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ichorai · 10 months ago

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i'm not made by design ; part two ; jaime lannister.

part one | part three

pairing ; jaime lannister x stark!reader (she/her pronouns)

synopsis ; wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.

words ; 9.0k

themes ; heavy angst, action, fluff, (actual) enemies to lovers, slowburn

warnings / includes ; war/murder/injury, this part covers a few events from a feast for crows, politicking, mentions of incest/rape, foul language, animal cruelty, a lot of generally terrible things going on but what else can you expect from asoiaf, lots of dreams, jaime is a morally grey delight in this part yes, they are being HAUNTED by each other!

a/n ; wow, it's been a long time coming! ok i know this part is quite short and doesn't yet get to where you guys probably want to be, but tumblr has a max limit of 1k text blocks per post now (boo everyone throw tomatoes) so i'll be posting the rest of the story in smaller chunks! expect the third part to be coming soon, and i promise part three will start off exactly where you guys want it to be :) also if any of you can spot any sort of parallels in this part i will kiss you on the Mouth .

main masterlist. read on ao3!

The wintry breeze tousled the two young Stark girls’ hair, whispering frost into their ears. The horse the two were riding whickered as it galloped through the snow. Lyanna was exclaiming something, something lost to the wind, and you only held all the tighter to her from behind.

“Lyanna, I want to get off!” you yelled, tugging at the furs draped over her. “Lyanna, let me off!”

Your older sister laughed some more. Not wickedly, but more out of fond amusement. She slowed the horse down to a languid canter, then to a trot, and led the stallion towards the shade of a tree. There was snow blanketing the branches and the grass which crunched beneath her weight as she swung down. She looked up at you with her large grey eyes, crinkled at the corners as she grinned boyishly. “Were you frightened?”

You held your arms out for your sister to help you down. Only at eight years of age, you were still of short stature, and Lyanna had picked a rather tall horse. She had always been a voracious rider, even more so than all your brothers.

“I wasn’t frightened,” you indignantly replied as she wrapped her arms about your waist and pulled you down onto the ground.

“Right.” She began to stroke the stallion’s mane, his hooves pawing at the snow. “Do you not trust me, then? Did you think I would ride us right off the edge of a cliff?”

“No,” you replied, scuffing your boots against the snow. “I don’t like riding from behind. I can’t see anything from back there.”

There was a moment of silence before Lyanna reached over to ruffle your hair—an action that both she and Benjen often did. Eddard and Brandon often spared you from such irritations, but being the youngest of the family, you were always doted on and hovered over and babied.

“I don’t trust you riding a horse as big as this, so I suppose we can walk back. It’s not too far.”

“Why can’t I just sit in front of you?”

Your sister stuck her tongue out at you. “We’ve got something in common, you know. What makes you think I like sitting behind?” When you glowered at her, she went on, “Let’s get a move on. Ned will complain that I’m stealing you away—especially since he’s just returned. He misses you. Your letters grow briefer and briefer, he tells me.”

You were none too happy about trudging through the snow, but you voiced no complaint and walked alongside your sister, who tugged at the horse’s reins to follow along.

“He’s always going back and forth,” you said, a small frown marring your features. “I wish he would just stay home. The Eyrie couldn’t possibly compare to Winterfell.”

“You know him.” Lyanna’s dark hair was speckled with snowflakes as she turned to you. “Studious and dutiful as ever.” Her voice went an octave deeper and she pulled a mockingly somber expression in a startling resemblance to Ned. You let out a small laugh at that.

“Last time he visited, you were betrothed,” you said, your voice shrinking to a whisper.

The amusement died away from her eyes, turning stony. “Yes. Though I doubt it will be a fruitful union.”

There were a few more seconds of silence as you considered her words, not entirely sure why she would think so. Robert was loud and robust the few times you’ve met him, but you knew little else of Ned’s friend.

“Do you think he’ll bring a wedding proposal for me this time?”

Lyanna’s features contorted with surprise. “Why? Do you want to be married?”

Your cheeks flushed with heat, despite the frost settling over your skin. “Well—if Father says I have to, then I will.”

“I didn’t ask about Father,” replied Lyanna. It was hard for her to believe that you were only eight sometimes. You always tried to act older than you actually were. “I asked about you.”

Winterfell grew larger and larger as the two of you drew nearer to the castle gates. Home.

“I don’t think I’d mind getting married,” you told your sister, eyes downcast and brows pulled together in thought. “As long as I get to stay in Winterfell. I never want to leave.”

Lyanna smiled, all teeth and cheek. “Wouldn’t that be a dream?” she sighed.

The rest of the short journey was made in relative silence, and you left your sister and the tall stallion by the stables (not without her ruffling your hair one last time), and you dashed up to the castle chambers where you knew Ned would be.

He carried no proposals, only a few books he thought you would enjoy and a warm hug.

You awoke with a startled gasp, kicking at the thin blanket that laid over your form. It took you several moments to realize where you were. A boat. Rocking steadily, back and forth and back and forth. You rubbed at your sleepy eyes whilst drawing your knees up to your chest, still blinking away remnants of your dream.

Lyanna. Ned. Still young, still practically children.

One of the tongueless little birds stood in the doorway. It was an ominous sight. Her eyes were large and unblinking, glinting like glass balls within her small head. In her hands was a wooden bowl, full of what looked to be a poultice of sorts. She drew nearer, and the heavy scent of honey and flowers reached your nose.

“What is it?” you asked the child, a coil of pity winding in the pit of your stomach. You knew they couldn’t respond—Varys had stolen not only their youth, but their voices, too. “Is this food?”

A foreign delicacy of sorts, maybe? An Essosi dessert you weren’t familiar with, perhaps. It looked quite unappetizing, though you knew you had no room to complain.

The girl shook her head, then pointed to your hair, which was pulled back into a braid. You understood from just that, and nodded your thanks while accepting the bowl from her. This was hair dye, made from a blend of flowers and other substances you couldn’t name. You supposed it was a necessary precaution—you had an unmistakable Northern look to you, and would surely stick out like a sore thumb here down South. Dyeing your hair and cutting it short would help to somewhat conceal your identity. Short enough, and perhaps you could even be mistaken for a man, at least at a first quick glance.

The little girl left a dagger and a small, rusty, hand-held mirror by your legs and disappeared from your cabin in complete silence, as if she was never there in the first place. They were like ghosts, this crew of children. Everything was so quiet all the time, with only your thoughts and the ocean waves to accompany you.

You unbraided your hair and shook it loose. Hair carried memories. Memories of Catelyn showing you how hair was done in the Riverlands, memories of Benjen tugging at your hair to tease you, memories of Jaime commenting on how your hair was a lovely shade of animal waste. That had been grumpily remarked earlier on, when you and Brienne were escorting him to King’s Landing. Before Locke and Roose Bolton and… Robb.

You propped up the rust-spotted mirror against the wall and scooped up the dagger. The reflection that met you was only barely recognizable. You looked so tired. With a resigned sigh, you began to slice off your hair with the sharp blade. Handfuls fell to the ground. You sliced and sliced until your head felt light and your neck was bare. It’s never been this short before. If Benjen were here, you knew he would surely laugh at you. Brandon would comment that he never knew he had another brother.

Yes, you thought. I can surely pass as a man if I wanted to. Though you certainly shared many features with your sister, you hadn’t the wild beauty Lyanna had. No, you were far plainer than her, colder and sharper than she was. Nothing worthy to note—though your father, quiet as a man he was, once told you that you looked the most like your mother out of all your siblings. That had made you feel more beautiful than anything.

Plain was good, though. Plain meant no eyes would be drawn to you.

You weren’t too sure what color your hair would turn with this dye. You lathered the thick paste over your newly-cut strands, massaging it into your scalp. Your nose twitched from the strong odor—not entirely unpleasant, but also wasn’t a delight breathing in.

As you rinsed your hands of the dye, your skin was left with a slight copperish stain. You stared at the color with sad eyes—would your hair turn out red like Cat’s? Like all your nephews and Sansa?

And, like a fool, you wondered if Jaime would like short, red hair. He wouldn’t care much, you found yourself thinking, perhaps wishfully so. Did you want him to care?

Two children brought you food—rations of dried meat and crusty bread. You wolfed half of it down and handed them the other half. Though they couldn’t speak, the children made for pleasant company. Or perhaps you were just lonely. It was hard to tell.

After eating, you rinsed out the hair dye and wrung the water out with a cloth over the edge of the ship. The cloth came away stained bright red. You retreated back into the cabin to look at the mirror.

It was a shock to see your hair resemble Catelyn’s. It was darker than hers had been, but the auburn, orange-red sheen to your head was unmistakable. You looked like a Tully! You nearly laughed with amazement, but any sort of joy was short-lived, and you lapsed into more silence.

You laid on the rickety bed, thinking of Winterfell and your now-scattered family. Robb and Ned and Cat and the younglings Bran and Rickon might have been taken from you, but… you still had family left. Sansa and Arya could very well be scattered somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, alive and breathing. Jon, at the Wall, as well. At least, you hoped. It’d been so long since your time sending letters to the young boy. Was he hurt that you stopped sending them so suddenly?

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes, and you drew your knees to your chest, willing yourself into a restless slumber.

Days came and went. The little children were growing more agitated, fluttering about the boat with wide eyes and quick feet. They tossed nets overboard into the water—masquerading the boat as a fishing vessel, you assumed. There were many ships out and about Blackwater Bay. Some carried banners of houses loyal to the crown, and others were bannerless. Pirates or fishermen, you couldn’t tell.

So far, all other ships have passed by quietly. But the risk grew with each day. You knew Tywin and Cersei would likely order more fleets to be sent after you, Sansa, and Tyrion. The chances of you being found on water would grow each day—and you couldn’t risk becoming a prisoner again. Jaime wouldn’t be able to help you escape a second time, not with Cersei around.

At least on foot… you had somewhere to run. Being on sea left you nothing but water for miles on end.

And so you told the silent children to let you off at the nearest fishing port. Some part of you wondered if they would object, but they stared at you with round, moon eyes and nodded. You didn’t know whether to thank or damn Varys.

The ship docked in the dead of night, half a mile from Duskendale. One of the little children handed you a map and tapped at where they’d leave you. A pouch full of food rations, more dye, and other necessities was left on your cot. You thanked the child endlessly, who seemed not to hear your gratitude and scuttled away. You grabbed the pouch, the dagger, the bow and quiver full of arrows Varys had presumably left you, and slipped into a large cloak.

Land felt like it was lurching beneath your feet once you stepped onto the pier. Your body was used to the swaying motions of the waters, and would take some time to adjust. You gingerly shook one of your booted feet. The children watched you disembark on wobbly legs, but you dared not wave back at them.

Despite it being nighttime, the docks were busier than ever. Fishermen and merchants littered all over the shore, some selling products and entertainment and others working hard to gather more to sell before day broke. You steeled yourself with a deep breath, and made your way through the busy crowd.

You began trekking your way North towards the Eyrie, the hood of your cloak pulled over your short, red hair.

It took nearly three weeks for you to reach the Crossroads. Nightfall was nearing when you strode in front of the inn, the sky a mirage of bleeding reds from the setting sun and moody greys from the rainclouds. The air smelled of mud and rusted metal. It was certainly no grand castle, but a modest bed was better than sleeping on the cold dirt you’ve been curled up on the past several days. There was a young girl and a dark-haired boy by the front that looked somewhat like your memory of Robert Baratheon twenty-some years ago. At first, the boy denied your request for shelter, but reluctantly clammed up once you offered him some gold, worth more than it ever could in times of war. The two let you pass with not a word more.

Greeting you inside was a ruckus of loud children. Parentless, you realized, as there were none to be seen within the inn’s walls. An inn full of orphans, you thought with a touch of sadness. In that regard you supposed you shared a similarity with all of them.

Just as you slipped onto one of the creaking wooden stools to momentarily rest your weary feet, you overheard a voice. A familiar voice. Low and raspy and unmistakably—

Brienne, you thought, wide-eyed. But she wasn’t alone. A young boy was by her side, yes, that was Podrick, and an older man—a knight, by the looks of his armor, and an even older septon with grey hair and a hunched back. What a queer party Brienne was leading. She was supping on porridge and salted cod.

The impulsive part of you wanted to call out for her and rush to her side, ask if she had found any sign of Sansa, or if she had made any progress on her quest. Instead, you drew in a deep breath, and stood from your stool to take a seat across from Podrick whilst Brienne was busy speaking to the knight. The young squire made a half-gasping, half-choking noise once his eyes raised from the cup he was draining to your cold eyes, recognizing you immediately. You discreetly lifted a finger to your lips to silence him. His eyes went moon-round and he nodded once.

Brienne ignored the knight’s constant jabbering about lips and marriage and castles full of children, and turned to look at her squire in mild concern of him choking on a fish bone. But her eyes landed on you, and her mouth dropped open.

She was very near to bowing her head and saying, “My lady.” But she didn’t, knowing it would draw far too much attention, and stared at you with utter confusion plain over her features.

“Hello,” you said to her. “It has been a while, Brienne.”

“Do you know each other?” the knight bumped in. He spooned some porridge into his mouth.

“Brienne and I were childhood friends on Tarth,” you lied. “I was the son of a cook. A nobody in truth, but Brienne was kind enough to befriend me.”

Brienne was no good at lying, you knew this, but she nodded along to your story.

The knight looked you over. “A little runt boy and a grand beast of a girl. The two of you must have been a sight.”

You could only offer him half a shrug at that.

“What brings you here?” Brienne carefully asked you.

“Someone helped me leave,” you responded with equal caution. Avoiding the knight’s curious eyes, you leaned closer to Brienne. “Is there a place for us to speak with fewer naked children milling about?”

Being around Varys’ little birds for long enough taught you that children were oft smarter than they looked. Somewhere to your right, you saw one of the little orphan boys stick a nut inside his nostril.

Brienne nodded and led you just outside, away from prying ears and eyes. There, you told her everything. From Tyrion’s trial, to Oberyn’s death, to Cersei demanding you to be locked up or killed (whichever suited her taste that day), to Jaime helping you escape, to the birds on the boat, to your journey here. In turn, Brienne told you of her lengthy journey and what she had found on the way. Mostly nothing, lots of war and skirmishes. Sandor Clegane was dead, but Arya had been with him soon before that… not Sansa. The thought of Arya somewhere out there alive, sparked dangerous hope within your chest.

“Varys says Sansa is in the Eyrie, masquerading as Baelish’s bastard daughter.” The thought revolted you. “But I do wonder if the Eyrie is a trap of sorts. I cannot trust Varys. He certainly is no friend of the Lannisters, but neither is he their enemy. For all I know, he may be conspiring with dragons and grumpkins.”

“Sansa would be safe with her Aunt Lysa there, right?” Brienne asked, though even she sounded doubtful of her own question.

“I can’t quite say,” you said, brows furrowed. “Lysa is an unpredictable woman. Frightened and secluded is never a good combination of characteristics. Even so, I doubt Sansa would make her way home up North without being intercepted. It wouldn’t hurt to check the Vale first.”

Brienne nodded solemnly. “We can make our way first thing in the morning. For now, you must rest, my lady. You must be exhausted.”

The sudden reminder of the limitations of your body made your knees wobble. The past few days had you running on little else than adrenaline, fear, and meager portions of salted foods.

“I missed you, Brienne,” you whispered, looking up at her. “I fear trusted friends are few and far in between in these times.” Not that you ever had many friends to begin with. Everyone had always been so afraid of you—something Brienne could relate to.

The term friend dusted pink over Brienne’s large, crooked nose and broad, freckled cheekbones. She was certainly not pretty, not by a long shot, but that was of no matter to you. She was the most beautiful blessing you could have possibly encountered—your chances of survival and finding Sansa were far better with Brienne by your side.

“I missed you, as well,” Brienne managed to choke out after many moments of stunned silence. She had never been good with niceties. “Podrick has been company enough, but the boy is young and easily frightened.”

“I’m frightened, too,” you admitted. “One would be a fool not to be, with enemies at every turn. Young, however, is a trait I have long outgrown.”

Brienne looked up at the night sky. “Youth was a curse on me. I always looked older than I was.”

“Me, as well,” you mused with a thoughtful hum. Memories of the lords and ladies living at Winterfell’s court whispering behind your back… sending you strange looks of distant pity… veering far out of your way in fear of you… it weighed heavy on you, especially in your younger years. “My anger has aged me a decade, I think.”

