#raze the old to raise the new

[mediumgayitalian]

In his head he is brave enough to say it: gods, you are beautiful in the moonlight. He is. He has made Nico weak in the knees since they were fifteen and new and fragile as spun glass, and he does now. In the moonlight his radiance is much subtler; he is opal and pearl and quartz, he is shining and multifaceted.

Instead he traces the bob of Will’s throat, his long, freckly neck, cratered with burn scars and cupped with a raised white scar from years of endless picking; follows the wild winding wisps of his hair, barely held back by his old sunglasses, compressed in coils around his head like a pen spring squished to the size of its threads, creaking with the weight of its own potential energy, brimming with the imagined burst of its future; memorizes the fluttering flap of his feathering eyelashes, the delicate dips of his deepened Cupid’s bow, the roughened raze of his wide rowdy hands. All of him is in motion, always, but now especially, hands twitching on the wheel, head thrown back, mouth wide and shaking along with his shoulders.

“I really like your laugh,” and it’s quick, vowels tumbling over each other and tripping the consonants, a queue of clumsy hopefuls scrambling over shoulders and clasping hands. The pretty laughter fades and arched eyebrows replace it, poorly hidden surprise, twitching smile lines, and Nico looks deliberately forward, mortification cackling along each of his wire-tense muscles, dancing along the shimmering heat of his face. “It’s. Wide.”

“Wide?” asks Will carefully, craning his neck to glance in his blind spot, whispering chuckles dancing along to the beat of the blinker.

“Wide,” Nico confirms, flicking out his hands. His fingers are not nearly as long, nor as wiry or corded, but the scarring is mirrored. Nicks and scratches and burn marks and calluses, topographic maps of time spent.

Will’s turn is successful — the strawberry baskets dip dangerously from their precarious perch on backseats, but don’t fall, shifting over and around each other to burst tiny globules of stretched taut flesh, rubbing against rough reed ribbons. Nico inhales deeply, and the sweet is almost nauseating, summer fruit twisting in the air along with lavender body wash and Blistex and Texas summer sun.

“You take up space.”

“My laugh?”

Laughter in his words in his hands in his skin, in his eyes, in the coils of his hair, in his grass-stained heels, in the bends of his scar-bleached knees. In the dancing dots of his face arms chest legs. In the dip of his bottom lip, crater under his too-big front teeth. In the jut of his crooked spine and wide hips.

“What about my laugh?”

It is in his words more often than not and in Nico’s dreams even more so. It curls around the blurry edges of his dreams and weaves into daisy-strong chains, dangling from the too-high ceilings of his nightmares, coiling around his arms and chest and back and yanking with the force of breaking ribs, the force of bellows, the force of clasped bloodless hands. Dragging him across trench gouged ground to bright light and clear air and the distant memory of summer rain.

“That you like, I mean.”

“It’s snorting,” Nico confesses. Will reddens, and Nico smiles, under the heat of it grows sunflower and dandelion and tinted brown-eyes Susans. “Um. Loud.”

“Geez,” Will grumbles, “tell a guy the truth, why don’t you.”

Nico has never seen gold under silver nightlight and it fascinates him, how Will sparks and shimmers, how when the sun sets it does not fade away. How the tiny specks of precious metal weave through him like tinsel and glow in veins of sweet summer memory; how the warm night billows and blows around him lovingly, how the breeze from the open window greets him like a precious grandchild, a beloved nephew. Seedchild; beloved of the earth and sun, performer under the moon, the stars.

Will’s wide hands inch across the dash, brushing over the ancient radio dials and dipping over the skipping cassette, pausing by the base of the gearshift and resting, limply, palm open, fingers cracked and spread. Knuckles popping and chittering amongst themselves, hiding in the bent hoods of wrinkled skin. Nico lowers his heavy hands on the heated hopeful hesitance, curling his cool fingers around much longer ones, and squeezing, once, twice, thrice.

“I like your laugh,” he repeats. He rolls his shoulders, hands flexing, twitching, pulling.

Will’s hand tightens. The road opens up and the Atlantic glimmers beside them, moon whispering to its rippling waves, and he smiles, grins, wider than before, and he is laughing, again, and it is wider even this time, as wide as the sparkling silver water.

“I hear you.”

He squeezes.

You are beautiful in the moonlight. You are beautiful all the time.

Nico squeezes back.

[florencemtrash]

Flame, Shadow, Beast : Flame

Azriel x Reader x Eris

Summary: Years after Eris frees you from his father’s prison, you’ve managed to find a new love, new friends, and build a life for yourself in Autumn. But when a certain Shadowsinger stumbles upon your home, dragging in painful memories of betrayal and longing, you’ll have to face the things you left in the past and make choices about the future you want.

Warnings: Fluffy Eris x Reader and our favorite monster, Bryaxis, makes an appearance.

Flame, Shadow, Beast: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

It was a cruel irony that winning a war was the easiest part of ruling. Eris thought about it often, doubts invading his rare moments of quiet; Maybe he’d made a mistake. Maybe the lives of thousands of Autumn Court members - both those loyal to him and to his father - hadn’t been worth the weight of the crown now sitting on his head.

The wood and gold had been harvested from the body of one of the Old Gods to whom some of the rural folk still owed their ultimate allegiance; the rubies had come from a land beyond the western seas as a declaration of war back when they’d been ruled by a more ancient race of beings - the predecessors to the Blood Rubies the Summer Court was so fond of doling out. Eris wondered if he’d ever get used to carrying so much history on his body. 

The sun had barely crested over the treetops, blanketing the forest floor with streams of liquid gold, when he came across your village. The first fae he saw - a female with short elk horns extending gracefully from her temples - nearly dropped her basket at the sight of him. Eris gently bowed his head in greeting and her face flushed as crimson as the red garment dye that stained her hands. 

“My High Lord,” She breathed out, dropping to her knees despite the prickling straw that perpetually littered the roads.

Heads of varying shades of chestnut and scarlet appeared behind closed windows like candlights. During the harvest months everyone woke and slept with the sun. 

One by one fae streamed out of their homes, each of them carrying tribute in the form of freshly baked bread, baskets of apples and peaches, sheepskin cloaks, and barrels of mead. 

“Stand.” Eris gently commanded them as they fell to their knees, “We’re just passing through.” He could see the hesitation in their eyes. They feared disrespecting him. 

Eight years of being High Lord and he had yet to perfect the delicate balance between distance and familiarity with his people. 

Halvor coughed from beside him, eyes raised from beneath the shadow of his bronze helm.

Get off your horse and talk to them. His eyes said, repeating the mantra that you liked to say around the royal pair.

Eris understood and dismounted with grace and power. With his scarlet and gold riding cloak, flaming hair, and ruby crown he looked like the spirit of Autumn come to life - all sharp edges and burning stoicism. He was a living fire.

But fire could give warmth as much as pain - nurture and grow as much as it could raze the world to the ground. So Eris took his time to speak with the people. He sampled their mead and ale, complimented the pixies who wove threads of warm oranges, yellows, and reds with their nimble fingers, and visited the rolling fields of corn, barley, and wheat that waved in the brisk breeze. The gray-tinged sky above tasted of power and freedom. 

Under Beron’s reign, the fruits of the fields would have fallen entirely under the purview of the High Lord with little remaining for the people who tended the long grasses. Now that they were allowed to own their own land and keep what was due to them, the air was lighter here, happier. It was the first harvest in a long time where they’d feel comfortable enough to celebrate properly.

The mask ebbed away, leaving him feeling lighter than he had in ages as he walked through a town.

A familiar face stared out from behind the small crowd that had gathered by the wheat fields. Talk of this year’s harvest festival rose in the air until everyone could taste the spiced rum, roasted pistachios, caramelized apples, and pumpkin with fresh cream on their tongues. It was still months away, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t get excited now. 

Eris broke away - an easy task when they parted ways for him like a hot knife through butter - and approached your smiling figure.

“I was wondering what was taking you so long.” You said, clasping your hands behind your back and smiling at Eris.

“So you came all this way just to investigate?” Eris arched his brow. You were no stranger to these people (and much beloved), but you preferred to keep to your little cottage beyond the town.

“Surprisingly, yes. For you, I would come all this way. And,” You shook the small parcel in your arm, “For Aliona’s candles.”

He grinned and offered you his arm, which you accepted, and quietly began to walk back to where Halvor had been dutifully waiting with the horses… and taking more than a few samples of drinks from beside his stead. 

“I also wanted to make sure he hadn’t killed you in your sleep yet.” You said, tilting your head towards his brother. 

“Careful, Y/n.”

Halvor was the youngest of Autumn’s trueborn sons, and had grown to become Eris’s second over the course of the war and the years that followed. Cruelty was still hammered into his bones - a disfiguring mark left by their father - but disloyalty was not one of his many negative traits. He’d been the only one to come to Eris’s aid in the war, and subsequently the last of Eris’s brothers to survive. That counted for something in your book.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it seriously, but I could’ve poked fun in a better way.” You said softly, gently leaning into his side. He forgave you quickly. He could never stay angry at you - he wasn’t even sure it was possible.

Halvor tipped his head towards you, eyes the color of freshly brewed coffee staring at you with mischief.

“My Lady.” He said half-mockingly, sweeping out his arm into a shallow bow. 

You rolled your eyes. “How many times have I told you not to call me that?”

“Why not? Is my brother not a good enough romp for you? If you want better company I could-” 

Eris cut off his words with a growl of warning. Halvor only tipped his head back and laughed - a grating sound that eight years of peace under Eris’s rule still hadn’t managed to file away.

“We’ll be walking to her home from here.” Eris said, slipping into his High Lord voice, “Try and keep your distance and be on the lookout.” Halvor nodded, turning serious at the shift in his brother’s voice. There were countless enemies who would be happy to snatch the crown away from a new, as of yet untested, High Lord.

He followed obediently, keeping his distance as you and Eris both bade farewell to the townspeople. 

You lived on a patch of land too far to even be considered the outskirts of town, but you were a familiar face to everyone. A healer by trade and Eris’s most trusted advisor and friend, you were the one they called upon in the dead of night when evil whispered nearby or sickness fell upon them. 

Evaldre, they called you in one of the Old Tongues. The exact meaning had been lost to time, but it spoke of someone cherished and highly regarded. Some of the bold ones even went so far as to call you “Our High Lady.” 

Ten years ago uttering those words would have meant the swift swing of a sword on one’s neck. If High Lord Eris knew of it, he never seemed to mind.

Bryaxis waited for you on your doorstep, pleasantly lounging in a patch of light and watching the gentle fall of crisp leaves from the trees above. Both Eris and Halvor’s horses groaned low in their throats, hooves pressing into the soil to stop before the clearing. Halvor whistled at them to move forward, but they refused.

“It’s that devil dog of yours,” Halvor said, dismounting and tying off the pair on a low hanging elm branch, “Makes them anxious.”

He whispered words of comfort to them, sliding his hands along their thick necks until they stopped bucking against the reins. Eris had his dogs and Halvor had his horses.

“He’ll stay inside then. Wouldn’t want you to have to walk back to the Forest House with your tail between your legs because you lost the horses.”

Eris smirked when Halvor threw an obscene gesture your way. 

The dog in question, black as night with shining silver-blue eyes, stretched and nuzzled into your outstretched hand as you reached your front door, Eris following closely behind. 

“Will you be long?” Halvor called out to Eris, raising his eyebrows suggestively with his hyena grin. 

“Go home if you’re so impatient. I can make it back on my own.”

“I’ll wait til noon.” If Eris was finished by then, it would mean they took care of business… if Eris wasn’t finished by then, it would mean they were taking care of other business, business Halvor would do no good sticking around for. He snorted at the thought, then lost himself in imagining the other females he might be able to seduce back at the Forest House.

You both passed through the enchantments woven into the wood of your home, feeling a rush of power pour over you like water over stone. 

Eris snapped his fingers and the candles you’d placed on your dining table and mantle burst to life, fluttering about like dancers. The fireplace followed suit, sending a wave of warmth throughout the house. Firelight bounced off the rich velvet and creams that adorned your home - a cleaner mimic of the Autumn lands that existed behind the walls and flooded in through the open windows.

The Forest House was a place of luxury, massive enough that it would take you an entire morning just to walk from one end to another, and filled to the brim with treasures of gold, bronze, and enough precious jewels to sink a ship. It was a palace fit for a High Lord. But this was a home, so he took off his crown and hung up his cloak.

“What happened to him?” Eris said, kneeling on the ground and giving Bryaxis a well-deserved scratch behind the ears. The millennia-old creature closed his eyes in satisfaction. “The last time I saw him he was a cat.”

You chuckled, bustling about in the kitchen for a tea set that would match and piling pastries on a plate. The smell of browned butter and strawberry rhubarb jam waltzed in the air.

“He’s been experimenting with new forms.” You said, smugness and pride warming your chest. Not so long after Eris had freed you from the mountain and given you a new home, Bryaxis had found you, drawn to your power. Twin bargain tattoos snaked up from the bridges of your feet to your ankles like vines up a trellis - the first promised that you would do no harm to one another in exchange for dual protection, the second allowed you to take a portion of his power, giving him to opportunity to mold his being into a form that could experience the world in a more physical sense. 

Gone was the shapeless creature of shadow and nightmares. Enter Bryaxis the wolf-dog (and occasional housecat) who still radiated enough power to scare away any creature (wicked or otherwise) that dared to disturb the peace of their home. But he could curl up by the windows and watch the night sky uninhibited, and in his heart he was a creature of violence and simplicity in equal measure.

“I like this one better than the cat.” Eris said with a grin, for the monster had copied the shape of one of his prized hunting dogs. Bryaxis seemed to growl in appreciation when Eris straightened up.

He sighed in contentment, feeling the stress of his crown melt away when you wrapped your arms around his middle, burying your face in the crook of his neck and breathing in the scent of cedar, smoke, and cinnamon.

