#that they were born and right out the gate people were telling them what their fate was

[pensymbols]

you do not understand how unhinged i am about aphelios lore you do NOT get it

[lizzaneia-elizalde]

Yandere! Cowboy x New in town! Teacher! gn! Reader

Save a horse, RIDE A WHAT?!

Okay i'm not that knowledgeable about the Ranch life, I only got this prompt from a *ehem* cowboy Ghost (from COD) prompt...

Yandere cowboy name: Knoxx Wyatt

TW: Implied sexual encounter, yandere shenanigans.

The Wyatt family.

They were THE ranchers of the town they live in.

You need cattle? They got them. Dairy? Sure. They even own a winery for goodness sake.

They also protect the town from outsiders and rogues.

But the most impressive part of their ranch is their horses. Their horses are award winning, with the most impressive breeds out there with such powerful legs for jumping, and the shiniest coasts to boast.

So it was clear that their horses are very important to them. So important in fact that every child born into the family gets their own horse once they turn 5.

When Knoxx got born, Mr. and Mrs. Wyatt was immediately smitten with their son. He's a miracle child after all. His mother, suffering from PCOS, considers Knoxx as a miracle child.

So naturally, he was spoiled rotten.

By the time he got to 5 years old, he was given one of the most powerful horse breeds in the world, a Belgian Draught.

The town was shook at first. A Belgian Draught? Even if the Wyatt family is known for their horses, a Belgian Draught is still a very prestigious horse breed none of their family members had handled.

Yet Knoxx proved everyone wrong by wrangling the horse even such a young age.

The horse, named Red, grew alongside the prodigy, Knoxx.

It was almost like Knoxx can talk with the animals with how he can tell what the cattle and the horses need by just a few huffs, belts, and trots. He's also a smart boy, absorbing information and relaying it effectively to the point he immediately got the senior rancher position by the age of 10.

Knoxx was mostly passive, only focuses on the ranch and the school. He's a gentleman, nice, polite, plus the fact that he's handsome, he's a heartthrob in the sleepy town he lives in.

Naturally, by the time he graduated with a double degree of Biology and Agriculture, he's the ideal bachelor of almost everyone.

And yet, he's not settling yet.

He felt like he just can't.

Because nobody can look past his polite smiles. No one can see his bored eyes, his arrogant sneer, his small, annoyed scoffs.

"Do they think they can measure up to me? THE Knoxx Wyatt? Dream fuckin' on."

In reality, he's an arrogant, entitled cowboy who thinks that everyone is below him.

Even going as far as letting his bloodlust win sometimes, silently and quietly killing the people who dared to be stupid around his precious cattle and horses.

Sometimes. It would be suspicious if it happened frequently, right?

He has a reputation to protect, after all.

So with this, all he could do is put the brim of his cowboy hat low, and take care of his ranch, and his ole' Red who's still alive and kicking.

But that arrogance will crumble once he met you.

"Fuck! Red! Where are you, boy?!"

"Red! Come on boy! This is not funny!"

Knoxx ran around the town, his boots clinking as his loud steps disturbed the peaceful town.

Knoxx was panicking. Red, his old horse, is missing. One of the hired ranchers forgot to lock the gate before he left the ranch.

Let's just say that rancher was sure to remember next time, his head almost being lobbed off with a rake that Knoxx may or may not have thrown.

As he got closer and closer to the raging rivers, his heart pounded. All he could see is the hoof marks that's definitely Red's making it's way to the river. He felt lightheaded, almost like he's about to puke from the stress and anxiety.

He may be a... Murderer, but he still has his moments, alright?

He got to the riverbank and his heart lodged to his throat when he saw a person pulling Red to the edge with all their might, their formal clothes wet. A telltale sign they pulled Red all the way from the middle of the river to the edge.

The person, not noticing Knoxx, continued to pull Red with the lead attached to the horse. Their legs were shaking, but they pulled with all their might until Red finally got to the edge.

"Darlin!" Knoxx yelled, running towards to Red and holding the old horse's head to his forehead. "You gave me a scare, boy!"

Knoxx turned towards the person and his cold heart slowly melted as they wrung their outfit from the water.

"Excuse me, your name, sweetheart?"

The person's head shot up, their eyes wide, tired, yet full of vigor. Maybe it was from the adrenaline, but Knoxx swore it was sparkles.

Or was it his eyes sparkling?

"I'm y/n."

"Y/n..." The way your name rolled on his tongue felt so good.

"Well, sweetheart. Thank you for saving my horse here. I'm sorry. You got your cute outfit wet too." You blushed, laughing it off.

"It's okay. I saw an animal in need and I immediately dove without thinking." You reasoned, shaking off the water. "Although, i'm probably late to my class."

Knoxx's heart sank. Are you not of age? A student?

"School? Are you new to this town? I've never seen ya around."

"Oh yes! I'm the new teacher. Well, I don't think i'll give the best first impressions with this outfit." You laughed sheepishly.

A teacher? His mind went haywire. You're an academic, it's quite a turn on.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. You got wet because of me."

Hmm? Why does that sound--

Knoxx bit his lip and rubbed his thighs together at the sudden heat running inside of him. God.

"Oh don't worry. It's okay. I gotta go though, although I don't know how to explain the situation." You smiled softly, grabbing your bag that was discarded to the side. "I'll go then."

Knoxx was upset. He wanted to spend time with you more.

Then there's also the scratching feeling in his chest and throat that roared at the thought of you going out of his sight.

He gulped, and took his hat off and placed it on your head. Sweat riddling his face.

'Please don't know what this means please don't know what this means please don't know what this means...'

Knoxx almost buckled over when you looked at him with curious and ignorant eyes.

"Your hat? Why did you give me your hat?" You asked, feeling up his cowboy hat. It felt high quality and nice. Yet it felt foreboding. You don't know why.

"Don't worry your pretty little head over it." Knoxx said, smirking lazily. "Just wear that. They'll know what that meant."

You tilted your head and Knoxx gulped once more, shaking his head. And ignoring the prominent hardness between his legs.

"You must be cold. Come on, let me give you a ride to the school. I'll explain the situation to them." Knoxx held your waist, his body so close to you that you can smell his musk of pine, dirt, and wine.

And as he gave you a ride to the school, you swore that the townspeople's eyes were glued to you, and the hat on top of you.

"Knoxx! How's the new teacher? Are they settling well here?" The mayor of the town asked, eating his snacks.

Knoxx nodded and sighed. It was already a month, and it felt like a fever dream for him.

A beautiful fever dream he won't let go off.

"They're doing fine. The students love 'em." Knoxx said, chuckling and settling back on his chair.

They were in a saloon right now, drinking and eating the afternoon away. Knoxx just finished his daily patrol so he decided to settle inside the saloon when the mayor sat down with him to eat.

"Well, i'm glad to hear that." The mayor cleared his throat before his eyes widened to the door.

Knoxx followed his eyes and his gaze softened, yet also became predatory as he saw you walk inside.

"School's done, sweetheart?" Knoxx asked loudly, making you jump and clear your throat. A blush on your cheeks.

"Yes. Just finished. I'm just gonna go get a drink before heading home." You said, adjusting the collar of your outfit before going to the bar hastily.

Knoxx chuckled lazily, his bitemarks from last night's love making was visible from here, despite your attempts to hide it.

Yet his eyes went to the mayor's, who is looking at you with a hint of desire in his gaze.

Knoxx gripped his whiskey glass and spun the barrel of his revolver slowly, letting it click softly to the right position.

It seems that his sweetheart is a magnet for bandits ready to snatch them up.

But that's okay.

This cowboy will not let anybody steal you from him.

Save a horse,

Ride a cowboy.

[fangirl-dot-com]

Chapter 18 - All For You

Guys, I fear this one may be worse than the last angsty one I wrote. Am I getting better or worse? – I have no clue…I’m just in a super angsty mood rn 

Also, I know that it “Born to Break Records” I said that Max didn’t know about reader’s godfather passing. What I meant to say was that he didn’t know at the time when he gave reader the trophy after she won her debut f2 race. But, because reader has a special helmet for Imola since Lorenzo was Italian, she’d have to tell him about the helmet. 

TW: EMOTIONAL ABUSE, HARSH LANGUAGE, SHITTY PARENTS, AND PHYSICAL ABUSE

I am prepared for the therapy bills…

How does someone write “and they swapped spit” in a romantic way?? Asking for a friend 

Like always comments, questions, concerns, reblogs, and likes are always appreciated! 