Before Brienne could respond, there came a commotion of noise. Men on horses, their hooves schlocking through mud and puddles. Instinctively, you drew the cowl of your hood up over your head. They are armed, these men, you thought with grim unease. And there were many of them, just above half a dozen. Far too many for you and Brienne to take alone.

Brienne drew in a sharp breath at the sight of them and unsheathed Oathkeeper. She stepped in front of you before you could even begin to react. The biggest man of the party was so hefty that his beaten horse buckled and shook beneath the sheer force of his weight. His pale face was torn and wept with pus and blood. But Brienne’s eyes were drawn to his snarling helm—with its dull metal nose and sharp teeth of steel. It was the Hound’s property but the man wearing it was certainly no Hound.

The sky grew darker and the storm clouds thundered up above. The young girl that had greeted you into the inn had slammed the door open, now holding a crossbow. Whatever she was screaming was lost to the rain and thunder.

“Loose a quarrel at me and I’ll shove that crossbow up your cunt and fuck you with it. Then I’ll pop your fucking eyes out and make you eat them,” raged the man, his voice nearly as loud as the booming in the sky. Your chest rose and fell in silence as you slowly reached behind you to unsling your bow.

“Leave her be,” called out Brienne, drawing their attention. “If you want to rape someone, try me.”

The outlaws laughed and chortled at that. One japed about fucking horses before fucking her. The rest of their words were unintelligible to you as you focused on drawing an arrow without pulling too much attention to yourself. It proved to be a difficult task when there were seven pairs of eyes trained on Brienne, and, consequently, you, as well.

Brienne said something you couldn’t catch, leaving the man with the helm fuming. He charged forward through the mud. Brienne shuffled away from you—she needed the man to come to her, but not to get too close to you. You were her priority now.

A song of steel screeched through the rain-torn wind as their swords clashed. Brienne managed to cut through the rags of his tunic and slash a gaping hole in his cheap chainmail just before she just barely evaded his swinging axe. The man was screaming expletives at her—whore, bitch, freak.

You nocked the arrow with not a second thought.

Then the drawstring was split in two and you were left with a useless bow. One of the outlaws had made his way to you whilst you were concentrating on the man with the helm—and broke your favored weapon.

“Shhh,” he crooned as he laid the cold, wet blade of the knife he used to cut your bow against your throat. “Enjoy and watch the show, boy.” He must have thought you were one of the orphans that lived here—and not much of a threat, considering he pulled the knife away from you and made a show of pointing it towards Brienne and her attacker. “It’s not every day you see a woman like her battle a man like him.”

You nodded, playing along. You still had the dagger you used to cut your hair tucked against your hip. It was a touch too dull for your liking, but it would have to do for now. You had no other choice. With the man’s eyes drawn back to their messy duel, you drew its blade and drove it forth, straight into throat. His arms flailed for a second before clawing at your face and chest. Pain bloomed over your skin. If you were bleeding, you couldn’t feel it—not with all the rain pouring over you. You savagely tore the dagger out from his throat and drove it through his chest again and again and again. From your peripheral vision, you could see Brienne parry over and over, stab this way and that—and finally skewer her longsword straight through him until its pointy end protruded out his back.

You continued stabbing the man until he fell to the ground in a limp, bloodied heap. Even then you didn’t stop—straddling his waist and bringing the dagger down in furious strokes. It occurred to you that the other men would be upon Brienne a second too late—when you swung around, she was swarmed by the rest of them.

“Eddard!” she called, immediately halting you in your assault on the long-dead outlaw. It took you a moment to realize that she was addressing you, not wanting to call out your actual name. “Run! Run, now!”

Two of the outlaws were coming towards you.

“Brienne!” you yelled just as one of them sliced a cut through her shoulder she couldn’t properly roll away from. The rest of your protests caught in your throat when you watched one of them—one with wild eyes that had irises too small and teeth filed sharp—dive forward onto Brienne, sending her crashing to the ground. He bit a chunk of her face right off.

More men surrounded her. Punching, kicking, and slicing at your friend. No, you couldn’t see her anymore, where is she? Get up, Brienne, get up…

“GO!” you could hear her muffled voice scream. “NED, GO!”

No, no, no…

But if you stayed, you would be dead, as well. One of the outlaws made a grab for you, but you danced back. If not for the two slipping on the watery mud the very next second, you would have been dead.

With your heart beating in your throat, you turned on your heel and fled.

What was a kingsguard without his king? Jaime hadn’t been happy to be sent off to the Riverlands again—his place was beside Tommen. The boy-king with a golden crown sitting atop his golden curls. Cersei had insisted on him leaving, however. She’d grown more restless, more paranoid, more snappy since their father’s death. Lancel, his fool of a cousin, was now a religious fanatic who seemed to be intent on fasting until he passed from starvation, and had confessed his sins of lying with Cersei. Apparently he was not the only one. The Kettleblack brothers, the court fools, and hells, even serving girls, if word of mouth was to be trusted.

He felt a fool for ever loving her. And now she had kicked him out of the castle and away from his duty like one would a dirty mongrel.

Let her run the kingdom to ruin. See if I care.

Jaime wearily pulled at his face. That was the problem—he did care, and he knew he did. Cersei on the throne would mean little good for anybody. Not for his little brother, not for Brienne, not for you. He hoped you were safe, wherever you were.

The knight with one hand had had a long day, even though it was not yet nightfall. He had spoken to the Blackfish, Brynden Tully, in hopes of making some sort of negotiation. Perhaps goad him into a duel of single-combat and spare everyone of the grueling boredom that came with a slow siege. Expectedly, the wind-beaten lord took none of the bait and retreated back into his castle. Then, he had a short, but explosive council meeting with a few of the riverlords. They squabbled over each other like mindless birds over a piece of half-baked bread. Jaime couldn’t help but wonder what his father would do in his shoes, but was quick to relinquish such a thought. Tywin Lannister would never be in this position in the first place. And he was dead, which was perhaps the more important bit. After the council, he paid a visit to Ryman Frey, who was preoccupied fucking some whore who called herself a Queen. He had the big oaf dismissed for wasting so much time and resources, then named his son, Edwyn, command of the siege. He ordered young Edwyn to tell his great-grandsire, Walder Frey, to release all the prisoners for the crown. There was no undoing the Red Wedding, but he could, at the very least, attempt to rectify the troubles it left in its wake.

And now—now Jaime had one more person to visit.

It was his aunt, Genna Lannister, who had urged Jaime to do something about the sullen man with the noose loosely wrapped around his throat. In his state, he posed no danger physically. As a symbol, however, Edmure Tully, was a great danger to the cause. His cause? Jaime wasn’t entirely sure what he was fighting for anymore. It certainly didn’t feel like he was protecting Tommen from all these leagues away from him. His golden hand felt so very heavy strapped onto his stump—why did he still bother carrying it around?

Ilyn Payne made quick work of cutting Edmure Tully down from the wooden gallows he was perched upon. His hair, scraggly and red, hung in limp clumps over his dirtied, bloody face. Eyes deep blue, heavy with exhaustion. Jaime couldn’t help but think of Robb Stark at the sight of him. Gods, they looked alike.

Jaime had Edmure pulled through the tents and mass of Freys and other rivermen alike. One japed about a fish on a leash. A young man holding an instrument was amongst the throng of stares, and he ordered the singer to follow, and the lad obediently did. Onto a ferry they went, where the vessel would carry them to Tumblestone.

“Why?” Edmure has croaked, gripping weakly onto Jaime’s arm.

“Consider it a wedding gift,” Jaime replied.

The Tully eyed him warily. “A wedding gift?”

“I’ve heard your wife is pretty. She’d have to be, for the two of you to be abed whilst your sister and king were being murdered.” Jaime gave him a wry look.

“I never knew. There were musicians outside the bedchamber, I couldn’t…”

“I’m sure Lady Roslin made for a grand distraction, as well.”

At the crass insinuation, however truthful, Edmure frowned and pulled away from the knight. “They made her do it. She had little say in the matter. Roslin never wanted any of it to happen. She wept the entire night, but I thought…”

“You thought it was your rampant manhood that swayed her to tears? It’s a sight any woman would weep to, I’m sure.”

Edmure hung his head. “She is carrying my child.”

Your child or your death? Jaime thought, but tastefully decided not to say it out loud. Not yet. Instead, he asked, “Your king-nephew, Robb. Did he ever speak of his aunt before his end?”

Edmure lifted his gaze to the kingslayer at that. “The Bitter Wolf?” He thought for a moment, eyes distant. “No. She was hardly ever brought up. Robb didn’t like to speak of her. Not after her betrayal with your freedom. If he did speak of her, it would’ve been with Catelyn.”

“Who is now dead,” Jaime dryly said.

“Yes,” Edmured replied, letting his gaze drift down to the waters.

“Much help you are.”

“Where is she now? The Bitter Wolf.”

Jaime saw no point in lying to him. “I don’t know.”

The rest of the ferry trip was spent in silence.

Once at his pavilion, Jaime dismissed Ilyn, but kept the singer around. He ordered the servants there to boil bathwater for the honored guest, and had clean garments brought to him, along with warm food and sweet wine. Edmure still couldn’t quite comprehend why exactly Jaime Lannister was being so courteous, but couldn’t deny himself the pleasure of cleanliness. He clambered into the tub and started scrubbing the grime off his skin.

Jaime pulled up a chair to sit beside him. “After you’re clean and your belly is full, you will be escorted to Riverrun. What happens after that is up to you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Jaime. “Your uncle is old. Valiant, admittedly, but his best years are behind him. He has no wife to grieve for him, nor children to succeed him. A good death is the most the Blackfish can wish for. You, however, have many years remaining to you. You are the rightful heir to House Tully, not him. Your uncle serves you, by law. Riverrun’s fate is in your hands.”

Edmure blinked at him. “I don’t…”

“Understand, I presume? All that time with a rope around your neck must have strangled you of all your wits.” Jaime was growing impatient. “You must yield the castle. Yield, and nobody dies. The smallfolk will be allowed to leave in peace, or they may serve Lord Emmon and his lady-wife, my aunt. Ser Brynden will be allowed to take the black and join the Night’s Watch, with as many of the garrison that choose to join. You, as well. The Wall is in dire need of more hands, I’ve heard. If that is not to your tastes, you may go to Casterly Rock as my captive and enjoy all the comforts and courtesy that befits a hostage of your rank. Your wife may join you. If your sire is a boy, he will serve House Lannister as a squire. Once he comes of age, he is welcome to earn his knighthood, along with some lands I will bestow upon him. If Roslin bears you a daughter, she will be well dowered until she is old enough to wed a fitting lord. You may be granted parole, even, once the war is done. All this only if you yield the castle.”

The water steamed and sloshed in the tub as Edmure gingerly shifted about. “And if I will not yield?”

The servants and squires were all listening. The singer watched the two speak with wide eyes. No matter. Let them all hear it.

“You’ve seen our numbers, Edmure. The ladders, the towers, the trebuchets, the rams. If I speak the command, my cousin will bridge your moat and break your gate. Blood will spill. Hundreds will die, most being your own people. Your former bannermen will be the first wave of attackers, so you will start your day by killing fathers, brothers, and sons of men who died for you at the Twins. The second wave will be Freys, and there are plenty of them to spare. My westermen will be the third once your archers are exhausted of arrows and your knights so weary their blades will no longer lift from the ground. The castle will fall, and all inside will be put to the sword. Your livestock will be butchered. Your river will rot with corpses. Your godswood will fall. Your keeps and inventories will burn.” Jaime swallowed as he said the next words. It was true that he did not actually mean to do it, but a threat was a threat, and words are wind. “Your wife may have the child before any of this. You’ll want the babe, I presume. I can send him to you once he’s born. With a trebuchet.”

There came a lengthy silence. Edmure was still in the bath. All the servants and squires stared in horror.

Genna had told him earlier that he was not his father’s son. Tyrion was more Tywin’s than he could ever dream to be. Would her mind change if she had heard his speech? Was this what Tywin would have done?

“I could climb out of this tub and kill you right as you are, Kingslayer,” said Edmure, once he finally regained his wits about him.

“You could try,” Jaime calmly replied. The man made no move, so Jaime pushed himself back to his feet. “Enjoy your food. Singer, play for our guest while he eats. You know the song, I trust.”

“The one about rain? Yes, my lord, I know it.”

Edmure’s head swiveled between the singer and Jaime. “No. I don’t want him. Get him away from me.” The tub water sloshed some more.

“Why, it’s just a song, Lord Tully,” said Jaime, feigning innocence. “His voice couldn’t be that bad.”

The knight left his pavilion with the beginnings of Rains of Castamere playing faintly behind him.

The inns you came across the road were growing sparse. Many had been torched, ransacked, abandoned, or torn down. War left much of the Riverlands in ruins. Though you were none too happy about the state of the lands, pillaged, empty villages meant there would be fewer people loitering about, which was all the better for you.

You had managed to outrun the outlaws through the cover of the storm and ruins. It was only when the rain cleared away did you let yourself sit down and silently cry for Brienne. None deserved a fate like that. She was so undeniably good, more honorable than any other man you’ve ever met—and yet her face was torn apart and now she was dead.

Eventually, you made it out of the Riverlands and began to travel along the high road up to the Eyrie. It was the safest option to get there—the mountains were hardly on the table to walk through on your own, considering it was likely running amok with clansmen and thieves of all sorts. Even on the high road, the terrain was far more mountainous than the relatively-level grounds of the riverlands, and the incline noticeably steeper. You were traveling at a much slower pace than before, growing ragged and tired with shorter distances.

On the third day on the narrow pathway towards the Bloody Gate, you came across two men on a cart. Merchants, perhaps. You spied the stacked wine casks in the back of the cart, wondering if they were empty. Surely they must be, you thought. The Vale is not likely to make any wine of their own, not with mountains as sheer as theirs.

As their cart slowly rolled by, being pulled by braying donkeys, you overheard one of the men say, “A singer, it’s said!”

“A singer?” the other merchant echoed.

“Yes, a singer! They say he shoved Lady Arryn right off a mountain.”

Lady Arryn? Your ears perked up at that. Did they mean Lysa?

He glanced at his companion dubiously. “I heard she threw herself out the door once she confessed her love to him.”

“That’s nonsense, have you seen the way she grips that sickly whelp of hers? She would never throw herself to her death whilst little Robin lives.”

That confirmed it. Lysa is dead?

“If I had a son like that, I’d do the very same,” he grumbled.

“Wait! Good sers!” you exclaimed, turning back to hurry after the cart. The donkeys whined protest as they were pulled to a slow stop. They both glanced back at you with wide, curious eyes.

“Sers?” The one with mousy brown hair piped up with a laugh lodged in his throat. “We are no knights.”

“Apologies, it’s a habit now, I fear. I simply wanted to know—” You stopped in your tracks. “What were you saying about Lady Arryn?”

“She’s dead, she is,” the older of the two merchants told you. His nose was crooked in three different places. “Out the Moon Door—or off the mountain—she flew.”

You stared at them for a moment, trying to gauge whether they were being serious or not. Tall tales such as this were not uncommon amongst the lowborn. “And who now rules in her stead?”

“Little Lord Robin is young still—”

“And far too sickly!”

“—Until he comes of age, Lord Petyr Baelish is Lord of the Vale.”

Littlefinger. The realization dawned on you with great unease as you recalled his infatuation with your good-sister and his alliances with the crown. Lannister crowns. This was no good… no good at all…

“Thank you,” you told the merchants. “That’s good to know.”

“Where are you off to?” said the younger one.

“Runestone,” you lied. “I have family there.”

That seemed to appease them well enough. The one with brown hair waved farewell as he set the donkeys back into motion. You silently thanked the Gods for coming across decent men. You watched the cart of wine caskets descend down the path.

Now what? You could hardly stroll straight into the Vale now—not with the threat of Littlefinger handing you right back into Cersei’s mad hands. Should you even trust these rumors, though? Perhaps the septon at the Bloody Gate could clarify the situation for you. Surely he would tell you the truth. But getting there would take weeks, and you certainly didn’t have that sort of time. If word of Littlefinger’s rule in the Eyrie was true, you would be wasting even more time doubling back to escape. And if he heard of your presence in the Vale there was no telling what he would do… have you locked up and sent to Cersei in a cage?

But what about Sansa? Your heart shattered at the thought of leaving her alone at the Eyrie with Baelish. You had to be smart about this. Even if Sansa was in the Vale, and if you managed to get to her, and if you could whisk her out of the castle undetected, there was nowhere for the two of you to go that would be safe. Sansa wouldn’t last a fortnight out in the wilderness. Gods forbid, but perhaps it was best for her to stay in the Eyrie until you managed to find a stronghold that would keep her safe and protected.