“Hello.” He murmured softly, turning in your arms and pressing his lips against your forehead.

“Hello.” You whispered, brushing your lips against his with a sigh, “I missed you. Where have you been all this time?” The finished reports on your desk, much like your empty bed, had been waiting patiently for Eris’s next visit.

He hesitated, pulling away to look at you. He brushed aside a few stray strands of hair that had fallen out of your braid. “The Night Court.”

You stiffened, “Keir?” 

He shook his head, frowning, “Rhysand.” 

You blinked, and he saw darkness pass through your eyes. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wasn’t sure how you’d take it.” 

Twelve years. 

You’d been Beron’s prisoner for decades before. Then you’d escaped and managed a couple of years of peace. You’d found a home and a family… or so you thought. And then twelve years ago you’d been betrayed - handed back to the now deceased High Lord on a silver platter and trapped beneath the mountain for four years. It made your blood boil to think about the people who helped put you there. 

“You’ve been dealing with them for years now,” You forced out in a diplomatic tone, “It’s good for you to have allies, especially strong ones like them.”

“Y/n-”

“You should've told me. I don’t want you to worry about my feelings when it comes to these things. Autumn comes first and-”

“I’ll always worry about you.” Eris said, tilting your chin up and catching the moisture gathering in your eyes that you’d furiously tried to blink away, “And there’s no choice between you and my Court. You belong here. To protect Autumn - to protect you - are the same thing, my love.” 

Your cheeks burned at the careful way he spoke, the sincerity in his voice he reserved solely for you in moments like this.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Y/n. I promise it won't happen again."

Fury burned in his stomach, a continuation of the anger that had steadily been eating away at his patience during his visit to the Night Court. To see the Inner Circle look so safe and happy in the bubble they’d carved for themselves in Velaris, naive to the pain and suffering they’d caused you, had made him want to burn The House of Wind to the ground. Alliance be damned. 

He hated them nearly as much as he had hated his own father. 

“I don’t want to think about them.” You declared, setting your jaw and smoothing away the lines of anger that had formed on Eris’s forehead, “To hell with them.” 

Eris smirked, loving the determination that settled in your eyes as you dragged him over to the living room and finished setting up the tea that had started to whistle on the stovetop. You would carve out a space for yourself in this world and be happy, even if it killed you.

“To hell with them.” He repeated.

Business and pleasure. The two were impossible for him to separate, which is why he cherished time spent with you. The pair of you spoke easily together, seamlessly transitioning from discussions of grain reports, treaties, and trade deals to banter about the Harvest Festival and the latest court gossip. Halvor was long gone, and Bryaxis off hunting, when the talking ceased and Eris found himself comfortably spread out on your velvet couch, shirt unbuttoned, and head resting in your lap as you wove your fingers through his hair.

He opened his eyes, lazy and slow, and quietly took in your features - the slope of your nose, the gentle curves of your cheeks and lips as you smiled at him, the contentment in your eyes that shifted into deep thought. 

He waited for you to share them with him.

“I’ve been thinking about your proposal.” You said carefully and he froze beneath your hands.

“You-you have?” Eris swallowed and sat up, keeping his distance even as he dared to hope. You’d both been keeping your relationship secret, visiting each other under the guise of court business and court business only. It had certainly started out that way, but things had quickly shifted into something far more intimate and worthy of secrecy… Then Eris had asked if it could stop being so secret.

You nodded, searching his face for something more than the neutral mask every High Lord learned to master. 

You moved onto his lap, laying your hands on the sides of his face as his eyes widened ever so slightly, “My answer is yes.” 

“Yes?” He asked in disbelief. 

Yes to living with him. Yes to going to court with him. Yes to showing the world that he was not alone in his duty. Yes to being by his side wherever either of you went.

No more hiding in this house on the outskirts. No more being afraid of what had happened in the past. No more loneliness.

“Yes.” 

He shuddered under your touch and suddenly he was everywhere. His hands roamed the expanse of your back, pulling at the fabric of your bodice. Red locks as vivid as flame got knotted beneath your fingers, and his body pressed flush against yours, desperate for any contact as his chest continued to shake with laughter. 

You stayed with him on that couch, neither of you wanting to bother with the effort of walking the extra twenty steps to your bedroom, as articles of clothing were hastily torn off and allowed to float onto the floor in crumples of fabric.

A growl from just outside your front door, low and gravelly enough to shake the ground, woke the two of you up. The sun was kissing the horizon on its way down, lateral rays of light streaming through the window and splashing onto the bookshelves and walls like gold paint. Eris groaned with displeasure, pulling you flush against his chest when you dared to draw yourself up on your arms to look at the door. 

You giggled against him, pulling a rare smile from his lips when he felt your laughter. 

He was all warmth and color beneath you as you shouted at Bryaxis to give you more time alone. He could practically hear the rolling of eyes with the huff that Bryaxis gave out. But he eventually trotted away to find a patch of soft grass from which to watch the sun set.

“It’s good to know a murderous beast like him still has a sense of humor.” Eris quipped, practically humming with pleasure when you melted into him. “You would know. You can be funny sometimes.” 

“Sometimes?!”

“Sometimes!” 

“You must give me more credit than that.”

“I will not.”

“You must. Your High Lord demands it.” Eris said, puffing out his chest and deepening his voice.

“Your High Lord demands it.” You parroted in a silly voice that made Eris chuckle and kiss you again.

You laid in the silence for as long as you could, until the sun was once again buried in the ground and the calls of the Forest House could not be ignored. With every piece of clothing Eris pulled back on his body, the vulnerable joy that came from being with you seemed to dim. 

Was he a lovesick fool for asking you to come to court and be with him? Was the protection of a High Lord worth the dangers that came with it? Lucien had been the first of their brothers to fall in love and he had paid for it dearly. Sometimes Eris had nightmares that you would suffer the same fate.

Eris watched you as you laced up your bodice with quick fingers, fixed your hair, and smoothed your skirts. You looked heavenly in the light of the fire. You were everything he could have dreamed of and more… because you were real… and you loved him as fiercely as he loved you. Which meant he could lose you.

“Y/n.” He whispered your name like a prayer, drawing your attention. You drew close to him, pressing your forehead against his as he took a deep breath, “What you’re agreeing to… you know what it will mean, don’t you?”

You closed your eyes and nodded. This was no light decision and it was why you’d taken three months to come up with an answer for him. 

“It will mean people will come for me, and never stop coming for me, just to hurt you and to hurt this Court.” Eris flinched, but you wouldn’t let him open his mouth to dissuade you. You’d given this much thought, and your decision was made.

“It will mean constant scrutiny from the other Lords and Ladies. A life spent in a house known for its history of cruelty and disloyalty. A life that will never fully be my own.”

Eris was beginning to think he’d truly made a terrible mistake in asking you to be with him. But before that cold mask of his could fall over his features, you grasped his face in yours hands and forced him to look at you.

“But it will also mean a chance to be with you. A chance to lead alongside the first person to give me a real home - a real family. A chance to continue to build and protect what I love. I love you, Eris, and I love Autumn, and I’ll be damned if I don’t protect what I love.”

Eris clenched his teeth, holding back the emotion that threatened to spill out like a ruptured damn.

“I won’t be like this at the Forest House.” He said, hating the truth of the words that fell off his tongue, “I won’t be able to show who I truly am when I’m around others, at least not for now. They’ll call you foolish, or cruel, or wicked for being with me. I can’t promise you an established and worthy court. I-”

“Then we’ll build it ourselves.” You said fiercely, pouring your power into the words, “We’ll build a new court, a new life for ourselves and everyone here. I know you’ll do everything you can to fix things, even if it breaks you.” You whispered the next words reverently against his lips, “Let me help you. Let me do it with you.” 

Eris let the tears run rivers down his cheeks, even as he set his jaw, and stared resolutely into your eyes.

“Let’s do it then. Together.”

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______

Author's note:

*shouts from the mountaintops* I just want Eris to be happy! And I want him to have someone he trusts that can rule alongside him!

That's it. That's the note. Oh and let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters.

Love,

Florence B.

Taglist: @nightless @mmb-09 @thesnugglingduck @cleverzonkwombatsludge @kemillyfreitas @logankemaek @the-sweet-psycho @a-frog-with-a-laptop @flameandshadowx @applerubyy

[swordbisexual]

give it to me

A little smutty Vissenta/Lae'zel excerpt from chapter four of my current longfic/novelization in progress, Fear It Not. As a treat. 1.4k words

--

This is a hideous place.

Lae’zel knows that it does not do to dwell on the sum of her misfortunes, and so she does not bother with self-pity. She simply states the facts to herself: the damp dirt beneath her feet is disgusting, as is the moisture that hangs in the air. There is too much light, even when the sun has set, and the shadows are too soft at the edges. It is in these facts, this loathsome litany, that she sharpens her focus and keeps her sights set forward on her own mandate.

Find a creche. Purge the filth. Become pure once more, rid of the parasite and all its excesses, all the glimpses of confused, muddled emotion that weigh down these istik and make them weak.

And yet… they compel her. Their foibles, their weak spots left open for poking and prodding, all draw her with a grotesque curiosity much like that which drove her to exhaust the slates in the library of K’liir. It is the same curiosity that saw her reaching for the scraps of knowledge one could find amidst razing and reaving, snatching up crude writings before they met the same bloody end as those who scratched them out, and the vague, bothersome little thrill of shame that always accompanied the act.

It is curiosity that drives her to maddening distraction as their sorry excuse for a unit - hardly even that, with not a soldier among them, save for perhaps one - gathers around the fire to eat. The wizard has drawn up a decent meal; nothing as succulent as neogi claws, but the meat is seasoned well enough, and she is too ravenous to care. She must sate herself, and keep up her strength, if they are to find her kin and find a cure.

Perhaps it is hunger, then, that drives her to this madness. Her blood courses through her, more vibrantly and violently than ever before, and she has never felt herself tingle and warm as she does when she meets the warrior cleric’s stare from across the circle. It is the same hair-raising pleasure that she feels in the heat of battle, the same quiet disgrace that tickles the base of her skull when she devours the crude scrawl of Toril’s Common tongue. There was no fear in her eyes, green as the fecund wilds that surround them, when she agreed to a night’s pleasure. There was only knowing, as if she knew exactly why Lae’zel came to her in the first place.

Knowledge. It is knowledge, filthy and forbidden, that lures her to their assignation. It is knowledge she seeks to obtain, here in this cool stone structure. Knowledge, and knowledge alone. She seeks to know the feeling of taking pleasure from one who is not of her own kin, insight that she knows should be beneath her but is, instead, an irresistible itch she can’t help but scratch.

The istik waits for her inside the ruin, now stripped of her armor and still smelling of dust and blood beneath the handfuls of river water she’d splashed on her face and arms before taking her dinner. Vissenta is soft, just like all who inhabit this soft and sluggish place, but she carries the scent of honed-sharp resolve beneath, and the unmistakable odor of need and desire. 

It is enough to drive her out of her right mind.

Lae’zel tamps down the madness, gathers her detachment, and nods. “I lead.”

She does not know what to expect. Any other from this camp would be promptly cowed into obedience, this she knows, but Vissenta? There is defiance in her stance, the sort of stupid bravery that Lae’zel both wants to push down and draw up, to break apart so that she might truly admire its glittering shine from the inside out. And so she is pleased, when Vissenta looks from her eyes to her mouth, then takes a step forward as she loosens the laces of her own shirt and pulls it over her head. Beneath the fabric, that soft flesh is mottled with bruises and streaked with scratches both old and new, with plenty of room left for Lae’zel to add more. 

Vissenta lifts one eyebrow. “We’ll see.”

After disposing of her own leathers, Lae’zel takes of her first, leaning in to graze her teeth and press her tongue to the sweat-salt skin of Vissenta’s throat, to feel the insistent, jumping thrum of her pulse at the place where it beats hardest. She tastes more than satisfactory; something in that musky tang goes right to Lae’zel’s head, making it light, making her dizzy without warning. It disarms her, which makes her angry, so angry. Her fingers curl beneath Vissenta’s jaw, and she jerks her chin down to hold her head in place, holding her gaze forward. “You will see.” She watches those unsightly round pupils blow wide, feels a whoosh of air from that too-large nose, hears a sighing whine from the throat she just tasted. Her own center warms with the pleasure of command, and she gives another, testing the weight of its power. “And you will taste, until I am sated.”

She expects the other woman to kneel, and for an instant, she thinks she might. Instead, Vissenta hooks her fingers around the leather strap that lies between Lae’zel’s breasts and pulls, yanking her close, pressing parted lips to to her pursed ones in a kiss so forceful that Lae’zel’s teeth feel like they might bruise the inside of her mouth. Vissenta sinks her blunt teeth into Lae’zel’s lower lip, digging a dented line into the flesh that stings. The sting fades to an ache, and in the ache, the madness returns.

When Lae’zel shoves her back, nails digging into those soft-edged cheeks, Vissenta’s grin is wide and her eyes are bright. “Well? I tasted.”

“More.” She is a foolish thing, to think she can best a warrior of K’liir’s mettle, but such a foolish grab for power is exactly what Lae’zel hoped for after all. She may not have known it. When she came here, but she knows it now, and she knows that she will have to pull for every push, to put her own muscles to work as she wrests Vissenta’s beyond her control.

They’re on the floor of the ruin now, heedless of the dirt and grass beneath them. Lae’zel does not have to sully herself in the damp and the dust; she has a perfectly adequate cushion beneath her, the rolling curves of Vissenta’s thighs and belly and shoulders obscenely lush compared to her bedroll, but still firm with power underneath.