TAG LIST IS CLOSED 

It couldn’t be them. 

You blinked and stared in the direction that you had been previously looking. Your eyes narrowed as you gazed at the small crack of the garage and where the gate was. You quickly placed your special helmet down on a table and dodged mechanics as you stepped out. Mitch barely glanced at your leaving as you often went to visit other drivers before the race if you had time. And today, the parade was a bit earlier, so most of the drivers used this time to destress a bit more than usual. 

As you got closer, two familiar people stood out to you. Right now, they were arguing with one of the Red Bull security guards. Your face grimaced as you could hear the shouting multiple feet away. 

As you got closer, your blood ran colder. You knew it was a bad idea to come out here, but it was like a moth to a flame or even a lamb to a slaughter. You couldn’t stop your feet until you were just a few steps away. 

“Mom? Dad?” 

The group of three’s heads swerved toward yours. The security guard, who you recognized to be Frederik, looked at you with a questioning face. The other two looked relieved but also angry at you. 

Your father rolled his eyes and pointed toward you before yelling at Fred. “See, I told you that we were her parents, now let us in,” he demanded. 

Your heart dropped a bit at the statement. You were never one to stand up to your father, especially when he was already angry. 

Your hear barely nodded, almost as if you were trying to even convince yourself that you were fine with them invading your life. 

Fred looked over with concern. 

“It’s ok Fred.” 

“Are you sure kid?” 

Your mother huffed. “She said it was fine. Now let us through.” 

Fred sure took his sweet time to unlock the gate, something that you could find some thankfulness for. 

Your mother came close to you first and wrapped you in an awkward hug: one that you did not return as it was too quick to reciprocate. Your father just stood there, with the same disappointing stare he always had. 

You put your hands to the side. “What are you two doing here? Last I knew is that you wanted nothing to do with me.” 

Your father rolled his eyes and your mother let out a squawk. “Is that what you’ve been telling your friends? Goodness gracious child, going around speaking lies.” 

You winced at her demeaning tone. 

Your father spoke next. “You make it into Formula 1 and forget everything that we did for you? How fucking pathetic.” He all but spit out the last word.

“Kid!” 

Your head whipped around at lightning speed. Mitch was waving at you from the garage, a curious look on your face.

You tried to give her a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your face. “Coming!” You turned toward your parents. “You can follow me, but please do not touch anything and just stand in the corner.” 

That earned another round of scoffs and groans. 

“Someone has gotten bratty I see,” you mother seethed. 

You paid no attention and walked back to the garage. You only knew that they followed you because you had memorized their footprints long ago when you were too scared to even get out of your room on multiple occasions. There was a difference between their normal strides, angry strides, and sneaky strides that they used when they tried to “catch” you doing something you shouldn’t have been doing – like getting an extra snack because they “forgot” to make you dinner. 

You had hoped that Max, Christian, Vito, or even Mitch would be right there when you walked in, but the universe definitely hated you today. The said four were standing in a little circle, probably going over some last minute data. You had stopped in the entrance and watched them, scared that they would ask questions.

While you were watching, a rough shove was directed toward your back, sending you to the floor and making a noise. Your knees were definitely bruised now and your hands were scraped on the concrete. Max, Christian, Mitch, and Vito all turned toward the noise. You had just gotten back up and continued walking, parents behind you. 

Some of the engineers had watched your father push you and were starting to question as to who he thought he was, pushing you around like that. 

“Oops, didn’t see you there,” your father said. 

Vito’s back straightened in defense when his eyes looked at your parents. You shot him a sorry look as he made eye contact with you. 

“Ah there you are kid. We were just going over some last minute notes. Who might this be?” Christian asked, walking toward you. Right now, he was thinking that they might be some older couple that you might have known from your childhood. 

Boy, was he wrong. 

Your eyes glanced back at your parents and sent Christian a look, trying to communicate to him that you really didn’t want these two in the garage. 

“Uh, Christian, these are my parents.” Your hands lightly raised in the air, as if to show them off. 

Christian’s eyes darkened as he looked at the couple. Max behind him was mentally killing them both. Mitch was just wondering about how she could get you out of this uncomfortable situation. 

“Y/n didn’t tell me that we’d be having personal guests today,” Christian said, folding his arms in a defensive pose. 

You prayed that your father wouldn’t roll his eyes at your boss. 

Your father only stared at the slightly taller Brit before looking at you, annoyance evident on his face. Your mother, once again, scoffed. 

“Wow,” your mother let off a very fake giggle, “our own daughter didn’t tell you that we were coming? Shows you how much appreciation kids have these days.” Another fake laugh followed. 

Max winced at the sight of your crest-fallen face. You looked absolutely miserable. 

“Hmmm, doesn’t sound like our kid.” Christian tried to back you up. 

Your mother had walked over to where you special Imola helmet was laying. She picked it up and twirled it around. 

It was a beautiful piece of work. The colors of the Italian flag blended beautifully. On the side you had Lorenzo’s crest with his birthdate and death-date underneath as a tribute to him. You watched as her lip curled in disgust. But, you also saw as one of the mechanics came up and took it directly from her, telling her that no one but you or authorized personelle should be touching it. 

Christian spoke up again, “Well, we are very busy right now and I need to speak to my drivers.”

But before Christian could get you away, Max stepped forward, a false smile on his lips and a hand stretched out. 

“Max Verstappen, three time World Champion.’ 

You knew this shpeel very well. Max only said the whole title when he was over someone’s bullshit, or he knew that they were just using him for his fame. 

Your father had some type of dumbstruck look as he took Max’s hand. The fuming Dutchman used this opportunity to tightly squeeze his hand, tighter than a normal handshake should have been. It made him happy to see your father wince at the grip. 

Your father’s hand then came and rested on your shoulder. You tensed as his grip got much harder and harder, probably leaving yet another bruise. “My daughter has a lot to accomplish if you’re her teammate. Good thing she doesn’t have the talent to outshine you.” 

You hated it when your father belittled you. He had done this multiple times in front of old friends. He was a manipulator and a narcissist. Your breath, that had been a bunch of harsh inhales and exhales, started to hitch. Clear signs of a panic attack were just around the corner. And your team could tell that you were about to possibly have a meltdown if you didn’t get out now. 

Mitch finally spoke up. “We have a race in just under 30 minutes and I need to privately go over something with my drivers. Max and Y/n, please follow me. Christian, I need you as well and Vito you know what to do, we’ll be in the main driver’s room (Max’s driver room).” 

Your manager gave your parents one last glare before rushing out of the Red Bull garage. 

Mitch was totally bullshitting them because it was actually closer to 45 full minutes rather than less than 30. 

Max held your shoulders, much lighter than your father had. He noticed your breathing had started to pick up. He sent a worried glance at the Team Principal who was currently clearing the way. 

To you, it felt like your head was underwater. Everything was blurry as you looked at the world through tears, and your head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton. Your skin felt tingly and it pricked where Max’s hands were now gently holding your elbows as he guided you to the room. You could barely hear them trying to get you to calm down. 

Once in the room, you had sunk to the floor and wrapped your arms around yourself, as a means of protection. Hands waved in front of your face, trying to get your attention as you stared numbly forward. Each wave shook a flinch out of your body. 

A sudden inhale brought on ugly sobs as you tried to breath out apologies for things you didn’t know. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. Please, please don’t hurt…me.” 

Your speech was broken, along with the hearts of Max, Mitch, and Christian who watched their strong girl break down because of someone who should have loved you. Quick knocks on the door alerted the room of someone else. 

You suddenly froze, not breathing, as you were thinking that your parents were about to invade yet another safe space. Yet, your vision was filled with red and familiar cologne. 

Your body acted on autopilot as your arms wrapped around the familiar figure of your boyfriend. 

His voice was still fuzzy as he started to rock you back and forth. 

Arthur looked around at the pained faces of your teammate, race engineer, manager, and team principal as they all looked down at you. 

Christian kneeled down next to the younger Monegasque. “Is there anything we can do?” 

He thought for a moment. You were curled sideways in his lap. Your legs were scrunched in fetal position, arms wrapped around his bicep as you clung to him. Your head rested against his chest with your eyes still closed. 

“Her blood sugar gets low after an attack, can someone find some juice?” Vito and Christian all but bolted out the door. 

“Mitch can you turn off the light? And Max, please rub her back. I’d do it, but her arms are wrapped around mine.” 