Then again, she could just as likely be elsewhere in Westeros. Arya, too. Gods, you wished Brienne was with you. You could still see the blood spurting from her face, her screams cracking through the thunderous air.

Damn you, Jaime. You should have come with me, you said to yourself, knowing it was a foolish chain of thought. He wouldn’t be much help, anyway. All he did when we traveled together was complain and find new ways to irritate me.

You lingered on the path for a few more moments. Then, you frustratedly gestured to nobody, made a noise of displeasure, and turned to follow after the wine merchants.

Back to the Riverlands you went.

Riverrun was now taken, but at a great cost. Brynden the Blackfish had escaped. All thanks to Jaime’s carelessness and Edmure’s wit. This would never have happened if Tywin was around, Jaime couldn’t help but lament. It was no wonder his aunt Genna told him he was nothing like his father.

He was a fool, and his father knew it.

After a series of threats to both Edmure and his wife, the Tully lord managed to sullenly tell him what he knew of the Blackfish’s whereabouts. Which, to Jaime’s dismay, was very little.

“He swam away,” Edmure had told him. He had the very same blue eyes as Catelyn did, as well as Robb. The very same look of loathing in them, as well. There was a time when you looked at him like that. “The Water Gate’s portcullis was raised. Not enough to be noticed, only three feet or so. My uncle is a strong swimmer. He pulled himself beneath the spikes and I can only assume the current helped him from there.”

Damn it all.

Jaime had hounds and hunters on the prowl for the Blackfish, but he had little hope of catching him. And Edmure was to be heading west the following morning. Jaime was glad to be rid of him, though he worried that the man would slip through the guards he would be traveling with. The knight wasn’t too keen on hunting for the Tully a third time.

News of Ryman Frey’s death was brought to him by young Edwyn, the former’s son. Hanged, apparently, by a band of outlaws nearby Fairmarket, which was boldly close by. Thoros, or Dondarrion, or this mysterious Stoneheart woman. There was little to do about the matter now—Jaime ordered more guards posted and that was that.

That night, he practiced his shoddy, left-handed swordsmanship with the silent Ilyn Payne. He managed to last a grand total of three hours before giving into his cramping muscles’ begs for a rest. Afterwards, he poured the both of them cups full of Hoster Tully’s wine, and told Payne of how he used to kiss his sister when they were children. It was innocent at first, until it wasn’t. It felt nice being able to freely tell someone of everything knowing he couldn’t possibly relay such information to anybody else—Payne’s lack of a tongue ironically made Jaime chattier than ever.

“Tyrion once told me that whores oft avoid kissing their patrons. They’ll fuck you until your legs fall off, he said, but they keep their lips far from yours. It’s what separates work from real romance. I wonder if my sister ever kissed Kettleblack.” Jaime thought for a long moment. “I kissed the Bitter Wolf.”

Payne spared him no reaction.

“She was crying.” Jaime took a sip of wine, leaving out the fact that he had shed a tear or two. “Not because of the kiss, though. I hope not, at least. I’m not that bad of a kisser. Cersei never cried when we kissed.” Though, after he said that, he realized basing his assumptions around Cersei wasn’t a particularly smart thing to do. You and Cersei were many leagues apart from one another.

Payne drained his cup and gestured for Jaime to refill it.

As he did, Jaime went on. “If not for Tyrion’s reckless call for a trial by combat, I would have married her. The Bitter Wolf. We would be at Casterly Rock, and Tyrion would be at the Wall, and my father would still be alive, and my son would sit the Iron Throne, and all would be well. Or not. Cersei would make matters difficult. I doubt Y/N would be pleased about her predicament, either, come to think of it.”

He decided to change the subject back to Kettleblack when Payne’s silence stretched for a little while longer.

“It would be ill-fitting to slay mine own Sworn Brother. I should geld him and send him to the Wall—make up for Tyrion’s loss in some way. He’s been to the Wall, perhaps he had no taste for returning. It’s bloody cold there, I’ve heard. Of course, if I were to lay a hand on Osmund, there would be his brothers to consider, as well. Brothers can be dangerous. Aegon the Unworthy had Ser Terrence Toyne dismembered into pieces after finding him abed with his mistress, and forced her to watch. Toyne’s brothers tried to kill the King for it, though their plans were ultimately foiled by the Dragonknight. It’s written in the White Book. All of it, including every knightly deed and chivalrous act. It doesn’t tell me what to do with Cersei, though.”

Ilyn dragged a finger across his scarred throat.

“No,” Jaime said. “Tommen has already lost a brother, and the man he thinks is his father. If his mother were to die by my hand, he would hate me for it. I’m sure his sweet little wife would use that hatred to her benefit, as well.”

An ugly smile stretched at Ilyn’s thin lips. Jaime misliked the crude gleam in his eye.

“You talk too much,” Jaime told the mute.

The next night, Jaime found himself in Hoster Tully’s solar, looking over a map, wondering where the Blackfish could have gone. Many of his hunters had returned that morning, torn and bleeding. Direwolves, they had told him. A monstrous pack with a large she-wolf leading them. He wondered if that could have been the wolf that had mauled Joffrey what had felt like a lifetime ago.

In consequence, Jaime couldn’t help but wonder about you. Did the direwolves like you at all? He strained his mind to remember, but couldn’t seem to recall. It confused him when his chest constricted at the thought of forgetting you.

The war was practically won. Dragonstone was taken, and Storm’s End would be very soon. Stannis was welcome to the cold fruits of the Wall—if Roose Bolton hadn’t already destroyed him. And the Riverlands were successfully taken without Jaime ever having to raise a sword against neither Stark nor Tully. All in all, he was to be content.

But where did that place you? Once everything calmed down, what would happen to you? To Sansa, who surely deserved no harm that would come to her? She was just a young girl and you… you were far from the paragon of innocence, to be certain, but surely he could have Tommen pardon you for any of your crimes. Your crimes being allegiance to your own nephew, which Jaime could hardly fault you for.

Then again, Cersei was the problem. There was no chance she would sit idly by and let you live. Once he returned to King’s Landing, he had to find a way to whisk Tommen from her crutches before he would turn as corrupt as Joffrey. A new council full of abled men would be in order, as well.

More and more days passed. Jaime had the entire Tully garrison safely released from their keep, which displeased his Aunt Genna greatly, but Jaime was intent on letting them go. There was little harm they could do when they were scattered, weaponless, and hungry.

He dreamed of Cersei most nights. Of her golden hair, which then molded into golden hands. In his dreams, he always had two hands. Sometimes touching her, stroking her, holding her—dreamy memories of old. Sometimes he was strangling her, which he certainly had never done before.

Other nights he dreamed of Brienne. Her big, brutish face red with rage and exhaustion. She would swing Oathkeeper at his neck and he awoke just before his head rolled off his shoulders.

Some of the nights, however scarce they were, were far more precious. He dreamt of you, your hair freckled with snow, your eyes alight as you watched children play beneath you. He was in Winterfell, he realized, and with a shocked start looked back down at the children. His? No. They were your nieces and nephews, of course. Their faces were a blur, but their red hair was unmistakable. Save for the littlest girl and the bastard boy. Snow, Jaime remembered.

“We should have one,” your dream-self said to him, so serious that Jaime wondered if it was actually you standing there in front of him. “A little wolf-lion.”

Did Jaime want that? Would they have golden hair like his? Like Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen? But how could he have another child when he was never a father to the ones he already had? It felt wrong to even consider it. Dishonorable. Any romantic notion of a normal life with you was quickly dashed.

“I know we can’t,” you continued on before he could respond. “They’re all dead.” You gestured down to the Starklings. “And I’ll be joining them soon. But it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?”

“No—” he said, reaching out to you, but you had already faded into a blur.

Not all of his dreams with you were as bleak. Once he was abed with you, and another time he was bound by rope as you pointed an arrow at his forehead while he cackled maniacally.

A week after releasing the last of the garrison, Jaime woke up with a start after dreaming about a cloaked figure that looked eerily similar to Cersei, though he knew it wasn’t her. His mother spoke soft riddles, where Cersei would bark harsh insults. He couldn’t quite tell which he favored. He threw the covers off him with his stump.

The room was frigid. The hearth’s warmth had waned away and the windows had been left pushed open when he fell asleep. In the darkness, Jaime made his way to close the shutters, but his foot touched against a wetness on the ground. Blood had been his first thought, but blood would not be so cold. Rain, perhaps, but he would have heard the sound of pattering coming from outside.

Jaime drew the damp curtains apart, letting the moonlight stream through. Moonlight and snow. Down below, the yard was spotting with white, growing thicker and thicker in the minutes he watched. After a moment, he even began to see his breath misting in front of him.

Winter is here, he thought. Marching south, and our granaries are half empty.

He watched the snow fall, and stood there thinking of you. It irked him that you haunted his every thought. Nonetheless, he hoped you were warm, wherever you were. If he was as fanatically religious as his dear coz Lancel, he would have even prayed for your safety.

When morning dawned, Riverrun’s maester came to pay him a visit. He was pallid-faced and shaking.

“I know,” Jaime said, glancing at the bound letter in the old man’s quivering hands. “The Citadel has sent a white raven. Winter has come.”

“No, my lord,” said Maester Vyman. “The bird came from King’s Landing. Forgive me, I took the liberty to open it, I did not know it was meant for your eyes…”

Jaime took the letter and sat by the window to read. It was Qyburn’s hurried hand, but he knew it to be Cersei’s fevered words.

Come at once. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.

“Does my lord wish to answer?” asked Vyman, hovering by the door.

A snowflake landed on the letter. He was reminded of the snowflakes in your hair, in his dream. It was quick to melt, blurring the inked words and streaking down the paper.

Jaime rolled the paper back as tight as he could with his one hand, and handed it back to the maester. “No,” he said. “Put this in the fire.”

#jaime lannister x reader #jaime lannister fanfiction #jaime lannister fluff #jaime lannister angst #jaime lannister fic #jaime lannister x you #jaime lannister x stark!reader #asoiaf fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #got fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #jaime lannister

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wonderlandcrown · 4 months ago

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Yuu and The Housewardens (SPOILERS FOR ALL THE BOOKS, BOOK 7 EXCLUDED)

A thing I really wanted to talk about was the amount of times Yuu has interacted with them during their own books

Because a few months ago I think I saw someone complain about how we only interacted with Leona a few times in his own book, and then I realized that in book 2, 5, 6 and 7, we aka Yuu barely interacted with the respective housewarden.

These obviously parallel the original movies, the amount of interactions or times we've met with each housewarden represent the times when the original villains actively participated to bring down the protagonist.

Just to clarify, twst doesn't follow the plot of the original movies 100%, there are some tweaks in plot as seen in book 1 where we met with riddle a few times more compared to alice and the queen of hearts(who have literally only met one time, but the duration was pretty long)

In book 2, the plot rlly isn't that different from the original. We met Leona and Ruggie earlier even before book 2 started just like how Scar and the hyenas were present before Simba was born. We interacted with him again when going to Savanaclaw to investigate the "accidents", and then finally the showdown between overblot!Leona and Heartshackle(counting Cater and Riddle). It's the same way in The Lion King, Simba has like 2 on screen interactions with Scar before their showdown at the end.

Book 3 was very Yuu-centric, and that's because Ursula was incredibly active in trying to take down Ariel, much more effort compared to the previous two. Ariel had to take things into her own hands, very much like Yuu when their friends got roped into doing basically free labour for Azul. I don't think anymore needs to be added here.

Now onto book 4, also incredibly Yuu-centric! The Sea Witch and the Sorcerer of Sands are not that different in terms of taking care of their adversaries, after all. Aladdin was actively trying to mess with Jafar from day 1, and Jamil decided to avenge his ancestor by sending us off to the edge of the world/j (i dont believe in the great 7 being the overblot boys' ancestors🙏)

Book 5!! Time to talk about my Vil💜 Despite having to live under the same dust-laden roof of Ramshackle dorm, we barely talked with the gorgeous housewarden, obviously referencing how Snow White and the Evil Queen probably barely(or never) talked to each other despite living in the same castle. Though Evil Queen is more active in taking down Snow White after she finds out she's alive, I wish they'd(the writers) included more scenes where we talk and chat with Vil, even if it's just him insulting us💀(no im not saying this as a vil simp whatareyoutalkingabout/hj)

Woohoo we're on book 6🗣️ Hades was so sure that Hercules was dead and never bothered to double check lfmao, unlike Scar who would've been wasting resources and time, couldn't Hades, just like, teleport😭😭😭???

Okay getting off track here, my point is Hercules and Hades are probably the only hero and villain on this list where they'd met multiple times(ignoring jafar since aladdin didn't rlly know he was evil) Yuu definitely had their time to shine in book 6 and all the other characters had been amazing in this book. We had more Idia screentime around the start and the end, but with adequate screentime midway too. Say what you want but book 6 was my favourite.

Book 7 is still ongoing, as it has since I've joined the fandom😭🙏 But did Aurora even interact with Maleficent??? Someone PLEASE let me know, as book 7 is yet to finish, I won't be making assumptions

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seasidefae · 7 months ago

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daylight (and other magical phenomenons) oscar/carlos | 1.8k words

Oscar was at the library, casting a spell on the copy of Spellman’s Syllabary to levitate back to the shelf where he got it, when he felt a wisp of magic behind him.

It’s funny. There is magic around the Hogwarts Library that nobody really notices unless you really look for it. A shield pulsing strongly around the Restricted Section is different from the gentle vibrations of the newly returned books by students floating around the floor, looking for its home.

This one is different. Stronger but more pleasant. Lighter. It leaves a trail of light blue, a tinkling bell echoing with it. The magic coats the area with happy feelings that immediately eases Oscar’s initial weariness from pulling yet another all-nighter.

They finally discussed Patronus charms in D.A.D.A. class a couple of days ago. Professor Hamilton told them the basics of the spell, as some sort of preview for next week’s full lesson. In just one quick Expecto Patronum, out comes a snow leopard from the Professor’s wand.

There were a few demonstrations, like Max with his lion that upset the actual Gryffindors, George and the horse he swore looked like the one he had back home, and Franco conjured a falcon.

The others tried in class and tried again in their free period. Oscar sat at The Quad while his friends tried to conjure, at the very least, a ball of light to ward off potential dementors. George tried to help, but the Ravenclaw’s clipped replies didn’t really do much.

Oscar didn’t want to try in front of them. Besides, he and Lando had some homework to catch up on.

The corporeal patronus in the library ran in circles, its mouth open and laughing. Oscar knows whose this Wirehaired Pointer was. It was the thin and tall dog that bounded over the lake in between Sparrow Hall and Wren Manor, and greeted Oscar with a happy bark from way across it every time they met.

That bark was usually followed with a snarky remark from his owner, which would then begin a spar of some kind. A back and forth of insults about the other’s flying skills and horrible taste in Quidditch teams. They were never serious enough to hurt, really. Oscar had a good laugh every time Carlos’ nose scrunched in that displeased, disgusted way. Carlos seemed to have his fun, too, when Oscar stared at him deadpan. It was the highlight of those first few summers Oscar had spent here.

Patronus Piñon stopped at Oscar’s feet like it was waiting for a good petting. Oscar laughed to himself. Whatever it was, Carlos still did it.

The dog barked once before Carlos’ voice overtook it.

Impressed? I even got an eighth year to teach me a few tricks to do with it, like send it to you with voice message. ¿Que? Oh, Max says hello. Unless this isn’t Oscar Piastri, Mr Slytherin Prefect, then fuck off and stop listening. If you are, then HA! I did it first, vida. I can teach you tomorrow morning before our morning ride.

And then Max’s voice interrupted him, It’s literally as simple as thinking of your happiest moment. That is lesson one and done. Just ask him to sneak into the tower to make out like a norma—OW FUCK!

After a quick spin and a jump, the patronus evaporates, leaving glowing particles that disappear before they hit the wooden floors.

Oscar did his rounds that night, thinking of morning and a surprise disruption from their usual morning broom ride. They were both going to be Quidditch captains next year; extra training wouldn’t hurt.

When morning finally came, and he was the first one in their room of four to rise, he washed in haste and changed into a nondescript grey sweater and pants, briskly walked back to his desk to grab a few papers, and ran to the main door of the dungeon. He almost collided with Carlos in the hallway.

A smiley Carlos was a sight for sore eyes in the morning. Oscar pushed him gently, more so to stop himself from kissing him than anything.

“Are you ready for your patronus lesson?” Carlos said. He had a satchel with him, white like his hoodie, and he hitched it up on his shoulders as they walked.