Supple, she thinks. Succulent. Meat she will sink her own teeth into, but first…

She pins down Vissenta’s wrists first, and in the dark and the haze of heat from their bodies, those green eyes have gone nearly black. An interesting effect; the pupils of her kin do not widen so, nor do their mouths fall open in such a perfectly complementary o. Lae’zel shifts up, to hold Vissenta’s upper arms down with her knees, and she watches those darkened eyes widen as she feels the hot breath from that round mouth tremble against the place between her thighs.

Loath as she is to admit it, their bodies must be similar enough in this respect. More knowledge, more learning, more experience for her to know that she might return to this eager mouth again. Vissenta’s tongue is as strong and supple as the rest of her, and she rolls it against Lae’zel’s cleft, quick and eager. Then she hums, and the sound is nearly as maddening to Lae’zel as hot, pooling pleasure from the way it vibrates against her core.

She presses her hips forward, grinding down against Vissenta’s tongue, and is rewarded with another eager moan. Lae’zel lets out a moan of her own; she is not shy about her pleasure being known, and the sound only seems to spur Vissenta on, turning the rolling rhythm of her tongue into a sudden, sharp suckle with her whole mouth.

Lae’zel cries out low at that, and to her shock, she’s already close. Vissenta squirms beneath her, and Lae’zel darts a look over her shoulder to see that she’s rubbing her thighs together, chasing a pleasure that she’s not yet earned, not yet been granted.

Reaching down, she takes some of Vissenta’s hair at her crown and pulls it up through her fingers. “More.”

The moan she draws up with that fistful of hair hums like a sword strike, and Lae’zel takes her first orgasm of the night.

[batterknowsbetter]

I would like to draw your attention to the kind of information surge that Ukrainians have to live in:

1. a photo of a two-year-old child killed by a russian missile.

2. Jim Cummings praising zvyagintsev's films.

My sister tells me that people from the West always divide cinema and war. But I want the only thing that westerners will divided is russia.

I want to talk about zvyagintsev in a little more detail. In 2022, he gave an interview to anton dolin (this is the clown that Ridley Scott said fuck you). This interview perfectly illustrates how the so-called intellectual elite of russia is completely detached from the russian people, illustrates the terrible naivety, criminal blindness and stupidity of these people. For example, zvyagintsev says that the russians who remained in russia are hostages (oh, poor people, we from Ukraine can help with something). The mantra about the hostages is so deeply rooted in the consciousness of the so-called liberal russians. It protects them from the realization that their fellow citizens have turned into animals begging for blood. Then he says that you need to let this war into yourself (remembers Bucha and starts to cry. Ten points for acting) to accept the conflict and the words that a person tells you, because one day she will understand that she was wrong. He says that "it is not necessary to multiply the war, conflicting with people who support the war, it is necessary to listen to them." The great peacemakers, the russians, who do not want to multiply the war around them, have been turning a blind eye to theave been turning a blind eye to the annexation of Crimea and the occupation of Ukrainian territory, to the torture chambers and the sentences imposed on Crimean Tatars for eight years.

Then he asks: "Why didn't we react when we bombed Syria? Well, because it is far. And Ukraine is close and Ukrainians are close to us." That is, when Russia was razing Aleppo to the ground, it was okay, because you didn't have to pay for it, but when Ukraine was attacked and sanctions were imposed, it became inconvenient to keep silent. Remember, Syrian, the russian director does not care that his country bombed your cities, because you are not a neighboring country.

"I cannot agree with people who say that we should forget and ignore russian culture, people sitting in bomb shelters cannot think otherwise, but it will all pass." It will all pass. This cynical phrase just cracked me up.

"I don't understand to whom culture is to blame, to whom Rachmaninoff and our cinema are to blame." In front of all countries where you are your culture is used as a marker of conquest. How are the Pushkin monuments in Syria? How is the Mariupol theater is closed with a banner with Russian writers and Ukrainian artists that you want to own? Your culture is a cancer, it comes first and only death follows.

"We have nothing else to do but make movies." What about raising money for the Ukrainian Armed Forces, supporting the Ukrainian army, so that the war ends soon and Ukraine wins? No? Well, okay.

A russian director who shoots his new movie in Europe has the opportunity to do so, all he has to do is say I am against the war and all doors are open for you. Whereas some Ukrainian artists do not physically have this opportunity. At the moment, there are no Ukrainian films at Cannes, but there is a russian film. Who is to blame for a culture that shouts into a loudspeaker, trying to drown out the victim?

[sionisjaune]

journalist lewis au (seb/lewis)

There's a new journalist in the press room. He raises his pen elegantly and waits for Tom Clarkson to call on him, and when it's his turn to speak, he announces his name but not who he's working for.

"For Sebastian," he says. "Are you aware that a one hour trip in a private jet accounts for two tonnes of carbon dioxide emissions? That's anywhere from five to fourteen times more pollution per passenger than flying commercial."

Seb is comfortable behind the drivers' podium, half-drunk on champagne and victory. He leans into the microphone.

"Ah, but you haven't seen my jet," he says. "There is free alcohol and if you ask nicely a very comfortable bed in the back."

"What's free if the cost is the air our children breathe?" the journalist says.

Seb fiddles with the damp collar of his racesuit. His skin is sticky underneath. He says, "I don't have children. Still in free practice." Everyone laughs.

-

"Who was that guy?" Seb jokes with Britta over dinner, a platter of pasta between them and the remains of a charcuterie board strewn to the side. He had a funny look--a torn-up denim jacket and a thick diamond stud in each ear, shoes that belong on a basketball court rather than the bland carpet in the press room.

Later, nearly passed out in his hotel room, Seb receives a link to a Wikipedia article from Britta.

Lewis Hamilton, twenty-six and hailing from Stevenage, a town Seb has never heard of, is a Pulitzer winning journalist.

Seb almost laughs, between the white walls of his hotel room. Journalism must really be dead if Hamilton is slumming it trackside. You can sell silly season rumours for petty cash, but there's nothing to bust wide open. If Hamilton is chasing a prize-winning story, he won't find it at a Grand Prix.

-

The next race, Hamilton is absent. Seb inquires about it later, and nobody knows because nobody cares. He takes the question to Britta, and she uses her superior intellect to furnish Seb with an answer. Lewis Hamilton has been banned from all Formula 1 media activities because he asks impertinent questions.

-

Hey. I got your number from a source I'd rather not reveal, but I was hoping you could help me get into the press conference Thursday.

A text from an unknown number floats to the top of Seb's notifications.

It's Lewis Hamilton by the way.

Seb texts back. Britta's going to have his balls.

I'll see what I can do.

-

It's years later. Domenicali hates Lewis, but Seb sneaks him into the paddock every weekend. Lewis wanders between the garages taking down names and politely requesting interviews.

Lewis is a deceptively vicious reporter. There's no off the record with him—his mind is a tape recorder, and he never forgets an incriminating detail.

Seb knows he’s working on something big. It’s terrifying.

-

They're in Seb's room, a glittery suite that overlooks the Marina Bay Ferris wheel, and Seb has to ask. He has to, because Lewis won't say anything, but he's been intimating that he has the kind of story that could raze the earth and topple grand, old institutions.

"If you love racing," Seb says, "then why do you attack it?" He doesn't say: I would give this rotten sport anything, no matter how morally compromising. He doesn't say: This is my life.

"Look at me," Lewis says. Seb does. Lewis is sitting on the edge of Seb's bed, and gentle, spidery crow's feet sprout from the corners of his eyes. "Do you think I ever had a shot to make it here? Did you know I was the fastest kid by a tenth at any track, and there wasn't a single manager who ever spoke to me and my dad?"

"It's hard," Seb says. "For myself, it was hard. If Michael hadn't championed me--"

"No," Lewis says, firmly. "I need you to understand that there wasn't a chance. Not for me, and not for the other kids like me, watching Senna race on TV and desperately wanting to be him. I'm doing this for those kids, Seb. You ever wonder why half the guys on the grid are so fucking accident-prone? It's because talent is only half of it. It's money and politics and brand recognition." Lewis is breathing hard. Seb drinks in the fervour bubbling out of Lewis like he's starving for it. "I'm going to tear this whole thing down and plaster the truth on every cover in New York."

Seb can't take it anymore. His body falls towards Lewis, and the kiss is messy, unplanned and unanticipated. Lewis pulls back wetly.

"That was inappropriate," Lewis says. He slides off the bed and collects his coat from the back of the chair. The braids that Lewis habitually tucks behind his ears have fallen forwards over his cheeks. He tucks them neatly again, and his hand hovers over the door handle.

"I thought you respected me more than that," Lewis says, all clipped English syllables. "Call my assistant if you have something I can use."

[minecraftrelatedrandomness]

u/throwaway_astrorum:

AITA for leaving my closest friend to die after an argument?

Hi, this one's been weighing on my conscience for a couple of years now and I don't know who to turn to.

For context, I (22?M) was raised in a prestigious family on some island, and I have an older brother S (~27M). My parents were a couple of stuck-up snobs who showered favouritism on S when we were growing up. I always felt like the household was more of a home for S than for me because he could reach their expectations and I never could.

Eventually, when I was ~19(? I keep losing track of how time passes and I can barely remember my own birthday), I ran away without leaving a note because I knew my parents saw me as an unwanted disgrace to the family, and travelled the world alone to find a new place to call home. I couldn't until I met M, another sailor, who took me in after I explained my circumstances.

Over the months, we bonded and became extremely close. We did everything together… M felt like home to me. This was until until one stormy night.

We were tracking down an ancient treasure at sea based on some old legends and were running low on supplies. I told M that we should turn back because it was too dangerous, but we were so close to finding that treasure that M insisted on going further. This escalated into an argument where M lost his temper and told me to just leave and go back to "my perfect family" on that island, because I "had someone to depend on" back at "home", but he never did.

I was in shock at the time; I left and returned to the island I was born and razed, and I haven't heard from M since.

Thankfully, my parents were away when I returned. I tried to re-establish a life there after leaving for over a year, made some new friends and reconciled with my estranged brother S. But then some terrible news broke out about the island and I've been feeling like going back out to sea to finish what M and I started, and what happened has been weighing on my conscience again. I feel incomplete without M, yet that is the reality I am living in because of my own choices.

Be my judge and jury: AITA for abandoning my closest friend?

This post is Part 1 of the "Chronica Siderum" series.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Click here to read this on AO3 for bonus annotations.

[jiubilant]

“Come in, then,” says Irileth, gruff as ever. Then, gruffly fond: “You can use the door, you know.”

Jenassa, spidered in the other woman’s window, smiles and slips inside.

For the past three nights, since a thing with wings blazed from the clouds and razed the western watchtower, she has climbed to this high room with linens and liniment. (One part oil, one part limewater, shaken.) What comes after has become routine. Irileth’s face is no longer gaunt with pain, but she still shuts her eyes and sets her jaw when Jenassa’s hands, merciful as any good assassin’s, peel the shirt from her back to bare the bandages beneath. Tonight, these follow the shirt to the floor in a stained coil. The burns bared to the light, Jenassa notes with relief, look less like raw meat than they had the night before—and they’re cooler to the touch, though the dragonfire still festers in the skin.

But there’s something else tonight, Jenassa thinks. She traces the tense line between Irileth’s shoulders. Then she almost laughs.

“You’re worried,” she says lightly, dabbing liniment into the crease, “about the girl.”

“Of course I am.” Irileth’s bulwark of a back twitches beneath Jenassa’s hands. Jenassa does not have to see her face to see it, drawn and dangerous, roiling like a pyroclastic cloud. “An oath of fealty should be freely sworn, not—not—it was ill done of him,” she snaps, volcanic as she always is when speaking in private of her jarl, “to bequeath his own fosterling to some—thespian.”

Jenassa recalls how the girl’s face, fierce in the firelight of the Jarl’s meadhall, had flamed when she kissed the hand of her new thane. She raises an eyebrow. “She thinks it a high honor.”

“Of course she does,” Irileth grumbles. “Her head’s full of Nord nonsense.”

A lock of her hair slips free of its hard knot. Jenassa, after some deliberation, noses it aside.

“Not our Lydia,” she murmurs against the nape of the other woman’s neck. When she kisses it, soft as a shadow, she smiles to feel the stubborn shoulders sink. “Some of it is our nonsense.”

She waits. After a long, haughty pause, Irileth sighs through her nose.

“She’ll be safe at High Hrothgar,” she admits. Her voice is heavy and hoarse. She shifts as if to lean against Jenassa, then remembers the blisters and rocks forward again. “Balgruuf wants her gone before Ulfric batters down our gates.”

Jenassa stills. She stares at Irileth’s broad back—the burns glistening with balm, the old, tired muscles bunching beneath—then speaks with studied diplomacy. “So Balgruuf’s cast his lot.”

“The Legion is sending a detachment.” Irileth’s voice is brittle, now, sharp as foyada-glass underfoot. “Gods only know what we’ll feed them, if they’re not snatched by great lizards on the way. Caius has it in his head that—”

She stops. Jenassa, after a moment, hears the cause: footsteps, soft and familiar, in the hall.

Irileth rubs her forehead with a weary hand. “Didn’t want her to see this.”

“She knows,” says Jenassa in her most patient voice. “You’ve been staggering around like a draugr for—come in,” she says in Nordic to the door, before the girl starts banging.

The door creaks open. She’s taller than them now, the Jarl’s fosterling. She’s broader. Her arms are like barrels. Still, she ducks her head in the doorway with sheepish deference: their scrib, their little Lydia, whose eyes widen when she sees Irileth’s back.

“I—I came to tell you that we’re leaving tomorrow,” she says, wrestling pain and resentment from her face. She had wanted, Jenassa remembers, to ride to the watchtower with Irileth—who’d barked at her, with customary tact, to man the wall instead. “At first light. That’s all.”

Irileth, with customary tact, lifts her chin like a legate. “You should be asleep, then.”

Lydia raises her eyebrows.