The lights suddenly dimmed behind your eyelids and a hand gently touched your bad, trying to see if you’d flinch. When your back didn’t tense, Max continued to apply gentle pressure and his hand moved in small circles. 

A big sigh escaped your lips as you came down from your sobs. Your lungs burned with each ragged breath, but they were thankful for new oxygen. 

Your eyes remained closed as you took a minute to get your bearings in order. You tried to count down in your head starting from 100, which normally helped you calm down faster. You finally cracked your eyes open and sat up a bit straighter. The hand that was soothing on your back lifted away. A whine almost escaped your lips, but you reeled it in. 

Arthur took notice of your open eyes and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “How are you doing? You were out of it for a while. Much longer than usual.” 

You hummed. “I’m ok. A bit…” 

“Thirsty?” The voice of your manager sounded as he walked in with multiple juice boxes in his arms, Christian behind him with even more juice boxes, and a certain Monegasque driver carried a variety of snacks in his arms. 

Your eyes widened with excitement as your hand reached up to grab an apple juice from Vito. Arthur quickly took it from you and pressed the straw in and held it to your lips. 

“Small sips,” he reminded you. You wanted to roll your eyes, but you knew he was right. 

After a couple of sips, you asked, “How long was it this time.” 

Your legs finally stretched out from their crunched position. 

“Almost twenty minutes,” Mitch told you, handing you an icepack to put on your head. She guessed that you may be prone to migraines after panic attacks and got you one just in case. Mitch was glad to see you take it and put it on your head immediately. 

The room was silent for a moment, before Max spoke. 

“Kid, what were they doing here?” 

You sighed. “I thought I saw them and I went to go check it out. Turns out it was them, and I really can’t speak up against my dad when he’s angry.” 

Arthur concluded, “So he bullied you into getting what he wanted?”

You winced at the word, but nodded just the same. 

Christian spoke up. “I couldn’t get them kicked out of the grand prix since they had tickets, but they aren’t going to be in the garage. Do you feel all right to race today?” 

“You don’t have to kid if you aren’t feeling well,” Mitch also added on. 

You shook your head. “No, I want to race.” 

The room knew what this weekend meant for you. When you had happily shown them your new helmet, their eyes had welled with tears as you talked about the man who loved you more than life itself. 

Max, who hadn’t known until Wednesday, had given you the biggest hug when it was a good moment. You didn’t know who was comforting who at that moment, but the hug would go down in your list of top 5 hugs ever. 

Arthur sensed that you wanted to stand by the way you were wiggling. He slowly helped you to his feet as he pressed another juice box into your hands. Charles quickly opened a bag of Cheetos as you stared at the orange bag. 

“I ran to Logan,” he simply stated. He knew that the American was the one who always had your favorite snacks on hand. One, because it was a big American brand, and two, the blond had a soft spot for you and always kept them stocked. 

You took the orange twist and happily munched on the snack. The digital clock on Max’s desk showed that there was about 10 minutes left until you needed to get into the car. You quickly finished the small bag and chugged the rest of the juice. 

Christian had to step out and start heading to the pit wall. Mitch followed the older Brit so that she could get to her spot inside the garage. Max and Charles left because Max needed to go over some things with GP, while Charles had to run back to Ferrari to get into his own car. 

Vito stayed behind to check on you for just a few more moments. He knew first-hand how scared your dad and mom made you feel.

Then it was just you and Arthur for a couple of minutes. Your forehead pressed against his. 

“Thank you, for coming to help.” 

Arthur chuckled. “You really need to stop scaring me. No flipping today, ok?” 

You nodded before he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips this time. He tried his best not to smile into the kiss, but he couldn’t help it. 

You gently punched his chest. “Thur, you do that every single time.” 

Arthur brought you back closer. “It’s just because you make me so happy chéri.”  

You gave him another peck, before you led him out of the room. He helped you put your helmet on, and did his ritual “forehead kiss” to the top of it. With your handshake also done, you climbed into your car. The mechanics who had seen you with your parents made sure that you were all right. They were met with a bright smile and a thumbs up from you.

For this race, you qualified rather high. Max had pouted because today had been a Ferrari front-row lock out. You had to remind him that he had beaten Charles before from starting father back. It seemed to pacify the Dutchman. 

Starting Grid 

Charles Leclerc  

Carlos Sainz 

Max Verstappen 

Lando Norris 

Y/n L/n 

George Russell 

Lewis Hamilton 

Daniel Ricciardo 

Logan Sargeant 

Alex Albon 

Oscar Piastri 

Lance Stroll 

Fernando Alonso 

Yuki Tsunoda 

Nico Hulkenberg 

Pierre Gasly 

Esteban Ocon 

Valtteri Bottas 

Zhou Guanyu 

Kevin Magnussen 

To say this would be one of your worst races (and you'd DNF-ed before), would be an understatement. Your migraine had come back and your water was completely out by the last quarter of the race. You hadn’t been able to keep Charles off for long for Max to catch up, which made Charles take the lead in the second half. 

Max had also been confused as you had dropped behind him as well when you should have been your strongest. 

You loved racing, but today you hated it. Your brain felt as though it was pounding with a sledge hammer against your skull. 

“For the first time in almost two years, Charles Leclerc has grabbed a victory. Charles Leclerc is the winner of the 2024 Imola Grand Prix. Max Verstappen clinches second with his rookie teammate Y/n L/n right behind him to make it a 2-3 for Red Bull. They are followed by Lando Norris and Lewis Hamilton…” 

Race Results 

Charles Leclerc – 25 points 

Max Verstappen – 18 points 

Y/n L/n – 15 points 

Lando Norris – 12 points 

Lewis Hamilton – 11 points 

Oscar Piastri – 8 points 

Alex Albon – 6 points 

George Russell – 4 points 

Logan Sargeant – 2 points 

Carlos Sainz – 1 point 

Fernando Alonso 

Yuki Tsunoda 

Pierre Gasly 

Kevin Magnussen 

Nico Hulkenberg 

Zhou Guanyu 

Valtteri Bottas 

Esteban Ocon 

Lance Stroll 

Daniel Ricciardo 

Standings After Imola 

Max Verstappen – 168 points 

Charles Leclerc – 120 points 

Y/n L/n – 80 points 

Lando Norris – 73 points 

Lewis Hamilton – 60 points 

Oscar Piastri – 53 points 

George Russell – 35 points

Carlos Sainz – 34 points  

Alex Albon – 26 points 

Fernando Alonso – 23 points 

Daniel Ricciardo – 21 points 

Logan Sargeant – 19 points 

Lance Stroll

Pierre Galsy 

Yuki Tsunoda

Zhou Guanyu 

Kevin Magnussen 

Nico Hulkenberg 

Valtteri Bottas 

Esteban Ocon 

Constructors Standings 

Red Bull – 248 points 

Ferrari – 153 points 

McLaren – 126 points 

Mercedes – 95 points 

Williams – 45 points 

Aston Martin – 23 points 

Racing Bulls – 21 points 

Alpha Romeo 

Haas

Alpine 

When you pulled into Parc Ferme, you barely had the strength to get out of the car. You only found out that you needed to get out was when Max lightly tapped your helmet and held out a hand. You gratefully grabbed it and Max hauled you out. 

“Are you ok?” he asked, with concern storming in his blue eyes. A nod of your head pacified him for now. 

Your headache only got worse when you spotted your parents standing at the wall. You tried to send the team apologetic looks when you walked right past them, something you never did even if you didn’t even podium for a race. You always ran to their open arms. 

You’d send them lots of coffee and gifts for their families to make up for it. 

You kept your helmet on for as long as you could. It helped to damper all the loud noise of the paddock. 

Max and Charles both recognized that you wanted little to no noise if possible, so they kept quiet or spoke in soft whispers if they did speak. You immediately sat down in a corner, trying to cool off and will your migraine away. 

You only opened your eyes once again when you were called to the podium. You were thankful that you didn’t feel any panic as you walked out and stood on the lowest step. You watched as Max walked out and stood on the second place step before watching Charles almost skip to the top step. You giggled as you watched the Ferrari driver subtly stick his tongue out at Max. For a moment, you were scared at the repercussions but Max only smiled and rolled his eyes.  

You took off your cap for the Monegasque anthem along with the Italian one. When you were handed your trophy, you gently kissed it (even though it didn’t light up) and held it to the sky while also pointing. The two older drivers watched as you looked so happy. Deep down, they wanted you to be on the top step, but your time was coming. 

Max was then handed his trophy. His lips were a bit tight, but he’d get over it. 