“That depends. Do I get to beat your record first?”

“Would we have time before Charms? This lesson might take hours with you.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Oscar chuckled, punching Carlos lightly on the arm. “I bet I can think of a happier memory than yours. What is it, anyway?”

Carlos’ laugh reverberated against the stone walls of the stairwell.

“Think of something nice and we will work from there.”

“Something nice.” Deadpan must be Carlos’ favourite brand of Oscar. “Like chocolate?”

“Just think, Oscar.”

This could be one, Oscar thought, as the first splashes of dawn cast an orange glow around the Quidditch pitch. Carlos, dead centre on the field, his broom and satchel discarded on the grass beside him and his wand at his side. Carlos worked with his wand in a cool, almost detached demeanour, like the pureblood didn’t need it. Oscar knew Carlos practised wandless magic with Professor Alonso on weekends. But even the most powerful wizard needed a wand to cast a patronus.

“Focus and think of nothing else. Do not get distracted,” Carlos said, pointing his wand at Oscar.

“I’ll try,” Oscar quipped, winking and failing.

“Shh. Behave,” said Carlos in between huffs of laughter. “Bueno. I will give it a go now.”

Patronus Piñon returns briefly, running and jumping around again. Carlos howled and cheered, reaching for Piñon before realising what he was doing, and retracted his hand. It was magical. Oscar still marvelled at all displays of magic but he liked seeing Carlos excel at it, satisfaction obvious in the way Carlos cheered every time any spell worked.

The patronus looked different in the daylight. It glowed golden, not blue, like it reflected the light the sun offered. Piñon bounded towards Oscar like the real one would by the lake or that first time Oscar finally tore the invisible barriers of Wren Manor down and was invited inside.

Carlos then nodded at Oscar, as Piñon disappeared into the sun, signalling his turn.

He tried to think about the first time Oscar stepped into Carlos’ house. Christmas, 4th year. Carlos’ mum Reyes offered him seconds and his sisters were there on their break, too, from Beauxbatons. He tried to ignore the dark side of that memory, of the snide remarks from their other relatives, questioning how a muggleborn wormed (ha) its way to Slytherin house.

Oscar said the incantation, willing it to be enough. A trail of gold flowed out of the tip of his wand, but that was it. He sighed, expecting Carlos to tut and tease.

“Good try. Do it again,” Carlos said instead.

That gentle smile could make Oscar move mountains for him.

So, he thought of another memory. The first time Mark brought him to Diagon Alley, getting his first wand, and the train ride to the castle. But then the sorting hat ceremony followed that, the isolation from the other Slytherins because of his status, and how he didn’t have any real friends until 1st year Charms when Lando had asked for his help on a spell and by lunch time he had one Slytherin friend, a handful of Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and even a few Gryffindors at his side. That included Carlos, who had initially ignored Oscar that whole first week of classes.

Oscar felt a hand wrapping around his knuckles. He felt another easing his shoulders down.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be real, really, but it needs to be positive. And you shouldn’t feel ashamed of it.”

So close to his ear. So gentle, like the breeze.

“Now it looks like you’re teaching me archery,” Oscar whispered back.

Carlos dropped his hands, but the warm feeling they left behind stayed with him.

“It looks like you are preparing for a battle. You are not fighting anyone here.”

Oscar dropped his arm to the side and turned to ask, “So what did you think about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Carlos replied as quickly as a snitch would be passing in front of him.

But Oscar’s a seeker, in every which way. “If it helped you do what some think is impossible, then yes, it matters, Carlos.”

Carlos glanced away, following a singular cloud at the sky. He heaved a heavy breath, sighed, and—

They were standing so close, Oscar could count Carlos’ eyelashes and knew he would lose count at a hundred. He moved away, not so far, but enough to give them space. It gave Oscar a minute to breathe.

But Carlos pulled him back in, closed the distance with a kiss that tasted of mint and Carlos, a familiar taste, and told him against his lips, “What’s nice is the thought of you, right now. That I get to have the privilege of being your friend, and more, and staying by your side. That’s what I think about.”

His heart pounded but he had never felt more at ease as soon as Carlos squeezed Oscar’s neck.

Words failed Oscar a lot of the time, so he did what he does best.

He swished his wand, thinking of winning the final Quidditch game last year against Gryffindor and seeing Carlos wearing Oscar’s green scarf in the viewing area where most of the Ravenclaws are wearing green in support of them. He thought of faintly hearing Carlos cheer for him as if he was using a sonorous charm, but he knew it was all in his head and his heart swelled with it anyway.

“Expecto patronum,” Oscar said with confidence and out of his wand, following a trail of gold, came an Ocicat.

Oh.

They blinked at each other.

Huh.

It sat there, polite, waiting. The patronus cat glanced between Oscar and Carlos before moving towards the Ravenclaw, purring between Carlos’ legs.

“Jesus Christ,” Oscar grumbled, pleased and disgruntled at the same time. He found his inner companion, his given light in the dark, and it’s a freaking cat.

Carlos was so pleased. If he could pick the cat up and cuddle with it, he would.

“Oscar! It’s just like you,” he cooed.

“No, she isn’t.”

“She is a she? Perhaps you know that best, of course.” Carlos dropped the teasing when the cat disappeared and so did Oscar’s initial excitement at having done something. “It was incredible, vida.”

“I guess it was,” Oscar admitted, scrunching his nose. He searched himself and found that: yes, he felt good. “I mean, it wasn’t a snow leopard.”

Carlos grinned, running to get his broom. “No, but you can still prove you are just as fast as one,” he called, just as Oscar caught up and grabbed his own.

#carcar #5581 #formula 1 rpf #formula 1 rpf fic #happy late halloween?#it’s not really scary #fae writes

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luunaz · 1 month ago

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Poisoned feelings [Caleb] fantasy!au | part 1

pairing: Caleb x reader

type: fluff, but maybe angst🌸🍂

summary: Dark spirits have always been a common occurrence for elves and humans. They hid in forests and caves and attacked lost travelers at night. They have never been a threat to the kingdoms. Until a letter came from one of the elven villages asking for help. The villagers suddenly began to die from an unknown disease, but after death they were reborn into monsters and attacked everyone who got in their way. Gradually, the disease spread throughout the Western Lands of the kingdom. The elf King Jormir decided to form an alliance with King William of Firnhold and request military support. King William sends young Captain Caleb and his squad to Lunariel to help contain the monsters. He will have to figure out what is the source of the disease and whether it is possible to stop the epidemic. And will he be able to cope with the conflicting feelings for the woman-elf he must protect?

an: I decided to write a little fantasy fanfiction. I created my own world, where I placed the MC and Caleb. This is the first time I've written such a text in English, so if you notice any mistakes, write to me and I'll fix them. I do not know if you will like something like this, but I would appreciate your feedback. If there is at least one like on this post, I will continue to write :D

I'm still thinking about the plot itself, but for now I'm planning about 8 parts. I haven't decided exactly about the ending yet either. I wrote a hot scene at the end, but who knows how I'll decide to end the story, haha

Masterlist

Caleb stood in a huge hall with a glass ceiling through which starlight and moonlight penetrated. Silver rays reflected off the glossy snow-white marble floor and filled the space with a soft glow. In the middle of the hall stood the throne of King Lunariel, on which lay red velvet cushions. At the top of the throne, a jewel sparkled brightly, reflecting the majesty of the king. The young captain looked at the elegant hall with disgust. Each bas-relief, the expensive vases with the rarest flowers in them, and the masterfully carved sculptures reflected the elves' desire to rise above humans. And Caleb hated it. He believed that no elf would ever appreciate human life as his own. Even now, instead of showing up on time, King Jormir kept waiting for someone he had called for help.

Lunariel is an elven kingdom that stretches from the Moon River to the Western Lands, where the Great Forest is located. Once upon a time, this country was a center of trade, a place that was famous for the best medicine and many technical discoveries. The elves were the best at everything related to science and art creation. But now the kingdom is going through hard times.

An unknown disease has spread to villages located near Great forest. Elves affected by the disease died, and then turned into monsters hungry for blood. Rumors of this disease spread all the way to the kingdom of Firnhold's people. The human race was the best when it came to military science. They fearlessly rushed straight into the open jaws of death, as if they were as immortal as the elves. Cooperating with the elves has always been beneficial. They paid handsomely for any military campaign or escort. That's why Caleb was here. He and a squad of the best warriors were sent to the elf king for help. But it didn't seem like he really needed it.

After waiting for a long time, slow footsteps were heard. The massive wooden door behind the throne opened. The king came into the hall. Tall, handsome, but arrogant. His gray eyes ran appreciatively over Caleb's figure. He was followed by two guards in dark armor and silver cloaks with a silver lion embroidered on them.

— So you're Captain Caleb? — without waiting for an answer, the king continued, — I have ordered your soldiers to be stationed in the barracks for the time being. Jormir slowly walked over to the throne and sat down on it. Caleb bowed to the king, trying to hide his annoyance.

— Before you go to the Western Lands, I would like to explain the whole situation to you, — the king turned back and signaled to one of the guards. The latter bowed, approached Caleb and handed him a scroll. The man opened it and saw a drawing of a human-like figure. The creature's face and body were disfigured, as if they had almost rotted away and only bones remained.

— Is this what the inhabitants of your villages have become? — Caleb asked.

— You're smarter than some of your kind. Maybe I invited you here for a reason after all, — Jormir said with a grin. — I was informed that not all the villagers turned into these monsters. Recently, there has been a rumor throughout the kingdom about a mysterious wellspring that grants wisdom and strength to everyone who tries it. Some residents tried to find him, went to Great forest, but returned sick, and after a while turned into monsters.

— Could it be because of the wellspring? — Caleb asked.

— None of those who returned said that they had found the wellspring. We assume that they may have been cursed by dark spirits. But we've never encountered spells of this kind.

— We are ready to offer you protection, but we will not be able to help you deal with this spell.

— I know. I'll send our best healer with you. She will try to deal with this disease. Your task is to protect her. Even at the cost of your own life, Captain. I have all. You can be free, — the king casually waved his hand, as if he was brushing away an annoying fly. Caleb bowed and left the room.

Caleb hoped he wouldn't have to deal with the elves, but he also knew he couldn't avoid it. The only thing he wanted right now was for this woman-elf to not be as annoyingly arrogant as the king. Only then could he say that his mission would be completed successfully.

The man approached the barracks, which were allocated for his soldiers. Grinning, Caleb cursed. Compared to the place where the elven warriors were housed, this "barracks" was more like a barn. It was a fairly large wooden building with two floors and a thin roof. The light was on inside. Caleb entered the room and saw the soldiers sitting at a long table with large plates of vegetables, fruits and meat. The men were talking loudly and laughing, but when they saw the captain, they immediately fell silent. «At least they don't feed like cattle» — Caleb thought. He greeted his warriors and sat down at the head of the table. Only after Caleb gave the signal did the warriors begin to eat.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace fluff #lads caleb #caleb x reader #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #caleb x you #caleb fluff #love and deepspace x reader fluff #lads x you

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clandestineivory · 1 year ago

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Affogato Cookie x Amnesiac Reader (part 3)

Summary: Congratulations, you aren’t dead or anything! Apparently the head injury that you got from falling headfirst into a pile of rocks made you get amnesia! Hooray…yay…🤗. Luckily, you have a caretaker who’s here to tell you what you missed, who you are, and what happened to you! How sweet, right? And, uh, what was his name again? Oh, Affogato Cookie? Yeah, that’s fine. He’s probably a great guy, y’know?

TW: FINALLY some manipulation, normal gremlin Affogato, you don’t get wtf is going on because nobody is telling you besides the ex-advisor, and mentions of blood strawberry jam loss! Probably poisoning if you squint your eyes~ AND NOTHING I MAKE IS PROOFREAD.

Link to #1

Link to #2

You let out a soft groan, feeling both sleepy and sore as you blink your eyes open. Your gaze darts around, trying to make sense of where you are. It's freezing and everything is covered in snow. You’re in a cave... How did you end up here? And then it hits you—wait a second, who even are you??

“Agh…my head..”

You mutter softly, attempting to stand up but quickly collapsing back onto the ground, curling up from the pain in your chest. You notice someone has bandaged you up. So, you got wounded, someone brought you to this random cave, and then patched you up? Hm. Well, it feels like you should thank whoever helped you out. It just seems like the right thing to do.

However, a quiet yet amused voice was heard from the darker corner of the cave, where little to nothing would be seen without a light.

“Well, you certainly look like a mess. I’d suggest that you sit down, but I doubt that I get a say in what you can or can’t do.”

It was... someone. Not in a rude way, just that kind of voice that triggers a faint sense of familiarity, like you've crossed paths before but can't quite recall where or when. That damned memory loss; you can't even remember your own name or how you ended up in this situation. Everything feels like a haze, pieces of a puzzle scattered and lost in the fog of your mind.

“W…who are you? Do you know who I am too? How did this happen, what am I doing-”

You asked, trying to limp closer to the darker corner of the cave before the stranger giggled, cutting you off as he walked into the light. At first you were taken aback by how he looked. How could a voice as smooth and sultry as that fit someone who looked so…feminine? Well, you didn’t have time to question it, as he suddenly grabbed your hand and gestured for you to sit down, which you did.

“Oh, a lost little sheep like you must be very hurt after your incident. You don’t remember me, do you? That’s alright, I can tell you. My name is Affogato Cookie, but you can call me Affogato. You were attacked by one of the beastly snow lions within the kingdom’s snowy borders, and I stepped in to save you before you crumbled and bled out.”

Affogato, at least, that’s what he calls himself, just smiled sweetly, lighting some incense as he spoke. His demeanor exuded confidence, as if he held all the answers in the palm of his hand. And honestly? All you needed was someone to explain what the hell was happening in a way that wouldn’t send you into a panic spiral. His voice had this soothing quality, like a gentle breeze on a hot day, and you found yourself inexplicably drawn to it. You let out a shaky sigh, feeling a sense of relief wash over you as you nodded slowly, silently thinking that maybe, just maybe, things were going to be okay.

"You saved me…? Oh, you must be the one who put the bandages on my body. You saved my life - literally. Is there any way I can repay you?"

You asked, your voice a mix of gratitude and curiosity as you looked up at him, trying to read his expression. However, even as you spoke, you realized you had about a hundred MILLION questions buzzing in your mind, waiting to burst out.

Affogato merely smiled and tucked away a few messy strands of your hair behind your ears. Oh, you looked so naive and innocent…like a child who just found out about the world. It was delightful, seeing someone so strong and resilient be reduced to a confused and weak little sheep in need of a shepherd to guide them.

“All in due time, dear. Oh, and you were called [name], in case your mind forgot about that. You also were my most closest servant and disciple during my time as the Royal Advisor, as well as former King to the Dark Cacao Kingdom. Oh, you were so loyal…maybe I could make you remember what it was like..”

It was an obvious lie on Affogato’s side, but for you, it definitely sounded like the truth. If he was so eager to save you, of course he would’ve known who you were and how much you were loyal to him!

—

For the next few days, you were asking questions to the ex-advisor, and he answered with his own twisted way of reality. All to keep you under his thumb and become his sweet little puppet.

Yet, during the nights, you still seemed to have those horrible nightmares, this time coming back stronger and stronger to the point of curling up in a ball and just plain sobbing. What the hell were you even thinking about? What kind of stuff have you encountered during your time as a Watcher? It made Affogato ponder for many hours on end, still allowing you to lean on him during this period of time.

Affogato became more affectionate, as time went on. Well, during nights only. In the day he was that manipulative and cunning snake that everyone knows him as.

But he certainly can get you to quiet down, whether it be whispering in your ear or lighting some strong incense around you, keeping you sleepy and relaxed instead of terrified and anxious like a mouse.

He didn’t even know how you managed to break down his first wall of coldness and gaining a certain level of trust.

But of course, he had to be wary in case you somehow got your memories back.

For now, the feeling of your warm body breathing softly as you lean on his shoulder feels more relaxing then it should’ve.

I’m gonna explode

#affogato cookie being a little shit #would this be considered a very short fanfic #cookie run kingdom #writers on tumblr #cookie run x you #crk x you #crk x reader #crk affogato #affogato cookie x reader #affogato cookie

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gendrie · 3 months ago

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arya only has one chapter in the north, but northern locations are referenced throughout her entire storyline. right from the very beginning all the way thru to her most recently published chapters.