“Housecarl,” she murmurs, and stoops to kiss Irileth’s cheek—and Jenassa’s, too, smiling against the flaking yellow paint. Then she slips out again, quick as she came, sure and silent as a wolf.

It’s Irileth, after, who is strong enough to speak. She clears her throat. Her voice, when she finds it, scrapes like an ash-choked gate. “Nilo.”

Jenassa swallows. The room feels darker. Smaller. She is glad she did not laugh.

“I know,” she says.

She waits. It is much of what they say to each other, this waiting.

“Outlanders,” Irileth mumbles at last, in disgust. She is speaking of the war, of course, rather than the more painful subject. “Can’t squabble over a chair without—marching their children at each other.”

They are outlanders too, now, Jenassa does not say. She rests her forehead on Irileth’s shoulder. She slips a careful arm, scored with long Tong ritual-scars, around the other woman’s waist.

“Our way,” she says in wry Velothis, “was better.”

* * *

At first light, so as to evade any fanfare, two travelers ride out of Whiterun. They sit straight and stern and awkward in their saddles, rising tall above the rubble and scorched wheat, and say nothing at all to each other until the sun glints, far ahead, on something bright.

Helmets, Lydia thinks. She squints down the road. “Legionaries?”

The Dragonborn raises her eyebrows. Her sword-arm, which Arcadia has assured them will heal quickly, sits snug in a sling bound to her chest.

“You will defend me,” she says, straight-faced, “if they try to cut off my head?”

Lydia recalls the solemnity of her oath. She decides against smiling. “Yes, my Thane.”

They rein their horses aside to let the cohort pass. A soldier near the head of the line—a Tojay standard-bearer, perhaps their age, with an open, clever face—casts a curious glance back at them as her fellows, fresh-faced and bright-mailed, nudge her in the opposite direction.

[wraithwars]

remake of my first post using @arisenreborn's wonderful arisen & pawn questionnaire. both characters changed enough that i felt like i had to redo this & will possibly be posting a more detailed character sheet for them in the future. <3

♛ THE ARISEN:

NAME: Valkyrie AGE: 22 RACE: Human PRONOUNS: She/Her/Hers PREFERRED VOCATION: Warfarer FAVORED GIFTS: Anything handcrafted, practical items & books FAMILY: Likely Deceased Parents, Sid (Adoptive Father)

POSITIVE TRAITS: Loyal, Determined, Curious, Willful NEGATIVE TRAITS: Reckless, Impulsive, Nosy LIKES: Exploration, Sunny Days, Learning new things DISLIKES: Uncontrolled Fires, Rich People (the self-serving, greedy kind), Goblins

1. What was their life like before becoming Arisen?

At ten years old, Valkyrie was found hiding in the recently razed village of Great Oak by a traveling merchant named Sid. She doesn't quite recall her life before, flashes of it sometimes reaching her, but whether she was repressing the memories or simply couldn't process them, she finds herself unable to stay fixated in the past. With Sid's help, she soon leaves it behind entirely and begins to forge a new path.

Perhaps it was because people knew of the tragedy that befell Sid before meeting Valkyrie, how goblins had taken the lives of his wife and son, but no one questioned the girl's arrival and welcomed her to the village with open arms. There she was raised by the community. She learned to cook, to hunt, and even to run Sid's shop while he was away. And as she grew older she developed a penchant for magic and even herbology.

By the time she was thirteen, she felt fully acclimated to her new life and even began to refer to Sid as her father. Though she still startled at the sight of flames and suffered from the occasional nightmare, she now felt safe. And for Sid, he made peace with the losses he suffered, knowing they were guiding him every step of the way as he raised this girl.

As she got older, Sid's health began to decline. Apothecaries and doctors were baffled, unable to find a cause or a cure, and as time went on Valkyrie found herself filling more of his roles within the village. By seventeen, she was running his shop full-time by day and at night, taking care of him. Were it not for the community of people helping her, they surely would have lost the shop and fallen into poverty.

At age eighteen, she finds Sid had passed in his sleep.

She shortly after relinquishes ownership of the shop to a trusted friend and leaves the village behind, unable to handle the reminder every nook and cranny held. Instead, she decides to travel like she always dreamed of and learn more of the world, hopefully finding purpose along the way.

Four years later, she finds herself in Melve enveloped in flame and a stillness in her chest.

2. How do they handle being Arisen, and the responsibilities that come with it? A gnawing preemptive guilt follows Valkyrie on her journey, no matter the amount of days that pass by. She's afraid she won't be able to save everyone, that her adventure will be packed with perilous missions and insurmountable obstacles. Despite this, she's still determined to try, unwilling to fail as Arisens before her had.

3. What are their thoughts on Pawns in general? Valkyrie only met a few pawns in her lifetime, but Sid always described them as a helpful people. Even when she loses her memories, she still holds them with the same respect she would anyone else and never treats them as less then. She even becomes a bit overprotective of them after learning how they are sometimes treated by others. Also, the scholar in her is just generally fascinated in their existence and ability to travel to other worlds.

4. What's their relationship like with their main Pawn? Valkyrie is a bit awkward with Nolan at first. She had never been a leader nor felt the inclination to be one, so when she was suddenly forced into the role it felt out of place. There wasn't much confidence in her decisions, and she felt rather guilty that he was stuck by her side.

As her confidence and abilities grow, she sees Nolan as her rock and her perfect counterpart, in fighting style and personality. He keeps her grounded, and she gives him purpose. Soon she finds herself unable and unwilling to be without him.

5. Do they have any interest in being Sovran? What are their opinions on the politics of the world in general? The idea of being Sovran makes Valkyrie throw up in her mouth, but when she sees how shady those in charge are, she's willing to fill the role if it means protecting the people. But she secretly hopes Sven takes up the mantle. Politics had never been her favorite.

6. Who are their love interest(s) and/or closest friends? Ulrika is the first friend Valkyrie had made after leaving her home, and though she no longer holds any memories of her prior to the fell curse, she still finds herself feeling calm in her presence. In the beginning, a lot of her will to move forward was powered by Ulrika's own dedication to protecting the people of Melve and her aid in nursing Valkyrie back to health.

Occasionally, Valkyrie stops by Melve solely to visit Ulrika and they often talk for hours. Ulrika is by far her biggest supporter, and their bond is only strength when she takes up the mantle of Arisen.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Valkyrie didn't really think of Sven when she first met him, the newfound role of Arisen dominating her thoughts, but after she discovers he's the regentkin she grows rather curious of his intentions. At first she's skeptical, assuming the worst and that Sven was simply there to lay out another trap for her. But as he shows himself to be genuine, she slowly lets down her guard and opens up to the prospect of being allies.

He inadvertently becomes one of her advisors, offering support and any aid he's able to provide without drawing his mother's attention. And sometimes a shoulder to cry on when she feels overwhelmed and not up for the task set before her. On occasion, she also takes the time to tell him tales of her adventures and frequently gifts him little bits and baubles she acquired along the way.

She feels very grateful to consider him a friend.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Valkyrie would be bit embarrassed to admit that she was enchanted by Srail at first sight. Initially, he had rescued her from a rampaging minotaur that had taken out her entire party. She attempted to flee and right before the strike of the club, she was yanked through a thin crevice between the crags and led to the village to recover. Though he was still posing as a traveling merchant, his untimely rescue had her flustered, something she chalked up to nerves.

The second time she meets him, she knows it isn't just nerves. While she felt like a fool for not seeing through his act, she couldn't help but see him a positive light. For one, he had believed she was the true Arisen with little convincing (the driving force behind his rescue), and then he aided her once again with information on Darragh. His helpful nature only served to amplify her captivation.

Perhaps, it was due to everyone demanding her help, yet for the first time someone had been helping her. And even when Srail later appears in Vernworth requesting her aid with a heist, she doesn't hesitate to agree, eager to repay a debt. After this event, they remain in contact, and she truly values his company.

Although she had good people in her corner, he was one of the few that didn't judge her for thoughts that often wracked her with guilt. Thoughts of abandoning her quest, letting someone else assume the mantle (they both knew she wouldn't let that happen), her developing distaste for always being the one at the rescue. He understood, sympathizing with her plight, and occasionally, he would simply offer comfort.

Valkyrie winds up developing fairly potent feelings for the thief, but fearing what's to come prevents her from taking the first step. She does let the truth slip after rescuing him from the dragon though.

(Has other important friends/bonds such as Brant and Glyndwr but that may have to be a separate post.)

7. What drew them to their preferred vocation? Do they have history with it? Valkyrie was already an eager student, so learning bits and pieces from different vocations simply came natural to her. Jack-of-all-trades, master of none.

8. Do they have any hobbies? Any way of relaxing between all that monster-slaying and traveling? Aside from reading, Valkyrie is an avid lover of music and sometimes will visit the pub simply to listen. She also enjoys writing, often detailing her adventures within journals and even wrote, and continues to write, a comprehensive guide on survival and fighting beasts.

♟︎ THE PAWN:

NAME: Nolan AGE: ???? RACE: Humanoid Pawn PRONOUNS: He/Him/His PREFERRED VOCATION: Fighter FAVORED GIFTS: In love with almost anything gifted to him due to never receiving any, but has a special fondness for baked goods and new armor/clothes INCLINATION: Kindhearted

POSITIVE TRAITS: Alert, Kind, Dedicated, Compassionate NEGATIVE TRAITS: Naive, Socially Awkward (often comes off as intimidating despite being a teddy bear), Self-destructive LIKES: Animals, Sculptures/Statues, Victories in Difficult Battles DISLIKES: The Cold, Sleeping in Beds, Bandits

1. What was their life like prior to being summoned by their Arisen? If he had access to the emotional range he gained after the fact, he'd say his life prior was bleak. Wandering aimlessly until an Arisen had need of him was a given. He would often travel along main roads, engaging in battles he'd happen upon with a near-unusual vigor. But otherwise, he felt positively neutral about his day-to-day.

But then he happened upon bandits. It was so strange to him how, despite it happening so long ago, it came back to haunt him just as he was slowly developing emotions. He remembered being captured and toyed with for amusement, the bandits possessing a clear distaste for pawns. And whenever he would get back up they would strike him down just as hard. If he could have felt anything back then, he thinks he would have felt fear and rage. Both at knowing there was nothing he could do stop them.

2. What is their opinion on the Arisen? How do they view their relationship? Valkyrie was the first to ever to provide him comfort, to speak to him so kindly, and support his ambitions even as they became different from her own. She was the first to drape a blanket over his shoulders, to call out his name in a worried panic and fret over his wounds while tending to them.

So it doesn't take long into their journey for Nolan to find himself entirely devoted to her. And while true in more fate-bound a sense, he feels as if she is his other half. Similar to her, the idea of being separated is not a pleasant one and she often finds herself with an imposing shadow at her heels.

The original intention of their dynamic was meant to be master and their pawn. However, Nolan feels as more of an equal to her and is treated as such. But he still feels a beaming pride at being her chosen.

3. Is there anything about the Arisen they find troublesome? Be it a small quirk or bad habit? (Or are they obviously flawless?) While Valkyrie is smart, she's not much of a planner so as battle-driven as he can be he finds himself in them before he even realizes it. He often chastises her recklessness and frequently finds himself reigning her in before she gets into trouble.

He also notices she doesn't have the best view of herself. Knowing it's something she can only truly fix herself, he still offers daily encouragements and compliments. Even if they leave her flustered.

4. What is their specialization and is there any story behind how they cultivated that skill set? Surprisingly, Nolan takes to learning Elvish rather easily. Outside of Valkyrie, his first non-fate guided friendship was with Glyndwr. The elf is one of the few that can handle his constant barrage of questions and is often met with inquiries in return. He already knew a bit of the language but practices it more intently in order to converse with his friend in their mothertongue.

5. Do they have any thoughts on the politics of the world and their place in it as a Pawn - or how Pawns are treated? Politics generally confuse and hold little interest to him, but as he gains access to a wider arrange of emotions, he does develop certain views on how pawns are treated. He mirrors his Arisen's disgust at the mistreatment in areas such as Bakbattahl and generally finds himself confounded as to where the hatred stemmed from.

He often thinks about that day with the bandits and during the coronation of the false Arisen, and he would not wish that on any pawn, no matter the morality of their master.

6. Does their journey with the Arisen change them in any significant way and how? Nolan was virtually mute before meeting her. He had no reason to speak, so he simply didn't. She helps him find his voice. There's no pressure to do so, but she often gives him little reasons, such as asking his opinion on something or simply engaging in small talk. Soon, he finds himself speaking without needing a reason, and that oddly provides him comfort.

7. Is there a reason they chose their preferred vocation? Nolan is very battle-driven and finds his biggest thrills come from downing imposing foes. And to inflicting as much damage as possible. Though a warrior may be better suited, he likes the ability to protect. (So he protecc and he attacc.) His favorite combination. Also, sliding down hills is easier with a shield.

8. Do they have any hobbies or preferred past-times? Nolan will try every hobby at least once while on his path to self-discovery, but he finds whittling to particularly relaxing and a source of pride for him as his skill increases. He often gifts little whittled creatures to friends he makes along the way. Were they to have the resources, he dreams of making a sculpture. For now though, he's content with smaller projects.

He also finds himself taking in the sights when they stop in major settlements, struck by the beauty of it. Really, he's an artist in a fighter's body. Aside from that, slowly transitioning into the more social one, he enjoys meeting and befriending new people--especially if he had no help from the Arisen in doing so.

[billieandreneeswife]

Eclipsa was one of the jewel's in her family of witches. At the age of 17 she got pregnant by her old lover from Nevermore academy. Now here she was running around preparing everything for her last dinner with her daughter.

"My love you look so gorgeous all of the boys and girls will drop dead by your beauty."

"Mother stop it! No they won't....well I don't think they will."Replied Eclipsa's Daughter.