Charles was quite the opposite. You guessed that he was finally happy that his dry spell was over. A sixth career win and first in almost two years. You clapped as the red-clad driver held his trophy proudly. 

Your head was still pounding, but the migraine was slowly going away. You didn’t have much strength to do your usual champagne cannon, but you still sprayed Charles as much as you could. When there wasn’t anything else to spray, you poured the rest on your teammate. 

You had a giant smile on your face as you looked down at the crowd. Yet, it slowly disappeared as your eyes found your parents, looking up at you with distain clearly written on their faces. You turned to Max, who was already looking down as well. 

He pointed down, though, right next to them where Christian and Geri were both standing, proud smiles on their faces as they looked up at you. 

Geri was trying to communicate for you and Max to stand closer and to smile for her camera. You quickly put your hand around his waist to bring him in closer. With trophies raised and bright smiles, she held a thumbs up when she took the picture. Christian just continued to look at the two of you as though you had just won him every single race possible. 

You were then assured off the podium and back to the garage. 

“I promise, I’ll find you after. You know how much I hate wearing my clothes after they get sticky,” you told Max as you walked toward your drivers room. 

You had barely just gotten you shirt on when your door opened and closed. 

Your rolled your eyes. “You couldn’t have just waited?” 

You turned, expecting either Max or your boyfriend. Yet, you were met with a slap across the face. Your cheek stung as you shakily raised a hand to touch it. A hiss left your lips when your fingers glazed your reddening cheek.

You barely had time to get try to get away, before another hand hit the side of your head, making your migraine slowly creep up again. 

This time, a sob slipped through your lips as you looked at your parents, who were fuming.

“What did I do?” you tried to get out, voice cracking. 

“After everything we did for you, you can only get a shitty third place?” your mother spit. 

“Seriously, how fucking pathetic do you have to be. Offering up the trophy to someone who is dead?” your father questioned. 

It was your turn to suddenly seethe. You pointed a finger at your dad. “He loved me. He taught me everything I know.” You knew you were pressing his buttons, and you were about to press the big red one that says Do Not Press. “He was the man that you’d never be.” 

Another hit to the face had your head swinging. You knew that there would be a big bruise in the morning. But you were proud for finally standing up to him. 

Your mother’s hand hit the other side of your face, sending you staggering back to your dad. You braced yourself for another hit, but it didn’t come. Your eyes opened and widened at the sight of your teammate with murder in his eyes. 

Christian was behind him, on the phone, with your manager to the right, boyfriend and his brother on the left.

“You touch her one more time and you’re fucking dead,” Max spoke, scarily calm. Your father jerked to hit him, and that was game over.  

Security came quickly after Max had some more colorful words and quite possibly a hit to his face so that your father’s matched yours. 

Arthur had come to wrap his arms around you, as a protective barrier. 

As you watched your mother and father be led out by cuffs, the news coming that they had been banned for life from any Formula 1 activity, and that Vito had now gotten you a restraining order (something he said that he should have done years ago just in case) – you knew that you had finally found the family that you had always wanted. 

The family that you had always needed.   

And you’d keep racing and winning, because 4 years ago, you made a promise. 

To keep going and to keep fighting. 

As you walked out of the garage, with a third place trophy and your helmet, you gently pressed your own kiss to the top of it. 

“You’d be proud of me,” you whispered, “and it’s all for you. Because you were everything that I needed.” 

y/n.89 has posted

y/n.89 Imola was an experience. Glad I could podium in my late godfather's country to make him proud. I wish he could have been standing there to watch me today, but I have three other men who are enough for me. To Christian, Max, and Vito - I love you three, thanks for always watching my back. Oh, and my boyfriend is pretty great too, he's just shy. Thank you for an amazing experience, I'll be back next year to win (Charlie move over)

tagged: christianhorner, maxverstappen1, and vito_official

liked by christianhorner, maxverstappen1, vito_official, and 94,294 others

y/n_nation I'm not sobbing, you're sobbing

kid_y/n geri and christian both smiling like proud parents killed me

maxverstappen1 why would you do this?

y/n.89 ?? charles_leclerc he's crying right now y/n.89 oh, sorry not sorry?? maxverstappen1 you will be

christianhorner I know I can't speak for him, but he'd be so proud of you kid

gerihalliwellhorner we love you sweetie! can't wait for the next family dinner! maxverstappen1 family dinner? sebastianvettel you didn't get the invite?? y/n.89 oh no christianhorner uhhhhhh charles_leclerc he's crying again

mad_max the way that in every picture, they're looking at y/n

y/n_updates aahhhh the boyfriend has been mentioned!!!

y/n.89 I can't believe we're going to the track that THEE lightning mcqueen drove on

arthur_leclerc you mean...the Monaco Grand Prix....where you live...my hometown...Charles's home race... liamlawson she said what she said - lightning mcqueen's race charles_leclerc I'm done y/n.89 LIGHTNING MCQUEEN RESPONDED TO ME???? LIAM LOOK AT THIS liamlawson I'M LOOKING charles_leclerc goodbye y/n.89 DON'T GO

f1 see you all in Monaco!

author can everyone forgive me now?

TAG LIST: @fionaschicken @glitterquadricorn @laura-naruto-fan1998 @treehouse-mouse @sam-is-lost @kagatinkita @fangirl125reader @megatrilss1885 @myxticmoon @angsthology @cmleitora @agent-curt-mega @graciewrote @ashy-kit @slutofmultifandom @aexitizen-ln4 @sugarvibez @vellicora @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @cashtons-wife @hoetel-manager @xcharlottemikaelsonx @jayda12 @cassie0sstuff @ilove-tswizzle @justme2042 @itsjustkhaos @nikfigueiredo @stopeatread @cha-hot @sadg3 @iloveyou3000morgan @s4turnsl0ver @alessioayla @torchbearerkyle @leptitlu @awekbachira @shreks-sugar-daddy @v1naco @stan-josie @mellowarcadefun @badassturtle13 @beskardroids @callisposts @poppyalice2001 @juniper-july19

[strongheartneteyam]

Realize where you belong.

Pairing: neteyam sully x female!human!reader/female!dreamwalker!reader

Chapter 3

CW: angst, reader is a loner, reader works her ass off every day at the lab, fluff, neteyam being cute towards reader (even tho it still has weird vibes lol), mad jealous neteyam, TRIGGER WARNING for depression symptoms (such as being moody n having less appetite than the usual), stalking, obsessive and toxic behavior, also TRIGGER WARNING for reader mentioning the word “suicidal” in an internal monologue (she IS NOT actually suicidal, she just feels really sad and mentions the word. if u read it, you'll know what I mean)

Not proofread. I'll do it as soon as I can ♡ I hope it's a good chapter 🥲 & thank u to everyone who's reading this fanfic, who left a comment in the last chapter and, of course, to everyone who asked to be in the taglist I LOVE Y'ALL 😘💕💕💕

Chapter 2

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Mother looking at me

Tell me, what do you see?

Yes, I've lost my mind

(...)

Will I ever be free?

Have I crossed the line?

All the things she said, running through my head

All the things she said (t.A.T.u)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

You woke up feeling like crap that morning.

Your last shift had been so demanding. You had to cook just so much food that you started to wonder if there was anything left in the pantry. You had gone into that room just so many times yesterday to get ingredients and kitchen utensils, your legs felt heavy and sore now, as you stretched them in your small bed.

There were just too many people to eat in that damn laboratory.

Meanwhile you, the cook, barely had any time left to eat. There was always just so much work to do. So many dishes to wash, so many vegetables and meat to cut, bread to prepare from scratch... Your head hurt just thinking about it.

You felt so stressed out that you preferred to unwind a little instead of eating, sometimes. You would find a quiet place, sit somewhere, put your headphones on and press play on one of your many curated playlists or in one of your favorite songs. Listening to music seemed to work like a medicine to your wounds and, going to the cafeteria and having to socialize, to have people all around you felt too much, so, you just tried to avoid it. You even started to lose a little weight because of it. Nothing too much, though. You were only slightly thinner than you used to be. But in the back of your head, there was always a voice saying "Please, take better care of yourself...". Despite knowing that voice was right, you were too tired and apathetic to care.

Ever since you started to Dreamwalk, it was like your whole world had changed. That old life you led did not seem to be enough anymore. It never was, in the first place. It could never compare to the heightened senses you had when you were in your Avatar, helping you smell and hear everything better.

The first time you spent a whole afternoon running alone through the Pandoran forest next to Hell's Gate, you felt alive like you had not felt in years.