Arya shrugged. "Hold still," she snapped at Nymeria, "I'm not hurting you." Then to Sansa she said, "When we were crossing the Neck, I counted thirty-six flowers I never saw before, and Mycah showed me a lizard-lion." Sansa shuddered. They had been twelve days crossing the Neck, rumbling down a crooked causeway through an endless black bog, and she had hated every moment of it. (Sansa, AGOT)

after they leave winterfell arya has fun on the journey south by exploring the land. the neck is part of the north's territory. the people who live there are northerners (like the reeds; close allies to the starks) so i think its significant that arya actually got out there to see it. she takes an interest in learning about the flora, fauna, and customs.

...but it was Jon Snow she thought of most. She wished somehow they could come to the Wall before Winterfell, so Jon might muss up her hair and call her "little sister." She'd tell him, "I missed you," and he'd say it too at the very same moment, the way they always used to say things together. She would have liked that. She would have liked that better than anything. (Arya, ACOK) "I want to go north, to the Wall. Here, I can pay." She gave him the purse. "The Night's Watch has a castle on the sea." "Eastwatch." The captain spilled out the silver onto his palm and frowned. "Is this all you have?" (Arya, ASOS)

the wall is a location that comes up often in arya's pov. arya wants to visit jon on the wall. desperately. while traveling up the kings road with yoren she poses as a night's watch recruit and they are bound for the wall. arya tries to go there before finding passage to braavos and even once there keeps tabs on the ships hoping she will find one to bring her to eastwatch on the sea so she can be reunited with jon.

She did remember Lord Cerwyn, though. His lands had been close to Winterfell, so he and his son Cley had often visited. (Arya, ACOK)

arya considers the cerwyn lands while imprisoned alongside their lord in harrenhal. he dies before arya has a chance to do anything but it shows her familiarity.

When she got closer, she saw that he was a northman, very tall and thin, huddled in a ragged fur cloak. That was bad. She might have been able to trick a Frey or one of the Brave Companions, but the Dreadfort men had served Roose Bolton their whole life, and they knew him better than she did. If I tell him I am Arya Stark and command him to stand aside . . . No, she dare not. He was a northman, but not a Winterfell man. He belonged to Roose Bolton. (Arya, ACOK)

one of the most forbidding locations in the north is the bolton's fortress. the dreadfort is a dark place and arya knows better than to trust its men. the survivors of the bolton's attack on winterfell are being kept prisoner at the dreadfort too. in conditions like arya experienced in clash.

"Cat." He considered. "Yes. Braavos is full of cats. One more will not be noticed. You are Cat, an orphan of . . ." "King's Landing." She had visited White Harbor with her father twice, but she knew King's Landing better. (Arya, AFFC)

this is one of my fave little details. arya references visiting white harbor with ned. i dont think any other stark child does so i do like to headcanon it was a daddy and daughter trip. arya wouldve met the manderlys on these trips. they're also staunch allies of the starks. wyman lost a son at the red wedding and arya was imprisoned in harrenhal alongside his other son.

"I know where the slaves came from. They were wildlings from Westeros, from a place called Hardhome. An old ruined place, accursed." Old Nan had told her tales of Hardhome, back at Winterfell when she had still been Arya Stark. (Arya, ADWD)

this is a northern location beyond the wall with a mysterious past and an uncertain future. the freefolk have settled there but the conditions are not great. these refugees were taken prisoner by lyseni slavers. the sealord seized the ship, but arya spied on the slavers and informed the faceless men that they intended to go back for more. using this information the iron bank assisted jon snow in an attempted rescue of those who remained at hardhome.

"You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the north. You told me you could be strong. You have the wolf blood in you." (Arya, ACOK) Needle was Winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. (Arya, AFFC)

and, of course, there is winterfell. winterfell is arya's home and a cornerstone of her identity. i think the most touching thing about arya's perspective of winterfell is that it isn't just the starks home, but maester luwin's and old nan's and hodor's and everybody else's too. the smallfolk will always make their home there and arya doesn't just acknowledge that but cherishes it.

#asoiaf nonsense #i just realized that when tycho leaves braavos #which will prob be soon in aryas pov #as of mercy he is still there #(no ice on the canals yet)#that ship will be bound for the wall #i wonder if arya finds out about that......#it would be interesting if she knows and doesnt go

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passivenovember · 1 year ago

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thinking about the first time Billy has cherry pie and the lengths he'll travel to have it again.

Fresh Cherries (part one)

Because it's December, Neil makes concessions.

Billy isn't allowed to do whatever he wants, never that, but his leash isn't vice-like. There's some give as he tests his boundaries when there's snow on the ground. Billy isn't sure why, but he isn't about to ruin a good thing.

But. Steve calls on a Wednesday night and says, "Come over."

Billy has to chew and swallow the automated response he's used to giving. It's a school night, Neil'd kill me, and feels like he just got dusted with sugar and put in the oven. Says, "Sure. Let me ask my dad."

"Just sneak out," Steve tells him.

Billy checks the alarm clock on his bedside table. "It's seven thirty."

"So?"

"So, it's not sneaking out hours."

"You're such a stick in the mud," Steve says.

"I'm not, I just--" don't feel like getting my teeth knocked in. Billy picks at the threads in his duvet cover. Counts to three. "I want to be a good influence on you, Harrington."

Steve squaks. Some bright, quaffed bird. "I'm a year older than you!"

"Only 'cause you got held back in the third grade," Billy says. He flops over onto his belly, bringing the phone with him as he tries not to get wrapped up in the chord when Steve laughs.

"This is what I get for telling you all my deepest darkest shit," Steve rustles on the other end of the line and Billy imagines him in bed, or laying on the couch. Maybe flat on the carpet, near the fireplace, shirtless and eating chocolate covered strawberries--

"C'mon," Steve says gently, "Be a bad influence, come hang out with me."

"My dad--"

"Just sneak out, Malibu."

Billy grunts, not wanting to tell the truth, kind of into how Steve's growing more and more whiny as the scene presses on. "I dunno."

"C'mon, it's not hard. I sneak out all the time. Out of my house and into my car and in through your window--"

"--That's different. Your parents don't give a shit where you are."

"You're right. Who cares, though? I'd still sneak out to see you even if they had a bell permanently installed around my neck."

Billy's heart feels like raw cookie dough, sticking to the ribs around him as he bakes and proves under some bright, shining, plastic feeling. "Are they home this week?"

"Nope," Steve says, and the P explodes over the phone line. Wipes out half the city in his excitement. "Mom bought a ton of shit to get me through 'till the twenty-eighth, so we can--"

"You're spending Christmas alone?"

"I always spend Christmas alone," Steve says. Quiet sits heavy, like a filed of snow, between them. Stretching out in every direction. "It's not a big deal. We celebrate Christmas in November."

"With Thanksgiving?"

"Nah, right at the start of November."

"Alongside Halloween?" Billy spats, sitting upright on the mattress. It jostles underneath him. He feels like a raft lost in some huge, freezing, disorienting sea.

He tries to get his barring's, tries to sink his heel into Steve's answering laugh but its hollow like a dead tree, "One year Santa was my dad, dressed as the Cowardly Lion." Steve says.

Billy tries to imagine it. He puts the hard, chilled seed of Steve's childhood near his molars and chews on it for a while, trying to envision the light refracted from all the ways childhood has to bend and contort to suit a kid's parents.

"I never believed in Santa," He says. An offering. Sadness for sadness, or something, like I see you.

Steve hums, and that horrible field of ice and snow between them melts, just like it always does. "Come over," He says, not as hollow as before. Blooming.

Billy puts his shoes on.

The Harringtons live in some demented alternate reality where Christmas in December is all for show. Their house has been decorated since the last time Billy was here in Saturday.

He knocks and stares down at Santa, the looming silver-screen image from his childhood, dressed in a floral button down, board shorts and flip flops. Somehow feels colder. When Steve opens the door, he points at it.

"My mom's theme this year is Blue Hawaii." Steve says.

Billy stumbles over the threshold, teeth chattering to shards in his skull. "That's not a Christmas Movie."

"Yeah, but it turns out, Santa can be anything. He's kinda like a chameleon."

"Santa isn't Elvis."

"He could be," Steve says.

Billy shrugs out of his jacket, handing it off, like always. Steve holds it close to his chest, watching with amusement as Billy takes in the foyer. Toes out of his snow-covered boots. "It's like a tiki bar made of pine trees instead of sweet grass."

Steve nods, still clutching the jacket.

His eyes are red.

Billy squints at him, padding closer. "Are you high?"

Steve giggles, bright like a fresh log in the fire.

Billy scrubs a hand across his face, trying to hide the way it makes him go up in Steve's flame. "You're such a dork."

"What? I thought we could--"

"I only have a few hours," Billy tells him gently, trying not to get lost in the sleepy, apple-red flush across Steve's perfect nose. "My dad'll--"

"Just tell him I'm left on my own for Christmas. Maybe he'll feel sorry for me and let you stay the night."

"How do you think I got him to agree to an 11:30 curfew?"

Steve blinks at him and then explodes into glowing, glaring joy. "Are you shitting me?"

"Nope, I'm all yours 'till 11:30."

Steve flushes again, clutching Billy's jacket closer to his chest. "But it's a school night--"

"Guess my old man took pitty on you. Such a lonely boy in his Elvis-themed mansion on the hill, it's kinda pathetic," Billy says, "In a cute way."

"It's not Elvis," Steve says, still grinning, "It's Blue Hawaii."

"Still cute," Billy shrugs, feeling hot all over. Feeling proud of himself. He nearly combusts when Steve moves into his space, eyes nearly going cross to focus on the bridge of Steve's nose.

Billy holds his breath.

He waits for Steve to say something, feeling that huge filed stretch out between them, but it's not snow-covered now.

It's thawing. It's burning up.

Steve wets his lips.

"Uh," Billy says intelligently, looking down when the sleeve of his jacket tugs at him, still viced in Steve's hold. "You can put that in the closet," Billy tells him, caught on the strech of skin over Steve's knuckles. "If you want."

"I don't," Steve tells him.

Billy looks up, eyes crossing again.

Steve winks. "You're warm," He says but Billy feels it, more than anything else.

The smell of marijuana and pine is overwhelming, searing through the air after the first shared joint.

Billy rolls his neck and asks if they can crack a window. Steve blinks at him, sealing the second joint with spit. "You trying to get caught, or something?"

"Caught?" Billy asks, trying to force his shoulders to relax. "But. I thought--"

"--The neighbors are nosy 'round these parts." Steve says. He tucks his rolling tray under the coffee table, and Billy watches with droopy red eyes the way his lips close around the butt of the thing.

Steve's lips are perfect.

If Billy was an artist he'd fill sketchbooks with watercolor renditions of that cupid's bow. His fingers would permanently stain with lapping waves of purple-pink, etching the warmth of breath into his nail beds so that the faucet would never run clear of this boy.

He could get lost in those lips. That hair--

Steve hands him the joint and Billy takes it, focusing on the cherry so he won't get lost in Steve's eyes, too, because he's looking. Always.

Billy tries not to drown in it and fails when Steve says, "Y'know. Your eyes are kinda like Blue Hawaii."

"Again with Elvis?" Billy rolls them, handing the joint back. "You're the one who stole his wig."

"My hair is not a wig, fuck you."

"Coulda fooled me."

Steve holds smoke in his lungs, exhaling it toward the popcorn ceiling as he says, "Your eyes are blue."

Billy snorts, laying with his back on the carpet.

"They're the bluest things I've ever seen," Steve says, ashing the joint. "And I've tried to find something bluer. Around town. I even went to the library to look for something in an atlas when Indiana disappointed me, like maybe the ocean is bluer and clearer in the Caribbean, or something, but no."

Billy's heart thumps, nailing his ribs to the floor underneath.

He counts the joints in the popcorn overhead. He feels Steve looking at him, feels himself burning from the inside.

"You're just the most detailed asshole who's ever lived," Steve says, softly.

Billy could sink into it. "Thanks."

Silence falls, again. It's comfortable. Billy stretches, a little bit, twisting until his spine cracks, until he feels like he could pass out from how relaxed he is.

Steve hands him the joint.

Billy shakes his head.

"Why not?" Steve asks.

"I'm laying down," Billy tells the ceiling, "I feel like if I smoke anymore my lungs will give out, or maybe I'll float through the ceiling and disappear."

Steve exhales more smoke. "And right before Christmas, too."

Billy sits crisscross on the carpet, watching Steve puff, inhale, puff, inhale. "You're really not stressed about being home by yourself for six days?"

Steve shakes his head.

"Why not?"

"I like having the house to myself," Steve tells him, "Besides, I feel like if I have to spend any more time with my parents this year I'm going to sink right through the floor." Teasing. An echo of Billy's childhood fear of ascending into the ozone.

Billy pokes him with his foot, flushed.

Steve finishes the joint and slides closer. Their knees touch. "What kind of Christmases did you have when you were growing up?"

Billy shrugs. "I'm sill growing up."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, just. I dunno," Billy gets lost in Steve's eyes, a little. Classic beauty. "It was the Coca-Cola Santa kind?"

Steve laughs at him, and then his palms are warm on Billy's knee caps. "The kind with Bing Crosby and miniature towns on the dining room table?"

Billy's mom loved to collect those goddamn things. Neil smashed them all when she ran away and killed herself.

He nods, relishing the weight of Steve's fingertips.

Steve fiddles with the hole in Billy's jeans. "What kind of food did you have?"

"Pizza," Billy says.

Steve blinks at him, lost. "That's not very Coca-Cola of the Hargrove's."

"My mom didn't like to cook."

"Funny," Steve says, combing through the tussle of hair on Billy's kneecap, "Mine doesn't either."

Billy aches to knit their fingers together until they meld, forming the kind of sweater you dig out from the back of your closet year after year, echoing on the stiff frigid breeze until it's tattered and falling apart.

Steve looks at him, smiling. "Do you want some pie?"

Steve guts and skins the freezer until it's empty. A carcass picked clean.

Mrs. Harrington must have spent her entire bonus at Melvalds on Christmas dinner, enough to feed four Steve Harrington's and all the people who are desperately in love with him.

Billy tries not to think about them and watches from the counter face, his sock feet thumping gently against the cabinet as Steve pulls dish after dish from a cloud of white exhaust, plopping containers onto the island. "Green bean casserole," Steve says, "Pumpkin pie, pecan, apple, blueberry--"

"--You're supposed to eat all of this?"

"You're gonna help me."

"I don't like green bean casserole," Billy says, yelping when Steve feigns death and collapses into the counter. "Jesus Christ--"

"I'm midwestern, that's a cardinal sin to me."

"Dope makes you dramatic, pretty boy."

"You hate midwestern people."

"Yeah," Billy says, giggling.

"You hate me."

"Shut up," Billy slips off the counter and onto his feet, examining every frozen item while Steve repacks.

"Which pie sounds good?"

"I dunno," Billy says, eyeing the blueberry with suspicion, "Don't we have to wait for them to thaw before we throw them in the oven?"

"I don't think so," Steve says, "I've already tried the cherry and that baked fine."

"I've never had it before."

Steve blinks at him, shocked. "How have you never had cherry pie?"

"My dad doesn't like cherries," Billy admits.

"Just because your dad doesn't like cherries--"

"--Look, my mom wasn't on great terms with the oven, and nobody else is going to waste time cooking shit my dad won't eat," Billy snaps. Feeling red-hot all of a sudden. Angry in a way he hasn't been in a long time for being reminded that other people's dads are shitty in the normal way.

Not like Neil.

Steve either doesn't notice or chooses not to take it personally.

He opens the refrigerator and pulls out a half-eaten cherry pie, picking at its cling-wrap until Billy can see the cherries where the glitter between layers of perfectly brown crust. Bloody little eyes staring up at him like dead fish.

"You can have the rest."

"The rest?" Billy demands, "But what if I don't like it?"

"Not possible," Steve tells him. He opens the microwave and attempts to shove the pie tray in, yelping when Billy snatches it out of thin air. "What--"

"--Aluminum will catch fire in the microwave." Billy snaps. He tries to find it annoying, but Steve just blinks those big, soft eyes at him and the anger washes away. "Get me a plate, bambi boy," He says.

Steve watches Billy plate the pie, giggling as his nose wrinkles in disgust over its dripping red innards. "This is so gross," Billy says.

"You won't think so, once you try it."

Billy walks it to the microwave, carefully pinching the edges of the plate between his palms. "I can't think of a single other instance where that has been true."

He turns the dial. Forty seconds.

Steve's watching him, face illuminated in the golden hum of the microwave.

"What?" Billy demands.