A husky chuckle left Eclipsa's throat Of when she thought back of a boy passing out when he saw her. "You'll never know my little rose bud." She sighed feeling happy but sad, happy she raised a strong independent woman and sad that she's going to leave her to be taught about her powers even more.

"Mama don't be sad you still get to see me on parents day and we even get to facetime each other." Smiled Eclipsa's daughter "I know but it will be mommy's last meal you'll ever get to have." A pout formed on her lips and tears weld in her eyes. If only I could stop time she thought to herself. As they finished up dinner she felt arms wrap around her abdomen in a tight embrace.

"Mom...... I'm going to miss you so much" Eclipsa heard her daughter sniffle out, she turned around and tighten her hold on her daughter laying her head on top her's.

"Don't worry my little rose bud I'll get to see you on parents day." She said smiling sadly."I know......well I'm going to get ready for bed so I will be prepared for tomorrow for school." She said

"Ok have sweet dreams my little rose bud." Eclipsa said warmly to her daughter softly kissing her forehead.

~~~~Time Skip cuz I'm to lazy~~~~

Eclipsa woke up to a warm body on top of her, she smiled softly as she saw her daughter's face laying on her stomach. She softly played with her daughter's black hair lost in thought of all the amazing memories she had of razing her little girl.

"Good morning mama."

"Good morning my little rose bud how was your sleep?"

"It was good just had a weird dream is all."

"Why what happened?"

"Well there was this tall pale women with long black hair and dark brown eyes and she wore this long black dress and wore deep red lipstick crazy thing is she was like aware she was in my dream."Eclipsa froze hearing the description of her pass lover and her daughter's other mother. How she thought why would she be in my daughter's dream. A wave of anger pass through her body as the room heated up my her rage.

"Mama are you ok?" Snapping out of her thoughts her body cool down along with the room."Yes my love I'm fine let's get ready shall we." Eclipsa replied kissing her daughter's forehead while getting off of her bed. Snapping her fingers her long vintage chanel black satin dress flue to her along with her black velvet heels. Finishing up her makeup she put in her pearl earrings and necklace and finished up with her rings.

"You ready my love!?" Shouted Eclipsa"Yes mama." Her daughter called back running down the staircase wearing her school uniform."Oh my little rose bud you look just like momma when I was attended nevermore." Smiled Eclipsa.

A Big smile broke on her daughter's face when she heard her mother say this, she always wanted to be like her mother strong independent and confident."I'm going to make you so proud mama."

"My love I'm already proud of you." She replied cupping her daughter's face peppering it with kisses."Mamma!" Giggled her daughter"Come on let's go principal weems doesn't like to wait."

"You know the principal mama!"

"Of course I went to the same school will her you silly." "Oh." "Well come now little on it's time to go to your new school."

~Time skip~

Here they were now standing right in front of Nevermore academy Eclipsa to a deep breath in smelling the nature around them a soft smile appeared on her lips as she took in the scenery before her."Come little one we don't have much time to spare." She said while grabbing her daughter's hand to comfort her. As they walked into the academy all as were on them Eclipsa could feel their energy's and emotions along with her daughter's shy and curious body energy.Walking up the stairs she bumped into a boy helping him up she took in his fetchers he was pale and had black hair he was also wearing a black and white T-shirt along with black shorts. He mumbled a quick sorry while running down the stairs. Eclipsa shook her head while chuckling and continuing to the headmistress office.

Knocking on the door she heard a mumble come in opening the door she froze when she meant eyes with dark haired beauty. Her one and only true lover Morticia frump who left her for him.........Gomez Addams.

[scvcnmore]

Was that [ALBA BAPTISTA]? Oh no no, that was just [RACHEL SUMMERS], a [CANON CHARACTER] from [MARVEL/X-MEN]. They are [TWENTY-THREE] years old, use [SHE/THEY], and [ARE NOT] aware that they are not actually from Washington DC. Too bad they can’t stray from this city for long.

Rachel Anne Summers is the daughter of Scott Summers and Jean Grey from Earth-811. She was conceived while her mother was possessed by the Phoenix Force, and due to this the force itself considers Rachel to be almost like its own child. It's perfect vessel

A lot of things went very not-right in her universe, very fast. The assassination of Senator Kelly actually came to fruition, which led to a lot of anti-mutant sentiment. Her mother died in a nuclear explosion. Her father died at the hands of a Sentinel. The school was attacked and razed by federal troops, leaving her the only survivor. She was found by Professor Xavier's body and taken to the lab of the sadistic Ahab, who then tortured and brainwashed her into becoming a 'Hound' used to track other mutants....and this was just her childhood

She eventually broke the brainwashing, and was deemed useless and sent to one of the mutant encampments. This is where she meets Kitty Pryde and they go through the attempt of changing their past to save the future with time-travel, but Kitty wound up in the 'present' of Earth-616 instead. Later on, Kitty would send Rachel back in time instead to spare her as their camp (and earth) was being destroyed, but she too would end up in present day 616 instead

Many adventures, mostly misadventures really, ensued. The reactions of this earth's Scott and Jean were not initially the best or good at all really but over time they've come to resemble a family, along with her brother Nate (Cable - whom she at one point raised in the future, before being simultaneously sent to the beginning of time and end of time...fun times)

She's worked with many iterations of X-teams, including X-men, eXcalibur, X-factor, the Marauders. She's recently gotten herself sent to Otherworld to help her pal Betsy Braddock, and now she's here. Back to teaching Psychic Defense 101 and constantly having to warn other telepaths they really don't want to try and pry when in her mind. It never ends well for them

Rachel fell victim to the kill-or-be-killed event, having foregone killing her own target. As such, she is currently unaware of her actual life, and currently believes herself to be the daughter of an equally unaware Logan Howlett, and sister to an unaware Rose Winters

She still lives 'at home' with her dad, and is very much a daddy's girl even though she'll never admit it. As far as she's concerned, he's been more than enough of a parent on his own, and there's never really been any reason to question to why her mom's never been in the picture. Rachel figures one exists, of course, if only because that's probably where the ginger genes came from

Rachel is several years older than her sister, but no one would be blamed for assuming it was the other way around. If hard-pressed, she'll just say her brain is far too busy trying to keep her powers in check to also be expected to produce more than a single braincell at a time (though this aspect of her personality is definitely not a result of the lack of memories lol)

She currently has a a full-time job with one of the local security firms (her job as a professor forgotten) and is more than chill with having her time split between it, her family, and her very strange looking dog, Amazing Baby

Once her memories return, Rachel will recall everything up until just before the events of the new X-Force run

Upon her arrival in D.C. she is still learning and acclimating to the powers that come along with having reached her prophesied point as Askani

She does still have the Shi'ar tracking mark on her back and her hound marks on her face, though the latter are usually telepathically hidden

Her wiki: https://marvel.fandom.com/wiki/Rachel_Summers_(Earth-811)

@ivehurtpeople, @mcrcki

[l0serloki]

Hi! Idk the rules so feel free to ignore this. I loved your insomniac reader fic! can I request sova and cypher (separately) with a reader who loves music and makes playlists for them? Have a nice day, please drink lots of water! 💛 and thank you so much in advance if you decide to write this! 💛💛💛

Valorant HC’s with a Music Loving Partner

(Cypher & Sova)

A/N : I hope this is what you meant! And thank you so much! I got water & got to writing! Have a good day and thank you for your request!! This was so sweet to write!

CW : GN!Reader, dats it

Cypher : 

His heart would explode if you made him a playlist

He is always around tech/has headphones in, so this is such a heartwarming gift!!

Will ALWAYS be caught listening to it and writes you notes about each song

I feel like he would make you something to play ‘your’ songs together. (Any song that has a good memory!! Like you two dancing around your bedroom or songs you sing to him in the morning.)

Overall, he appreciates your love of music and playlists so much! He thinks it’s so meaningful & it broadens his horizons for listening/learning new artists! 

“My love, the music you chose for this playlist is splendid! I can’t stop listening!” Cypher’s lips brushed against your forehead, planting a soft kiss before getting back to work. Your playlist droned on throughout the room, Cypher’s occasional humming calming you. 

“Come darling, we will dance.” His hands rubbed along your hips, swaying you in circles. The music flowed gently through the air, the two of you continuing to dance the night away. You felt your heart swell with happiness, glad that your boyfriend liked the playlist so much.

Sova : 

He’ll be super flattered! He doesn’t listen to a lot of music but will start just for you!

He tries to make you a playlist. Key word - tries. It’s a bit mixed up and filled with old songs but.. It’s still the thought that counts!

Compiles your playlist and some of his music onto a giant playlist to play around the house! 

He also cleans and dances around to songs that you added. Gotta make sure the playlist goes to good use!

In conclusion, he’s kinda like a grandpa but will shower you in praise & love! He knows how much it means to you, so it’s special to him!

“My dove! I am playing your songs. Come and clean with me!” Sova ushered you into the kitchen, getting back to work. You cleaned at the counters, watching as your boyfriend scooted around, feet tapping to the beat. Beforehand he had not been much of a music fan - other than his overplayed electro and other collected songs. Even Raze had commented on his weird taste, questioning how he would even dance.

You decided to change his mind, gifting him with songs that reminded you of him. The playlist was simple enough but you still had to help him set it up. For a man that compiled data, he had the technological IQ of a grandpa. You still thought it was heartwarming, teaching him how to find the music.

“You like this one, huh?” You raised an eyebrow as Sova spun around, cloth flinging onto the counter as he pulled you flush against him. 

“This is my favorite one. It reminds me of us!” Sova’s enthusiastic words made you smile, leaning in to give the man a kiss. His warm hand rubbed your cheek as he booped your nose with his lips.

“Thank you for sharing this with me. It means a lot to me.”

[duxbelisarius]

The Dance of the Dragons: A Military Analysis (Pt. 11)

(Consider this Part 2 of the Tumbleton analysis; see the Master Post for the rest of the series)

Despite telling us that the town was “reduced to ash and embers” and that “no mercy was shown the survivors,” we’re led to believe that there are still houses and shops to be robbed and inhabitants remaining to rape and murder after being razed by the fire of three dragons. We’re told that Lord Ormund’s successors had fallen victim to “avarice, bloodlust, and pride,” but were apparently never motivated to turn their eyes to King’s Landing, a place where they could loot, murder and rape to a far greater extent than in the smoldering ruins of a dead town. Similar to Aemond burning the Riverlands without actually inflicting any major damage, the bloodlust of the Greens is both boundless AND easily sated, whatever is necessary to ensure George’s preferred ending. 

Thanks to the ridiculously contrived actions of Roderick Dustin, the Hightower Army is suddenly paralyzed by a command crisis; apparently there were only three senior Hightowers in the entire army and two of them are dead, while third is 60 year-old Hobert Hightower, a cousin of Ormund. Hobert is to the Hightower army what Humfrey Lefford was to the Lannister army, an aged, physically unfit man cooked up by George to keep the plot moving in his desired direction, even if it makes no sense whatsoever. Placed in charge of the baggage train, we’re told he is slow, stout and completely undistinguished, and the Green lords seem to ignore him. 

The first issue with the command crisis is why it should even happen in the first place; after Jason Lannister’s death the Westerlands army found a new commander in Adrian Tarbeck, a landed knight of a noble house but who was otherwise unconnected to the Lannister family, while Lord Humfrey Lefford succeeded Tarbeck with little difficulty. The Frey forces fall-in behind Sabitha Frey, the wife of Lord Forrest Frey, with no apparent issue either, while the Blackwood forces end up being commanded by a 13 year old boy, Benjicot Blackwood, after the death of Lord Samwell. It makes little sense why the Hightower army should suddenly be treated differently, and the same can be said for the actual rivalry between the ‘candidates’ for command. The five men vying for command are Lord Unwin Peake, Ser Jon Roxton, Lord Owain Bourney and the Two Betrayers, Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White. Roxton and Bourney are by far the most contrived; Roxton is a landed knight with little in the way of credentials beyond his battle prowess, and is not connected to a major house in the Reach (unlike Adrian Tarbeck for example). Bourney ends up being killed in a dispute with Unwin Peake, but his only real argument was that he should command the army for his role in opening Tumbleton to the attackers; other than this, Bourney is a minor lord and not even a Reacher lord, so there’s no good reason why he should have been considered above the likes of Unwin Peake or Prince Daeron. Unwin Peake is the obvious choice to the lead the army and does so after the Second Battle, but this just makes the crisis appear even more contrived. Aside from the Redwynes, House Peake is the only other major house in the Reach that we know supported Aegon from the start, with Unwin Peake raising 100 knights and 900 men-at-arms for the cause. He was present at the Battle of the Honeywine, after which his only son was killed while leading a scouting mission; George establishes him as a ruthless authoritarian during the Regency of Aegon III, after the end of the Dance. His character and House Peake’s impressive holdings within the Reach, comprised of no less than three keeps (Starpike, Dunstonbury, Whitegrove), should make him the clear favourite to command the Hightower army. It appears his inclusion in the crisis was primarily intended by George to set-up his later arc in Aegon III’s Regency however.

