of cranberries, carefully plucking them from the vine and placing them onto her plate, trying to make the gesture feel routine, almost tender.

"You are the Lady of Winterfell," he continued. "You have as much right to defiance as I do."

She studied the crooked smile tugging at his lips, her brows drawn in thought, as though she couldn’t quite decipher the mystery before her.

"Do I not repel you?" she asked quietly, her voice betraying the faintest trace of genuine curiosity.

Cregan furrowed his brow, caught off guard by her question. "Whatever made you think that?"

Her fingers touched her chest as if pointing out the obvious. "You think me mad. The way the others do."

Realization softened his expression. "If that were true, I would not be here." He paused, his gaze more intent now. "Just as the moon is to the night, you are, to me. Distant, yet always prevalent. I have come to be curious."

A slight frown creased her forehead. "Curious?"

"About everything," he said, the softness of his smile deepening. "I want to know everything."

The silence between them grew thick, loaded with things unsaid. She wasn’t accustomed to being seen this way—not with such intent. For so long, she'd been surrounded by whispers and wary glances, all feeding into the myth of her coldness, her distance. But now, here was Cregan Stark, looking at her not with suspicion, but with inquisitiveness. That simple admission seemed to unnerve her.

"You want to know everything?" she echoed, disbelief threading through her voice.

He leaned in slightly, the firelight casting flickering shadows on his face. "Yes."

Her gaze dropped to the plate of fruit he had arranged with such care. Her fingers toyed with the edge of a piece of bread as if contemplating whether to trust him with whatever weighed on her mind.

"There is not much to know," she murmured. "Everything is plain in sight."

His smile returned, warmer this time. "Then you're not as impervious as you appear."

Her lips parted as if she were about to say something, but hesitation froze the words in her throat. For a brief moment, it seemed she was on the cusp of revealing something that had been buried for far too long. But just as quickly, the moment passed. She closed her mouth and turned her gaze away, her hands folding neatly in her lap, retreating back into herself.

Cregan watched the subtle shift, the way her posture tightened ever so slightly, the way her eyes retreated into that familiar, distant place. He had nudged the door open, but only a crack. It wasn’t enough to draw her fully into the light, but it was something. A start.

"You don’t have to tell me everything right away," he said gently, his voice shaking with laughter. "It will take time. And I will be here until then."

She looked at him then, a faint expression—almost like fondness—ghosting across her features. There was a tenderness in her eyes, nonetheless guarded, yet undeniably present. She gave a small nod, her voice quiet and uncertain.

"Perhaps one day, my lord," she promised.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Her gaze drifted back toward the window, back to Luna, her sleeping dragon. She seemed lost again, caught in her daydreams, her thoughts wandering far beyond the walls of Winterfell. Cregan leaned back in his chair, watching her in silence, his gaze tracing the curve of her face and her breath's steady rise and fall. Luna and Claere, both wrapped in an ancient mystery he was only beginning to understand.

The barriers between them had not yet fallen, but a door had been opened, however slightly. For now, that was enough.

For the first time since their marriage, Cregan allowed himself to believe—perhaps, just perhaps—there could be something more than the looming noose of duty between them. Something honest. Something soft.

X

As winter’s dawn closed in, Cregan’s quiet affections for his wife burgeoned like an arrow loosed from a bow, swift and certain. As she was known to the people of Winterfell, Lady Stark remained the same distant figure veiled in cold beauty, a foreign wife to their lord, a creature of dragon lore. She made no effort to blend into their world, and they met her aloofness with cautious smiles and bowed heads, unsure whether to approach or retreat. Claere drifted through the castle like a morning mist, silent, elusive, always keeping to the shadows, never quite a part of Winterfell’s daily rhythm.

But unlike the rest, Cregan began to take notice. Rather, it was incredible to watch unfold.

Beneath the layers of distance and impassion, there was another side to her, subtle and easy to overlook if one wasn’t paying attention. Claere was still unfamiliar, avoiding scrutiny and taken by the darkness, yet she had begun to tend to her littler assignments as a lady of the keep. It wasn’t grand or overt—there were no loud declarations or public displays of command—but she moved with purpose.

She listened more than she spoke, and when she did, her words were often strange, riddles of foresight that left the common folk wary. To the unsure blacksmith, who sought her blessing for a new forge, she meekly said to him—"Strike iron before the bell tolls twice. On the third, the flames will consume more than metal."

Whispers continued to follow her wherever she went: the dragon witch, the phantom of King’s Landing. Still, Claere remained unfazed. She attended her duties with modest accuracy, stitching herself into the rhythm of Northern life, even if it repudiated her.

Gradually, some saw her walking the cold halls, her footfalls deliberate, attending to the tasks that had once been left to the servants. Lord Stark had heard whispers of her wanderings of late—through the kitchens in the early hours, startling the cooks who were not accustomed to their lady appearing so near the hearth. She frequented the stables, her pale eyes watchful of the stablehands, though she never interfered. Most strangely, she had taken to visiting the kennels where the pups—the direwolf cubs born just before the first snowfall—played.

It was an odd sight to behold: Lady Claere, who rarely engaged with the people of the keep, standing among the yapping pups. She never knelt to pet them, never extended a hand to ruffle their fur. Instead, she would watch, as if the simple act of being near them was enough to quiet her mind. The small, wriggling wolves nipped at her skirts, tugging with playful insistence, but she remained still, observing them. Understanding them.

"They are quite fond of you, my lady," the kennel master remarked one day, eyeing the scene with amusement.

Claere glanced down at the pups nipping at her fur-lined cloak, her expression unreadable. "Then why do they attack me so?" she asked, her voice lilting with dry bemusement.

The kennel master chuckled, tossing scraps of meat at her feet. The pups immediately abandoned her skirts, their attention fully captured by the morsels. They tumbled over one another, growling and yipping as they fought for the food.

"I hope that answers your question, my lady," he said, his grin widening.

She looked at the scramble of bodies and fur, her lips pressed in a thin line, as though she was still unsure.

And on the rarest of occasions, Cregan would find her by the ancient weirwood tree in the godswood, her hands clasped to her chest, staring into the carved face of the old gods. The white bark seemed to cast her in a radiance, a lone figure amidst the snow-covered branches. Her eyes, those pale violet eyes, seemed lost in thought, as though she communed with the far beyond, elsewhere.

Likewise, her deeds—those small, almost invisible deeds—spoke volumes. Cregan had once found a handkerchief waiting for him in his study after a particularly gruelling day. The little fabric was sloppily stitched, the pale blue thread forming what he could only assume was meant to be a dragon—Claere's touch, unmistakable. Despite the uneven embroidery, he carried it with him always, tucked close to his chest beneath his leather coat of plates. It was the smallest of gestures, but to him, it was the great deal of effort she had put in for him.

But formality, he decided, did nothing for them.

One night, he summoned all the courage he had left, sweeping into her chambers with a boldness that surprised even him. He found her sitting near the hearth, her slender fingers too close to the flames, seeking heat from the piercing frost that had begun to seep into Winterfell's very bones.

"I would like to," Cregan began, his voice betraying a touch of nervousness beneath its usual strength, "sleep here tonight."

She turned to him, startled, her violet eyes dashing briefly to the bed. She blinked, slowly understanding the meaning behind his words.

Her lips parted, and she spoke with faint surprise. "You desire an heir."

Cregan's heart lurched in his chest, his eyes widening in shock. "No. No, princess," he half-laughed, quickly stepping forward, his voice dropping to a gentler tone. "You mistake me. I want no such thing from you."

She remained quiet, her gaze searching his face for meaning. "You do not?"

"I do, of course. In time, yes. Heirs." He scratched his jaw nervously. "I implied that I merely..." He hesitated, struggling to find the right words. His hand moved toward her, hovering in the space between them before finally resting gently upon her cold hand.

"I simply want to be close to you. No titles or expectations. You and I."

Claere stared at his hand on hers, the firelight dancing across her face, her expression caught somewhere between bewilderment and awareness. She had never imagined such a request from him. To her, as preached by her mother, marriage had always been about duty, obligation, and the future of his line.

"You mean to sleep here," she repeated, her voice softer now, doubtful.

"Aye, I do," Cregan replied, his hand still resting over hers, warm against the cold of the room. "I would like to be with you, as we are. If that would please you."

Her eyes flickered with something he couldn't quite place—an emotion she rarely showed. Vulnerability, perhaps. She nodded slowly, her gaze dropping to the flames.

"Very well," she whispered.

Then on, he cherished those quiet nights spent by her side, even while she remained true to her unstinting oddities. For all that surrounded her, she had, in her own way, become his constant.

The gentle strumming of her harp in the dead of the night became Cregan's personal lullabies, even if was hair-raising to the rest of them. He found her wandering through the corridors in the small hours, her movements slow, as though she drifted through her dreams. It should've unsettled him—the sight of his wife, half-asleep and roaming as if the world outside fell to nothing at her feet. Whenever the night sky beckoned her, she would climb the ramparts, sprawling herself across the ancient stone, her hands and eyes tracing the constellations. Sometimes, in the earliest hours of dawn, he would wake to find her already gone, Luna’s shadow a fleeting blur in the sky as she took flight.

"The court grows restless, my lord," the maester had said cautiously one time, his voice a quiet murmur as they stood in the Great Hall. "They believe Lady Claere's patterns... worry the people. A lady shouldn’t wander alone, especially not at such hours."

Cregan's rubbed at his brow, frustrated. "What would you have me do? Chain her to her chambers? Berate her like a child?"

"They mean no harm, my lord," he continued, trying to tread carefully. "You appease her too much. Her place is—"

"Her place," Cregan interrupted, his tone final, "is wherever she chooses to be."

He couldn’t bring himself to curb the parts of her that made her who she was. She wrought no trouble to anyone. Besides, stopping her could bring about dire consequences he knew little about.

One evening, after hearing her footsteps echo along the parapet walls, he quietly followed. Of course, for a dragonrider, such a height would not bother her, but his heart raced faster at the reflection of slippery death. Claere was already there, gazing up at the stars with a look of quiet reverence. He carefully lay beside her, trying to see the sky as she did, wondering what enigmas it held for her.

"Do you see them?" Claere asked, not turning to face him.

Cregan followed her gaze, his breath clouding in the crisp cold air. "Their radiance comes to nought with your presence," he said in all honesty.

Her eyes still fixed on the heavens, simply nodded, offering no smile, no warmth—just that silent acknowledgement that always seemed to deflate him.

"Untouched," she told him, an awed confession, "since I first laid eyes on them. Even in King's Landing and Dragonstone. Here. Yet they tell me a distinct story every night. Of old, of the things yet to come."

Cregan found himself leaning closer on his elbow, her calm conviction tugging at his control. It was easier to touch her nowadays, never past a soft squeeze of her palm or shoulder, but nevertheless, he basked in her liberties to him.

He traced her hairline by her temple, tucking a curl behind her ear. He was afraid she was going to melt right through his fingertips, vanish into steam.

"What do they say to you tonight?" he asked.

"Iā gēlenka qogron," she replied, her Valyrian tongue as smooth as the silks she wore, getting across his skin like a breathy caress.

He shook his head. "I can't understand your language."

"A silver lining."

For the first time in a while, she looked at him, a faint smile playing at her eyes, like two streaks of comets in the night. An elfish smile spread on his lips, his soul wrecked and decimated at the mere sight of it. A softness that she allowed just for him.

The aforesaid silver lining came on two fronts, both owed to his good wife, though neither understood immediately.

The first glimmer of change came as Claere sat by his feet one evening, quietly weaving another garland of winter roses upon a vine. He wondered what significance it was to her, why she had taken a liking to such an absurd, sweet thing. It was rare in these parts, yet she always had a throng of them every fortnight.

Instinctually, he reached out to gently touch the back of her head, brushing his fingers down the silvery hair that was left loose from her plaits. That gesture was enough to impart the warmth from the chill around them. Then, without turning to him, she spoke softly; suddenly.

“You could grow things here. Even in the cold.”

Cregan frowned, tilting his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

She did not answer right away, her fingers hesitating on loops of the vines, thinking. "Like these roses. They rise out of the ice."

He flickered his gaze to the withered flowers in her pale hands.

“The hot spring beneath the castle,” she sounded off. “It could heat the glass. Protect the plants.”

“Glass?” he asked, perplexed, trying to piece together her words.

She saw her nod, turning her head just enough to catch the slope of her nose and bow of her murmuring lips. Such a distracting sight.

“A house of glass. With the heat from below and light from above, you could grow food. Even in the blackest winters.”

Cregan sat back, stroking his lip, unsure if she was speaking in riddles again or if there was some truth hidden in her quiet musings. A glass house? In Winterfell? He mulled over her words long after the conversation ended, unseeingly staring at her sleep, wondering if she saw something he didn’t, or if it was simply another of her cryptic thoughts, floating like a wisp of fog, impossible to catch.