"Nothing," Steve says, leaning against the counter top, "I just can't believe I'm gonna be here when your life is changed forever."

Billy snorts, stalking to the drawer where the Harringtons keep their silver. "Still dramatic, pretty boy."

"Why do you always say that?" Steve wonders.

Billy freezes in place. Two forks in hand. He peers across the island at Steve, heart thrumming loudly. "Why do I always say what?"

"Pretty boy," Steve clarifies.

It hangs between them. The microwave hums, the longest forty seconds of Billy's life. "I," He says intelligently, "It's just. True."

"What is?"

"You're. Pretty," Billy says. And it's like having teeth pulled.

The microwave beeps.

Steve turns away, yanking the pie from its incubation, "Shit," He says, wiggling his fingers. "Plate's hot as hell."

Billy stands there watching him. Breathing. Dying.

Steve looks at him. "Well, do you wanna try it?" Billy nods. Doesn't move. Steve laughs at him. "Come here."

Billy goes easily, like a lap dog being called to perch. He and his forks stare down at the pie with caution, stomach churning at the congealed mess before him.

Steve grabs one of the forks from Billy and cuts the point off, blowing on it until its warm enough to eat. Steve pops it into his mouth, brown eyes falling closed. "Mmmm," He says, like someone would with a spooked and disgusted baby, "It's good."

Billy shakes his head.

"You're so dramatic," Steve says, cutting another huge chunk for Billy. He holds it in the air between them, eyebrows raised. "Trust me."

Billy stares at it. "Why's mine so big?"

"I want you to get the full range of flavor."

"But--"

Steve shoves the fork into Billy's mouth, swiftly depositing the little cherry eyeballs onto Billy's tongue. He coughs and sputters, lips curling around the fork as Steve yanks it away. "Chew," Steve says.

Billy does.

Like it's the first time he's ever done it, clumsy and a little rushed and very, very distracted by the way Steve's watching him.

"Swallow," Steve says softly, barely there.

Billy does. There's something on his face. On his lips.

"What do you think?" Steve asks, staring at them.

Billy resists the urge to lick it away, "Sucked," He says, expecting Steve to laugh, but.

Something rests between them, not growing or stretching or changing shape, but it's there. It suffocates.

Steve looks at him, somehow closer than he was before. "Sorry, pretty boy," He says.

Billy's heart stops. "Why would you say that?"

"It's true. You're pretty," Steve says, watching the red on Billy's lips burn brighter. "You've got a little something on your face." Billy lifts a hand, mouth falling open when Steve grabs his wrist. "Can I," Steve says, soft as summer rain, "Can I kiss you, Billy?"

Billy doesn't move as Steve licks into his mouth, Cherry washing away under the rough, sweet drag of intention.

THIS IS PART ONE!!!! OF A TWO-PARTER!

Please let me know if you'd like to be tagged when I get around to part two <3

#harringrove #fluff #one shot #I'm not sure why this is set during christmas time since it's quite literally summer #but hey!#it be like that sometime #part one

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iorekbyrinson · 3 months ago

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shc drabbles: asriel belacqua, or, the Double Lion that ISN'T a Double Lion

ok so asriel has literally. haunted me since he got typed as a double lion. and this isn't to say that interpretation isn't correct.

however HOWEVER - do I think that's his sorting? no. I think he's a Lion secondary (that sometimes tries and pulls a Marisa Coulter-esque Snake sec), but his primary? Hufflepuff, baby. this is one of fiction's TRUE evil Badger Lions, and, to be honest, it's not even that hard to see how.

compare and contrast with Erik Lehnsherr, his nearest counterpart. Magneto has a kind of Badger-y shell on his Primary that dovetails with the dehumanizing aspects of his cause, rallies people behind him (it implies a kind of group care without him ever kind of NEEDING the group if that makes sense), and may well be something borrowed from his old mirror Charles Xavier, who Badgers so hard it sometimes hard to see his own Snake-yness. Anyhow, I digress. What I'm saying is - Magneto is the true Double Lion. He has his Cause, and when we see him in First Class, it's a typical low-health revenge fantasy Cause. then Charles intervenes and tries to guide him to a kind of belonging, a reckoning within his sense of unity amongst mutants (and humans, because Charles doesn't discriminate), but once that philosophy goes against Erik's newest Cause (born bloodstained and dripping the SECOND after the coin goes through Shaw's skull), he abandons Charles. and that's Erik's journey throughout these prequel movies especially - he finds a Cause, something disrupts it, he Improvises, then discovers a new one, hidden like an ember deep within. it's all internal and driven and NATURAL AND NORMAL to Erik to do this. he's a Lion.

now take Asriel - Asriel Belacqua, who EVERYONE knows to be a bit of a tight-arse and basically has never related to anyone, ever. his daemon is a snow leopard because the dude basically has the Arctic wastes swirling around inside of him. now that coldness; where is born it from? does it come from a particularly frozen Cause, a sense of isolation on a journey no one understands? when we see Erik on an equivalent journey, he's never ALONE like that - not really. Erik is either brooding or dangerously damaged or ticking over until his Lion comes roaring through. Asriel? even when he's getting what he wants, his glee is - dangerous. he's described as having eyes that glitter with savage amusement or rage. what I'm trying to get it as Asriel has an EXTERNAL primary - and what is his External Primary geared towards? hating humankind.

Now, without getting into the weeds of analysis too much, Asriel is supposed to be a cipher for Satan, the one who wants to destroy Heaven etcetera etcetera. And what we can take from this is Asriel feels fundamentally APART. Excluded. And he HATES it. he hates how the Authority and the Magisterium have curried the world into their little factions of power and belonging, he hates how he perceives himself as the ONLY one to see all this, he hates how Lyra, who is a real Lion primary, can survive on her own rage and power and instead he is burdened by it, because if there was ever someone who didn't have a LIFE outside of his raison d'etre, it's Asriel. It's hard to see, but once you see, you can't unsee it. And boy oh boy, does Asriel dehumanize HARD. He sees it fundamentally in tune to a greater plan (the plan being that he will free the world from oppression, but he shows precious little actual FERVOUR for the people he's supposedly freeing, because as we say, he hates them), and literally anyone who comes in his path he doesn't see as valuable/sees as expendable becomes Not Important. Roger Parslow, the child, who he sacrifices to open the new world. Lyra, time and time again. Even Marisa.

SPEAKING of; Marisa Coulter, Double Snake, is the only one who has ever gotten past all of this destructive Badger armour. Because she's a Loyalist - and Asriel UNDERSTANDS that. His one misstep outside of his mission was in his personal life when he threw caution to the wind to have an affair with Marisa, have their baby, and then grant that baby to Jordan College. Who knows, maybe this was the seed of him starting to dehumanize EVERYONE. But she's the only one he bows to, ever, even slightly. When she's injured in the last book, he lifts her and carries her to his aircraft with a gentleness NO ONE ELSE sees in the books. When she wakes in the other room and despairs of what comes next, whens he asks why he didn't just tell her he was trying in actuality to save Lyra/save the fate of humanity, he says wearily "I lied because I thought you'd believe a lie." At his weakest, at his most vulnerable, he turns to Marisa, because she's the only connection he has left to whatever human being was inside him. And his ending - falling into the abyss with her to save their child? That's the most these toxic, twisted Loyalists could ever give their unparented child. A fitting ending.

@wisteria-lodge I'd love to get your thoughts on this. What say you, Badger Lion, or Double Lion Asriel?

#this is. very drabbly #not sure i even got my points across #but here's the thing #i'm a double bird #and I GET double lions #I heart them #I understand them #Asriel? literally what is that guy's deal #that's the root of all this anyhow #sorting hat chats #his dark materials #tangent side note again but #loyalists wrapped in idealist armor really make me go ???#I feel the same about House because boy oh boy does he spout some Idealist crap but fundamentally #Wilson drugs and his job in that order

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crystal-cliffs · 24 days ago

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They’re done at the time I promised myself ‼️‼️ (which means I can enjoy my birthday without thinking about these art pieces)

Thank you my mooties for giving me your ocs or oc adjacents

Asriel from @mystii-gur0

Hardybeetle is a former warrior of Windclan who was severely injured in the fight against the stray mountain lion (Dvalin) that had left its home beyond the Highrocks. His injuries, consisting of losing sight in his eye left Windclan unsure if he’d ever return to his warrior duties. He was holed up in the Healer’s den way longer than he should’ve been.

When Snowfall apppeared in the territories with her, dare say, radical dream of rebuilding Skyclan he jumped on the opportunity. He’d get to jump back into his warrior duties and join a clan who doesn’t seem to worry about wether or not he’s up to the task and there’s warriors that are at his speed.

Rochus from my discord buddy

Pigeonfall is a former warrior of Windclan who wanted only to become a healer, to be connected to Starclan the way Windclan is supposed to be. Unlucky for him he was turned away by the eldest healer, Starseeker(Citlali) since he didn’t stand out to her in any way and he didn’t show any signs of being spiritually connected to Starclan the way Windclan’s healers are supposed to be.

When Snowfall arrived in the forest he saw an opportunity to finally do what he wanted to do, be a healer and help his clan mates in the ways that matter and thus he now apprentices under Coldgrin (Dottore).

Josephine from @signsenough

Crescent was a former barn cat that got caught in a fire caused by a dry thunderstorm. Conviently however, whilst suffering from some serious burns and smoke inhalation she was discovered by the loner, Snowfall. Snowfall took some pity on her and helped nurse her back to health although Crescent never really understood why nor did Snowfall ever give her a reason.

However, healed up, she joined Snowfall and her friend, on her travels to what Crescent knew as the rumored territories where clan cats roamed.

Snowfall wanted to rename her to Crescentface but Crescent found the name distasteful. (Snowfall is very literal with her naming)

Pasha which is my oc

Snow was a loner that Snowfall picked up and renamed Snowleopard because… she sorta looked like a leopard.

Snow was a loner that was quick to join Snowfall’s journey back to the territories, enthralled by her stories of clan life and comradery. Snowfall was extremely welcoming of the loner especially since her fighting prowess was something she thought she might need considering her current group didn’t seem exactly battle ready to her, and Snowleopard was exactly that, battle ready but matched with a knack for strategy.

A.I Crucabena from @libertasforte

Plumpounce is Orchidstep’s (Crucabena) sister although they were not close in any way. She was rather absent from whatever was going on in her sisters life and that involved the kits she was raising, but after her strange murder Plumpunce didn’t feel at ease in Shadowclan anymore.

So, when Snowfall arrived in the territories and talking her Skyclan rebuildment up Plumpounce rushed at the opportunity to release herself from the blood pooling around her in Shadowclan.

#right when I said it would be posted it was ‼️‼️#ugh love peoples ocs so much but turning them into cats is way to tedious sometimes #can we tell I’m a warrior cats artist at heart #catified #Crystal’s Warrior Cats AU #*ೃ༄ crystal’s art

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flwerswrld · 9 months ago

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Girlie, make dating headcannons pt 2 Including Sunday, Gambling Peacock, Yanqing's father and Broody Criminal!! Stay hydrated and take as many days as you need.

yesyes ofc!! 😻😻 (idk who broody criminal is but i think it's blade so i'm gna do blade!)

hsr relationship headcannons ୨୧ (pt. 2!!)

cw: lowercase intended (⁠✿⁠^⁠‿⁠^⁠), fluff fluff fluffy fluff 🧘🏽‍♀️, established relationship for all, cutesy nicknames used, gender neutral!reader, betting/gambling(??), mentions of trauma, aventurine's has a hint of angst, mentions of marriage, husband!jing yuan, yanqing is basically u and jing yaun's son, mentions of mimi (jing yuan's lion), like... 1 mention of fu xuan and yukong, sleepy jing yuan as always :3, stellaron hunter!reader (blade's ofc), blade is being broody as always, the grumpy x sunshine shines thru w/ blade and reader

characters included: sunday, aventurine, jing yuan, blade

sunday ♡

- he's kind of... possessive??

- not in the yandere way, but in a way where his feelings to protect you kind of get a bit much sometimes

- like how he is with robin but in a different way bc he's your boyfie !!

- but he obviously very much loves you and would go out of his way to protect you, even if he had to sacrifice his life for u ^.^ so romantic

- he also spoils u ^_^ always making sure that ur comfortable ☺️☺️

- u want that new pair of shoes? oh, don't worry, he's already ordered it and it'll be coming to your house soon.

- u want that new skirt? he's whipping out his card SO FAST.

"it's not even that cold, sunday!"

sunday could smell your bullshit from a mile away, and all he could let out was a sigh. "y/n, you're being quite..." he trails off, trying to find a word to describe you in this moment.

giving up on that endeavor, he huffs, his wings' feathers ruffling from his slight irritation. "you're really going to be wearing a miniskirt in winter? it's snowing, and it's -20 degrees out." (a/n: that's -4°F for any american readers (⁠✿⁠^⁠‿⁠^⁠))

you raise an eyebrow, making eye contact with your boyfriend through the mirror you were using to do your makeup. "some days, skirts need to be the size of a belt." you reply, applying mascara to your eyelashes. "life's too short not to take risks, sunday." with your mascara all applied, you move to applying some vaseline, then your lipgloss on top.

"what if you get sick?" your boyfriend asks, looking in the mirror to make sure his already perfectly ironed clothes had any wrinkles, or if his already shining halo had any dust on it. "you can get sick, even in the dreamscape."

"they'll be fine, brother." robin adds as she sits on the couch, trying to find something to watch as she snuggles up in a blanket. "but y/n, if you get cold, come right back home. don't want you to get sick, we have to record that collaboration album."

feeling like you're being mother hen'd a little bit too much, you sigh. "i'll be fine, robin. but i bet you 10,000 credits i won't get sick! i'm even wearing those thermal tights you got me underneath so my legs won't get cold."

your boyfriend and his sister smirk. "bring it on."

"ah fuck, my manager's gonna hate me... sorry, angela." you grumble under your breath, another coughing fit viscously assaulting your lungs with surprisingly harsh vigour.

grabbing your phone from your nightstand, you send your boyfriend 10,000 credits, as the bet was stated. not that he wasn't rich enough, this was just pocket change to him.

"y/n!"

you visibly light up seeing robin in the doorway of you and sunday's room, a bowl of piping hot soup in one hand, a cup of hot cocoa in the other. "hey, robin. is that soup?" the halovian nods, a smile on her face. "yes! sunday made the soup for you."

"sister, i told you i was going to bring to the soup to them, why did you-"

"you snooze, you lose, brother!" the singer exclaims, giving you your hot cocoa and placing the bowl of soup on the nightstand.

sunday came inside your room, mask and gloves on. you giggle at the sight, and that leads into a bit of a coughing fit. "sunday, honey... did you have to wear gloves?"

your boyfriend scoffs. "i'm not trying to catch a cold from you." he replies, but he slips his mask down a little to press his lips against your burning forehead in a soft kiss. "you get better, okay?"

chuckling, you wave him off. "i will, i will! love you~"

sunday leaves the room, mumbling something in reply.

"love you too, dove."

aventurine ♡

- literally the worst (best) boyfriend u could ever have

- and he bever really knew what love felt like because of all the suffering and trauma he went through

- but now that he has you, his beloved partner, he knows what it's like to be loved. and now he can give it back to you so it's just a beautiful cycle of love and happiness!! (⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ)

- much like sunday, always spoils u

- but with aven it's 100, if not 100000 times more (he feels like the gifts make up for how busy his schedule is with the ipc)

"'m sorry doll." your boyfriend tiredly mumbles, pressing a sleepy kiss to your neck as soon as you came to greet him at the door. "here, take this, angel. got you a lil' something."

aeons, he's so happy he's home. home to his pretty little partner who he loves to spoil.

when you open the velvety box he slipped into your hands, you see a beautiful necklace. thin gold chain with a shimmering emerald as its centerpiece. "aventurine, you really didn't have to-"

"think of it as an apology for me being so busy. you know how the ipc gets, making me run all around penacony."

you raise an eyebrow, sighing. "aven, i think i have the perfect way to get you to relax."

— — —

"ohhhh that feels good..." the blonde moans in relaxation, the feeling of your fingers scrubbing gently at his scalp making him wanna just melt into the hot water and disintegrate. "feels so good, y/n, you have absolutely no idea."

he's starting to understand why dr. ratio loves his baths so much.