But nothing gold can ever stay. Way sooner than you expected, you had to be awakened from that magical dream. Everytime you came out of the technological machine you had to lay inside of to be able to drive your Avatar, you thought "Damn! Why wasn't I born a na'vi? They're so freaking lucky to have such an incredibly beautiful Planet to call their own. If only Earth was still as beautiful as it used to be..."

When you were not in one of your free days, you would always work until you felt exhausted and fed up with everything. It was not a walk in the park to be a cook. Even though you loved cooking since you were a teenager, when you used to always mix different ingredients and spices and create new recipes, this profession forced you to spend most of your time standing up and to have little time to sit and rest your poor fatigued legs. In some days, all you wanted was to sleep for 12 hours straight. And God knows you were capable of actually doing that.

Not a long time ago, you slept so much that, when you eventually woke up, it was 2 pm and you almost got fired from the lab when you finally showed up at the kitchen you were supposed to be in since 6 am.

You promised yourself you would never do that again. You just could not afford to lose that job. And you wanted to cry just thinking about not being able to Dreamwalk anymore. Exploring Pandora was the peak of your life, currently. It was when you felt high as a kite. As funny as it sounded, it was true. You felt euphoria run through your body everytime you got to have blue skin and be over 8 feet tall.

You liked to cook and was good at it, but, you were a smart, intelligent girl who knew much more than people thought you did. Unfortunately, you could not manage to get a higher position at the lab. Your forte was not sciencey stuff. It was subjects like Human History, Languages, Philosophy... At best, you got to use your language learning skills to learn basic na'vi fast and was able to get an Avatar from the lab. At least that was a good thing that your tiring job provided you. God knows that privilege was one of the few things keeping you alive. You goddamn hated you life, your job, everything... All your days seemed to be the same. Same chores, same annoying people... Most scientists did not try to hide that they did not see you as an equal. Even though they were always really polite to you, they would not let you in in their little groups, in their upbeat conversations through the laboratory corridors. You could count in one hand how many of them used to talk to you with genuine interest in hearing what you had to say.

You sat every day next to the less valued lab employees: janitors, cleaning ladies, other cooks just like you and so on. Your race had never been good at realizing the worth that these hardworking people had, anyway. Why would they do it now? You thought it to be so sad...

Those employees were nice regular people. Even thought some of them were idiots and treated you badly, there are people who behave like that anywhere. You were thankful that most of them were polite to you and treated you well enough. You also had a close friendship with one of the female employees, a cute, humble and really kind girl called Crystal. But she was your only actual friend. You did not remember the last time you had made an actual effort to make a friend, to be nice to someone in hopes you could get to know them better and they could become a part of your life. You had to admit you had been really grumpy lately.

You could easily blame such moodiness on your lack of will to keep living that life you currently had. It’s not that you were suicidal, it's just that you wished you could live a better life.

There was also Derek, the tall, cute boy you would make out with every now and then. You did not have a proper name for your relationship with him. He was always lovely towards you and you two would have really interesting conversations together and sneak around to kiss each other and do other types of heated stuff (though you never had sex with him) anytime you both felt like it. But it did not happen that often, anyway. You did not put much thought into it, to be honest. Derek was just a friend you would fool around with. You could not be farther from being in love with him or anything of sorts.

After another tiresome day, you walked fast towards your room. All you could think about was how nice and cozy your bed would feel when you would lay your body on it. Only five minutes after you finally laid down, you fell asleep. Slumber had been bugging you all day. Lately, it had always been like that.

They say you have to be careful what you wish for. That your words and thoughts have power over what happens to you. And you learned it the hard way.

In one of your infamous busy but boring afternoons, something unexpected happened to you.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a na'vi young man appeared outside of your glass window and tapped slightly on it. You almost choked on your own saliva when you saw that huge, blue creature staring at you with wide yellow eyes. A scream got stuck right in the middle of your throat, since you got so startled you could not get your vocal chords to obey the command your brain was sending them. What the hell was that na'vi doing in front of the laboratory? They did not use to come to Hell's Gate. And why was he looking at you through the kitchen window?

The na'vi boy just would not stop staring at you. His gaze was so intense it made you feel unbelievably uncomfortable. Suddenly, he pointed to the left. The big, ample door that led to the open area in front of the room you worked in was right at the same direction his four fingered hand was pointing to. You realized he was signaling to you that he wanted to see you outside of the lab.

You started to say, in your own mind: "What kind of weird situation is this?"

"Please?" You heard the alien plead in fluent English (he only had a typical na'vi accent), his voice coming through the narrow gap that existed between the glass and the window frame. His eyes reminded you of the eyes of a small kitten asking for food.

You got surprised by the fact that he was able to speak English. You wondered why he had learned it and who taught him the language.

You tried to reach for the door to try and inform someone that there was a na'vi around and ask if anybody knew who he was when you heard the alien say:

"Don't go, please! I just want to talk to you! I'm not gonna hurt you."

Your back was turned to him. When you turned around, he was smiling.

"It's incredible how you're even prettier up close."

"I'm sorry?!" You answered

"Oh, forgive me. My name is Neteyam. Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan. It's really nice to meet you." He was still smiling.

That name was familiar, Neteyam te Suli... Oh, of course! Neteyam was the son of the Olo'eyktan of the Omatikaya clan, Jake Sully. He was very famous between the na'vi and the humans.

Neteyam Suli was one of the most feared na'vi warriors out there. A great archer and very skilled with the knives the Omatikayas made themselves, he fought fearlessly against the recoms, including Colonel Miles Quaritch, an old enemy of his father. Quaritch used to lead the RDA soldiers when he was human, before being "revived" and given an Avatar body. He died in battle against the na'vi. But that did not mean that there was finally peace between humans and the na'vi race.

But why in hell was Neteyam Suli trying to talk to you? It is not like the na'vi liked the humans. On the contrary, they despised your race.

"Uhmm... okay. Nice to meet you..." You tried to be polite and peaceful towards the na'vi boy, like you were advised to be by your teachers, back when you were studying and training to get your Avatar "But I'm sorry, what did you say? That I'm prettier up close?" Your brows were furrowing, your face full of confusion. Despite all, you were calmer now that you knew you could communicate with him in English. Your na'vi was not the best out there.

"Yes." Neteyam's big amber eyes shone when he looked at your face. You were beyond dazed. "I've seen you before. Many times actually. But only from far away. It doesn't compare to seeing you right next to me." His voice had a weird warm feeling in it, like he was already acquainted to you. But how could it be? You did not even know who he was before he revealed his identity to you.

"When did you see me...?" Your mouth was slightly opened, so bewildered you felt

"Don't you wanna come outside so we can talk better?" He said, seeming excited.

"Unfortunately, no. I'm good, thanks." Neteyam looked sad after you declined his offer.

"Why not? I told you, I'm not gonna hurt you. I promise." He smiled faintly. You could tell he was hurt by your blunt answer.

It pained you to act like that towards him. You admired the na'vi so much. Damn, you even would choose to be born a na'vi if you somehow could go back in time, before you were inside your mother's womb and you could talk to Eywa herself. But how were you gonna trust him? There were some na'vi out there, his mother, for example, that hated humans with such a boiling passion. What if he took after his mother? You would be in trouble if he tried to kill you. Even though the na'vi were a peaceful by nature race, everyone has a limit, so, you had to be careful when interacting with them. You learned about all the genocide your kind had committed against his kind while simultaneously destroying his Planet slowly, in a cruel, despicable way. You honestly understood the contempt the na'vi felt when it came to humans.

You looked at Neteyam with honesty in your eyes and said:

"Please don't take this the wrong way but I can't really trust you. I know you told me you're not gonna hurt me, but, I'm still human. How can I know you trust me, to begin with?"

"I trust you because you're different. You're nothing like the others from your kind. You're more like my people. And I love that about you." Neteyam said, smiling at you.

"Can you please just tell me how do you know me? Because I've never seen you before. I've only heard about you because you're the Olo'eyktan's eldest son and Olo'eyktan to be. But you talk to me like you somehow... know me. I'm really confused, Neteyam." He felt his heart race when he heard you pronounce his name. Your voice sounded so sweet to his sensitive na'vi ears, making him move them somewhat to the sides. It was the same voice he heard in the forest, when he watched you talk to yourself saying how beautiful you thought some yellow, bioluminescent flower that you saw in the grass was.