The command crisis leads to conflict between the Two Betrayers and the so-called “Caltrops,” a group of Reacher lords headed by Unwin Peake and Hobert Hightower who conspire against Ulf and Hugh. With their egos inflated by the sack of Tumbleton, Ulf and Hugh set their sights on Highgarden and the Iron Throne respectively; while this presents the Green lords with an understandable dilemma, as Vermithor and Silverwing would be valuable for taking King’s Landing, the debates that result are largely drawn out in service of George’s plot aims. This is best illustrated when Richard Rodden (one of the “Caltrops”) denounces plans to take King’s Landing with the Betrayers before killing them, as dishonourable. Rodden argues that, “we cannot ask these men to shed blood with us, then kill them,” and yet this is effectively what they plan to do anyway; while the Betrayers fought beside them in the First Battle and ensured a Green victory, the Caltrops still plan to kill them both. It makes no sense why this debate, or any of these debates really, should keep the Hightower army frozen in place. Even more bizarre is the complete absence of any of the major Reach houses and former Black lords in this scenario. As alluded to in Part 6, Unwin Peake, Hobert Hightower and Owen Fossoway are the only lords mentioned that come from major houses, while the rest of the Caltrops and other notables of the army seem to be minor lords and landed knights. Even though Daeron and Tessarion forced the submission of most of Rhaenyra’s Reach supporters, none of these former Black lords play any role in the events at Tumbleton. With news of the riots in King’s Landing filtering in, one might expect Rhaenyra’s former supporters in the Hightower army to begin developing their own agenda, maybe even aligning with the Two Betrayers and turning on Daeron and the Greens. Nothing of the sort takes place, and even when the “Caltrops” decide to murder Ulf and Hugh, they conveniently wait two days after making the decision, whereupon the Riverlords and Addam Velaryon attack.

While ‘Daeron the Daring’ should be an obvious choice for leadership, Gyldan tells us that he was “still a boy” and more used to following orders than giving them, after having grown up in the shadow of his brothers. Based on what we were shown and told previously of Daeron, it’s clear that George retconned his character outright to serve his narrative at Tumbleton. We know Daeron was born shortly after Jacaerys Velaryon in 114 AC; despite the two being milk-brothers, Daeron grew up to resent and be a rival of the Velaryon brothers for what he saw as their usurpation of his and his brothers birth right. By age 6 he had bonded with the dragon Tessarion, while he was considered the most popular of Alicent’s three sons at court by age 12, “as clever as he was courteous, and most comely as well.” He was sent to Oldtown at age 12 as a ward to his uncle Ormund, serving as the squire and cupbearer of the Lord of the Hightower, and is described as gentle, soft-spoken and modest by Gyldan following his intervention in the Battle of the Honeywine. His reaction to the death of Prince Maelor shows that he was capable of cruelty, but his role in the Sack of Bitterbridge was clearly motivated by a love for his family and pain at the loss of his nephew. 

Gyldan labelling Daeron a ‘boy’ makes little sense when compared to his assessment of Jacaerys Velaryon; when he won the support of the North and the Vale despite offering little in return (see Part One for my discussion of this), Gyldan tells that “Prince Jacaerys had proved himself a man, and worthy heir to the Iron Throne.” He was half a year from turning 15 at the time, compared to which the slightly younger Daeron intervened in the Battle of the Honeywine, singlehandedly saving the Green war effort. Tessarion’s deterrent factor also helped to transform the Hightower army from being hopelessly outnumbered into a seemingly all-conquering force. Daeron’s service as the cupbearer and squire of Ormund Hightower, combined with his use of Tessarion to reconnoiter ahead of the army and support it in battle, makes it impossible for Daeron to not have developed relationships with the lords and knights around him. The former gave him a front row seat to the politics of Oldtown and the Reach, while the latter would require him to pass on information to Ormund and his commanders and coordinate his actions with those of the army at large. 

With Aegon missing, his two sons dead and Aemond having gone AWOL in the Riverlands, Daeron is both the ward of Lord Hightower AND the heir apparent; it should be a no-brainer for the lords and knights of the army to curry his favour, especially former Blacks looking to improve their standing and prove their loyalty. There is no reason for Daeron to suddenly become a non-entity during the command crisis at Tumbleton, and the idea of him being a ‘follower’ after living in the shadow of his brothers has next to no support. He surpassed Aemond at age six by forming a bond with a dragon, and was more popular than BOTH his older brothers at court by age 12; he then spent his formative teenage years apart from them both, in what amounted to an apprenticeship for becoming a lord and knight. His clear love of his family should also strongly motivate him, as we see from both the Sack of Bitterbridge, and his later action of throwing wine in Hugh’s face for suggesting that either of them should claim Aegon’s crown. The idea that he would willingly settle for inactivity while his mother and sister are imprisoned by the Blacks, and possibly gang-raped if the ‘Brothel Queens’ rumors can be believed, is simply ludicrous. 

This contrived crisis of command is only made worse however, as Gyldan writes that “none seemed concerned that their army was shrinking every day...as more and more men deserted, stealing off for home and harvest with all the plunder they could carry,” while disease also took root according to Maester Munkun. Since disease would obviously affect the lords commanding the army as much as the soldiers themselves, this only makes it more difficult to believe that the Hightower army would remain at Tumbleton for an entire month given such hazards. George invoking the harvest at this point in the narrative is just unserious, given how little it seems to matter outside the North. Lest we forget, it was already autumn when the Dance descended into open fighting, yet the harvest appears not to have affected the mobilization of the Riverlords or the Reach, the two most important regions in Westeros for agriculture. 

George further handicaps the Hightower Army, in what practically amounts to excuse making for his narrative. Unwin Peake recommends waiting for Borros Baratheon to join them with his army, but no mention is made of any attempts to contact Storm’s End. We’ll discuss the absence of Borros Baratheon from the Dance more so in Part 12, but it bears mentioning that the Stormlands is right next door to the northern Reach, so the absence of the Baratheon army is difficult to explain away. Hobert Hightower argues that the army should withdraw back to the Reach “to replenish their fast-dwindling supplies,” which is problematic on multiple levels. Firstly, Tumbleton is within the borders of the Reach, but perhaps this was an editing error and it was meant for the army to withdraw further into the Reach. It is an odd choice to suddenly raise the issue of logistics now, given how cavalierly George treats it in his narrative; the autumn and winter weather seems to have a varied impact on the plot, while we’ve already mentioned in Part 5 and 6 how George basically ignores the existence of rivers. The Hightower army should have access to both the Roseroad AND the Mander river for transporting supplies, and it just recently confiscated the food and wealth of Longtable. Also worth mentioning is Gyldan’s description of the Gardener-Lannister army that fought at the Field of Fire, where he states that “a host of such size must remain on the march, lest it eat the surrounding countryside bare.” While the Hightower army was less than half the size of the Gardener-Lannister host, the same logic should apply; given the destruction of Tumbleton and the logistical pressures the army would have faced, remaining in the same location for a month makes even less sense. Indeed, such pressures would have made the capture of King’s Landing that much more vital, especially when word of the riots and chaos became known; not only would taking the city provide opportunities for plunder, but the Hightower army could replenish it’s food supplies at the city’s expense, while the riots would have greatly reduced the possibility of organized resistance. These explanations for why the Hightower army is further delayed just end up raising more questions than answers, and poke even more holes in George’s narrative.

The Second Battle of Tumbleton is a massive contrivance all it’s own, as neither Addam Velaryon nor the Riverlords have reason or business being there. Addam’s reasoning is chalked up to his being a bastard, and trying to demonstrate his loyalty by defeating the Two Betrayers who had ‘stained’ him, but this makes no more sense than Jeyne Arryn supporting Rhaenyra on account of their both being women. The person who stained Addam IS Rhaenyra, not Hugh or Ulf, because he did nothing wrong to begin with; Corlys knew this of course, which is why he warned his son and helped him escape the city on Seasmoke. Since Corlys allows himself to be arrested by the Gold Cloaks, it’s clear he expected to be charged with treason and imprisoned; in light of this, it makes no sense why Addam would abandon his father as opposed to try and rescue him. He has his own dragon, Baela and Moondancer have been flying regularly from Dragonstone by this point, and Alyn Velaryon is with his father’s fleet; half her army and the entirety of her fleet comes from the Velaryons, and these forces began to desert Rhaenyra in droves following Corlys’ arrest, so Addam could easily have enlisted their aid in forcing the queen to free his father. It wouldn’t even be that difficult, since most of the city already hated her by this point, and would gladly have supported the Velaryons in deposing ‘Maegor with Teats.’

Instead, a bastard on the run from the law chooses not to seek out immediate support for the rescue of his father, but rather flies to a region he has little experience with to convince lords sworn to the very Queen who dubbed him a traitor, to help him defeat a 20000+ army supported by three dragons. But it gets even more nonsensical when we consider that he would have fled the city May 2nd, long before Nettles’ arrest orders reached Maidenpool or the Battle over the God’s Eye took place. One might expect him to seek the aid of Daemon at Maidenpool or warn Nettles at least, but he conveniently never encounters either of them in their final days of searching for Aemond, nor does he encounter Aemond. Even more conveniently, not a word of Addam’s efforts reaches the Green army at Tumbleton either directly or even indirectly via Storm’s End, Oldtown and Casterly Rock. This despite the fact that news of Aemond’s death got to them after some delay, and that there were many in the Riverlands that supported or once supported the Greens; this includes House Mooton of Maidenpool, who raised Aegon’s banner after Daemon departed, previously mentioned names like Bracken, Butterwell and Vance of Atranta, and likely Lord Bourney’s subjects, since Owain decided independently to betray Tumbleton to the Greens. 

We’ve already mentioned in Part 9 how George continues to ignore the weather unless it immediately serves his plot, but it bears repeating that winter should be in it’s first weeks in the Riverlands and any harvesting should be the priority (especially if men are deserting the Hightower army for the harvest in the Reach). When it comes to how Addam was able to gain the allegiance of House Tully AND raise an army of 4000 men, George uses the tried and true Naruto Shippuden plot device of ‘Talk-no-jutsu’: “Addam Velaryon was relentless and determined and glib of tongue...” Gyldan at least mentions that the Riverlords were appalled by stories of what was happening at Tumbleton, but as stated already, the Hightower army far outnumbers Addam’s own host AND possesses three dragons. Given the destruction brought on by the war and the continued threat of Aemond and Vhagar, it makes no sense why any of the Riverlords would risk fighting with such steep odds. The army consists of forces from House Blackwood, led by the 12 year-old Benjicot Blackwood; House Frey under Lady Sabitha Frey, as well as from House Vypren under her father and brothers leadership; House Vance of Wayfarer’s Rest, under Hugo Vance and joined by Black Trombo’s Myrish sellswords; and fresh levies raised by Lords Stanton Piper, Joseth Smallwood, Derrick Darry and Lyonel Deddings. F&B and TWOIAF claim that Elmo Tully led the Riverlords at Tumbleton with his own forces of House Tully, but since neither Elmo Tully or even the Tully name is mentioned in F&B’s account of the Second Battle, and the Tullys do not feature in that part of TPATQ’s narrative at all, the most that could be suggested is that Elmo Tully led the Riverlords in the role of acting Paramount of the Trident.

In terms of how the Second Battle was fought, George once again forgets his own geography and ignores previously established plot points. If we consult the map of the south in ADWD and the map of the Reach in TWOIAF, we can see that Tumbleton is located on the left bank of the Mander, just south of the hills where it’s headwaters are found. As we’re told that the Riverlord army attacked the Hightower army from the north and west, this poses an obvious problem; to attack Tumbleton from the north requires you to navigate the hills AND ford the headwaters of the Mander, and one must make a wide sweep around these obstacles to attack the town from the west. Even the town itself might be an obstacle depending on where the Hightower army was encamped; we know Hugh and Ulf were encamped to the south, with Daeron encamped to the west and many of the lords staying in the town itself. Not only did the Riverlords have to march on Tumbleton unnoticed through unfamiliar territory, they then had to launch simultaneous night attacks with largely inexperienced troops, while being separated by distance, natural obstacles AND an enemy encampment protected by three dragons. The attack from the west presents a further problem, as we know that Daeron’s pavilion was located west of the town along with Tessarion’s resting place. Being massive and magical apex predators, we should expect the dragons own senses to have aided them in detecting an attack; in Birth, Death, and Betrayal Under King Jaehaerys I, we’re told that Rhaena and Dreamfyre’s arrival at Storm’s End was noticed by Vermithor before anyone saw them, as the Bronze Fury raised his head from where he was sleeping a let out a loud roar, after picking up Dreamfyre’s scent. Vhagar was likewise able to detect the arrival of Lucerys and Arrax at Storm’s End, roaring loudly and alerting the entire castle before the smaller dragon was seen by the sentries, and in both instances it is implied that this awareness was possible despite the dragons sleeping. Yet at Second Tumbleton, we’re told that Tessarion, Silverwing and Vermithor “roused as the battle bloomed around them,”; there’s no excuse for why not one of these dragons detected the approach of Seasmoke, except that George either forgot or ignored it for the purposes of his plot.

The last thing I’ll comment on regarding Second Tumbleton is Daeron’s death, or at least the accounts we’re given of his supposed death. I’m certain that Daeron met his end at Tumbleton, but none of the three accounts Gyldan gives us are compelling. The first two, that he was killed by Black Trombo or by a man-at-arms who was unaware of his identity, can be easily discounted; we know that Daeron’s pavilion was to the west of the town, making it certain that he was on the frontlines of the fight. It would have been simple to report his death to any of the Riverlords leading the charge, or to simply display his head on a spear or banner; Trombo should also have been able to claim some of his belongings as trophies of his kill, but we know of nothing of Daeron’s personal effects being found after the fire in his tent. The tent fire theory is similarly unlikely, as we know that even in cases where people have been exposed directly to dragon fire, some remains are left that can be identified. When Rhaenys and Meleys fell at Rook’s Rest, the remains of Rhaenys were found near Meleys’ body despite having been horribly burned,  while Dragonstone’s Castellan Ser Robert Quince could still be identified by his size despite being burned alive by Sunfyre (after Aegon II’s seizes the island). Daeron is supposed to have burned after his pavilion caught fire and collapsed on him, but this requires us to believe that he slept so soundly that the commotion of battle and the smoke and flames did not wake him, and that no one was able to return to the location of his pavilion post-battle and search the wreckage for remains. Contrary to Gyldan’s claims that only Seasmoke flew with a rider during the Battle, I believe that Daeron rode with Tessarion during her initial clash with Seasmoke, and possibly during the battle with Vermithor afterwards. Most likely he fell from her back at some point during the fighting and his body was never recovered, especially if he landed in the Mander or fell into the fires of Tumbleton.