"i'm just trying to make you feel better after that buisness trip, aventurine. i know it took a toll on you." you reply, rinsing his hair free of the shampoo. "okay, close your eyes and mouth, gonna rinse.

the gambler complies with your gentle command, his eyes and mouth shutting as you were rinsing his tresses, his hair shining like liquid gold in the fluorescent lighting of your bathroom — hm, fitting. you think to yourself.

as you get ready for bed, aventurine hugs you from behind as you're doing your skincare routine. "call me kakavasha from now on." he whispers into your ear.

you're surprised. floored, even. you knew about aventurine's past, knew what name the weight carries with him. aventurine, one of the ten stonehearts of the ipc, who always shone as bright as a diamond and who captured attention like how a peacock would get when he ruffled his feathers.

well, kakavasha to you, aventurine to the rest of the cosmos.

"are-" you pause, looking into his borderline hypnotizing eyes for a second or two for his assurance. "are you sure, aven? i don't want to trigger anything."

he presses a fleeting kiss to your temple. "i'm sure, babe. and plus, i'm gonna have to get used to you calling me kakavasha before we get married!"

and before you can respond, he's gone, slinking away to your shared bedroom, in his stupidly soft silk pyjamas. slick bastard.

"okay, kakavasha." you call back out, fond smile on your face.

jing yuan ♡

- he, like aventurine, is quite busy due to his job, but he also has a lot of other priorities

- training yanqing, taking care of mimi, etc. (even though taking care of mimi is a shared effort between you and your man, you love that lion.)

- but he doesn't travel as much as aventurine, so he gets to spend more time with you, thank goodness ^_^

- but yanqing might as well become you and jing yuan's fully adopted child.

"jing yuan, i thought we'd give him the set of swords for his birthday!"

"my love, he deserved it earlier for helping me defeat all those mara struck soldiers. isn't that right, yanqing?"

yanqing, who was half asleep while watching his parents the general and his spouse argue, immediately straightened up, nodding his head. "y-yes, general!" he exclaims, like it was on instinct.

and you can't help but let out a laugh, patting yanqing on his back. "it's okay, yanqing, go back to sleep."

the retainer yawns, all groggy. "okay..."

he reminds me of mimi... you think to yourself, a picture of the lion yawning playing in your mind.

feeling eyes watching you in the back of your head, you turn around to see your husband, jing yuan, watching you with his signature ':3' smirk.

"honey, what are you plotting?" you ask, shrugging off your jacket to place over yanqing as he sleeps.

a low chuckle resounds around the room, the sound playful. "nothing, dearest. now, come nap with me. i've missed you."

you roll your eyes, yet you end up in his arms anyways. "so we're only going to give yanqing those new clothes for his birthday?"

no response.

"jing yuan?"

again, no response. then, a thump that lands on your shoulder.

a sigh escapes you, and you lean to pat your now half asleep husband's head. "you're supposed to meet with fu xuan in 15 minutes..."

"get yukong to go in my place." your husband mumbles back, pressing a kiss to your lips before pulling you into his lap. "sleep, my love."

blade ♡

- he may not say it a lot, but he does love you

- he's an 'actions speak louder than words' type of guy

- but not a lot of physical affection either, he doesn't want to suddenly go mara struck and hurt you, he thinks he's going to taint you

- so fleeting touches shall do

- he'll also do things to make your day more convenient

- if you're tired from a mission, he'll make you some tea

- or if you've been overworking yourself, he'll take on your mission in your place

- the other stellaron hunters tease you (except for firefly she's the sweetest)

- ESPECIALLY kafka. this woman takes so much pleasure in teasing you two.

"oh~? seems like you've gone soft, bladie."

blade's eye twitches, and he stiffens underneath her touch as she bandages him up. "just hurry up and bandage me, kafka. it has to be done before y/n sees, they'll have a heart attack if they see me like this."

beneath his indifferent, cold facade, blade cared about you. and kafka knew that.

"okay, okay... them, firefly, and silver wolf are on their way... the script says they should be coming in—"

"we're back!"

you step in with a smile on your face, bags in your hands.

blade sits there as you scold him, letting out a sigh. "i always get hurt on missions, what's new? i only have more scars to add to my growing collection."

but that smile disappears when you see blade's state. bandages all over his torso and arms, blood seeping through them.

— — —

"i know you have your healing abilities, but putting yourself in harm's way like that? seriously, blade?!"

your boyfriend looks at you with a glare, crossing his arms over his chest stoically. "i get hurt every mission, what's new? the only thing i gain is more scars to the already growing collection."

nor surprised by his lack of care to his own health, you sigh. "blade, just... just let me take care of you..." cupping his cheek with your hand, you kiss his lips.

and blade would rather die than admit it, but when you pressed your soft lips against his chapped ones, he felt fireworks in his belly that weren't welcomed.

"tch, whatever..."

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queenlucythevaliant · 2 years ago

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Coming Home

i. Shasta heard a story once—he could not remember where—in which two brothers lived on an island covered in gray soot. Everything on the island was colorless except the brothers, and every day they looked at each other to remind themselves what color looked like. Shasta didn’t remember how the story ended.

ii. “Home” was not a thing for which he had context. Neither was “Brother.” “Father” meant only cruelty and neglect. And yet, Shasta was home now. His brother pulled him into mischief by his elbow and his father asked after his studies at supper. It reminded him, now, of that story from long ago. He was trying to see the world in color, having known only gray soot all his life.

iii. Had he ever seen a violet like the alpine glow off the mountains at dusk?

iv. Shasta went out walking sometimes, trying to understand it. The grass withered and turned brown, and the frost came swiftly behind. It crunched underfoot the way sand did not.

iv. “Father,” Shasta would say, “What color do you say the ice is?” “What color do you think it is, my son,” the king would reply.

v. The ice was many colors. White snow on the ground. Blue where frozen lakes reflected the sky. Faintly green where it hung in icicles from his window. Gold when sunlight passed through it.

vi. Long ago, Shasta had been born the Crown Prince Cor. He’d been born to all of this, to home and father and brother, even if he’d never known of it till now. These were Cor’s tall green trees. These were his violet mountains. This was his family, and his colorless wind that nipped the nose whenever he stepped outside.

vii. And yet sometimes, even years on, Shasta would wake expecting to hear the sea.

viii. He asked Aravis once if she knew the story of the two brothers on the island. She nodded, “Of course. It is from a literary epic in which a bride cleverly tells her husband a story each night in order to postpone her own murder. But how,” here she raised an eyebrow, “did you hear of it?”

ix. Cor (Shasta) shrugged wordlessly, a little embarrassed. He made Aravis give him the name of the story, then turned and scurried off to find the court librarian. “Can you find a book for me?” he asked.

x. He was learning to read, you know. It was difficult. What a strange world, in which the illiterate sons of fishermen must learn to become kings.

xi. One day, during one of his walks as spring was arriving and all the ice was beginning to melt, Shasta (Cor) stood at the edge of a cliff and saw a rainbow arch across to the other side as though it were a bridge. It felt, obscurely, like a promise.

xii. Cor was clumsy-footed and uncertain, but Aslan kept him back from the ledge. He'd build a bridge for Shasta to cross into his verdant, mountainous home. The Great Lion stood fast at every cliff, to make certain that Cor would not fall.

xiii. Aravis found him in the library, struggling over the thick tome which contained the story of the two brothers and their colorless island. The language was more archaic than he was used to, and some of the letters were drawn with flourishes that got in the way of reading.

xiv. But then, Aravis sat down beside him and said, “Would you mind if I read aloud? I did so love that story as a girl.” She did not seem to be making fun of him, so Shasta handed her the book and settled in to listen.

xv. At the end of the story, the brothers escaped the island to a land where the sky was blue and grasses grew tall and green beyond the desert.

#part two of my 'revisiting old character studies before the inklings challenge' challenge #shamelessly based on a max lucado picture book #i am compiling these on ao3 btw. i honestly do not know how useful that is but there ya go #shasta my beloved #the most unfortunate boy #narnia and the north! hurrah!#narnia #leah stories #pontifications and creations

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bucketsofmonsters · 6 months ago

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Where the Light Enters - Part 17

Cole/Female Inquisitor

cw: unreliable narrator, hurt/comfort, slow burn, enemies to lovers, referenced noncon, happy ending

word count: 3k

ao3 link

Masterlist

She had stayed firm on her no desert rule, at least for the moment. Bull had laughed and assured her she would not be going to a desert.

Now, with Solas, Vivienne, and Cole in tow, she suspected that perhaps Bull hated her and this was his revenge for her crimes against him.

He had decided not to come, offering her some space. To be honest, she appreciated anything that wasn’t being assaulted, but she especially appreciated him being thoughtful in what could generously be described as a difficult situation. At least, she’d appreciated it at the time, but now suspected he just didn’t want to go to this awful place.

They were in Emprise de Lion, which had meant nothing when she’d been told that was where they were going. Now she knew it meant the coldest place on earth.

“This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” she complained loudly, bundled up in her old furs.

Cole looked confused by her declaration. “It is not.”

She was never sure anymore if he was serious or joking when he said things like that. She tended to not take it as a joke until she could see the gleam of knowing mischief in his eyes.

He rushed to the ground the second Vivienne implied they should set up camp, finding the driest brush that was available in an icy tundra and piling it into a small area he’d cleared of snow.

And then he pulled out the dagger she’d given him, the weird rock from Varric, and he started a fire. He turned around and beamed at her, his smile brighter than any flame.

He did it remarkably quickly, she presumed speeding through it before the mages could do it for him. He didn’t really need to, they seemed focused on bickering about something.

“You remembered,” she said, sitting next to him with a smile.

“It’s easier now. My purpose is leaving but new things will come.”

She nodded. “Of course they will.”

Even with the fire, Emprise de Lion was freezing so she cuddled into Cole’s side, leaning into him and nudging his arm over her shoulder. They were allowed to cuddle openly now, their relationship basically common knowledge by the time she left. It made her unbelievably happy.

She heard Solas scoff behind her and decided to be the bigger person and not turn and glare at him or throw insults his way.

Solas was not feeling quite as generous.

“I don’t know how a spirit of compassion can stand being around someone like you,” he said, venom lacing his words.

Vivienne laughed. “You don’t know how a demon could be with a liar? I daresay you may lack imagination then, apostate.”

“I know what a demon looks like, thank you very much,” Solas spat, and it seemed like Cole and her had been almost entirely forgotten.

Vivienne shot him an icy smile. “It doesn’t seem like you do. No, I daresay our dear Inquisitor must have some greater plan because she is too clever of a survivalist to be with a demon entirely selflessly. I, for one, cannot wait to see how her little plan plays out. For good or ill, it will most certainly be entertaining.”

“In that opinion we are united, Enchanter. I too suspect Cole will be betrayed. I don’t think that this vile girl is capable of anything else.”

They continued on like that for a while as Cole and Britches cuddled by the fire, Britches pulling one of her furs loose so she could drape it around both of them when she felt a shiver run through his body.

Eventually, she got tired of listening to the seemingly endless stream of insults, most of them targeted at least partially at her or Cole.

She got up and tugged him along behind her, moving to set up the tents as the sun dipped fully below the horizon.

Solas took a momentary break from the bickering to look behind him and a scandalized look crossed his face. “No, I will not allow the two of you to share a tent,” he demanded as he looked at the three tents they had set up. “You may have tricked me before I knew you were… having relations, but I will not allow it now.”

Vivienne rolled her eyes. “Well, none of you are sharing with me. Whoever stays with the demon needs to keep him on a short leash.”

Britches shook her head. “Solas, leave it alone, Cole doesn’t want to share a tent with you.”

“Did he say that?” Solas demanded. “Have you asked him or has he been pushed into this, as I’m sure you pushed him into this relationship with your trickery.”

Cole looked between them, reading something off the pair before declaring, “I will stay with Britches,” and then tugging them into a tent.

As they left, Solas and Vivienne’s arguing increased in volume, like they were desperately attempting to ensure the pair could hear it. They, in turn, were not listening at all, settling quickly to sleep, pressed as close together as they could be.

The next day was much the same. Bickering and pointed remarks and vague insinuations that either Cole was too good for Britches or that Britches was too smart for Cole.

Besides that, and of course the temperature, Emprise de Lion wasn’t the worst place they’d ever traveled. There were interesting little landmarks and lots of explorers around and fairly few fade rifts to speak of. If it had been a trip made with a less violently opposed party, it may even have been enjoyable.

She’d tried to get Varric or Sera or even Blackwall to come with her in a desperate attempt to avoid this. Varric had just thrust a bow in her hands and told her to go get some practice and play nice, that she needed to earn back other people’s trust because he was already on her side. Sera had sworn she would be going nowhere near Emprise de Lion, for reasons she now understood, and Blackwall had said something self-deprecating about how he needed to work on finding himself before he could swear to protect another again. She’d tried to reassure him that she didn’t care but he seemed stuck in his ways.

In a low moment, she’d even asked Cullen if he’d wanted to come. He’d stuttered something at her before refusing and practically running off. It was a shame, the fur he always wore would have been wonderful here.

So here she was, stuck with Solas and Vivienne, the only two who would agree to come.

Solas had done it so he could do his best to shove a wedge between her and Cole. He seemed intent on saving Cole from her, though Cole was adamant that he did not want to be saved.

She was pretty sure Vivienne just found the whole thing amusing, though she was certainly keen on keeping an eye on Cole as well. Right now, there was something kind of refreshing about someone who didn’t think she was the most suspicious person in the Inquisition, so she supposed she’d take it.

She was fairly certain Varric had recruited Cole to get her to start training again with the bow because the spirit kept trying to get her to use it, a stark contrast from the years she’d spent managing to avoid any sort of training.

Unfortunately, avoiding training also meant that she was still incredibly bad with the bow and thus, the few shots Cole had coaxed out of her had been so awful that Vivienne had stopped them and told her that they would leave time for archery practice but that she under no circumstances was allowed to pull it out in battle again.

And so they stopped for a while, taking a break from the endless trudging through the snow.

Cole took her a ways into the woods, where there was just the two of them so she couldn't accidentally almost shoot someone again, and he looked at her expectantly.

She fumbled with her arrows, the cold making her fingers numb, which made everything seem even more difficult than normal. She could barely even grab anything, let alone shoot accurately.

He waited patiently for her to knock back an arrow and then said, “See where the arrow wants to go. Don’t fight against it.”

She not so politely said, “That’s horseshit, the arrow doesn’t want anything.”

Before she could even hear him moving, he was behind her, hands adjusting hers, feet knocking her legs just a little bit further apart, giving her a more stable stance.

And then he gestured for her to let go and so she did, the arrow flying straighter that she knew they could.

It landed right in the gnarled wood of a tree in front of them, the shaft of the arrow sticking out perfectly straight.

She would call it beginner's luck if she didn’t think that would make him repeat the process exactly and do it again.

“It would.”

Of course it would.

And so, forced out of being petty, she tried to actually take his advice. She breathed slowly, in and out, not trying to point the bow but trying to let the arrow go where it wanted.

It certainly didn’t help matters that she had no earthy clue what that meant. She tried her best, but she had no idea how an arrow could want to go anywhere.

It turned out that this particular arrow wanted to go into the snow after missing a forest full of trees. Eventually she would have to accidentally hit one, she supposed that then she could claim that she had determined the arrow wanted to go there.

Cole came up behind her again as she notched her next arrow, frustration coursing through her. “You have to stay calm,” he instructed gently, the warm air from his words hitting her neck.

Now she just wanted to kiss him, which she supposed was not anger so maybe this had been his plan all along.

He laughed lightly and she felt his stomach move as he did. “It was not. I’m not that conniving.”

She smiled. “There’s still time. I can train you next.”

“Perhaps. You have to hit something first.”

She released the drawstring and missed again.

After about an hour of missing with a few accidental hits Cole would not allow her to take credit for, Vivienne, Solas, and Britches had become impatient and Cole let them all head out again, muttering something about how Varric had given him a job and they wouldn’t let him do it.

Somehow, she imagined Varric would forgive him.

In lieu of any obvious rifts, they headed towards what appeared to be a big, looming castle. Vivienne kept calling it a fort, but in all honesty, she didn’t understand the difference.

There were some creatures inside. She didn’t get a good look at them as she spent most of the fight hiding behind rocks.

They didn’t seem to have any issues taking any of them down so she allowed them to continue on, stomping through the overrun castle.

And then they saw a man. Not one decked out in armour or apostate robes, just a man standing there in the cold, seemingly waiting for them.

The other three seemed just as confused by him as she was so she called out a tentative, “Hello?” and prepared herself to hide.

“Hello,” he called back, his voice chipper

He was an incredibly average man, of a medium build, fairly average height, with brown hair. She had no idea how he’d gotten past the monsters they’d faced into what she was quickly realizing was the heart of the castle.