"You're a Dreamwalker. I've seen you around. I love how much you seem to appreciate and respect my Planet instead of destroying it like the others from your kind do. That's why I think you're more na'vi than human." He chuckled happily and you got confused by his last sentence.

You had to admit he looked cute when his fangs escaped from under his upper lip whenever he smiled or chuckled. But you felt so weird thinking that.

"I'm more na'vi than human?" You were intrigued "What do you mean?" You laughed a bit and he continued on staring at you in an intense manner.

Neteyam heard footsteps approaching, so, he started to move just so he could hide. He did not want any other human but you seeing him. He knew he could not trust them as he could trust you.

"Wait! Where are you -" before you could finish your words, he was already gone.

The brown wooden door behind you opened and Derek appeared carrying a pile of plates in his arms.

"Hey, cutie." He walked towards the sink, leaving the dirty dishes there to be washed by himself when he would be back in the kitchen.

"Hi, Derek." You smiled faintly. You were still recovering from that odd interaction you had with Neteyam Sully.

Derek came close to your ear and whispered:

"Feel like meeting me tonight? I miss you." You sighed

"I don't know... I'm not really in the mood, sorry." You answered, uninterested

He got a little surprised by your answer and moved his eyebrows up, making wrinkles appear in his forehead but quickly remembered he had much work to do outside, so, he walked towards the door and got out of the room without saying another word to you.

Neteyam was still out there, next to the window, leaning against the wall. He was listening to the conversation the whole time. He had to use all the self control he learned to have with the years to not hiss when he heard that human call you "cutie" and ask if you wanted to meet him tonight. Who was he, anyway? And why was he saying he missed you? Neteyam had never seen you show any sign that he was your mate before. He had to find out what was going on. Neteyam would not let anyone get between the both of you. It would not be a weak human male that would be the obstacle that would make him give up on his future mate. He was used to challenges and was not afraid of another one. That would probably even be fun. Neteyam could imagine that tiny mate of yours shivering in fear when he showed him his big, sharp fangs.

Neteyam decided he was gonna find out who the hell that mate of yours was. He was sure he was not better than him. That human male would never be as strong as he was. That human would never be able to hunt fresh food for you, walking through the forests of Pandora and confronting big, dangerous animals, like Neteyam would. He knew he outbraved that human. He could never be a good mate to you like Neteyam could be. You deserved better than him.

༊⁀➷

Taglist:

@xylianasblog @samistars @crazy4books1 @nerdybouquetofkittens-blog @explosiongamora @lik0 @your-girl-mj @darktyrantwinner @xxunnie @sereisstuff @yeosxxx @die4niyahhh @henhouse-horrors @lala-1516 @iman-lu @manumanulau @im-in-a-pansexual-panik @hana-yuri

I tagged some of you that did not ask to be tagged but left really cute comments on the last chapter that made my heart feel warm 💓 if u don't wanna be tagged, just lemme know

Also, if someone wants to be added to the taglist too just leave a comment below saying that 🤍

[pearlywritings]

A nickname's origin

synopsis: after meeting your lover's family and having a great start of your trip to Morepesok, Childe wakes you early in the morning, because he has something to show you...

prompt: 21

requested by: a lovely anon

pairing: Childe x fem!reader

tw: fluff, established relationship, usage of Childe's real name

word count: 1.5k+ words

a/n: part of my Token of appreciation writing event! Closed now, still have 3 more requests to write.

“Isn’t the scenery marvelous?”

It absolutely is. Snowy planes sparkle in the rising sun as if the ground is covered by richest furs and most precious gems - it’s almost blinding. The giant pine trees look enormous even kilometers away from you, creating a thick forestland; you remember how your lover told you that it is home for many species you can’t find anywhere but Snezhnaya. Looking back, you release a puff of warm air, adoring the sight of wooden cottages - or how the locals call those izba’s - lining perfectly, each with a fence, which is carved with intricate patterns and charms to protect from evil spirits. Smoke curls from the chimneys and it immediately reminds you where you are.

Outside. In the early hours of the morning.

“Wish we were watching it from the inside of your family’s house,” yawning, you reach to adjust the scarf - along with the hat it was knitted by his mom and gifted to you with the warmest of smiles. It’s been just a couple of minutes since you two exited the village and the cold is already biting the few uncovered areas of your face.

Ajax laughs. Heartily, with his hands resting on his hips and head thrown back. Of course, he is laughing, of course he’s going to suffer less - he was born and lived all his life in such an environment.

“It’s not funny!” Your huff is ignored and a punch that was aimed to his shoulder is easily caught by his palm. 

“Sorry, sorry. I just imagined how my siblings would’ve been glued to your sides and mama and papa continued their yesterday’s quest to ask you hundreds of questions. Don’t be mad, I thought you’d like to have a little break, at least for half a day, my fierce ounce.”

Ounce. That’s what he’s been calling you for the longest time now, yet never, never, telling you what that means (but he did assure you it’s a good thing, he loves you after all). However, he promised to show you once you come with him to Snezhnaya to visit his family.

To make it short - here you are, in Morepesok, at dawn, with your gingerhead of a fiance, motivated to stay in this harsh weather only to finally find out what or who was your lover’s inspiration behind his nickname for you.

“You have a point,” you sigh. You are happy his relatives were excited to meet and accept you, so much joy filled your heart yesterday, when you arrived. But dealing with so many people drained you - just a second of your head touching the pillow was enough to send you right to the gates of the dreamland. “I need some energy-refill before being ready to maintain a proper conversation with them again…”

“Don’t forget that the whole village wants to meet a lovely bride I brought with me,” it makes your groan.

“Is that really necessary..?”

“It’s a tradition. But it’s going to be fine, I promise,” the snow crunches under his heavy felt boots as he steps closer, arms circling your waist, and lips touching the bridge of your nose, making you close your eyes. Oh, the frost is already brimming your eyelashes. “Mama and papa are going to organize a feast - to celebrate you, to show you are a part of the family now, and our neighbors are going to come to congratulate us and bring some presents.”

“Well, I like presents,” his words and embrace soothe you, and you bury your face into the fur of his sheepskin coat. “And I like people acknowledging our relationship.”

“See? It’s a win-win,” he grins widely, boyishly, and it’s enough to reassure you. After all, you won’t be alone - he will be by your side.

“Alright, alright. Now, can we move? it’s getting cold, even with all these extra layers of clothes…”

“Sorry, baby. See that forest? There are mountains on the other side, that’s where we are heading to.”

“Wait, we’ll have to climb?” You look at him incredulously, perfectly aware that neither your clothes, nor your abilities are suitable for such an activity. Childe pats your back reassuringly.

“Nope, simply observe from a good spot. Come on, to that house to the left my dear, I made an agreement with Uncle Vladislav to give us a ride. Don't let go of my hand, alright? The path can be a bit slippery.”

The first experience of riding in the sleigh drawn by horses was magical. Though it was open, you had a very warm fur blanket covering your legs, snuggling into Childe’s side, taking in the vast snow fields surrounding you. Uncle Vladislav appeared to be a nice old man, with a long beard and bushy white eyebrows that almost covered his gray eyes. Before the ride he let you offer some carrots to the three beautiful white horses and gently pat their big noses. And during the ride he managed to entertain you with all kinds of stories of local folklore - his words perfectly flying behind his back and to you, and then he even started singing. Something about three white horses named December, January and February taking him somewhere into the ringing snowy far far away. You even managed to doze off a little - your lover had to shake you out of it when you finally arrived.

“Wow, we’ve ridden right into the forest?” You can’t help but ask in astonishment - from the distance the forest looked absolutely dense, but now you can clearly see a road wide enough to get through the way you did.

“Cool, right?” The smiling gingerhead offers you his hand, before turning to the old man. “Uncle, it can take some time, sure you want to wait for us?”

“Haha, that’s a funny thing you ask, chap. If I make you walk back your mother will have my head. Not that I was going to do so in the first place. Don’t worry about the cold - for the worst case scenario I have a bottle of fire-water with me. Might offer you and your girl to take a sip when you return.”

“Hope, it won’t be necessary!” Clasping his gloved fingers around yours, clad in mittens, the young man leads you away with a giddy look in his eyes.

“Sooo, are you ready to see a real ounce?” That wide boyish smile is back on his face and excitement exhilarates in your system. Ready? You were born ready. At your enthusiastic nods Childe presses his nose to your temple, gently rubbing in affection. “Great, because we are almost here. But please, be careful. Even with all that snow you can easily trip. And above all, do not let go…” his hold on your hand tightens. “For any reason, understood?”