Days passed before the idea began to take shape in his mind, the pieces coming together as he considered the hot springs that ran beneath the castle, the ancient warmth that had always been a part of Winterfell. The more he thought about it, the more her words made sense—elusive at first, yes, but not impossible.

“She has clever foresight beyond her years, my lord,” one of the builders remarked when Cregan indistinctly shared the concept, the man’s eyes widening at the simplicity of it. The Glass Gardens, so it was named.

“To grow fresh produce in hard frost… it could change everything. But it will take great labour, and the men—”

"Insignificant," he interrupted, anticipating the instant objections. "Use every muscle we have, builders and stewards alike. Stop at nothing. Winter is coming."

X

A heavy silence draped the great hall as the Lord and Lady of Winterfell sat together at the head of the long table, their presence commanding every eye in the space. The low light of the hearth flashed, candles careened, casting long shadows against the weathered stone walls, the flickers dancing across Cregan’s gruff yet relaxed features and Claere’s hypnotic beauty.

The hall was teeming with people, the sounds of clinking plates and jovial laughs—lords of vassal houses, bannermen, and their ladies—but not a soul dared to question their sights. They watched, breath held, as the husband and wife dined in quiet harmony after weeks of isolation. Yet, the silence wasn’t strained. There was something subtle between them, implicit but unmistakable, a warmth that didn’t need words to be discerned.

Claere, shrouded in a grey fur-lined cloak, a gift from Cregan, picked at the peas on her plate. To those watching, she remained in her customary quietude, never quite fitting into their climate. But Cregan saw something else. He could sense the effort in her posture: the way she held herself more present tonight, despite her usual evasive manner. She wasn’t quite comfortable, but she was trying. And he was prepared to help.

Cregan’s watchful grey eyes, sharp as winter but softening with each glance, rushed often to his wife. Though she barely touched her food, he noticed her little, doubtful movements—the way her fingers skimmed the rim of her goblet, the way her eyes lounged on the stagnating hearth, her mind a million miles away.

He tore a piece of bread and placed it on her plate, a routine gesture between them now. He gently squeezed her hand over the table, bringing her back to reality.

"You must eat something," he murmured, meant for her ears alone. There was no force in his words, only a gentle concern from his growing care.

Claere’s violet eyes flickered toward him, surprised at first, but she didn’t resist. She took a small nibble of the bread and sipped the spiced broth, hesitant under the weight of so many eyes upon her. Yet, when she met Cregan’s gaze, just for a heartbeat, something shifted. An unassuming smile tugged at his lips, softening the edges of his usually stern features.

The tension in the hall, once thick with curiosity and judgment, began to ease. The subtle exchanges between the lord and his lady had not gone unnoticed by their audience. How his smile grew when she looked at him, a rare sight for those who knew him.

It wasn’t until a shift in the crowd drew the noble couple's attention—an approaching woman with two small children clutching at her skirts—that the atmosphere around them began to change.

In their small hands, they carried something bright—gleaming in the candlelight like polished stones. As they came closer, Cregan's brow furrowed in confusion. The sight of what they carried made him lean forward, his voice low with disbelief. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Bless me. Are those...?” he drawled out in wonder.

The woman’s hands shook slightly as she stepped forward, her eyes darting nervously between Cregan and Claere.

“Lord Stark,” she stammered, her voice trembling. She strained a pleading gaze at Claere. “This is too generous of a gift, my lady. We cannot accept this."

In her hands, and those of her children, were dragon eggs from Luna's most recent clutch—small, vibrant, coloured crimson and green. The sight of them made the hall grow quieter as if the very air had thinned with the enormity of the gesture. The children, however, clutched the eggs to their chests, unwilling to part with them. Their small hands curled protectively around the gleaming shells, eyes wide with the wonder of it.

Claere’s gaze flicked to the children, and then to the mother. "They earned them."

"They are unaware of what these symbolise to your bloodline," the mother refused. "Dragon eggs don't belong in the hands of people like us."

“Are you to refuse gratuity from your lady?” she said, with the quiet authority that left no room for argument. Claere regarded the children with a measured gaze, her expression still cool.

"They are gifts for your family. I owe the little ones a keepsake for their bravery today."

"Bravery?" Cregan questioned.

"We helped her locate Luna's clutch, m'lord," the young girl confessed in a mumble.

"And Lady Stark let us keep some of them," the young boy finished. "We found five so far."

"Two out of five is scarcely anything," Claere subdued the stressed mother. "I have plenty to spare."

The children, despite their mother’s soft pleas, clung tighter to the eggs, their fingers wrapped around them as though the treasures belonged to them alone. The mother’s face flushed with embarrassment, her hands trembling as she tried to gently pry the eggs from her children’s grasp.

“But, my lady, this is—”

Claere’s attention had already drifted to her plate. Her expression tightened for a brief moment, something unspeakable crossing her features—a subtle unease she hid from the hall, but not from Cregan. Ever observant, caught the unease settling into her posture, the slight tightening of her fingers around her goblet. He saw the far-off look in her eyes, and his heart sank.

Claere, at that moment, glanced down at the eggs in their small hands, and her gaze seemed to shift—becoming distant, as though she were looking far beyond the walls of Winterfell. Her eyes briefly lingered on the older boy, trained right through him, a flicker of foreboding.

Sensing this, Cregan squeezed Claere's thigh to summon her attention. When he did, he gave her the most infinitesimal shake of his head, searching her eyes. For a quiet moment, she remained frozen in place, still cold-eyed, as if deliberating some far-off future.

But then, with the smallest exhale, she relented. The tension in her shoulders melted, and her gaze gentled. Turning back to the woman, Claere’s voice was soothing now, in a way that almost made her seem more benevolent.

“Your son will grow strong,” she said, softly touching the boy's head. “He will see many winters, and live long." Then she nodded at the girl. "So will she. Great things await in their morrows."

The woman’s eyes filled with gratitude, her children clutching their eggs close as they looked up at her in awe. She bowed deeply, her voice cracking with emotion.

“Thank you, milady, truly," she said profusely. "Thank you.”

As the woman and her children backed away into the crowd, their wide-eyed wonder a stark contrast to the stunned silence that had settled over the hall, Cregan relaxed into his chair, his gaze still fixed on Claere.

He was the perfect blend of amusement and concern. “You mislike lying," he claimed.

Claere, still staring after the departing family, shook her head, her expression contemplative. “No,” she said, her tone almost introspective. “I do not care for it. The truth is simpler.”

Cregan arched a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a teasing smile as he sipped his ale. “You avoided the truth."

"Akin to deceit."

He set down his mug with a sigh. "Fair enough. Whatever did you see?"

Her eyes tightened, toying at her sleeves as if thinking over revealing this to him. "The boy will live long... but he will be sentenced to takeing the black for assault. His path is laid."

Cregan absorbed her words, and the dinner noises got louder. He rubbed a hand down his mouth, nodding to himself.

"That boy's future is his to shape," he relieved, his eyes locking on hers. "No sense in weighing down tomorrow with troubles that haven’t come. Perhaps knowing less will allow him to make other choices."

She quirked a side of her lips to an imperceptible smile, a shared understanding evolving between them. "Perhaps."

He gently caressed the back of her head. "Maybe don’t make this a habit. I don’t fancy sharing my ale with a doom-monger every night."

Her laugh surprised him. It was soft, barely more than a breath, like a secret that had slipped free—genuine, and entirely unexpected. Cregan blinked, caught off guard. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted to hear it.

"You laughed," he noticed breathily.

Claere paused, her brows drawing together as though she hadn’t noticed it herself. “Did I?”

He nodded, still watching her, his eyes softening. “Aye, you did. A sound like that could warm even these old stones."

She looked down at her lap as if trying to recall the moment herself. Her fingers resumed their nervous picking at her sleeves, but there was a faint flush on her pale cheeks, a subtle shift in her usual guarded demeanour.

“I suppose I did,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Cregan leaned closer, nudging her arm, gentle but teasing. “Well, don’t stop now. I think I'm rather fond of it.”

Claere’s thin lips graced a vague curve, so sweet and humble, though she quickly turned her gaze away from him, her fingers smoothing the fabric of her dress.

Gently, unable to stop himself, he reached out, cupping the side of her pale cheek. This time, she did not flinch or shy away. Instead, she closed her eyes, allowing herself to lean into his touch, indulging in the warmth of his hand, even if just for a fleeting moment.

For Cregan, it was another crushing triumph. For Claere, it was the first time she permitted herself to feel something other than the cold isolation that had surrounded her since arriving at Winterfell. And for those watching, it was a glimpse of an undue union slowly becoming more than mere duty.

There it was: Cregan's second silver lining, with far less fanfare and more consequential than the first. A quiet tempest of affection began taking root in the frozen North, thawing what had once seemed unreachable—the first warmth of spring after a long winter.

X

[beatingtheouijaboardallegations]

forever tired of our voices being turned into commodity.

forever tired of thorough medaocrity in the AAC business. how that is rewarded. How it fails us as users. how not robust and only robust by small small amount communication systems always chosen by speech therapists and funded by insurance.

forever tired of profit over people.

forever tired of how companies collect data on every word we’ve ever said and sell to people.

forever tired of paying to communicate. of how uninsured disabled people just don’t get a voice many of the time. or have to rely on how AAC is brought into classrooms — which usually is managed to do in every possible wrong way.

forever tired of the branding and rebranding of how we communicate. Of this being amazing revealation over and over that nonspeakers are “in there” and should be able to say things. of how every single time this revelation comes with pre condition of leaving the rest behind, who can’t spell or type their way out of the cage of ableist oppression. or are not given chance & resources to. Of the branding being seen as revolution so many times and of these companies & practitioners making money off this “revolution.” of immersion weeks and CRP trainings that are thousands of dollars and wildly overpriced letterboards, and of that one nightmare Facebook group g-d damm it. How this all is put in language of communication freedom. 26 letters is infinite possibilities they say - but only for the richest of families and disabled people. The rest of us will have to live with fewer possibilities.

forever tired of engineer dads of AAC users who think they can revolutionize whole field of AAC with new terrible designed apps that you can’t say anything with them. of minimally useful AI features that invade every AAC app to cash in on the new moment and not as tool that if used ethically could actually help us, but as way of fixing our grammar our language our cultural syntax we built up to sound “proper” to sound normal. for a machine, a large language model to model a small language for us, turn our inhuman voices human enough.

forever tired of how that brand and marketing is never for us, never for the people who actually use it to communicate. it is always for everyone around us, our parents and teachers paras and SLPs and BCBAs and practitioners and doctors and everyone except the person who ends up stuck stuck with a bad organized bad implemented bad taught profit motivated way to talk. of it being called behavior problems low ability incompetence noncompliance when we don’t use these systems.

you all need to do better. We need to democritize our communication, put it in our own hands. (My friend & communication partner who was in Occupy Wall Street suggested phrase “Occupy AAC” and think that is perfect.) And not talking about badly made non-robust open source apps either. Yes a robust system needs money and recources to make it well. One person or community alone cannot turn a robotic voice into a human one. But our human voice should not be in hands of companies at all.

(this is about the Tobii Dynavox subscription thing. But also exploitive and capitalism practices and just lazy practices in AAC world overall. Both in high tech “ mainstream “ AAC and methods that are like ones I use in sense that are both super stigmatized and also super branded and marketed, Like RPM and S2C and spellers method. )

[universal-casey]

Can you explain more abt your $wap au? I wanna know more abt America and such, is America kinda evil and such? or?

Also anything cute that $wap America does? or Russia? USSR?

Side note: My CH lore is not as consistent in the $wap AU because it’s my fun AU, hence why Russia is a kid and not in his 30s-50s like he usually is!

$wap’s basic premise is “What if Cold War, but Soviet is the USA and America is the USSR”. In this world, Soviet’s revolution occurred in 1776, and his father survived the revolution and has chilled out considerably now that Soviet occupies previously Russian Empire land.

America’s revolution happened in 1917, in where he was originally a country bumpkin type. Britain was a much more ruthless nation, and was in turn killed. This allowed England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland to govern themselves once more.

Socialism is more of the norm in this AU, because of Soviet, and capitalism is what America brings to the world as a rising popular economic system: highly focused on individualism, being the best, and how others perceive you.

Socialism is more subdued. Essentially it’s my perfect vision of an economic system lmao.

$wap America ($am) is loud, opinionated, flamboyant, an idea thief, and very judgmental. He’s a loan shark who is only out for himself and no one else. What eventually kills him (as he falls in 1991 like modern Soviet), is both radiation poisoning, and actually becoming a better person as he gets to know Soviet and his children.