The Riverlords lost less than a hundred men compared to the over a thousand men lost by the Greens; Addam, Daeron, Ulf and Hugh were all dead by the following day, when the battle at last ended, and only Silverwing survived of the four dragons. The Riverlords made no attempt to march on King’s Landing and restore order, while the remnants of the Hightower army remained around the ruined town for another day before marching back towards Oldtown under Unwin Peake’s command. The Dance would continue for another year however, and it is to this final period that we will now turn our attention.

[sombrerokiwi]

Traditionally in stories, there would be an antagonist and a protagonist. Their dynamic is defined by the fact that their ideals or methods don’t match up and they come into conflict with this. Perhaps they do share the same ideals but there is only room for one, so they must fight for it. Or perhaps they are simply friendly rivals who are only the antagonist and protagonist by strict definition.

Now, being a protagonist doesn’t mean you have to be good, in fact the protagonist can be, as people say, “evil”. Likewise, the antagonist could be “good”. This makes for interesting dynamics and makes the story incredibly interesting.

However in the world today, antagonists and protagonists are usually defined now as villains and heroes. The villain is the typical evil person while the hero is the typical good person.

Right now, in this world, there has been a rather long line of heroes and villains, which is really just four immortals fighting each other due to the gods saying it so. Or, as they would say “It is due to the heavenly principals being challenged and being threatened to be consumed into eternal darkness and damnation. To fight is to fight for our desired vision of the world, and fight we shall.”

Right now, the Hero and Villain are on their 365th incarnation of the world. They are joined by the Captain and Traitor respectively and they too are on their 365th incarnation. The world right now has decided to go into a rather interesting turn of fantasy with sci-fi and right now the current conflict of the world is the mechanization of everything and razing it to the ground vs respecting the world as it is.

“Do you want to just quit?”

The Hero blinks and blocks a blow from the Villain. “What do you mean?”

The Villain conjures a fireball and casually lobs it at the Hero. “I mean do you want to just quit? Just quit all of this?”

The Captain takes a deep breath and lets out a blast of ice against fire. “Is this a surrender? Because if so it is a rather terrible one.” She lets out a blast of lightning in retaliation. “Last time you both did this there was an army of…skeletons I believe?” She nods. “Yes, skeletons. You sic an army of skeletons on us.”

The Traitor scoffs and lunges at the Captain. “They weren’t even our skeletons. It was someone else’s skeletons that attacked you both.” The Captain dodges to the side easily and strikes the shield of the Traitor, staggering him. “If it were our skeletons then there would be more dark magic and ice. Or maybe I’m confusing eras again.”

The Hero nodded. “You are. The skeletons were just plain old skeletons with the only difference being the fact that yours were sentient and made themselves a whole new species.”

“Wait stop let’s get back to the point,” says the Villain. “Do you want to quit? Like seriously do you just want to quit? Go somewhere that isn’t here?”

The Hero lowers their sword. “I mean yeah but we can’t really quit because of the gods now can we?”

The Villain scoffs. “When was the last time the gods contacted us anyways?”

The Captain raised her spear at the man before the Villain stopped her. “Wait gods I’m taking a break. Let me go and talk for more than a minute before getting stabbed, just give me a moment.”

She narrowed her eyes at the man before nodding. “If you do anything to him then I swear-“

“You’ll stab me?” Interrupts the Villain. “You’re going to stab me because no offense but that is what you do all the time and it’s getting old.”

“She can go and hack into your account and cancel all your subscriptions,” chimed the Traitor.

“Yes I can do that.” She takes her phone out and tries to find the email the Villain sent her last week regarding a coupon, already knowing his password is the same as the 50th eras’ password.

“Wait no my dramas you can’t take those away from me!”

“We can’t just quit!” Sputters the Hero. All eyes turn to him. “We don’t have jobs! We don't have licenses! How are we supposed to quit?”

“Your Captain can give us legal documents.”

“I can.”

“I know a guy that can give us jobs.”

The Hero opens and closes his mouth. “So we’re just quitting?” He finally says.

“I mean I’m with the Villain here,” says the Traitor. “This isn’t me doing this out of loyalty, this is me actually wanting to retire.”

“Didn’t you go and one time steal from the Villain in the 200th world?” Asks the Captain.

“Oh yeah I did do that! I loved that world!”

The Hero laughs. “That was a fun world, yes. I loved the part where you did the heist and fooled all of us.”

Silence graced the battlefield.

“So what are all your names?” Asked the Captain. “We’re going to retire so might as well stop calling each other by titles.”

A heavier silence graced the battlefield.

“I uh…don’t actually remember my name,” says the Traitor.

The Villain nods in agreement while the Hero points at the other and then at himself.

“Oh,” the Captain says. “Well I don’t remember mine either.”

More silence.

“So coffee?” The Hero says sheepishly.

“Oh gods yes.”

“Hot Chocolate for me only please.”

“Coffee is the one thing I am glad was kept throughout all worlds.”

——————————

Tagging moots under read more

@not-pie @beantothemax @chaotic-good-mom-friend @justagingerwithredhair @bewilderedgrace @kore-arts @lola-legendary @palesmokeisinthevoid @professorgallifrey @aernirose @honey-vvitch @pinkielord @dragon-with-a-dagger @recently-diagnosed-lady-knight @aurora-bore-aura @notveryflamboyantofyou

[ahlite]

@ruinedheart : [WONDER] + albedo / accepting!

"Watch," she says, voice not light, but closer than it often is. It's easier right now, the moon scarcely a sliver — shining its faint light on the two not - quite - humans. It's easier right now, beside the only person alive who understands. Who loves her — who chooses her for more than what she is capable of offering. Who has not abandoned or betrayed her, like all the rest.

Who is looking at her, curious — but not the way he's curious about his experiments. Who is looking at her, expression fond in the dark.

The sky is inky and endless, dotted with stars — Lumine takes a step nearer to the edge of Starsnatch Cliff. For a moment, they imagine walking off, imagine what he'd do to save them. They don't. Instead, their hands lift, scarred palms open and offering towards the sky.

It's been a long time, since they've done this. They've been practicing, on a smaller scale — first just to test the limits of their own bound divinity, then to show. To give. To earn. ( earn what? affection? lack of betrayal? she wants to believe she doesn't need to earn that from him. but she's been wrong before. ) She feels her eyes and freckles glow, feels the bound godhood within them strain and twist and ache. Feels it push, fight. Feels it — bloom.

He's watched her create light in her palms, small constellations that flicker out as quick as they sparked to life. But now he watches new stars spill into the inky sky — new and twinkling and brighter than the others. His eyes widen as hers flicker out, no - longer glowing, merely staring up at what she's made. Her hands fall to her side. No new constellations — that takes more control than they can manage — but she's done it. New stars. She's only ever made new stars for Aether before.

Lumine doesn't smile anymore. But they come close, when they look to Albedo and watch his eyes draw from the sky to their, when they see the amazement there. The adoration. For once, the light in them feels warm instead of razing, like sunlight through the trees. They can still make stars. They can still make stars.

It feels — the pain doesn't go away. But it feels nice. New stars, for her love.

The silence stretches, warm. "Do you like them?" Lumine asks, soft, a little selfish. He can tell his lover likes them, but it will be nice to hear it. But Albedo doesn't reply — he moves closer instead, hands raising, and presses those hands to their cheeks. Cupping their face, eyes more tender and more amazed than Lumine has ever seen them. Albedo smiles, sloping an affectionate and awed, breathing out a faint, breathless laugh.

New stars, for her love. And his old star's heart cracks, light and at ease for the first time in months. She smiles, finally, faint. She smiles for the first time in months. Her hands raise, perching gently on his wrists, and her head tilts, leaning into the safety of his palm.

She wants to tell him that she hasn't felt this loved in years, probably. She wants to tell him she hasn't felt this human in longer. That he makes her so human. But it seems a shame to stain the silence. They shift closer as the new stars shine above them.

[v1ntagecassette]

give up what you love (before it does you in)

Chapter: 1/?

Summary: 

A new hire has turned up at the Crow's Nest Bookshop, and he looks utterly terrified to be here. A new customer has turned up at the Crow's Nest Bookshop, and she's profoundly distracting. A new Barrel boss has turned up at the Crow's Nest Bookshop, and he's about to raze it all to the ground.

Words: 3.4k

When Kaz entered the bookshop to see an entirely unfamiliar face peering back at him from behind the counter, he knew today was going to be a long one.

Save for the yellowy glow of the hanging lamp over the register, the building was still dark. Weak morning sunlight spilled inside through the little glass panes in the door behind him, fighting its way through the smoggy clouds that always settled themselves over Ketterdam this time of year. Whoever watched Kaz approach from the other end of the shop was certainly dressed for the weather; he wore a thick jumper in coppery autumnal oranges, his hands half-hidden in its sleeves.

“Morning,” said the mystery boy, giving a halfhearted wave. He attempted (rather poorly) to play it off like he was scratching at the back of his head of golden curls when Kaz didn’t return the gesture, only kept stalking his way toward the coat hooks that were tucked behind the fiction shelves.

The thunk of Kaz’s cane along the warped old wood seemingly alerted Per Haskell to his presence (never mind that Kaz arrived at precisely nine and a half bells each morning — on the days Haskell actually bothered to turn up around opening, he tended to be far too busy with his morning glass of whiskey to notice the goings-on out on the floor). The old man emerged from the back office with a little wooden dowel in his right hand, and he clapped his left against this new boy’s shoulder hard enough to make him wince.

“Ah,” said Haskell, gesturing toward Kaz with what must have been the mast of his newest model ship. (The thing took up a frankly embarrassing amount of space in the already-too-small back office; Kaz dreamed of the day he could bash his cane into its half-finished hull.) He sounded about as thrilled to see Kaz as he did any day when he got bored enough to set foot on the floor. “Here he is. The lad himself.”

Kaz arched a brow at him. “It seems I’m not the only lad on the premises this morning.”

“Indeed you’re not,” Haskell agreed. “This” — he gave the boy’s shoulder a little jostle — “is Wylan. He’ll be taking up a part-time position here as of fifteen minutes ago.”

Those fifteen minutes had clearly taken their toll; this kid looked like a newborn deer on an open field, and he eyed each bookshelf like their contents were going to try and eat him. “Hi,” he said, doing his very best to covertly wiggle out of Haskell’s grasp. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Kaz didn’t bother to acknowledge him. He bit down on the comment he longed to make about a new hire being made without so much as consulting him and swallowed it hard. “Has he had any training?”

Haskell let out a bark of a laugh. “That’s your job, Brekker, not mine.”

“Of course, sir.” So much for alphabetizing poetry before opening.

“Sir,” Haskell repeated with an inelegant chuckle. He relinquished his grip on the boy and gave the register in front of him a smack. “Look at you, putting on a show for the new hire. You should take after Brekker’s theatrics, son,” he added to Wylan. “It just might get you a raise.”

Kaz knew for a fact that it wouldn’t. Wylan, though, clearly eager to please, nodded and gave a small-but-determined “Yes, sir.”

“A quick learner, eh?” A proper, hearty laugh boomed across the shop; the type Haskell reserved for new business partners and people he wanted to impress. The shine would wear off soon enough, but Kaz made a mental note to keep up the honorifics for the next couple of days.

“A valuable skill,” Kaz said flatly. “One among many, I hope.”

There seemed to be something particularly interesting taking place on the ground between Wylan’s shoes, if the kid’s unblinking stare toward the floor was anything to go by.

“I suppose I’ll leave you boys to it,” said Haskell. (Kaz fought not to bristle — twenty-two, surely, was old enough for him to have graduated from boy.) “Got some important paperwork to get squared away.”

That one nearly received an eye roll. Kaz had been doing this shop’s bookkeeping for just over four years now; any paperwork Haskell planned to work on likely involved a single signature at the bottom of a document Kaz had prepared and printed, or a glance over a spreadsheet Kaz had drafted up that would sit idle on the office’s computer monitor while the old man took a nap in his desk chair.

“Show him the ropes, Brekker,” Haskell said as he ambled off. “Quick crash course, then get him out on the floor.”

Right, of course, because he could absolutely teach this kid all there was to know about the register and the system and the shelving and everything else in — he checked the clock that hung over the creaky green front door — twenty-three minutes.

“Thank you, Mr. Haskell,” Wylan called after him, fiddling with a loose thread at the sleeve of his jumper. He didn’t turn his back on the office door until the old man pulled it closed.

Kaz heaved a sigh and limped around the books that separated the coat hooks from the rest of the shop. He shook his coat from his shoulders, granting himself precisely five seconds to hang it up and scrub a hand through his hair before making his way behind the counter, where Wylan waited quietly with an air of anxiety hanging over him like fog on the harbor.

From a single glance, it’d been clear that this new hire was almost sickeningly polite. Kaz had begun bracing himself for a handshake the moment he laid eyes on the kid; it was more than clear he’d be the sort to introduce himself formally, most likely out of some learned sense of obligation. There was a certain reluctance about him — a need to make a good impression. His wide blue eyes darted repeatedly from Kaz to the office door and back again, and his reddish brows had a permanent, apologetic crease between them, almost as though he were asking forgiveness for occupying space in the shop. Whatever stone he’d been hewn from, it wasn’t the same sort that cobbled the Barrel’s streets.