They were in an open courtyard, something she was sure had been beautiful before it became a frozen solid square of land. If she squinted, she could almost see the remains of plants under the ice.

“Who are you?” she asked, still prepared to spring away should he suddenly become violent.

“Imshael,” he declared cheerfully. “Nice to meet you.”

“Okay, Imshael,” she said, cautiously approaching him. “What are you? How did you get here?”

“Me? I’m a…” he paused for a moment, eyes locking on Cole. “Oh, you might actually be friendly. Well then, I’m a choice spirit. I don’t know how I got here, the fade just spit me out I suppose.”

Vivienne scoffed behind her and she fought to suppress the smile that threatened to cross her face as he said that. “A spirit! We are friendly to spirits here, you'd be right about that. What’s a choice spirit doing here?”

“Offering choices, of course. Would you like one?”

Something about this was setting off some kind of instinct inside her. A choice spirit? Perhaps that was real. She kept meaning to learn more about spirits but Cole didn’t know much, isolated as he was in the fade, and as such learning would mean talking to Solas, something she was absolutely opposed to.

Presuming they were real, did choice spirits just go around offering people choices? It didn’t seem like something a spirit would be needed for.

“A choice?” she asked, trying to feel it out further.

“Of course. You can even have a reward,” he said, beaming at her.

She snorted. “I do love rewards.”

“Alright then, here is your choice. Power, riches, or virgins?”

“Virgins?” she said with a disbelieving laugh. “You actually have virgins?”

“No, I don’t,” he said with a sigh. “I should honestly stop offering them, everybody wants virgins and I never have any on hand. Although, maybe I do this time. Awfully generous of you to bring me one.”

“Hey,” she said defensively. “That’s my virgin and you will keep your hands off of him. Unless you’re not talking about Cole in which case, Solas is all yours.”

She heard Solas sputter something out, either offended she thought he was a virgin or offended she was offering him up. Perhaps even both.

“No, you can keep your compassion spirit, I can’t imagine he’s the kind of virgin most people are looking for anyway. Do any of the others strike your fancy?”

They did actually, and she was moments away from asking for power before she caught Cole out of the corner of her eye, vigorously shaking his head no.

Vivienne chimed in as well, saying, “It is ill advised to do deals with demons, my dear.”

But she called Cole a demon incessantly so what did she know? Cole’s apprehension was perhaps a little more alarming, but she’d grown fond of spirits and this one seemed perfectly cordial, so she said, “Power, as long as you’re offering,” and he smiled at her, bright and only barely menacing.

And then he disappeared into thin aid, leaving a long, thin chest behind.

Cole wrinkled up his nose, looking down at the box with disdain. “He felt weird.”

Solas paused for a moment and then agreed. “He did. He did not feel like any spirit I have met before.”

She shrugged. “As long as he didn’t do anything to us, I don’t mind what he was.”

“You really should stop consorting with demons,” Vivienne hissed. “It is unbecoming.”

She opened the box Imshael had left behind and found a staff inside. “What, so you don’t want this?”

Vivienne snatched it out of her hands, investigating the intricately carved staff. “I don’t believe I said that.”

With barely any rifts to be found and the castle or fort or whatever it was fully explored, they had nothing left to do and as such, returned to Skyhold with a shiny new staff in tow.

No one ran to greet her like they sometimes did before, her perfect reputation more than tarnished. She didn’t mind the change. Crowds made her nauseous, so long as they left her alone she was happy.

The one thing of note that she could see was Bull working in the training grounds, swinging some comically oversized ax around, clearly showing off. Dorian was sitting on a nearby wall, pretending to be reading from a book as he quite obviously watched the Qunari work.

“Gross,” she said, nose wrinkling at the sight.

Cole cocked his head to the side. “I think they’re sweet.”

She shrugged. “That’s fine. You’re allowed to be wrong.”

Some buried part of her couldn’t help but agree with him and be happy that Bull was able to shower his affections on someone who could receive them without bursting into fits of nervous tears hours later.

She hoped that feeling was buried deep enough that Cole couldn’t feel it.

#dai cole #cole dai #cole dragon age #dragon age cole #dragon age inquisition #dai #colemance #where the light enters #Welcome to the last chill chapter of this fic #Also I think that every time Solas gets pissed at Britches for being a liar and a trickster Cole just stares at him for several minutes #Hypocrite of the year

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panchulien · 3 months ago

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I’m looking for an animal metaphor for Makarov, and it got me thinking— what big cat do you think fits him the most? He’s too chaotic to be a dog, and too sly to pull off a lion… I lean towards a snow leopard (which sounds ridiculous cause they’re so cute) but listen. You look at a snow leopard and it’s just. That’s Vova!!!!

Thoughts? XD

I mean, the animals off the top of my head would be; Wolf... Fox... Black Cat... Snake... and perhaps even a Crow? Maybe I'm just going from vibes and reputation of said animals... But personality wise? Despite his huge wolf tattoo on the back, him having a literal Wolf Furry Skin and that tattoo on his stomach about wolves and forests, I'd say he'd be a fox..? Not a cat, but I'd settle on fox. (totally not biased from my favorite animal) but hey, personality checks out.

BUT ALSSOOOOO LISTEN. LISTEN IF YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT REBOOT MAKAROV, THEN SNOW LEOPARD I CAN SEE. Because Reboot Makarov is also adorable. 🥰 Cute and deadly. Not sure about the personality, but visually YES I see it.

09 and 23 Makarov are both different beasts. I would pair 09 with Crows and Snakes. (oh. a Van Cat with two different colored eyes. Hahaha. White fur and pretty as hell too. That works too imo) 23 a bit more feral... Either cat or a canine... A predator for sure.

Wouldn't it be funny if he was a prey, though? Poetic, I think. Really depends on where and how you want to use these animal metaphors, my friend. I could go on and on, but please do elaborate if you'd like. 🥰

Van Cat!! 09 Makarov!!!!

#i love this ask #feel free to expand on it #vladimir makarov #answered

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blues824 · 2 years ago

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I love the way you write the headcanons about the First Years + Ortho going to the reader's world! Could you do the same with the Second Years, please?

Riddle Rosehearts

Favorite Country/City: He would love to go visit Stratford-Upon-Avon in England, as he is one to enjoy being in the city of one of the most famous playwrights and authors in history: William Shakespeare. Also, there is tea available at most shops, so he will still be able to follow the Queen of Hearts’ rules.

Favorite Cuisine/Dish: Again, his favorite dish is strawberry tarts, and they apparently originate in France as tarts were used to showcase the seasonal not-berries. That aside, he also does appreciate French cuisine as a whole.

Favorite Drink: Again, he enjoys tea, but I think he would like strawberry lemonade. More specifically, the strawberry lemonade from those restaurants that put those slices of strawberries into the drink.

Favorite Souvenir: A small Shakespeare bust that he can place on a bookshelf as a book holder.

Favorite Singers/Songs: He absolutely loves classical music, specifically from the Classical Era. He prefers the classics: Bach, Beethoven, Marianna Martines, etc. Favorite song would be Für Elise, by Ludwig van Beethoven.

Favorite Movie: The Phantom of the Opera, but the 1927 silent film version.

Ruggie Bucchi

Favorite Country/City: I originally was going to say that he would have liked Luxembourg because it’s one of the richest countries in the world, but I decided that would be too easy. I feel like he would love to go to Cairo in Egypt. It’s very rich in history and culture, and I’ve heard they have good food (someone confirm, plz).

Favorite Cuisine/Dish: His favorite food is donuts, and I looked it up and they apparently originate from either Ancient Greece/Rome or Medieval Arab chefs. That being said, either cuisines (Greek, Italian, or Middle Eastern) would be his favorite. He has a very diverse palate.

Favorite Drink: Depending on if he prefers coffee or tea, he would like either Mazboot or even Zjada coffee, or karkade (please correct me on any of this, I am not from the Middle East and have never been so if it’s incorrect you can tell me. Got this info from online).

Favorite Souvenir: A small, handmade pot that he found at one of the markets. He thought it looked interesting and thus purchased it. The vendor was really kind as well.

Favorite Singers/Songs: This is kind of hard, but AMERICAN HORROR SHOW by SNOW WIFE would be his favorite, meaning hyperpop would be his favorite genre. He gives me TikTok boy vibes for some reason, and he would also like most songs that popped up on his FYP.

Favorite Movie: Lion King, and I’m not trying to be funny. He just likes the “It’s not funny, Ed”, where Ed erupts even more into laughter. It makes him snicker a bit as well. Maybe I was trying to be funny.

Azul Ashengrotto

Favorite Country/City: He would love the township of Cavendish in Prince Edward Island, Canada. It’s got the ocean, it’s got the small town vibes, and it inspired L.M. Montgomery’s fictional town of Avonlea in Anne of Green Gables. Speaking of, he would totally resonate with Anne because they both entered a society that they weren’t knowledgeable of the norms of.

Favorite Cuisine/Dish: Because he loves fried chicken, I would say his favorite cuisine is that of the Southern United States. You can’t go wrong with coleslaw, cornbread, green beans, mashed potatoes, and Southern hospitality.

Favorite Drink: Iced Tea, specifically from the Southern states as well. If we’re talking about cocktails, then Long Island Iced Tea would be his go-to. However, he prefers to drink at home because he doesn’t have to call anyone to pick him up.

Favorite Souvenir: It’s stated that he likes collecting coins, so yeah.

Favorite Singers/Songs: This man loves Elvis Presley’s music, and no one can fight me on this. He’s a bit of a hopeless romantic, so he loves either Heartbreak Hotel or Can’t Help Falling in Love is his favorite song.

Favorite Movie: Romeo and Juliet, the one starring Leonardo DiCaprio. The movie’s great, the actor not so much. He’s a bit of a hopeless romantic, as I stated before, so he would very much like a Romeo to his Juliet. Mans wants to be in a tower with a window sill and he wants someone to be standing below to talk to in a romantic way.

Jade Leech

Favorite Country/City: He loved going scuba diving in the Mariana Trench, and since the Trench is located between Hawaii and the Philippines, I think he would love staying in the Philippines. The city he favors would be Boracay, even though it’s in the middle of the Philippine Islands and a bit further from the East.

Favorite Cuisine/Dish: His favorite dish is octopus carpaccio, and it’s kind of obvious that it’s Italian. He does enjoy Italian cuisine as a whole as well. However, if we are taking the octopus components of the dish, then I believe he would also be a lover of Japanese cuisine.

Favorite Drink: It is recommended that with octopus carpaccio, you should have a Pinot noir, and he agrees. However, if he’s just going to a bar, he would order a limoncello spritz. It’s typically a post-dinner drink, and he likes the lemon flavor along with the kind-of-like-soda, kind-of-like-wine game that the drink offers him.

Favorite Souvenir: He loves smaller, easily portable trinkets, so as basic as it is he loves collecting keychains and magnets. His favorite keychain is a shell that had a hole in it, and a small child actually handed it to him out of nowhere. He got a ring and attached it to his backpack.

Favorite Singers/Songs: His favorite song is 24 / 7 / 365, by Surfaces. It’s laidback, it’s chill, and he likes it. Songs that remind him of the beach are ones that he likes. He plays it when he’s attending to his terrariums.

Favorite Movie: Jaws, and none of the sequels. All the sequels suck. He has watched the first Jaws so many times that he sings along with Quint when he starts singing “Farewell and Adieu You Fair Spanish Ladies”.

Floyd Leech

Favorite Country/City: He wants to go places where he can do things whenever it strikes him. He would also want to go somewhere with clear water. Thus, I believe he would love to go to Tahiti. There’s a market, he can go scuba diving with whales and sharks, he can go surfing, he can go to the museum, and if he wants to stay in his hotel room then he can.

Favorite Cuisine/Dish: His favorite dish is Takoyaki, so I think it’s safe to assume that he likes Japanese cuisine. However, it is stated that shiitake mushrooms come from mountainous regions in China, Japan, Indonesia, and Taiwan, so he likes any dishes without the mentioned mushrooms.

Favorite Drink: As funny as it is, Sex on the Beach, as it’s a summer drink that he loves to enjoy on the beach. Also, he has the emotional maturity of a 7th grade boy, and the name was hilarious to him.

Favorite Souvenir: Two little figurines of a guy and a girl dancing with each other. They fit together in a way that was complex, making it a puzzle of sorts.

Favorite Singers/Songs: Either Laffy Taffy or Sneaky Link 2.0 are his favorite songs. This man is searching for his Mrs. Bubblegum. He is looking to be somebody’s sneaky link. He lives for drama, and no one can tell me otherwise.

Favorite Movie: The Meg, because who doesn’t love a giant, prehistoric shark that escapes from the gaseous layer at the bottom of the Mariana Trench? He has sharp teeth like the megalodon, and he likes the jumpscare where the shark jumps up.

Kalim Al-Asim

Favorite Country/City: He loves tropical areas, but he loved the Bahamas and the capital of Nassau the most. The resort there was great, and the people were very friendly. It was a laid back time, and it was not even a five minute walk to the beach. Plus, coconuts grow there apparently (correct me if I’m wrong), and coconut juice is his favorite food.

Favorite Cuisine/Dish: A lot of Thai food, specifically the desserts, use the flesh of the coconut, so I think I have substantial evidence to say that he does like Thai food. He would be very hesitant to try Thai curry, though… unless he had somebody to try it with him.

Favorite Drink: Piña Colada, doesn’t matter if it’s virgin or not. He loves the song that accompanies it as well. Anyways, the drink is a very fruit-filled drink. He thinks it’s the right amount of sweetness, so he loves to enjoy it.

Favorite Souvenir: A singular photograph, as he somehow found himself involved in a volunteer program and he took a picture with children from one of the villages he was volunteering at.

Favorite Singers/Songs: He also likes songs that remind him of the beach, and I stated that he probably likes the song Escape (The Piña Colada Song), but it’s not his favorite. His favorite song would be Celebration, by Maffio, Farruko, and Akon (feat. Ky-Mani Marley).

Favorite Movie: I have a feeling that he would love the movie Shrek. It’s funny, a lot of memes have been made from all the movies, all the sequels are great. What’s not to love about the movie(s)?

Jamil Viper

Favorite Country/City: He gives me a vibe that I resonate with on the historical front, so I would think he would like to visit somewhere in the Middle East, as that is where ancient Mesopotamia was. Specifically, he would love to visit Ur, in Iraq. Not only is it located in a desert (familiar territory), but it’s one of (if not the) first cities in the world.

Favorite Cuisine/Dish: Unlike Kalim, he loves curry, so that gives me reason to believe that he would enjoy Indian cuisine the most. Syrian food comes in second for him (I spend a lot of time at my friend’s Syrian house and they make good food… I’m hungry now).

Favorite Drink: This was difficult, but I feel like he would move towards margaritas, and not just because of the song. Because curry can be spicy, I would say he likes a spicy margarita as well. His favorite non-alcoholic drink would be a mangonada.

Favorite Souvenir: All the books he picked up to learn different languages. He learned along the way as well, and all of the books have annotations within them so he has them for future reference.

Favorite Singers/Songs: He likes breakdancing, so he likes any song he can breakdance to. I am not very involved within this genre of music, so after doing some research I have come to the conclusion that he would love the song The Witch, by the Bamboos.

Favorite Movie: Footloose, as it’s a movie about dancing and rock music being banned. He saw it because it looked interesting, and he learned the Footloose dance. Also, the song Holdin’ Out For a Hero makes him feel like he wants to be someone’s hero.

Silver

Favorite Country/City: Carrickfergus, as it holds the Carrickfergus Castle. It may be a Norman castle, but it’s because of the history (and the fact that he may be based off of both the Princess and the Prince and thus deserves a castle {personal opinion}) that he enjoys his time in the town.

Favorite Cuisine/Dish: This is the first time I’ve actually dove into investigating Silver’s likes and dislikes, and apparently he likes mushroom risotto, which is thought to originate from the Italian region of Lombardy.

Favorite Drink: He strikes me as the type to like wine, and not the bitter stuff. He likes sweeter wines, especially white wines as they pair nicely with the risotto he loves.

Favorite Souvenir: A journal, in which he writes about his many journeys around the world.

Favorite Singers/Songs: I think he is a Swiftie. That being said, his favorite song would be Love Story, as he is looking for his Juliet. However, he is not one of those over-excited fans who will tear someone up for saying they don’t like Taylor Swift’s songs. He will just judge them quietly.

Favorite Movie: Gladiator, partially for the plot, partially for Russel Crowe. It reminds him of the training he had to go through as a knight.

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