$wap Soviet ($oviet or $ov) is still rather stoic, but has a goofy side to him. He’s very fatherly, loves his kids. Loves his dad, too. Just a very teddy bear kind of guy. He’s an Olympic-level archer as well. A bit of a people-pleaser, which has led to Soviet and his government stagnating a bit. America brings that spark back to him and instills a sense of urgency (American tech evolves VERY FAST compared to Soviet’s snail’s pace). Beurocracy (however the fuck that’s spelled) is Soviet’s biggest weakness. Misses his wife.

$am dresses in drag VERY often. In fact, he bonds really strongly with Belarus because he takes her to every mother-daughter event he can.

Russia wants to be an archer like his pops, so he’s often begging to go on $ov’s hunting trips. He likes $am, but he likes poking fun at him way more.

Ukraine’s $oviet’s musical genius. You wouldn’t catch $ov DEAD missing one of Ukraine’s concerts.

All three kids visit Russian Empire often (usually when Soviet and America are enjoying each other’s company).

Overall, it’s a chill AU with a bit of a bittersweet ending, as Soviet and America make each other better rather than worse, and it ultimately ends in America giving up his hold on the 50 states and dissolving, leaving poor Soviet with two dead partners lol

[especiallythewomenandthechildren]

As If Destiny (part five) 🌹

Part Four🌹

Warnings: Terminal illness, parent death, death and brutality (it is the hunger games after all) characters may be ooc. I read the book a while ago but don't really remember much of Snows way of thinking (I mean I know its toxic and insane but yk the other things) so I will mostly be basing off the film and my own thoughts. Also I can't spell for the life of me so be prepared for bad spelling and grammar. Enjoy loves!

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"I do hope you know that if we are even a minute late, I will be serving detention for the rest of the year." 

The slightly anxious tone of Coryo's voice broke you out of your memorized state. You both were in a rush out of his penthouse and you weren't sure how long it would take to get to the academy, but against your best intentions, you had to stop for the flowers.

Something about their white petals and fresh arouma just sucked you in.

With a reluctant sigh, you forced your legs to move.

"But you are the perfect student. You've never been late and every member of the staff loves you."

It was true. There didn't seem to be a single person in the Capital who wasn't charmed with Coriolanus Snow.

But he just shook his head, shifting his eyes forward and quickly pressing the button to allow for pedestrians cross the intersection.

"Everyone but Dean Highbottom."

Oh yes.

He was unfortunately right.

That was indeed the one person who seemed to despise Coryo.

And for seemingly no reason. He always seemed to be able to chide or insult the boy whenever given the chance.

When the signal lit up, the boy in question took your hand to follow him across the street.

"You know, I remember once Highbottom saw us talking after I gave you back your book for Satryia's class. After we parted ways, he pulled me aside and told me to stay away from you. Something about how it didn't end well the first time. Do you have any idea what he was talking about?" 

Still holding your hand, even being far from the dangers of the intersection, the boy turns his head to you. His eyes showed just as much confusion as yours did but with a hint of anger.

Dean Highbottom didn't have to like him but who is he to warn you to stay away from him? And what does he mean the first time? 

The conversation seemed to trail off there but neither of you minded. You didn't come to this part of the Capital very often so you were lost in fascination and wonder. The city was being rebuilt all around you and you couldn't help but feel giddy.

Coriolanus was lost in watching your reactions. He was feeling a sense of pride to know that he was the one who opened this side of the Capital for you. Not to mention the reason you got some proper sleep. 

He was thinking back on your conversation when he nudged your nearby shoulder with his. You looked back to see the tall boy with a little smirk on his lips. You couldn't help but laugh and question the movement. 

"Nothing, it's just nice to know you remembered the book." 

The comment made a pink tint appear on your cheeks, now very visible in the morning light.

"Of course I remember! I'm sure Satryia would have had my head! You were my knight in shining armor."

Then it was your turn to nudge him back. His pride swelled even more at the memory. To know that he was able to give you something that you not only wanted but needed. Even if it was just a lousy textbook.

It made him feel accomplished. 

Within a few strides, the magnificent structure of the Academy came into view and it somehow even looked more beautiful than usual to you.

Everything did after last night.

"Oh! I forgot to give you this!"

He let go of your still clasped hands and grabbed something from his bag. You were surprised by Coryo's confession but even more suprized by the radiant flower in his hand. You couldn't help but gasp at the gesture. You looked up at him with your beautiful eyes, shining up at him with wonder and gratitude. He smiled down at you, heart swelling.

"You seemed so mesmerized so I thought you would like one of your own." 

You took the flower gently and thanked him with the most beautiful smile he has ever received.

He was already scheming of ways to see it more often. 

"Could you put in my hair?"

Then you were blessed with the most beautiful smile you've seen. He happily agreed and put it in the back of your hair, in the hair tie of your half up, half down style.

Something you've never worn before to the academy but something Coryo reassured you looked good.

Once assured the flower wouldn't fall, the tall boy stepped out from behind you with a satisfied smile.

"You know one of these days I'll show you Grandma'am's rose garden. Maybe even get you a bouquet."

He knew the day when he would be able to bring you full bouquets of her precious roses is far away. But maybe after he won the Plinth Prize, he would get his Grandma'am chocolate, Tigris a new dress, and packets of rose seeds.

Enough so everyday he could give you a fresh flower that you would cherish.

His wishful thinking nearly made him miss your response.

"I think I would fall right then and there if you did Coryo."

You looked at him as you confessed but quickly looker away, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. Heat that only grew more intense as Coriolanus's stare did the same.

He didn't know if you meant you would fall is in pass out or fall as in... well fall. for him.

oh as if he needed anymore motivation to win the coveted Plinth Prize. 

Since you never come from this direction, you can't see the usual spot Sejanus would be sitting at when waited for you. Was he getting worried? Your eyes scan the area but couldn't seem to find the brunette anywhere.

But, for better or worse, you found your quite eccentric group of friends.

"Coryo! Y/N!" Clemensia's voice carried through the morning air as you both marched up the stairs.

You both greeted her as well as Arachne, Festus, and Felix upon your arrival. They all seemed happy to see you two (especially you as you are often strolling with Sejanus). But Arachne seemed to be looking you both up and down with a mischievous smirk playing on her colored lips. Nothing new but unnerving nevertheless. 

"Y/N, don't you live on the west side of the city? You always come and leave in that direction."

She looked as if she had caught a lamb for the slaughter. You actually did really like her but the girl has so many problems.

Coriolanus had his mask plastered on again but inside he was beginning to panic. He probably could've made a lie on the spot, a skill he has mastered over the years, but he was worried about your reaction. 

You were a genuine person and he feared that his lie would be completely exposed on your face. But it seemed he was wrong. Instead of freezing up you laughed at Arachne's comment.

"It's beautiful weather this morning and felt in the mood to take a walk around the city. I just happened to meet up with Coryo at the entrance to campus." 

To say the mentioned boy was surprised and relieved would have been an understatement. Not only did you cover up the actual events, you made sure not to let it slip that he walks to the Academy. The illusion that he has a driver like the rest of your peers was still held. Festus then seemed to perk up. 

"I still don't understand why in the world you would decide to walk somewhere. We have drivers for a reason."

The others nodded in agreement and you couldn't but help sigh. You have known your friends since as long as you could remember. You have seen them grow up (or the lack there of).

They are still the small scared children who had to burn their picture books for warmth in the Dark Days. They may have physically aged, but you know they never really grew up. Your peers simply hid their fears and insecurities behind their wealth and luxury.

Anything outside of the opulence that surrounded them brought fear and as a result, a great distaste.

That's why Sejanus was so disliked. He was too much of an irregularity. Too other. 

As he drifted to your mind, your eyes drifted to the other side of the stairs, shifting your neck to try to get a better view. 

"Don't worry, your little side kick is coming up."

Felix let you know with a nod of his head over your shoulder, making you turn around and spotting Sejanus looking confused at you. You smiled in invitation and he began taking a cautious walk up the vast stairs. 

Arachne couldn't help but scoff.

"Wonder what little district boy would do without his precious y/n to hold his hand wherever he goes."

Your mouth opened to shoot back a response when Sejanus gave one of his own. 

"Maybe you will see where it would hit if it wasn't being held."

He even gave a mocking smile to go with it. 

And this is why your two friend groups are separate. 

Before any teeth could be knocked out or venom spit, you were quick to grab his arm and pull him away. You look over your shoulder with a rushed and apologetic farewell to the group.

But your eyes met those ever shining blue orbs and gave a private smile. A smile he couldn't help but return.

"What are you smiling at Snow?"

Festus croked. He had frankly forgotten his friends around him, way too lost on your retreating form. 

"Well that was entertaining if I must say." He covered up his slip.

The look on Arachne's face begged to differ.

But reassurance came in Clemensia's laugh, followed by Felix.

"I would actually like to see what would happen with you and Plinth in a room with no y/n to mediate Crane." Felix seemed quite entertained with the thought. 

The girl just rolled her eyes and began her march into the building, clear irritation radiating off of her.

The rest of the group followed suit and walked into the posh institution.

"Feel bad for whoever unfortunately walks infront of her path" Festus quips, much to the enjoyment and humor of his friends.

The same feeling could not be said for Sejanus.

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"So how worried should I be?" Sejanus's warm brown eyes bore into yours. You crooked your head to its side in confusion.

"Care to explain Sej?" 

"I think I'm the one who needs an explanation y/n. You never came to our spot and you were instead with them."

He spit out the word as if it was acid.

"Not to mention the fact that we got a call from your father thanking us for letting you stay with us last night. Would you care to enlighten me how I either missed your presence the entire night, morning, and ride here or where you actually were."

His tone was harsh but you knew it came from a place of worry. He knew of your sleepless habits and to be informed that you were supposed to be with him but weren't must have been horrifying. 

You weren't sure if you should tell him the whole truth about staying with Coriolanus. So you tell him the same thing you told Rhayes, your driver, last night.

"I was with a friend. I'm sorry I worried you Sejanus. I had no idea he called you and made you worry." 

He looked at you with a puzzled and slight irritated expression.

"What friend y/n? And if you couldn't stay at your house, you know our door is always open."

You weren't exactly sure why he was so upset at the situation but you felt he deserved some semblance of an answer. 

"You guys do enough for me as it is. No- stop don't even try to argue with me on this. Can - can we just drop this?" You sighed, clearly not wanting to continue on this topic.

Sejanus looked the exact opposite, wanting to flesh out every detail. But he noticed your discomfort and let the conversation end there. 

You both had been walking around the halls, him not really realizing the path you were taking untill you came to a stop and began looking through your bag.

The kind boy, for what seemed the first time that morning, took in your appearance. 

"You look well rested. Back to life." He says it astonished. You couldn't help but roll your eyes. 

"I know! Weird seeing me look like an actual person instead of zombie." You were expecting a witty remark back but you were met with another amazed observation. 

"You kept your hair down. And look it has a flower!"

You laughed at his behavior and found your mass pile of somehow pristine papers. You flipped through the pages with apprehension at your work.

"And you finished your paper! What happened to you last night?!"

He just seemed to keep on getting more and more lost. Your smile grew in amusement of his reaction and you both walked into class. Sejanus made his way up to your elevated section of desks while you made your way to your Professor.

Professor Rhaen was a tall and lengthy man who seems more aged than any person of his middle age should be. His pale skin seemed sickly and was scattered with small marks and freckles.

He was bent over his desk, deep into a thick book. You cleared your throat and his eyes snapped up to your slightly timid figure.

"Good morning Professor. I understand that you gave us an extended amount of time for our paper to ensure we properly research. But I fear I got too carried away and seemed to have finished a bit early."

You held up your own thick stack of papers with a humble smile. The man didn't take your papers right away, leaving your hand hanging while he was analyzing.

After a few painfully akward moments, he finally took the stack from your hands. You were going to make your way to seat before he motioned for you to wait.

He was scanning through as you just stood there, in the front of the room and felt quite small. You looked up towards the direction of your desk and saw Sejanus give you a smile and a thumbs up in encouragement.

You smiled back, with a little more reassurance and turned to your professor who seemed to be very focused. The sounds of your classmates coming in was heard as their gazes were felt.

Forever seemed to pass before Professor Rhaen gave you the go ahead to sit down. You gave a giddy sigh of relief before you were stopped by his voice.

"Y/n!" You turned slowly and slightly reluctantly. "

From what I've seen so far, I think I will be nothing less than impressed."

What.

Professor Rhaen does not give compliments. You felt over the moon but gave a polite nod and rushed to your desk.

You didn't realize that Coriolanus and the others had made it to class until you reached the area of your desk. You had to squeeze past the blonde boy and as soon as you sat down, you had to turn behind you.

"Wait you already finished your paper?"