“Ajax, if you tell me this one more time, I will let go. You've been telling me this since yesterday as if there is danger looming over me. Then again, how are you gonna protect me with one hand occupied? Or- Oh. Ooooh~” a smug smile appears on your lips. “Is my darling clingy~?”

He whines something about being worried and protecting you with no hands at all, to which you just laugh, promising that you are just teasing. And it's not like you can resist his adorable devoted clinginess - thus the lock of hands stays unbroken.

Not a couple of minutes later you are standing in a clear spot among the rows of trees which is enough to see the side of the mountain above the coniferous tops. Your lover is squinting, sharp eyes searching the expanse of the rocky surface. You patiently wait, quickly realizing that it’s pointless to stare there not knowing what you are looking for. Besides, admiring Ajax doing such a concentrated face is a treat.

Finally his eyes widen and a toothy grin tugs his mouth wide.

“Well, my dear, we are lucky. Look at that cliff.”

Trying your best to follow the direction of his unoccupied hand pointing you to lift your gaze. A thin ribbon of steam is momentarily broken when your breath hitches - and there is a solid reason for it.

A majestically looking large cat is getting ready to make a jump to the next protruding ledge. Fur is whitish to grey with black spots on the head and neck, with larger rosettes on the back, flanks and bushy tail. Oh, the tail. It’s so long and thick, like a whole other body. And then the animal jumps, flawlessly landing on all paws and getting a nice stretch, as if showing off specifically for the two of you.

“It’s a snow leopard,” your partner explains. “But here we call them ‘ounces’.”

“It’s… It’s so pretty…” You can’t take your eyes from the creature, so perfect among the snowy mountains.

“Part of the reason I gave you this nickname,” he embraces you from behind, putting his chin on top of your head and gently rocking your body in place. “Another part is because you are fierce and strong and also I really loved these animals when I was a kid. Always begged dad to take me hunting birds just to see the cats.”

“Aww, it’s so sweet,” despite the freezing cold your heart melts and you put your palms on top of his locked on your stomach. “But why being a tease and calling me a word I don’t know? Why not ‘my snow leopard’ instead?”

“About that… Let’s just say I wanted to keep the intrigue and increase my chances when convincing you to visit my homeland.”

A sheepish chuckle that follows makes you want to give him a little punch, but you quickly decide against it. Admittedly, Ajax did everything perfectly - this whole trip to Morepesok has been excellent so far, and he did not disappoint with the inspiration behind this unique term of endearment.

“Can we watch it a little bit more?” 

“As long as you want, my pretty ounce."

[infiniteanalemma]

Nobility in Baldur's Gate

Edited to add: I never expected my silly, niche post to get as much attention as it has! I'm giving you all forehead smooches! 😚💋 I've gone through to clean up some things up as I've found new information. I also added a list of nobility that I've found in game and other sources to the end of the post. Thanks, y'all! I'm glad I'm not the only one to wonder about this stuff. Good stuff in the reblogs, too!

Baldur's Gate has dug itself deep in my brain, so I apologize to my poor mutuals who didn't follow me for BG3 content getting this onslaught of posts. Please bear with me until my hyperfixation wears off. 🙏

Now, I'll admit up front that I'm no expert in DnD lore*, so if I get things wrong, please feel free to correct me or just add in stuff I may have missed. I'm going off of what I've found in-game and my Google Fu skills.

That said, I do know enough about DnD to remember that Baldur's Gate nobility are called patriars, and that there are only a relative handful of actual patriar families. I was thinking about my "canon" Tav, Velassa, and her background in BG3. She's a modified OC that I plunked in-game during Early Access, so I made her a noble. It was just part of her existing character that I didn't think too deeply about. It was only after I starting playing that it occurred to me to wonder what exactly "a noble" is to a native Baldurian.

That got me digging a little more into the current state of the Baldurian nobility as of BG3. I don't know who--if anyone--needs or wants this, but I put this together for myself and decided to share it for anyone else who might be interested. I realize that this is probably pretty niche and it's rambly and long af, so I'll put it under a cut.

So, for starters, here's a list of all the patriar families, including "fallen" houses that are barely hanging on: Belt, Bormul, Caldwell, Dlusker, Durinbold, Eltan, Eomane, Exeltis, Gist, Guthmere, Hhune, Hlath, Hullhollyn, Irlentree, Jannath, Jhasso, Linnacker, Miyar, Nurthammas, Oathoon, Oberon, Portyr, Provoss, Ravenshade, Rillyn, Sashenstar, Shattershield, Silvershield, Tillerturn, Vammas, Vannath, Vanthampur, and Whitburn

From what I've gathered, Exeltis, Provoss and Ravenshade are all more-or-less destitute. Also, the Szarr family (Cazador's family) were patriars, but were believed to be entirely wiped out. No living descendants makes them a dead house, rather literally. 😏 (No, I'm not sorry.)

Now, we learn that Wyll's father is Ulder Ravengard, the Grand Duke. This brings us to the first point: There are four Dukes, known as the Council of Four, and the Grand Duke's job is to be the tie-breaker.

Traditionally, one of the Dukes is also the highest ranked officer of the Flaming Fist--that's Ravengard, who was a Fist promoted up through the ranks. Wyll tells us that his father was born lower class, and quite a few of the patriars seem to scorn him for that. The other Dukes are Belynne Stelmane, Dillard Portyr (more on him later) and Thalamra Vanthampur (more on her later, too). Of the four, two are patriars: Portyr and Vanthampur. We don't know much about Stelmane's past, except that she was a brilliant businesswoman, politician and--as we find out later--member of the Knights of the Shield. Apparently, you can't buy your way into the patriars, but maybe you can buy your way into being a Duke.

Skipping ahead a bit, when the player shows up to Gortash's coronation, there are a group of mostly patriars sitting in the boxes leading up to the front of the room. I'm listing them by seating arrangement, with box 1 and 2 being the left and right closest to Gortash, and 3 and 4 being farthest. (I don't know what, if anything, the seating arrangements imply. The second box has eight people, compared to four for all the rest.)

Lady Ailis Belt, Baron Callem Bormul, Lord Rugger Shattershield**, and Lady Alia Durinbold**

Lady Ruth Linnacker, Lord Sarken Eomane, Lady Freida Oberon, Lord Raylen Jannath, Lord Myer Ravenshade**, Lady Madeline Whitburn, Lady Beatrice Provoss, and Duke Dillard Portyr

Lady Winstra Hullhollyn, Admiral Peil Hullhollyn, Lord Randolph Vammas, and Lady Eshvelt Guthmere

Lord Milon Tillerturn, Lady Silifrey Sashenstar, Lord Petric Amber**, and Lady Haeril Birch**

Here's some pictures of the nobles sitting together. (Sorry for the terrible quality! I slapped it together for my own reference. 🙈)

The characters marked by ** aren't human, which is interesting because the information I found said all the patriar familes are human except the Shattershields. Myer Ravenshade is listed as human if you examine him, but he has a dwarf model. That might be a mistake, but I'm including him anyway. Alia Durinbold, from a presumably human patriar family, is a wood elf. Again, this could be a mistake, but unless Larian winds up changing it, it could mean that interracial marriages that once may have been looked down on are now becoming more acceptable. Petric Amber is also a wood elf, and Haeril Birch is a high elf.

Those last two are interesting because they are the only ones in the boxes who aren't patriars. If not for them, I'd have assumed the coronation was simply a demonstration for the patriars alone. Their inclusion means this is something else.

Digging around, my conclusion is that all the listed people are members of the Parliament of Peers--a 50 person advisory party to the Council of Four. However, what I found says that it's pretty rare for all 50 to attend meetings, and the usual group is between 20-30. There are exactly 20 named individuals listed, plus a group of unnamed "patriars" standing at the front.

Here they are, for what it's worth:

One thing I noticed here is that most of those listed here are Lord/Lady, but there are three other titles: Duke, Baron and Admiral. I've already talked about the Dukes. Looking into the patriars, the Hullhollyn family are notable for having a fleet of ships, so it makes sense that one of them would be an Admiral. That leaves the Baron.

I couldn't find anything about what it means to be a baron in Baldur's Gate. Going on real-world peerages, a baron/ess is generally the lowest "rank" of nobility. Basically, it's someone who was an official landowner (usually of an "important" bit of land) under the feudal system. Well and good, I suppose, but presumably all the Lords and Ladies of the patriars own land within the city. This particular Baron is also a patriar, but given that one doesn't need to be a patriar to become a Duke (normally a higher peer than a baron), that may not mean anything.