“Hi,” he said, holding out a hand. “I’m Wylan.”

Kaz shook it shortly, grasp and release. “So I’ve heard.” He elected to ignore the way Wylan’s attention lingered for just a moment too long on his glove.

“And… sorry, what was your name?”

“Kaz Brekker.” Wylan would know that if he’d ever once set foot in this establishment before; Kaz’s name was scattered all about the place on the little shelf talkers that recommended certain books. (Haskell had been terribly opposed to them, but he stopped complaining once titles that had lived on the shelves long enough for their pages to go yellow were suddenly getting restocked weekly.)

“You’re the manager, then?” Wylan asked.

According to Per Haskell? No. He was a bookseller at best and a nuisance at worst. According to the bills, the payroll, the deliveries, the decor, and the time last winter when Kaz had come into the shop at four bells in the morning to call in an emergency repair for a burst heating pipe? Yes. Very much so. For Wylan’s sake, Kaz elected to abbreviate. “More or less.”

“Cool,” Wylan said, and with that, he seemed to have expended his bank of small talk. Kaz would’ve been happy with the silence, but he figured he should at least try to make conversation. Jesper was always on his hide about how curt Kaz was with the customers.

“So,” he said, propping his cane against its corner beside the register as he booted up the dusty old computer, “Haskell’s been hiring?”

“I guess.” The thread on Wylan’s cuff was growing ever longer; he’d have the whole sleeve unraveled by lunch if he kept this up. “He said you’d been talking about bringing someone new on board for a while now.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah, something about… new blood, I think he said? Being good for morale?”

Kaz leaned down to turn on the receipt printer, chewing that over. “Per Haskell,” he said, “hasn’t listened to a word of advice I’ve given him since the day he took me on. I’ve been one bad customer away from putting out my own damn help wanted listing for the better part of two years. And yet” — Kaz peered over his shoulder — “he took your application in a heartbeat.”

“Sounds like I got lucky.” Wylan’s poker face was in desperate need of work, but Kaz wouldn’t put him through the wringer just yet. He turned back toward the monitor.

“Do you have a preferred genre?” he asked, straightening up. “Any particular wheelhouse?” Kaz had dropped a hundred hints about taking on someone more versed in the science and maths section for months, but to no avail. Maybe, for once in his life, the old man had taken note.

“Oh, ehm. I like… I like fiction?”

Naturally. “Fiction,” Kaz repeated.

“Yep.”

Everyone and their mothers liked fiction. That wasn’t much to go on. “Adult? Children’s? Literary? Historical?”

“I sort of read all over.”

Kaz actually had to take a moment to close his eyes and breathe. Why in Ghezen’s name had Haskell hired this kid? The way he paled at each question made Kaz wonder if he even read at all. Kaz put his back to the computer as it finished sputtering to life, and the moment Wylan realized Kaz’s eyes were on him again, he snapped to attention.

“But if you need someone to, um, cover a certain section, or something,” he said in a rush, “I can be wherever you need me.”

It was difficult to place exactly what energy Wylan was giving off. Anxious, maybe, but not just about starting a new job. Eager to please, but that seemed more innate than conditional. Reading people was a skill Kaz had carefully honed over the years; no matter how closely he scrutinized Wylan’s tone and expression and posture, though, he just couldn’t parse out why this boy looked as though he’d walked into an ambush unarmed.

“Noted,” Kaz said. He retrieved his cane and stepped out onto the floor; as expected, Wylan followed close behind. “Get those switches flipped on,” he said, nodding toward the six wooden pillars wrapped in string lights that stood sentry around the center of the shop. “I’ll get the door.”

It admittedly wasn’t unpleasant to have someone around to assist with the more menial morning duties. Jesper rarely turned up to open — he wasn’t the most punctual of employees, and mornings were never terribly busy, anyway — but with Wylan around, all Kaz really needed to worry about was turning the open sign and unlocking the door. By the time he was done, Wylan had finished with the lights and had taken to standing entirely still with a lost sort of look on his face. Kaz just brushed past him, heading toward the back half of the shop to get that section squared away, too.

“Jesper mans middle readers’,” Kaz said as he walked, “but you’re welcome to assist in that department. He’s got a habit of stacking enough recommendations into customers’ arms to tip them over. It gets a bit overwhelming.”

“Jesper?” Wylan repeated. “Not Jesper Fahey?”

Kaz paused in the act of pulling the chain on a hanging lantern. “You know him?”

“Not really,” said Wylan. He was prodding at a handful of children’s fantasy books, trying to make them all sit evenly in a row. “I just — we have class together. Or had class together, I suppose. At the university? I haven’t seen him in a month or two.”

“Interesting.” Kaz would file that away for later.

“Speaking of the university,” Wylan said, tugging on a paperback to line up its spine with the edge of the shelf, “do you go? I would’ve thought I’d’ve seen you around.”

I’m too old for school, came an unwanted echo from the back of Kaz’s head. Too smart, too. Maybe little pigeon Kaz had taken that to heart. “No,” he said, and he set back off for the register.

“Mr. Haskell mentioned training,” Wylan said, still dogging Kaz’s every step. At least he knew when to drop a topic of conversation.

“That he did.” Kaz nodded toward the computer screen. “Have you ever worked a point-of-sale system?”

“No.”

Kaz considered him. “Ever worked at all?”

“Um. Also no.”

It took a concerted effort for Kaz to refrain from pinching the bridge of his nose. Though he longed for the simplicity of a morning spent doing anything other than training some doe-eyed university boy, it seemed fate wouldn’t be granting him that luxury today. “Alright,” he said. “Then we’ll start from square one.”

The following hours were blessedly quiet — they usually were this early in the day, but Kaz had learned to take small victories where he could find them. He gave Wylan a short tour of the shop, which Wylan spent scratching away at a small notepad, diligently scribbling down… something. He held it too close to his chest for Kaz to see, even when he didn’t think Kaz was looking. (Kaz would have to find a time to pickpocket it off him some time soon.)

Wylan was a quick enough learner; he could count back change in his head, which Kaz respected more than he’d ever admit aloud, and he picked up processing returns without trouble. His seemingly subconscious seeking of approval meant that he was dedicated and determined; by all counts, he was shaping up to be a pretty decent employee.

Issues began to arise, however, when Kaz showed him the inventory and the distributor sites. Wylan grew flustered when Kaz suggested he search up a book he was familiar with in order to learn how the system categorized the sections, and more flustered still when Kaz proffered a specific title for him to type in. What little tension had seeped from his body over the past handful of hours returned to it tenfold as his hands hovered motionless over the keyboard.

“Sorry,” Wylan kept saying, “sorry, sorry, I’m just a bit nervous.”

Kaz saw no point in causing the new hire psychological distress on his first day, and frankly, it was too early in the day to try and puzzle out why the kid was wound so tight. He cut his losses and dug a duster out of the back room, then extended it to Wylan handle side out. He’d been trying to get Jesper to clean up the lower shelves for longer than he cared to quantify; maybe having an extra set of hands on deck, no matter how suspicious their arrival had been, wasn’t the worst thing.

As it turned out, Wylan was incredibly diligent. He kept to himself as Kaz did his usual paperwork and order-placing, only drifting back toward the counter when the odd customer showed up to watch Kaz make sales over his shoulder. Wylan was somewhere in the far back of the shop when Jesper finally took it upon himself to waltz inside, wearing absurdly patterned trousers and an even more absurd jacket to guard against the early autumn chill.

“Morning!” he called out far louder than he needed to.

“It’s half past twelve bells,” Kaz noted.

“And I just rolled out of bed. Hence: morning.” Jesper sauntered up to the counter and dropped a brown paper bag atop it. Kaz lifted a brow.

“What’s this?”

“Breakfast,” Jesper replied, reaching inside and digging out a croissant frosted with chocolate. “You know. That thing people eat in the morning. I got you some, too. Chocolate-free, just for you, Dirtyhands.”

Kaz made no move to reach for the bag. “If you make a mess of a single book cover —”

“I won’t!” Jesper insisted. A drop of chocolate chose that moment to land on his knuckle. “I solemnly swear to thoroughly wash my hands,” he said, crossing his heart with his croissant-free index finger.

“Ghezen help you if you don’t,” said Kaz.

There was a creak from behind him as Wylan passed through the little swinging door between the children’s section and the counter, presenting Kaz with what looked like a recently deceased rabbit. “Are there more of these dust-y things?” Wylan asked, sliding the once-yellow (now gray) disposable cover from the duster’s handle.

“Supply closet.” Kaz had busied himself with cracking open a new roll of coins, but he could feel Wylan’s questioning eyes on him from where he stood. “The door tucked between the coat hooks. The handle has a habit of sticking.”

Wylan nodded. He nearly made it four steps away from the counter before Jesper intercepted him, arms folded, chin up, seeming intrigued by the way Wylan froze on the spot like a small animal caught digging through the bin.

“Morning,” Jesper said again, his gray eyes glittering with interest. “Who might you be, O stranger behind the register?”

“Oh, um, hi. We’ve actually — Hi. I’m Wylan.” His arm jerked slightly, like he had been planning to shake hands but decided against it once he noticed that Jesper was holding what must have been the world’s messiest croissant.

“Wylan?” said Jesper. “Wylan who?”

“Van Eck,” Kaz said without looking up.

“Wh — I never told you that.” Wylan whipped his head around to face him; there was a mildly distressed expression on his face (which Kaz, of course, didn’t see).

Kaz shrugged, shaking the coins into the till. “Didn’t need to.”

“Van Eck?” said Jesper. “As in high-and-mighty merch Van Eck?”

“Yep,” Wylan said to his shoes.

“The Van Eck whose smarmy face is plastered all around Ketterdam? The one who’s gunning for a spot at the head of the Merchant Council?”

“That’d be the one.” The tips of Wylan’s ears had gone noticeably pink.

“Huh.” Jesper ripped a hunk off his croissant and took a thoughtful bite. “What’s a merchling like you doing in retail?”

“Working,” Wylan said shortly.

Jesper snorted. “Well, paint me red and call me Mister Crimson,” he said, nudging Wylan in the side with his elbow. “Welcome to the world of the working man.”

“Thank you.” Wylan cleared his throat and rocked back on his heels. “I’m, um. I’m going to go get that duster.” He vanished behind the fiction shelves without another word.

“Bit twitchy, that one, isn’t he?” Jesper said, hopping up to sit on the counter. “I’d love to know how he landed here.”

“So would I,” said Kaz, sliding the drawer shut with a clatter.

Jesper spun around to face him, legs crossed, pointedly ignoring the way Kaz glared at him for putting his shoes up on the counter. “What, did you not hire him yourself?”

“No. Haskell sprung him on me first thing this morning.”

“A classic Haskell move,” Jesper said sagely. “D’you think he’ll be a good fit, at least?”

“That’s to be determined.”

“Whatever you say.” Jesper crammed the rest of his croissant into his mouth and dropped back down to the floor, nudging the pastry bag back in Kaz’s direction. “Give this to the newbie if you’re just gonna let it go stale.”

Kaz snatched up the bag and set it behind the counter. “Wash your hands, Jesper.”

He was met with a wink and a dazzling smile as Jesper saluted him with a chocolate-frosted hand. “Will do.”

Next chapter

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A/N:

uh oh! it's the beginning of my lowercase titles era. i very much lifted this title (and the names of all the chapters) from the new fall out boy album. please be supportive of my brave and groundbreaking choice.

this fic has been spinning in circles at the back of my brain since i read pyrrhlc's "latte art," and it's already like 14k words long as of when i'm posting the first chapter. i'm going a little bit crazy. i work in a bookstore and i love bookstores and i also love kaz brekker, so of course i'm going to make him work in one, too. of course i am. welcome to retail, motherfucker.

man, it sure is weird that wylan van eck is working at a bookshop. what's all that about?

[emcads]

new verse time.

to a strange and dark place, to the edge of the sea. (d.ark s.hadows 1966 / immortality) In 1967, Collinsport, Maine, the seabed is dragged looking for the body of a kidnapper who jumped from the cliffs at Widow’s Hill and who – it is presumed – washed out to sea (ordinarily, they’d take it as a given that the man died of the fall, but it was the Collins heiress who was taken, after all, and that family can move the police force with a crook of their little finger). The man is not found, but in the cloudless night, almost eerily preserved, an old shipwreck with its skeletal captain trapped within, a gold medallion still around their neck. The local historical society is delighted … as is the antiques dealer. Come sunrise, the skeleton and its treasure are missing, and for the most part everyone shrugs their shoulders: thieves and graverobbers are nothing new. But only a few days later a strange woman arrives in the Blue Whale, elegantly dressed and moving in a way that suggests she may not have touched land in decades. She introduces herself as Esmeralda de Sevilla, lately from Mexico, and there is plenty of modern English slang she does not know. For lodgings, she purchases an old houseboat and employs some of the local fishermen to help her fix it up, and she seems to be the only one in Collinsport that prefers the dark clouds of a Northeastern storm than a clear, moonlit stroll.

as hard to cut as a rough diamond. (b.ridgerton / regency) Don Rafael once held a mildly influential seat at the Spanish court overseeing the supply of the navy, with vast family wealth from a silver mine in Mexico. On one of his routine trips across the Atlantic, his bachelor, warrior son came back with a bride –– an indigenous woman, Quiauhxochitl –– and a child, a young, wide brown-eyed thing called Esmeralda, symbolic of the green riches of the New World. Don Rafael embraced his new granddaughter and daughter in law as none of his peers did, and Esmeralda was made her father’s legal heir. But Napoleon’s occupation would change their hard-won familial bliss when she was only a child. Both of Esmeralda’s parents died in an uprising, and the de Sevilla home was razed: supposedly by commoners, but her grandfather saw the faces of the wealthy afrancesados that had done it, men he had once trusted, boys that had grown up alongside his son. For refuge, he fled with his granddaughter to England, and she was raised as a proper lady in the English style, though much of what would have been her dowry was long gone. Nonetheless, Don Rafael found a decent position with the Navy Board using his name and knowledge; and eventually, he was able to secure a small commission of his own, and the prize money significantly improved their prospects (and bettered Esmeralda for her debut into society). Though she was fonder of the docks than she was ballrooms, Esmeralda showed great promise as a young lady: pretty, and accomplished at dancing, and a honeyed tongue that was as dangerous as it was flattering.