Clemmies pretty face was contorted in baffelment. You just smiled and shrugged. The scoffs of impresment (and intimidation) of Felix, Festus, and Arachne were quite audible even as you turned around.

Sejanus took in your interaction and noticed how neither Clemensia nor Arachne knew of your progress. Something they clearly would have if you stayed at their penthouses last night.

But what was even more puzzling was your shared look with Coriolanus who seemed to have a bit of a smug and proud smile on his face.

Like he knew. 

Any questions were caught off by the scratchy voice of the professor. His lecture was not necessarily interesting, but today for the first time in a long time, you were able to be fully focused.

You followed every word and participated whenever you could. You were so engaged with the lesson that you barely realized the pen that landed by your shoes.

Grabbing it in a swift motion, you looked up to see Coriolanus with a smug smirk.

Oh that little-

"See what happens when you get a proper sleep." He teased you, slightly crouched, mirroring your position. 

You gave a soft scoff at his comment which only made his expression grow.

"A night of good rest, a compliment from Rhaen, and an intimated Arachne? You're on fire y/n." He whispered. 

"Trying to suck up to the new favorite student Snow?" You teased back.

The close proximity of your position allowing for the heat of your breath to be felt on the boys cheeks.

That's the reason for the red on it right? 

His devious smirk only expanded, showing a few of his perfect and pearly white teeth. He opened his mouth to fire back his own witty response before he was cut off by a clearly displeased Dean Casca Highbottom. 

"Miss Vaun and Mr. Snow."

It seemed that even having the two of your names in the same sentence drained him off all his energy.

"Why am I not surprised. Well whatever it is that you two were discussing, I hope it was more important than your professor's lecture." 

The embarrassment of the public scolding and the silence of the room was suffocating.

And he knew it.

He seemed to relish in your discomfort and Coriolanus's annoyance. 

His eyes seemed to be coated with a fog as he was lost to his mind and whatever he was thinking. The realization of reality and his intention of the interruption seemed to bring him back to reality. 

"Please pack up your things Miss y/n. It is urgent."

Your reaction to his words was panic.

Absolute panic.

Emotion you had to swallow, even as your breathing accelerated. You were shaking as you basically threw your material in your bag, with no care of the impact.

Dean Highbottom had already left the room and was waiting in the hallway by the time you met up with him. You felt nauseous and walked on heavy feet.

Coriolanus could see the unsteady steps you took and wanted nothing more than steady you.

But he could do nothing.

And that's the part he hated most.

He sighed and tried to focus back on the lecture and the notes he was supposed to take. Then he realized you must have taken his pen by accident. 

And he was right but you weren't really conscious as you twirled that very same pen in you hands in apprehension.

Something happened to her.

That happened to her.

You both reached the main office and you hoped that all your fears would be resolved. But you looked up to see your father in a state of varying levels of dishevelment. He looked pale, starved, and hollow.

But worst of all were the tears in his eyes and clear stains on his cheek. No.

No. 

You felt the world shrink around you as he opened up his palm to reveal a beautiful golden necklace. A necklace that held two rings.

The same necklace that your mother wore without fail.

The one she swore she would never take off till death did her part.

Till death do you part.

⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆

A/N: another part down! I hope you all liked it! I was scared of how it was gonna turn out at first but kinda liked it. I hope you guys saw the desk scene as I imagined it (both you and coryo kinda crouched and close as you whispered). I imagined it as if it was a movie and the shot would be showing your side profiles as you talked in those fancy curved desk things in the movie. Also if things don't make sense, I'm sorry it's 1 am and I have been working on it for hours and I'm sleepy lol! Much love as always!

@notyourwildestdream 🌹@darktrashsoulbear🌹@fantasylovestoryme 🌹@nekee-lilac02 🌹@a-avengerparker🌹 @queenofshinigamis 🌹

[cherry777cola]

Searching for a Longterm Roleplay Partner

hello! my name is Seven/7 (they/them), I'm a 26 year old with about 12 years of role playing experience under my belt. I'm a college student who works part time. I love to roleplay in my freetime and I'm currently looking for a longterm partner to hopefully write multiple threads with.

Should definitely go without saying but please be 18+, definite preference for 21+ writers. No minors.

I will put all the information under the cut including ways to contact me:

Some Basic Requirements

Third Person, Past Tense

Quality > Quantity ( I personally refer to myself as casual lit, in which I will lean towards smaller more 'rapid response' replies as opposed to longer more sporadic responses and this is the way roleplay tends to work best for me personally.)

Literacy!! ( Minor grammar and spelling mistakes happen, but it should feel like you are putting in effort, capitalizing 'I' or making sure to spell out 'you', hour/our, the list can go on but I feel I've made my point.)

Communication and Storybuilding (It sucks to feel like you're attempting to pull someones teeth just to plot out a roleplay. I would prefer someone equally excited to discuss our mutual story as I am. Please be ready to talk to me.)

These are just some basic requirments that I have for a preferred partner and also something that I myself feel I personally bring to all my roleplays. Nobody's perfect I am certainly not but generally these are my hard 'rules' for roleplay or I tend to lose interest in what's happening. Now onto the fun stuff.

What I'm Looking For

I am currently looking for a roleplay that mixes both smut and plot into it. An even 50/50 is usually what I aim for but it's roleplay and sometimes we'll be leaning one way or the other. I am looking for someone who can play a top/dom. Someone who doesn't mind that I really only play exclusively bottom characters.

I am happy to roleplay with Any pairing, I generally prefer queer pairings and themes but straight pairings are not off the table and I'm down to discuss anything with the right partner.

Ideally I am looking for someone who is prepared to build an entire OC universe consisting of multiple threads/ideas that we can jump between with multiple ocs built up between us. Or even just someone who is interested in similar fandoms to me and is willing to start multiple threads that way.

Plot Ideas and Themes That Interest Me:

Omegaverse, Soulmates, Vampire/Human, Arranged Marriages, Superheros, Polyamory, Celebrity/Regular Person, Royalty/Servant, Reincarnation, Pregnancy/One Night Stands, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Magic, DND Settings, Sexual Exploration/Discovery, College Settings, REAL Love Triangles, Oblivious to LovexPining For Years, Fish Out of Water/Different Worlds/Isekai Scenarios, Forbidden Love, Drunk Vegas Weddings, Best Man in love with the Groom, Age Gaps, Dom Female/Sub Male relationships, Secret/Hidden Relationships, Opposites Attract/The Odd Couple, Bonnie and Clyde Relationship, FtMxMtF relationship, Submissive Alpha/Dominant Omega pairing, Cyberpunk Settings, High Sci-Fi, Low Sci-Fi, Alien/Human, Cyborg/Human, High Fantasy, Low Fantasy, GOT/ASOIAF type settings, Urban Fantasy/Modern Fantasy, FeminineDom/MascSub, BigSub/SmallDom.

This is not an all exhaustive list but it is a starting point. I also have a number of fandoms that I am interested in with a varying amount of knowledge:

D.Gray-Man, GTA V, Dramatical Murder, South Park, Star Trek (AOS preferably), AOT/SNK, ATLA, Percy Jackson, Soul Eater, Baldurs Gate 3.

If you've managed to get this far I much appreciate you reading to this extent. If you wish to contact me for roleplay feel free to message me here on tumblr. But I am also far more active on my Discord so feel free to reach out to me on discord my name is: se7ensaturn777

[astranite]

CH2 Coming Home Loudly

John isn't okay because it sure is lonely up in space. Scott follows through on his promises; he's here for his brothers and nothing, not even the distance between Earth and Thunderbird Five could stop him. Gordon is also Making Sure This Happens. --After suffering in silence, John comes home.

@janetm74 's Suffering In Silence which this follows. Ch1 upon tumblr.

@lying4sport

---

It had been twelve weeks since anyone had last hugged John or touched him at all. Scott would've been the last, leaving him on Thunderbird Five months ago with a quick squeeze of his shoulder to say goodbye. If Scott had known then that it would be for this long or had put together the pieces about the debacle with Alan already, he would have given in to the urge to tackle John into a hug, professional dignity while on duty be damned. He only had now and his brother in his arms.

All things considered, the stifled sob John let out was far from surprising. 

How he tugged away from the contact fully was even less so. Scott let him go, not forcing his brother to put up with his personal space being invaded when he was so unused to having anyone else around. He wouldn't anyway, even if his own heart ached. John needed physical affection to be on his own terms as much as he did need it.

John's arms went back to hugging himself as he rocked on his feet from heel to toe and back again, sniffling. "It's really nice to have you here."

"I'm glad to see you too. I really am," Scott replied. That barely begun to express how badly he wanted only to sit at John’s side and talk about anything or nothing at all, simply to be close.

Pretending to inspect the big ol' International Rescue sign became far more interesting as Scott turned away to let John surreptitiously wipe at his eyes. Spelled out in blaring capital letters, it was underlined red on the front of their space station

Funny how they had built this massive sign into Thunderbird Five up here where only John saw.

Scott ran his hands through his hair. He'd heard his brother's voice, seen his image through their communications array every day and near every mission since John had last rotated out, but it didn’t compare. Never could. It had been so damn long since he'd actually been physically in John's presence. 

He missed him ever so much.

He spun back to John, slowly to give him warning but too fast because right now he needed his brother in his sight. John seemed a bit more with it, the mask of Thunderbird Five, the larger than life promise of salvation overshadowing the very human operator slipping back into place. There were still cracks in it to see his brother through as John fidgeted with his uniform, twisting his fingers around his baldric until it crumpled.

He was more the utterly exhausted, probably covered in mud and hangry level of put together of the others after a mission, than John's usual never less than perfect. Scott would take what he could get though. If John started crying again, Scott couldn't guarantee he wouldn't either. 

"You ready to head home?" Scott said suddenly. 

He craned his neck around to look at the gleaming control panels, their blinking lights shining as brightly as they should. There. Sorted. Given this was John, of course it was: he’d never leave Five anything less than gleaming. They could go home.

John paused, his movements dying down into unnatural stillness. He lifted his chin, looking Scott straight in the eye like he was presenting his case before a committee of the entire world judging him, instead of it only being them. 

"No."

The single word came out blunt anyway.

Scott tensed up. To leave without John… he couldn’t—

Scott forced himself to take a deep breath. John wasn't exactly making sense, but when it came to his oh so clever little brother, it was most often Scott who was missing part of the equation.

"You don't want to? Or is there something else?" he asked, hesitant. 

It was rare for John to be this thrown by anything. But then this wasn’t an everyday situation, or rather it never should’ve become one so ceaselessly.

“Jay, what’s going on?”

Scott didn’t know how not to worry.

"No!” John shook his head frantically. “No, I want to go home."

His hands flailed through the air as if he was trying to sketch out a diagram of the problem for Scott. They rose upwards before John brought them down fast, flicking them, flapping them in rapid, repeating succession.

It struck Scott how long it had been since John had let him see him do that. With came the piercing realisation of long since he’d been physically in front of John to see him. In front of a camera and across comms, John held his hands below the field of view unless one was delicately wrapped around his microphone.

A tiny piece of the tension eased. John took a deep, shuddering breath, placing his words deliberately: "Father told me to pack my bags. I'm not packed. So therefore I'm not ready.”

To leave without John… he couldn’t—

As Scott reached for him, out of an instinct to comfort his brother in any way he could, John flinched back. He flattened himself against the wall, limbs compressed inwards as if he wanted to to sink through the glass and disappear into the star punctured void outside. 

John had always had the talent of making himself small. Scott was the one here on Five who was too loud and out of place.

 “So therefore I can’t go home,” John murmured. Or rather he mumbled, barely audible syllables clinging to each other instead of cutting through the noise clear as day. Scott had nicknamed the latter as his newsreader's voice once upon a time, on a day they’d been messing about over the comms as each brother requested John do different voices and Jeff pretended to not hear. 

It was what the world heard of Thunderbird Five, through and through. But not all there was to him.

Scott's hands found their way into his own hair again, tugging at it. He hadn’t thought. Grabbing him into a hug wouldn’t work with John. Never had. Sometimes that meant Scott wasn’t sure what to do.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

This was unfair, so fundamentally unfair that Scott didn't know what to do with it. He wanted John, down on Earth for however long he needed, happy and safe, but this wasn't the kind of rescue where Scott could throw him over his shoulder and carry him out of the burning building. It wasn't that sort of strength Scott needed. 

What he needed was John’s own quiet strength, to calm and care for and carry people through to hope on only his voice. Yet what he had was himself.

[mrvenuzpluto]

The 12 lustful experiences

She was a pulchritude looking breed, like no other. Her smell had me memorized. The way she put her love spell on me... Shit!. I would of thought she was a Scorpio... with all that seductiveness and deep passion. She whispered to me in my ear and told me how she needed it from the back while in the kitchen cooking stir fry! Im lifting, flipping ,smackin and grippin those thick thighs. next thing im eating rice and peppers off her ass while long stroking her then gave her mouth a taste of my yum yum sauce to compliment her meal. Hmmmmm! she gotta be a Taurus!. the way she ate it off my body and cooked a good ass dinner in the process. Something about a cancer Mmmmmm! the way she nurtures my Dick, keeps it warm, secure with her lil hands, very small mouth and delightful honeypot!. She loves the way i kiss it! lick it!, before i Beat it! then eat it like i need it, put my heart into it before i skeet it! look her in her eyes, tell her how much daddy needs it! then leave it!........... All wet like a Tsunami just crept through it. This crazy ass Scorpio had no limit to how deep her throat could go.......until she met me! use to have her ass gagging, coughing, choking, jaws locking up, mouth foaming, tapping out into she fooled me and learn me, scoped me, observed me, disected me then fooled me by finally throating me... WTF! after all those neck sessions she perfected it and swallowed all foot of me!. A scorpio determination is unmatched and priceless just like her head game!. Remember this flexiable Gemini, who could handstand for minutes at a time while sucking me like a blowpop! her favorite position was when i throw her lil ass up in the air and landed her on this fuckn dick head! then spin her lil ass around like a toppys spinny what eva you call it! pussy juice would be everywhere! she would get to ride on him for hours... called her Flexy Pussy!. I dont know what happened to miss Capricorn but she meant Business! with a capital B. I mean real business, she would show up dressed in her work attire, glasses, blouse, and work skirt. She would usually want to take control and tease me while she would slowly stroke my dick and watch me yearn for that wet dripping fat cat! as i would play along with her lil game, not this this time. Big Boss man showed up this time laid her sexy ass out and laid pipe on her ass, hit that cat in ever possible way until i put that pussy in a psych ward. Ohh thats where her lil ass is at till this day!. Met this loud ass Leo one day while she was getting out her red C - class benz. Ass just sittin up and proudful! me and her exchanged digets, next thing im hittin lioness all over the the 29th floor balcony! made her loud ass mouth hits notes while her pussy sang! tested those vocals! now she got daddy a new GLA - 250!

Her superficial ass was all in my grill! rubbing my chest, my chains and fresh drip!. The playa i was i let her lil ass get a dose of this kryptonite! she had a slim body, wide hips and smile that was bright, charm that was right, perfect ass that fit her height. Shit that had to be a lucky libra that was feeling me. What! i hit that poonany like a bad habit, face all against my jewels and shiny wrist band! while she kiss all over my royal ring. Then let her ass finish me off with sloppy neck through my amiri denims, splot !!! all over her fuckn face now you a superficial work of art. While getting treatment in the the hospital met this Virgo nurse that worked there. We conversed then she invited me to her house where she said she would heal me holistically. She wasnt lying she showed me her secret garden, let me taste her passion fruit, lick her nectar while consuming are her heal organic essence. Ive been healed ever since mmmm! I returned the favor and gave her some of my sleepy time meds, Here!!! open wide! say AHHH!!! left her belly full, mood good!!! and tucked her pussy in Goodnight! This unconventional pussy was right and tight!. The way she could squeeze me sooo tight with it and detach from it and squirt while bouncing up and down on my long ass dick while juggling my heavy loaded balls. She did this lil trick, made her tongue wrap around my dick head while stroking me with both hands, while drooling hella saliva all over him! she was very unique in her style and ways, no wonder they called the Aquarius water bearers! she lefted my ballls in a puddle. This long legged, thick thighed Sagittarius! use to love to grind on me while kissing my neck, i would grip her massive strong thighs, lift her up against the rocky mountains when we use to travel and meet each other on a trip, and have our escapades. I would travel deeeeep in that pussy exploring all her geographical locations and areas. Had me searching and going on long journeys inside her foreign pussy to finally locate and hit that G spot without any GPS or maps hit a couple wrong turns hitting kidneys and lower intestines. Soon after back on road straight knowledge and adventurous digging and left her ass laid out on the jet black sand!. She would get into heated arguments just so i could snatch her lil ass up, fold her up and pound her life out! Dick all up in her chest! miss Aries smart mouth ain't saying shit now!. Every time she would try to fix her lips to say something smart i would add a inch of D up in that lil pussy! now she talking gibberish! then i put her lil spark out!. While in yoga class this smooth, silky, thin built, caramel big eyed Picses showed me why yoga class was so important for the mind, body, soul and also others things..... shit the next day she also showed what her feet do! laid me back on her mat, sat down in front of me stretched her legs out, stretched her pretty ass feet then spit all over her hands rubbed it all over the bottom of her feet then gave me the worlds best footjob! felt all her energy and nerve endings contributing towards my well being! then i touched all her chakras and penetrated her solar plexus and finished in her throat chakra! and shot the remaining balance all over her ajna now we soulfully intertwine and divine!

[memoirsofphangoriaofficial]

{PALE COURT INFO DUMP}

Lord: Evangelith, The Incandescence

Capital: Luxiene

Soul Servants: Pale Messengers, Tallaberius, Caecusille, and Aumm

Current Court master: Eugaira Loulverre

Current Royal Mage: Nephitas Harpheule

Magich theme: Fire and light

Symbols: Wings, Closed Eyes, Candles, Musical Iconography, Blindness, Crosses, Suns, Fire, white birds, unicorn horns, DNA spiral formations.

Colour allowed to be worn: (white must be worn, being the biggest percentage of an outfit) Gold, browns, beige, yellow, cream, White

Rank: High Court

Attire: white lace, gold jewellery, Religious imagery, Wing imagery, Faux Wings, jackets and dresses usually have open backs showing skin (symbolizes wings) some wear golden masks or lace coverings over the eyes (show respect to the Pale Lord) late 1700’s rococo fashion, very puffy and overwhelming, almost too lavish. Very soft and almost nightgowny at times, very dramatic and lavish clothing if in high class. Lace, ribbons and gold pieces incorporated in hairstyles. Mixture of Black/rococo hairstyles.

Physical Features: white and blond hair, dark skinned or tan, must have golden yellow eyes (can be different shades) , average height taller than other courts, Usually have lean muscular physiques, wide backs.

Characteristic jobs: Musicians, reporters and public speakers, economists, artists, sculptors, painters, singers, tailors, models

The Pale Court, is one of three High Courts, Being ruled by the Pale Lord, Evangelith, A blind, angel-like god of light. She is blind, her upper face covered by a golden mask, candles and wax melting all over her oversized hooded cloak and face. She is the first ‘Optic Twin’, her other half being the Violet Lord. She is a radiant thing, blinding her own self with her own overwhelming light. She is a figure considered with an almost fearful reverence. Her power and “perfection” being scary to most. Her courtiers find her to be almost unnerving. Her pearly white, almost unchanging smile, pale white wax dripping down her dark skin as if it were milky blood. Under her rule, her court is one of opulence and art. Sociality and charm permeating their culture. Mimicking old French nobility, much of social life is a sly and meticulous game. The more charm, the better reputation, the more likely you are to get what you want. For them, their strongest asset is their image, their mind. The ability to control themselves and their emotions with such precision. Some consider them to be “fake” and never knowing wether the mask is up or not, but in truth, most pale courtiers simply know when and where to speak. Art and music are musts. The pale court is known to have the best choir singers, orchestras and music that pierces the soul, every building being a piece of art, every chair, every pillar. The desire to make everything meaningful and artful is obvious just by seeing their infrastructure.

Being the court of fire and light, their fire and energy is used all across phangoria as power sources, lighting, and machinery. Most of the Grey Court would be dysfunctional without their fire spells. The outsourcing from other courts for their spellcasters brings in a large amount of money for them. Is that money used well? Pitifully not. Despite having the most economists, their distribution is in shambles. The poor are dirt poor and the rich are disgustingly lavish. There is a very minuscule middle class. (Think French Revolution, figures they’d follow suit in the old footsteps of their human compatriots) The Pale Court as well has a unanimous yet unspoken title of being the “Highest Court.” Despite the Violet Court supposedly meant to be their equal, over time the Pale Court manipulated it’s way to gaining such a position, even so that the Violet Court were almost naturally forced into agreement. Opinions of the Pale Court vary from court to court. Grey and Navy being closely in their thrall of companionship while Violet and Scarlet are less than pleased with their existence (Violet especially after much quarrels and wars.)

The Courtiers themselves have a reputation of being exceedingly unnerving. Not in the same way that their lord is but in an untrustworthy way. Even if true and kind hearted, the naturally behaviour and disposition of a pale courtier will come off as faux and almost condescending. Many of the higher class confirm such a stance with genuinely being that way. Their primed aristocratic environment and well tailored sense of manner and observation giving them a bloated ego. Their art makes them “better than the rest” “only they can understand the truth of the world” the lower class pale courtiers still have that sense of unnerving uncertainty, but with much more bombast and can easily find their bright and creative souls just underneath the skin. Making the best out of such a pitiful economy, art being just as valued. It brings joy, connection. Many lower class pale courtian towns consider themselves a whole social family.

Region: Luxiene (lux-she~en) is a strange phenomenon in terms of weather. The sun is always shining, almost never setting, but everywhere you look there is a heavy layer of snow. There is a theory that the characteristic “Angel Winds” actually chill the ground enough to keep it fully snowed over. With the glaring sun and the bright white snow, many pale courtiers require sunglasses to not blind themselves from such exposure. Luxiene vistas are filled with almost sparkling trees, pure white in their foliage, having a special type of conifers with white needles. Rivalling the tall trees is the architecture of the court, tall imposing white churches with spires that rival the heavens. Buildings tend to have angelic cherubs sculpted like gargoyles on top, with tall church windows. Everything is almost always a shade of light grey or white, lined with golds, almost blinding newcomers. The twinkling snow will get blown around gently by the faint winds, some people mentioning how the wind’s whistle almost sounds like the hum of angels, cold yet comforting. Most other courtiers don’t like to spend time in the region as you kind of have to get used to their strange climate, overwhelming brightness and almost eerie quietness of the vast lands interrupted by the humming Angel winds.

[taanoir]

Chapter 2: The Road, Pt 2

By midday on the second day, Ryn felt like he'd been dragged behind the horse not on top of it. The autumn sun glared down on the Spellcaster, sweat dripped down his spine.

His eyes wandered to a small glade on the side of the trail near the Reedcaster River, it would be perfect for a stop through. The grasses were still thick and green. A scattering of trees dotted the shore near the cool, clear river. It was off the trail but there was no one for as far as he could see, a short break from the scorching heat wouldn’t hurt. He tied Toffee off to a tree so he could have some water and grasses but couldn’t wander off, that would be Ryn’s luck. He found a shady spot along the river to refill his canteen and relax for a moment. He knew the spell to refill it but retrieving the water from the river would taste better than conjured water.

He laid in the cool thick grass, letting the weight of his body sink in. The cool, gentle breeze caressed his skin as he listened to the river trickling over the rocks. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up asleep.

With a full canteen and stretched legs, it was time get back on the trail. He tucked his canteen in a saddle bag and started unhitching Toffee.

The world went sideways, confusion and pain took him to the ground. In a panic Ryn shot glances at the landscape around him, he saw nothing. Then another blow to the head, he turned over and looked around frantically flinging spells. Still nothing.

He got his feet back under him and tried to head back to the trail. Movement raced through the of the corner of his eye. In response he blasted a defense spell in the direction of the movement.

He was face to face with two Travelers, the spell broke their disguise.

He watched them morph into their brightly colored forms, their faces twisted in anger. One began yelling in a language he didn’t know. Ryn set his feet and squared his body in preparation for the fight.

A third figure appeared and hit them repeatedly with a long staff.

The Travelers were stunned and began stumbling around the glade.

The new stranger continued pummeling them with the staff, sending the Travelers fleeing into the forest.

The stranger moved towards with his hands up, "please don't. Are you hurt? Let's get you back to the road." The spellcaster stayed on guard but held his spells.

Once back to the road the stranger introduced himself “I’m Ignis, but you can call me Iggy. I've been working with the Travelers as a bodyguard but I didn't sign up for whatever that was." The spellcaster relaxed a little "What did you sign up for?"

Iggy grinned "Personal protection, mainly during business transactions. Occasionally, protection in taverns when those two get drunk and stupid".

Ren was still reeling from the blows and Iggy spoke quickly. Ryn focused on listening, trying to process the flood of information.

Iggy continued " I know you're a spellcaster, and not to be rude, but you look like you could use a hand in the protection department. The road can be a very dangerous place." The Spellcaster's initial reaction was that he could handle himself but after a couple moments he decided that Iggy was right. There was still a trip to find Albrund and then to the old capital. He had never left Eldovire before or seen a Traveler without their disguise outside of a book. He decided to play it cool "Maybe I could use some protection but I don't think I can afford you and Humans aren't usually agreeable to traveling with Spellcasters. I'm headed towards Lethemyna." Iggy cocked his eyebrow "I didn’t figure you’d be hiring me, I was offering. As for Spellcasters, I don't care one way or another as long as you aren't an uppity jerk like the lot of them up in Avequa. I know the road to Lethemyna well, we trade up there pretty often. Which is why I offered, the road has some areas that aren’t known for being the safest, even with the protective spells."

Ryn shot his hand out "I'm Ryn, son of Thadd the merchant. I'm glad for the company and will try to not be a jerk. Umm, do you have a horse?" Iggy grinned, "yes, son of Thadd, I have a horse and a kit. Let's get moving we’re burning daylight and we can talk on the road."

They mounted up on the horses. Iggy watched in amusement as Ren scrambled up into the saddle. "I'm guessing you don't ride much?"

Ren looked over "No, I used to ride to the market outside Avequa with my father but that was ages ago. I don't really leave town and I've never been out of Eldovire."

Iggy's stomach dropped, this was going to be a long trip but at least the spellcaster was honest.

The two set off in the direction of Lethemyna.

Beginning / Previous / Next

[narrans]

The Orion's Daughter : To Lands Beyond | Chapter 16 | Parley and Purpose

**~~~~~**

Chapter Sixteen | Parley and Purpose

**~~~~~**

Words could not describe the immense ship currently eclipsing the sun. I thought our ships in the neighborhood ports were massive, but this ship was on a whole other level. Yes, it belonged to giants, but there was a difference between hearing about the ships of the Orion and then seeing them in person.

Steele’s shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly beneath my momma and me. I didn’t know if that was merely because Steele was a little older or if he was wary and nervous for what was to come. Whatever the reason, I was prepared for nearly every scenario. Sure, I didn’t have my emergency bag, but all I needed was my sword and hidden dagger to start problem solving.

My momma reached over and held tightly to my left hand. I assumed it was because she liked the reassurance or that she needed the stability as we sat there perched on Steele’s shoulder, but neither of us spoke as we rode up to the Bennevis.

The ocean rocked and churned under the dinghy, feeling a bit like a bucking horse, as Steele stood and followed Wofur’s lead in standing and grasping the rope ladder that hung over the edge over the bow of the ship. As Steele grasped the ladder, two of the oarsmen leaned over and held the bottom of the ladder to keep it from twisting and pulling away from the ship.

“Allow us, Ser,” they said in almost perfect unison.

Ser? For some reason, I imagined the word capitalized and spelled with an “e” and not an “i,” but that was usually reserved for knights and officers.

Wait…

I looked up at Steele, glimpsing only part of his profile, as he kept his keen violet eyes affixed to the top of the ladder and the bow of the ship. An odd sensation crept over me as I braced for each step that he ascended.

Steele told me he was part of the military and that he studied warfare as well as some of the battles and strategies he used, but he never said where he was in the fray. Was he a grunt? A foot soldier? Or was he a knight? An officer?

I gazed up at Steele in awe.

There was still so much I didn’t know about him.

I decided to interrogate him about it later. For now, I kept my eyes wide open as Steele finally made it to the top. I glanced down and instantly felt a partial wave of nausea swirl in my gut. I haven’t felt something like that in a while, but looking down at the dinghy and the ocean from what was surely a lethal distance made me the slightest bit uneasy.

I didn’t let it show though. I swallowed dryly and turned my attention to the deck of the ship.

There was so much to see that I could have spent hours evaluating the scene before me. There were a few dozen deck hands scurrying around this way and that performing different tasks. Some of them were cleaning the deck. Others were checking the rigging. Others were swinging from ropes making sure the sails were being taken care of.

Regardless of what they were doing at the time, the moment Steele stood on the bow, all of them stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him. Silence settled over the ship and nothing but the occasional flapping sound of a tarp being jostled in the wind broke the veil of silence.

It wasn’t until the shrill scream of a whistle snapped the crew to attention that anything happened. I turned my eyes to the Captain’s quarters and felt my jaw slacken as I spotted someone who I could only assume to be the Captain and the First Mate, but this isn’t what caught me by surprise. It was the fact that they were both women.

The Captain, Tanna Aludor, wore a light blue frock coat that was the same shade as the vests of the crew members. She wore a tri-pointed brown leather hat that sat on top of straight black hair that fell right to her shoulders. Her dark brown eyes were that of a predator, ready to strike and sound off a command without hesitation. Her knee-high boots sounded heavy as she strode across the wooden planks toward Steele. Her movements were sure and determined, just like how Steele had taught me to be.

The First Mate followed immediately behind, a mousy looking girl on the outside, but a burning blaze in her green eyes. Her light brown hair was tied back into one long singular ponytail that flowed behind her with an unearthly flow.

As the Captain passed, all muttered, “g’day Captain,” and kept their heads bowed until she had completely passed them.

Feeling it was only polite, I dared to stand on Steele’s shoulder as he subtly fell into some stance that must have been “attention” and maintained it until the Captain was within arm’s reach of him. Her charcoal eyes flicked to my momma and me just for a moment, giving me just enough time to imitate the gesture I saw the other crew members perform and for her to recognize it before her eyes flicked back to Steele.

“Captain, permission to come aboard,” stated Steele in his native tongue, keeping his eyes straight forward without looking her directly in the eye. My heart pounded excitedly, getting to see everything firsthand.

Then, with her right hand, she bent her elbow up toward her shoulder, keeping her palm facing her. She did not put her arm down and said nothing for several seconds. Mesmerized, I watched as Steele’s eyes widened before he shifted ever so slightly and mimicked the motion, but he kept his palm away from him, not toward himself. Then, after a moment, he lowered his hand, and Captain Aludor did the same. Only then did the Captain speak.

“Ser, permission is not necessary for someone of your rank aboard my vessel,” stated the Captain. Steele smiled and shook his head in amused disbelief.

“I am retired, Captain Aludor. The ship is yours regardless of my once esteemed rank,” replied Steele softly. I could tell he was maintaining formality by the words he chose to use, but his tone was friendly enough to promote conversation. “Please, allow me to introduce my comrades - my hanai. This is Raina Toro and her daughter Terrilyn Lun.”

There was an instant spark of curiosity from the Captain as she looked to Steele and then to my momma and me. Once again, I gave the same bow as before, but I dared not speak just yet. I had suddenly been thrown into a new set of customs and I was not about to interject incorrectly.

I made sure to make eye-contact this time though, ensuring Captain Aludor that I was not going to be overlooked. Steele taught me about the importance of eye-contact, and I was not about to back down entirely. Respectful, but not submissive.

And she saw it.

There was a moment where I swear I saw a flicker of intrigue before she looked back to Steele.

“Well, I shan’t keep you long then, shall I. Please, will you join me in my quarters for a discussion?” asked Captain Aludor as she stepped to the side and gestured to the Captain’s quarters at the stern of the ship. Steele, glancing back once more at his friend, turned and nodded once. Captain Aludor spun on her heel and, without another word, began marching toward the stern. Steele’s footsteps were significantly quieter, him not wearing any shoes, compared to the Captain’s bold stride. Still, Steele commanded the attention of the deck just as the Captain had done.

It made me wonder more and more about Steele’s background. He told me stories, but never spoke of his rank. I never thought to ask because of how he told the stories. He always sounded like he was among the soldiers, with them and not above them. Was this how the Orion organized their forces? Or was this how Steele conducted himself?

I knew what I would be doing tonight.

The Captain’s quarters were simple but sophisticated. A massive window took up nearly the entire stern of the ship, letting in the scene of the ocean behind her. There was a cot, desk, oil lamps that hung from the ceiling, maps and charts showing the topography of the ocean floor as well as lines showing the tides and flows of the ocean. There were odd devices measuring distance as well as dials and devices that I had no inkling of what they could do. I stared at the map for a few moments, really taking in the scope of the entire world.

What an amazing place….

What adventures awaited the horizons sketched on that paper?

The Captain and First Mate maneuvered around the desk and sat, gesturing to Steele and Wofur to sit as well. Steele nodded politely before calmly walking over and taking a seat opposite the Captain. For several seconds, the silence returned when the Captain leaned forward in her chair, clasping her fingers in front of her calculatingly, and peered over at Steele.

“Shall I overlook the formalities and address the subject directly, Ser?” Captain Aludor asked, speaking in their homeland’s native tongue. Steele, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands in his lap, nodded.

“I believe that would be the best course of action,” agreed Steele, smiling politely as he glanced over at momma and me to make sure we were comfortable before redirecting his attention to the Captain.

“Very well,” sighed Captain Aludor. “We are on the brink of war.”

At this, Wofur stiffened while Steele remained completely unblinking. I knew this silence, and it was a contemplative one. Steele was pondering something, measuring the tone and situation as well as events leading up to now. In a matter of moments, he responded.

“With Keonune and Laryuen?”

The Captain’s eyes widened in surprise. Evidently, Steele had hit the nail right on the head. But how?

“Your reputation precedes you,” stated Captain Aludor. “Zeto, please retrieve the documents.” The First Mate, who hadn’t uttered a word, spun on her heel and rummaged through a drawer by the desk, and emerged with a stack of papers as long as her arm. For someone of my height, it was easily eight times my height. She set them on the table in front of Steele, but he merely looked at them as First Mate Vela Zeto began her explanation.

“Ser, this is all of the documentation we have had over the past few moons. Events have been building to their current status, and if the trajectory isn’t altered, all Orion will be in all-out war within the next moon, if not sooner. The counsels have already begun… preparations….”

I didn’t know why, but Steele’s demeanor shifted ever so slightly. His shoulders tensed suddenly, to the point where my mother and I had to readjust to make sure we didn’t slip noticeably to the other Orion in the room. More importantly, I don’t know why the First Mate looked specifically to my momma and me as she hesitated in her words. The pause was more than her trying to find the right word. It was like she was being… cautions. Sensitive. Careful.

Steele glanced at the pile of documents before looking back at the First Mate and the Captain. He didn’t even bother reaching forward. He merely shook his head, a tired smile pulling his lips upward, before he addressed them.

“As I have said, I have retired, and my last encounter with the leaders of Keonune and Laryuen is far in my past. I am retired - exiled if we want to call it what it is - and far removed from current events. What insights could I possibly provide that you have not already obtained from these documents?” Steele asked. I listened to his diplomatic tone and his cool, level headedness.

“Ser, it was your diplomacy that broke through to both of these leaders. It was your negotiations that prevented what would have been the bloodiest warpath of our time. I’ve read all of your work and others’ evaluations of your battle tactics, and your actions that day alone saved countless lives,” piped up the First Mate Vela Zeto. Her eagerness and tone told me she was well-read about Steele.

Was he really so well-renowned?

“And I am certain you will be able to sufficiently subdue them once again. Meet their demands and be willing to compromise,” stated Steele. At this, Captain Aludor readjusted in her seat and lowered her clasped fingers.

“Ser, their demands are unable to be met. If you would review the documentation, you would see what they are asking for,” stated Captain Aludor.

“Pouring over documents is for the council members and scholars who are immersed in recent events. It is one of the reasons I have been content in living in exile, among other whys and wherefores. I have paid my dues, and now I wish to wash my hands of this,” stated Steele.

“Are you saying you would be willing to allow this war to proceed?” asked Captain Aludor, voice as stiff as her upper lip and the look in her eye sharp as a sword.

“As I said, I have been content living in exile. There are others far greater than I whom you can seek counsel from, but the solution you seek does not lie with me. I offer my sincerest apologies that I was unable to assist you and that your travels were not as productive as you intended,” stated Steele.

I looked to the Captain and the First Mate before catching Steele’s stern look. It was a look I knew from years of trying to wheedle favor from him. He was obstinate and it was practically impossible to convince him to change his mind once it was made up.

With a single, courteous nod, Steele pushed himself up and smiled politely at both the Captain and the First Mate.

“Thank you for considering me and for considering my counsel, but I’m afraid I am unable to assist. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Steele said and, with one last nod, turned to his friend, Wofur Otagun. “If you will escort me back to the mainland, I would be most grateful.”

I could see Wofur’s apprehension. It didn’t take much to see he was waiting for the Captain to give some kind of acknowledgement in approval. I glanced over my shoulder, suddenly realizing that I could feel my pulse in my neck. Were nerves getting the better of me? I could only hope I wasn’t shaking as I waited with baited breath for something to give between the others.

Then, as the Captain’s eyes met mine, I knew she had been bested.

“Well, thank you for your audience, Ser. I am sorry on behalf of our own counsels that aid was not provided sooner, and I am sorry to have waisted your time. We will be departing in the next few days, but you won’t have to worry about us breaking the Directive of Noninterference. I only ask that you think about the circumstances once more and consider all of the factors. Regardless of your final decision before we leave, we come and go in peace and as allies,” stated the Captain. She rose to her feet and once again saluted in that same foreign way, waiting respectfully for Steele to dismiss her.

With a relieved smile, Steele acknowledged her gesture before he turned and strode toward the door. I could feel him shaking beneath me, but kept my head held high in confidence. Steele would have a million questions to answer from me later, but right now was not the time.

We needed to be the united front we always were.

The other Orion sailors saluted as Steele passed, but the passing glances between him, my mother and I, and the Captain conveyed their disappointment that Steele was not staying aboard.

The voyage back to our homeland was uneventful and silent, but also tense. I could practically feel the confusion in the air. What was there to be confused about? If they wanted to force him back, they could. Was it imperative that he come willingly?

We touched ground as my questions formulated and swirled in my head, threatening to make it ache, and Steele disembarked from the vessel. I heard his sigh of relief as he took several steps onto land.

“Steele.” Wofur had stepped off of the vessel with Steele and had followed after a few paces, far enough away from the other sailors who had brought us to and from the ship for them to not hear. They continued to speak in their native tongue rather than the Common I grew up with. “Please, reconsider.”

“My friend, my argument has been presented and my evidence laid out. I do not know what else can be said about the matter,” stated Steele. Wofur, hanging his head and nodding ever so slightly, reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the documents that were on the Captain’s desk. I didn’t need to see Steele’s expression to feel the way his posture and energy changed at seeing his friend present him with these immense documents.

“I ask only that you read through the circumstances and see what may await us on the horizon. It is not just our lands they are threatening. You heard the First Mate, right? That preparations are being made?” implored Wofur. “For the sake of you and for your hanai, please just read through the documents and think about it.”

I looked up to see Steele’s features harden as if they were turning to stone.

“You would press me on this, my friend? You would bring my hanai into this?” Steele’s voice rumbled in his chest, making his shoulders tremble beneath me. I glanced from Wofur to the partial profile I had access to while glancing up at Steele. “Careful, Mossback, because your words sound dangerously close to a threat.”

Wofur shook his head in disbelief and actually scoffed, both of which made me bristle defensively. I knew it wasn’t my place to speak out, but I couldn’t just keep quiet any longer.

“You heard my father,” I stated firmly, using my firmest and most decisive tone as I spoke in their language. All eyes turned to me, and I realized I needed to remember my manners. “Please, do not trouble him with your issues further. If he says he washes his hands of this, then respect him and his reputation to heed his advice.”

Wofur straightened up ever so slightly as he looked at me. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to establish superiority by emphasizing his height with a stretch, but I found myself mirroring his movements to show him I wasn’t intimidated. It wasn’t until I caught the glimpse of emotion in his eye that a spark of worry ignited within my thoughts.

The look was almost of concern and pity.

“If he will not read the documents, then I ask that you do. Perhaps you will understand the urgency and insistence we Orion have in requesting his attendance,” stated Wofur. He stepped up to the edge of the cliffside and carefully set down the stack of parchments and reports. He turned and looked back at me before offering what I thought to be a curious smile. “I can see much of him in you, young one, and I can only hope you’ve adopted more than his fighting spirit.”

“She certainly has,” complemented Steele as he glanced to me, smiled, and then returned his gaze to his friend. “Thank you, my friend, for coming. If I do not see you again before you depart, know your presence filled my soul. It has been too long since I’ve seen a familiar face from home.”

The two of them shook hands before Wofur turned and departed.

I watched all of them become nothing more than specks on the horizon as their ship remained anchored a fair distance away from our land. Something about seeing those sails tied tight made me believe that we had not seen the last of them.

Steele, with a sigh, finally tore his eyes away from the horizon and turned to the documents. He rested his hand on them absent mindedly as he raised his other hand for momma and me to step on.

“Steele?” called momma as she stepped forward and carefully placed her hands against his thumb. His violet eyes were distant as he stared blankly forward. He was obviously deep in thought.

Rather than take the hand down, I decided to take an alternative route and, despite my momma calling out for me to not do it, turned quickly around and climbed down Steele’s arm and ran along his forearm to stand on top of the documents he seemed vaguely focused on.

Finally close enough to see the words scrolled onto the parchment pieces, I took a few steps back and let myself read the foreign tongue I had been taught.

Immediately, however, I almost wished I hadn’t started reading.

The very first document was a topographical map, and I recognized the territory instantly. It was our homeland, but more specifically a set of islands right off of the Eastern coast. For the most part, I had only studied this area vaguely and knew that the people there often supplied fish to the towns and to the inland areas.

The marks around it, however, were what made my blood boil.

The marks around the island had only one word – captured.

Captured? As in the land had been taken over? By whom? The Orion? Did this have something to do with those two territories the Captain mentioned earlier? Keonune and Laryuen? Why were they invading our land? What about this Directive of Noninterference thing? Were they not holding to it.

I glanced over my shoulder to see Steele’s eyes no longer focused on the parchment pieces, but on me. He was looking at me expectantly, as if he wanted me to speak first; and so I did.

“Steele, would it be alright if I read through these? I want to know what your friend meant,” I said. My request made Steele stiffen, but he nodded.

“Yes, of course. You do not need my permission to learn,” said Steele.

“And if I have questions?” I prompted, wanting to ensure I had his support.

“You may ask them, and I will tell you,” he stated. Those violet orbs of his barely glimpsed the map at the top of the page, and his eyes filled with mild regret and frustration. His sigh sounded like a distant gust of wind over the fields as he turned and leaned against the cliffs, shoulders sagging slightly.

I listened as my momma tried to console him, but I knew instantly that Steele suspected from the beginning what those documents I was standing on contained. The problem, however, was that I didn’t know, but I was about to learn.

I hurried inside to our home and gathered all of the candles and lanterns I could so that I could read uninterrupted for the rest of the night. Goodness knew it was going to be a long one.

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Continue

Previous

Beginning

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Book One: The Orion’s Factotum

[ethereousdelirious]

Sicktember 2023 Day 16

Prompt: Consulting the Internet

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Characters: R.emus, J.anus

Wordcount: 1,260

Notes: Honestly never thought I'd write fic for this fandom? Not sure why, I just never seemed to have any ideas. So this was fun!

It felt so wrong highlighting their names in those colors haha

Morning came and with it, a strange silence. Janus made a coffee in the eerie peacefulness and sat in the living room, the perfect picture of serenity.

He didn't really need the caffeine, so he let the coffee do nothing but ward off the morning chill; his nerves buzzed enough at Remus' absence.

It wasn't totally unheard of for Remus to retreat into some far corner of the subconscious mind, pursuing some abstract, playful project. But usually there were signs. Some mumbles about gravity or blood pressure, a feverish spark in his eyes and fingers twitching nervously about his lower lip.

Remus had given no hints about this, whatever it was. This silence. This absence.

Janus swallowed and stood, leaving his coffee on an end table.

Remus was probably wreaking havoc on Thomas' subconscious, nothing more. Nothing to worry about.

Which was just as well, because Janus wasn't worried. Just a little… concerned. Concerned about potential damages done. Nothing more.

He forced himself to walk slowly through the subconscious space, a nonchalant stroll through the usual alignment of hallways and doors. He checked them all, languid motions growing jerkier the closer he got to Remus' door.

So he was a little worried. Sue him about it.

He didn't bother knocking, just took a deep breath to brace himself for whatever horrifying unreality awaited beyond that unassuming green door.

It opened easily, without its usual ominous creak, upon a perfectly ordinary bedroom.

Janus swallowed and stepped inside.

He looked around carefully, noting the tasteful, simplistic colors. Remus' room looked like a page from a furniture catalogue. A pale green rug sat in the center of the room and a pristine soccer ball rested in the corner beneath a jacket on a color block coat hook made of wooden letters spelling out ‘REMUS’ in cheerful capitals.

Janus checked behind the door first. Then the closet, then the curtains. Anywhere but the bed with that peaceful figure tucked tight under the covers. Because that wasn't Remus.

It couldn't be.

But Janus was quickly running out places to look. In a final show of defiance, he looked under the bed (and found only a neat row of shoes and soccer cleats), before finally facing the inevitable.

"Remus?" he whispered, addressing the short crop of brown hair sticking out from the crumpled line of the comforter.

No response.

Janus bit his lip.

Raising two hands in a gesture of surrender, he summoned a third and shook Remus' shoulder.

Fuck.

"Hey, Remus." Putting his extra arms away, Janus shook Remus again with real urgency, miserable at the damp heat flaring up against his palms.

"Sleeping," Remus muttered, freeing an arm to bat at Janus. "Don't touch."

"Just look at me for a second, would you?" Janus said, pulling his extra arms out again so he could cross them in irritation while continuing to badger Remus.

Remus muttered something incomprehensible and rolled over, glaring up at Janus with bleary eyes. "What?"

"Hi," said Janus, stricken at the sight of Remus' pale, sweaty face. Mind racing, he fell back on the simplest thing available to him: the truth. "You're sick."

"So I've been told." Remus coughed into the covers, forehead wrinkling.

"That's exactly what I meant," Janus muttered, brain shifting into autopilot. He reached out for Remus' forehead only to receive a pointed twitch and a baleful glare.

"Don't touch," Remus said again. Then he coughed again, like he was stuck on loop. The fit lasted longer this time, though, and Janus balled his hands into fists and did not worry because he knew exactly what to do.

Worse than the coughing was the silence when Remus rolled over and pulled the covers back up. He was never quiet. Never still. Not like this.

Unsure of what else to do, Janus sat in one of the pristine beanbag chairs against the wall and imagined an iPhone in his hands. He had to strip off his gloves to use it, but he was beyond the point of caring, letting them fall to the floor in favor of shifting his focus to the phone. He could use it as a focus point to search Thomas' memories if he could just get his hands to stop shaking.

Eventually, he managed to type in a string of keywords, scrolling through the results and taking deep breaths. Fever… medicine… hydration… rest… He could practically hear Logan’s metered, even voice and see him adjust his tie: ‘If Remus is sick, he needs to rest. Make sure he gets plenty of fluids. You can administer medication to mitigate any potential discomforts, but be careful to check the dosages.’

Yes.

He could do this.

His initial discomfort at the situation had been shock, nothing more. He certainly wasn't worried.

Even if the room was still a little unsettling. There wasn't even a spare bear trap laid out where some unsuspecting soul could step in it.

"Say, Remus?" Janus eyed the bed hopefully, but Remus barely moved.

"Whaaat?"

"I couldn't help but notice your room appears to be missing several of those lovely torture devices of yours."

"Don't care."

God, he really was sick. Janus got up again, eyes darting from the phone to what little of Remus' face he could see. Tylenol and orange juice should do the trick.

"Remus, I need you to sit up for a minute."

"So you don't need me to sit up?"

Little shit. Janus was already fighting his nature speaking in straight lines like this. Remus should have known that. Shouldn't have respected it.

Whatever. At least he had spoken a full sentence. That was progress.

Still, Janus sighed and planted his hands on his hips. "Sit up, would you?"

Remus rolled over and fixed Janus with a baleful glare. With his hair all tousled and his mustache hidden under the comforter, he looked very much like a high school boy who had slept in past his alarm.

He blinked a few times, hard, and a little of the grumpy confusion left his face. Accordingly, the lights flickered and dimmed. "Hi, Janny," he said, falling back on the nickname he always used when he was too tired to come up with a better one.

"Are you done being difficult?" Janus asked, crossing all six of his arms.

"Never," Remus said, and coughed into the comforter.

"Well, sit up then. Let me help you be difficult for someone else."

Remus scooted up against the headboard, his arms shaking. The comforter fell away, revealing a sweat-sticky black T-shirt bearing his emblem in neon green. "Oh, my," he mumbled, "I hope nobody takes…" He blinked, irises flashing, like he'd forgotten where the sentence was going halfway through speaking it. "I hope… nobody takes advantage of me… in my weakened state.” he trailed off into barely audible half-sentences punctuated by little coughs. “Pins my hands down… takes my pants off… six arms…”

Janus rolled his eyes, but humored him just the same, imagining two Tylenol and a glass of orange juice in his hands. "Open your mouth."

Remus coughed a little, but he turned his head to the side and muffled it, displaying a frightening regard for social niceties. "Open my mouth what?"

Janus took a deep breath, praying for patience. "Open your mouth, slut."

"You could at least pretend to be into it," Remus grumbled, but he opened his mouth and let Janus drop the Tylenol behind his teeth.

Across the room, a dark puddle began to leak out from beneath the closet doors and Janus' breath came a little easier for it.

[sleeplessspell]

The Flood Mage

In the heart of the capital of Aelren, stood the University of the Twelvefold Path. Mages from every noble house, bloodline, province, and principality passed through its hallowed gates.

So when Bassel stepped onto campus with his patched coat, hand-me-down boots, and street-kid wariness, most assumed he was lost.

He didn’t argue.

He’d been surviving in the city gutters since he was seven—half-orc, no family, no name, just the whisper of magic in his blood that once helped him escape a jail cart by making the chains rust through. When a kindly (and slightly drunk) university professor had seen his daring escape, she’d scribbled a recommendation on a tavern napkin and demanded he be tested.

The tests had startled everyone.

Even the Chancellor.

And so, Bassel was admitted. Not with fanfare, but with caution.

Thankfully, due to a new policy implemented by Queen, the Kingdom took care of all his expenses by virtue of his near-perfect admission test score.

His first semester was a blur of embarrassment. Not because he couldn’t keep up—but because he didn’t understand the world he’d been thrust into.

He didn’t know which fork to use in the dining hall, didn’t know what a “famulus” was or why some kids had talking spellbooks with jeweled clasps. He got lost trying to find the Transmutation Tower and ended up in a demonology lab.

Worst of all: he was given a book.

It wasn’t just a book, of course. It was a Tome of Initiation—a simple, skinny grimoire bound in rainleaf parchment and stitched with null-threads. Everyone got one. It was tradition.

Summon Rain (Tier I)

A simple cantrip. Produce a localized shower, usually no larger than the length of a carriage, for a short duration. Useful for demonstrations, cleaning stubborn stains, or impressing kids assaulted by the summer heat.

“You are not allowed to request a new spellbook,” Professor Lareth had told them on the first day of Intro to Cantrips. “Until you have mastered your current tome. That means consistency, potency, and cast time. Most of you will move on in six weeks. Some of you, faster.”

Bassel took the words to heart.

Too much heart, perhaps.

At six weeks, most students had already passed their first test. They moved on to Tier II spells—Whisperwind, Sparkfire, Petalburst. Some flaunted their progress, skipping through the halls with air-sprites or conjuring gusts to toss their hair dramatically.

Bassel practiced every day. At first, behind the dormitory, where a cracked basin became his target. Then, on the rooftops of the east tower, where the clouds were closer. Eventually, in the underground tunnels beneath the alchemical gardens—where no one could laugh.

The problem wasn’t his talent. It was his interpretation.

When Professor Lareth had said “master it,” she meant: be able to perform it reliably, make it a decent size, in a reasonable amount of time.

Bassel thought she meant: understand everything there is to understand about the spell until there is no more room for improvement.

So he didn’t just try to summon rain.

He studied the cadence of clouds, memorized the moisture content of the air at different times of day, observed how different emotions affected the spell’s intensity. He tested how sleep deprivation altered the rainfall pattern. He whispered to dew, read the water cycle backwards, mapped the humidity levels in the city over seasons.

By year two, he could summon rain without gestures, incantation, or even moving his lips.

By year three, he didn’t summon rain.

He summoned storms.

The first time it got out of hand was during an argument.

Another student—Devran Elmoire, third heir of House Elmoire, with his smug grin and always-pressed robes—had cornered him near the statue of Saint Ferradine.

“Still with the baby book?” Devran sneered. “How many years is it now? Three? Four? I suppose if you're from the gutters, you like sticking with what's wet and dirty.”

Bassel didn’t reply.

He was used to the taunts. But today, something was just off. He was tired. The spell thrummed beneath his skin. The air felt heavy. And maybe all the jests throughout the years had slowly gotten to his head.

And then—

Crack.

Thunder rolled across the campus. Rain slammed down in sheets. The sky turned dark. Wind howled through the archways, scattering parchments, knocking over chairs, ripping spellnotes from the hands of startled students.

It rained for nearly an hour.

Flooded the north quarter of the university.

Devran had to be fished out of a fishpond by a groundskeeper.

Bassel, drenched and dazed, stared at his hands.

He’d only twitched.

After that, people started whispering.

At first: “He’s dangerous.”

Then: “He’s hiding something.”

And finally: “There’s no way that’s still his first tome.”

Bassel tried to explain to Professor Lareth. She stared at him, baffled.

“You never moved on? Three years, and you’re still working on Summon Rain?”

He nodded. “I thought that’s what you meant by ‘master’.”

There was a long silence. Then a quiet chuckle. Then full-blown laughter.

“Oh Bassel,” she said, wiping tears. “You poor, brilliant boy.”

She called in other professors. Demonstrations were arranged.

They gave him increasingly absurd tasks: make it rain inside a teacup without touching the edges. Conjure mist that could water a hundred seedlings. Evoke a downpour that avoided a designated dry zone.

He passed them all.

The Chancellor herself—Grand Arch Magister Vel Amarin—summoned him for a private session.

Bassel stood before the oldest mage on the continent, his hands twitching nervously.

She handed him a scroll. “This is a summoning diagram designed to produce a Tier III Weather Elemental. The sort typically used in coastal defense rituals. Do you understand it?”

He studied it. Nodded slowly.

“I want you to recreate it,” she said, “but only using your beginner spell.”

He blinked. “That’s not possible.”

“Then I suppose you’ll fail,” she said mildly. "And that's that. "

She paused for a moment.

"But even so, why not give it a try?"

He spent two days preparing.

On the third, he called forth a rain spirit with eyes like distant thunder and skin of mirrorwater. It bowed to the Chancellor and asked if she would like tea.

She nearly choked.

News spread.

There had never been a student who’d remained with their first tome so long.

Nor one who had mastered it so utterly.

He became something of a curiosity. Nobles invited him to parties just to see “the Flood Mage” fill fountains with a snap. Visiting dignitaries requested audience with “the boy who made the capital rain for three days straight.” One city even offered him a post as Head of Irrigation.

He declined.

Because what he wanted wasn’t fame.

He wanted understanding.

What else had he misunderstood?

What other spells held worlds beneath their surface?

Later that week, Professor Lareth approached him with a leather-wrapped bundle.

“This is your second tome,” she said, smiling. “You’ve more than earned it.”

Bassel took it reverently.

He opened the first page.

Whisperwind (Tier II)

A small gust of wind. Used to snuff out candles. Cool tea. Fan the flames of a campfire.

He stared at the page.

Then smiled.

And began again.

Everyone is given a simple tome as their introduction to magic. You are not allowed to learn more spells until you master the first. You spent far longer than anyone else attempting to master your tome. Once you do, nobody believes it’s your only one.

[talk-like-boomhauer]

Title: The One with the Jeopardized Jeopardy

INT. CENTRAL PERK - DAY

The gang is gathered around their usual couch. ROSS is holding a strange-looking device that resembles a remote control with a giant red button. CHANDLER is sipping his coffee, MONICA is organizing sugar packets, RACHEL is flipping through a magazine, JOEY is staring at the ceiling, and PHOEBE is knitting a scarf that seems to have no end.

ROSS: (excitedly) Guys, you won’t believe what I found at the museum’s gift shop! It’s a “Jeopardize” button!

CHANDLER: (sarcastically) Oh, great. Just what we needed. A button that turns us into Alex Trebek.

MONICA: (curious) What does it do, Ross?

ROSS: (proudly) Well, according to the instructions, it jeopardizes any situation you point it at.

JOEY: (confused) So, like, it makes things more dangerous?

PHOEBE: (enthusiastically) Or maybe it turns everything into a game show! I love game shows!

RACHEL: (skeptical) Ross, are you sure this isn’t just a regular remote with a fancy sticker?

ROSS: (defensive) No, no! It’s real! Watch this.

Ross points the device at the coffee machine and presses the button. The machine starts spewing coffee everywhere like a geyser.

MONICA: (panicking) Ross! My clean floors!

CHANDLER: (deadpan) Well, that certainly jeopardized our caffeine intake.

Ross quickly presses the button again, and the coffee machine stops its eruption.

ROSS: (sheepishly) Okay, maybe it needs a little fine-tuning.

PHOEBE: (excited) Let me try! I want to jeopardize something!

Phoebe grabs the device and points it at Joey, pressing the button. Suddenly, Joey starts speaking in rapid-fire trivia questions.

JOEY: (fast-paced) What is the capital of France? Who invented the lightbulb? What is the square root of 144?

RACHEL: (laughing) Joey, you’re like a walking Jeopardy board!

CHANDLER: (smirking) I always knew there was a genius trapped inside that head. Turns out, it was just trapped behind a “Jeopardize” button.

Phoebe presses the button again, and Joey returns to normal, looking bewildered.

JOEY: (dazed) Whoa, what just happened? And why do I suddenly know how to spell “antidisestablishmentarianism”?

MONICA: (grinning) This thing is amazing! Let’s see what else it can do.

Monica points the device at the sugar packets and presses the button. The packets start organizing themselves into a perfect pyramid.

CHANDLER: (impressed) Well, that’s one way to sweeten the deal.

Rachel takes the device and points it at the magazine she’s holding. She presses the button, and the magazine pages start flipping rapidly, creating a mini tornado of paper.

RACHEL: (giggling) It’s like a fashion whirlwind!

ROSS: (proudly) See? I told you it was cool!

Suddenly, the device starts beeping loudly and flashing red.

ROSS: (panicking) Uh-oh. I think we might have over-jeopardized it.

The device starts vibrating uncontrollably, and the gang scrambles to avoid it as it bounces around the coffee shop.

PHOEBE: (shouting) It’s like a game of hot potato, but with more danger!

Finally, the device lands in a cup of coffee, short-circuiting with a dramatic sizzle.

CHANDLER: (deadpan) Well, I guess that’s one way to brew up some excitement.

The gang laughs as they gather around the now-defunct device, shaking their heads at yet another day of chaos in Central Perk.

FADE OUT.

[zharrdor-kron-archive]

League of E.V.I.L. Members Notes: The Artificer of Anarchy.

“Madness is often just method with a faster fuse.”

As my parchments have chronicled the shadows of Lazul and the fetid cunning of Hagatha, I now light a different fuse , one not dipped in prophecy or rot, but in gunpowder, grease, and unrelenting brilliance.

Today, we turn our gaze toward Dr. Boom — not merely a goblin inventor, but an entire field of explosive philosophy. He is the crack in the dam of reason, the manic engine behind much of the League’s technological terror. To call him a tinkerer is an insult. He is a war criminal with a budget. A mastermind with no off switch.

His lab is not a place — it is an ideology. And in his mind, every problem has a solution that begins with a "boom."

I. The Setting of the Fuse

Before he was "Doctor," Boom was just another grease-stained goblin elbow-deep in malfunctioning mechs and questionable patents. But unlike the rest, he learned to scale chaos. In the underbelly of goblin society, where capital meets carnage , Boom rose not by safety or stability, but by making himself indispensably dangerous.

It was not intellect that marked his rise, many goblins are brilliant. It was vision: a belief that chaos could be a craft, war a business model. He became a legend after unleashing his first Mechaboom prototypes, explosive automatons that destroyed the enemy and the battlefield in equal measure. A flawed success, which made him perfect for the League.

II. The booming genius

Boom is more than a scientist , he is the conductor of a symphony of shrapnel. His Boom Labs are infamous across Hearthstone history for hosting untested weaponry, accidental interdimensional portals, and more than one self-aware doomsday device.

He does not believe in trial-and-error, merely in error... scaled until profitable. He designs with excess, launches with laughter, and perfects in the aftermath. His technology rarely behaves, but it always performs.

Boom Bots, Mecha’tunings, giga-mechs, all share his signature philosophy: overbuild, overarm, and overreact.

When Madame Lazul envisioned the League, she needed more than brute strength or prophetic insight, she needed escalation. Boom provided that in bulk. From Dalaran's sky-shattering theft to the deployment of the Mecha’dalaran city-core, his fingerprints are scorched into every panel of the League’s grandest caper.

Boom didn’t just build the weapons. He turned villainy into an arms race. Where Hagatha brought plagues and Togwaggle brought stealth, Boom brought spectacle. Even Rafaam, self-proclaimed supreme evil, tolerated Boom’s volatile methods, because they worked. And when they didn’t, the crater was usually large enough to impress.

III. The Ashes of the crater

Boom is not to be dismissed as a jester with bombs. He is a philosopher of ruin, an artisan of escalation. In a world of spells and swords, he reminds us that the true horror is when the engineer smiles.

And while others speak of legacy in terms of bloodline or prophecy, Dr. Boom’s legacy is measured in debris fields, schematics, and the haunting whir of a Mech still ticking somewhere under the rubble.

He does not test the limits of science. He exceeds them, repeatedly, until the world is forced to redraw its definition of “catastrophe.”

The fuse burns low, friends. You may wish to step back.

—Zharrdor Kron, Loremaster of the League of E.V.I.L.