(Apparently, the term "Duke" was originally meant somewhat jokingly. That said, it still carries the weight of a title even if not the conventional one.) We don't see any other titles between Duke and Baron, so what does that mean?

This isn't canon, but my assumption is that it means the Baron owns important land outside of the city. This would make sense for Baron Bormul, given that the Bormul family apparently have investments in silver mines and vineyards. Assuming they own the mines/vineyards, that may make those lands "important" enough to the city for their owner to earn a title. Alternately, the Bormul family also has counterparts in Amn, so maybe baron is an Amnian title that got passed along. That's getting a bit far afield for me, though. 🤷‍♀️

Anyway, among the group at the coronation, pretty much everyone supports Gortash becoming Archduke, with the exception of Lady Sashenstar (an old woman who really isn't too impressed with this commoner) and Duke Portyr, who expresses some hesitation at the whole thing.

Duke Portyr is interesting here. Except for Ravengard (who is thralled and conducting the ceremony), Portyr is the only Duke present. Now, Stelmane is already dead, so that explains her absence. Vanthampur is also missing, which is interesting. Portyr first, though: he was Grand Duke before Ravengard. He's the one who re-instituted (Edited: and originally created!) the Parliament of Peers to make the day-to-day decisions of running the city, and ceded the title of Grand Duke to Ravengard. He's described as being conflict-averse, so it makes sense that he'd go along with Gortash's coronation, even though he's clearly unhappy about it. Also, the current leader of the Fists is also a Portyr, likely still Liara Portyr, the Duke's niece and Ravengard's second-in-command.

Thalamra Vanthampur is an interesting character, too. She's the head of the Vanthampur family, and part of the Descent into Avernus story. Apparently, she's the one who got Ravengard to go to Elturel before it sank to the Hells, intending to take his place as Grand Duke. From what I read, she also conspired with the Dead Three's cults to murder people in a bid to discredit the Flaming Fist. (The murdery bits were undoubtedly left to Bhaal's cult.) We never do find out anything about Thalamra Vanthampur in this game (I assume that's probably cut content). (Edited: She is mentioned in one of the in-game texts as having been killed, which was one of the possible outcomes of Descent into Avernus. Larian chose that as their canon, just like the fate of Elturel and Zariel.)

The only Vanthampur we do meet is Carnelia Vanthampur, who is in the Guildhall and describes herself as "a peer of the Parliament". She's willing to work with either the Guild or the Zhentarim. Nervously of course. Also interesting is that, on the Bloodstained Parchment hit list, is a Varri Vanthampur, whose gravestone you can find in Candulhallow's Tombstones shop, reading: "Varri Vanthampur. Unwanted in life, welcomed in death."

Interesting, hm?

Also on that hit list is Fridrik Hhune. The Hhunes apparently have links to the Knights of the Shield, from what I looked up--the same group the Emperor led with Stelmane. The only Hhunes we meet in-game are Blaise and Gheris Hhune, two of the werewolves in Cazador's ballroom who are brothers according to the dev notes. With them is another werewolf of a different patriar family, Duver Rillyn. This suggests Cazador has been going after members of patriar families, which sort of fits with what we know about his plans. We really don't find anything else out about them except that they consider Cazador to be their master and Astarion says they're new.

We also can talk to a Flaming Fist who mentions that Hurlbut Hhune is the father of Henrietta Hhune, who used to be secretly engaged to the Fist in question, only for her father to decide to arrange her to marry fellow patriar Derque Rillyn, who the Fist describes as "a major arsehole."

That conversation is interesting for a few reasons. For one, it tells you that arranged marriages within the patriar are a thing. Also, this Fist is a Manip (essentially a Sergeant) who can't ask the other Fists for help because "the Fists don't mess with wealthy patriars, they've got the Watch to back them up." That's aligned with what Devella can also tell you: "There are patriars on the murder target list. I'm oathbound to secure them first, so I'll be heading to the Upper City next." If you say that the Fist should protect everyone: "Not from around here, are you? We're in Baldur's Gate - this is just how things work."

This brings me back to my original issue: what is a Baldurian noble? The patriars are canonically nobles, of course, and they're undoubtedly seen as the "most important" of the nobility. From there, it's not much of a stretch to say that anyone who has earned the title of Duke is now a noble, even if they aren't patriars. I'd go so far as to say anyone on the Parliament of Peers (and their family by association) is a noble^, given that non-patriars Petric Amber and Haeril Birch are considered Lord and Lady. The information I found about that is that there are approximately twelve non-patriar members. If Amber and Birch are two of them, that leaves another unnamed 10.

^Edited: Looking at the dates, I realized that the Parliament of Peers is a very recent change to Baldurian governance. Duke Portyr originally created it after the three other Dukes on the Council of Four were assassinated. It was clearly meant as a temporary measure, but my guess is that the patriars liked having more official say. Not to mention the non-patriars who managed to get a seat. This has all happened within even the youngest of Tav/Urges' lifetimes.

Personally, I'd also assume that branch families of the patriars probably also count as nobility. By branch family, I mean those that marry out of the main line but whose ancestry stems from a patriar family. From what I've seen by naming conventions, Baldur's Gate seems to use patronmyic lineage--ancestry is generally passed to the sons, and wives take their husband's surname. So, if a daughter marries out of the family, she'd no longer be a part of her father's family lineage, but still would be considered nobility. These branch families likely still maintain powerful influence and connections from marrying into wealth, which would make them a good political/financial choice of marriage alliance, despite no longer having the main branch patriar family name. These families are also probably the ones most likely to find a place on the Parliament, too, but likely have to jockey for position if their "representative" dies (or otherwise leaves) and a new opening in the Parliament is created.

If you've read this far, as a treat you can have some crappy close-up portraits of the nobles at Gortash's coronation, grouped together in their respective boxes. 😚

* For what it's worth, I'd count myself as a casual DnD player. I have some knowledge of DnD--I've played BG1 and 2, Planescape: Torment, along with some general cultural osmosis. I've had friends who played the tabletop version, but for one reason or another, I've never played it myself.

[foxilayde]

Collisions in Entropy [Peter Roiter x Fem!Reader]

Summary: You were drawn to him like gravity. Like the only two bodies of mass on a lattice field, dipping in the center like marbles, stretching the fabric of time with the weight of yourselves and converging at the center into a singular point.

Length: 5.5k

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Romantic smut. Oral: f receiving. PiV.

Author’s Note: I couldn’t stop thinking about Peter making it to Rome and then confining himself to wait out his remaining days like an invisible stranger, careful not to disturb this timeline. I like to think his curiosity couldn’t keep him away from a special event he never got to see firsthand. Enjoy!

The wedding of Callum Roiter to Rebecca Bradley took place at Creeksea Place in the Essex countryside on Saturday September 30th 2023. Is taking place, rather. Currently taking place. Peter Roiter arrives in a rented grey suit and gate crashes his own parent’s wedding, 13 months before his birth.

They’re taking the photographs now, the photographs that will adorn the walls of his childhood home. The same photograph he will accidentally shatter In 2032 while playing cricket in the house. He recognizes the angle of the pink jaunty bouquets up in the air, the collection of color in a joyous line on the red brick footbridge beside the white gazebo, a bridal party draped in lavender taffeta posed in what looks like “a silly one” where they lovingly encircle the blushing bride—Rebecca Roiter née Bradley.

The camera flashes weakly against the midday light and at the same instant a bridesmaid looks in Peter’s direction and smiles.

He’d cut his palm on that picture frame—the shattered one—the bridal party laid in fragments in that parallel future time. He looks down at his hand and the thick scar is still there. He wonders if the Peter Roiter who will be born 13 months from tomorrow will get the same cut. If he will hit the cricket ball in the same exact angle, turning his head to the same exact call of his mother’s voice from the other room. “Peter!” Crash. A vortex.

That’s what had ruined the photo in the end. Not the shattered glass, but the blood. Will this timeline’s Peter Roiter grow up and do what he’s done? Do it exactly the same? Blood and shattered glass in the parlor. Blood and shattered glass in the terminal 4 bathroom.

He’s never been to a wedding like this before. Never even heard of one with so many people, unrestrained smiles, photographs, laughter, dancing… nowhere outside of a movie, that is. His own wedding to Helen was private, as most weddings in 2050 were. Out of necessity. Sweet and civil. She held peonies and they danced to Marvin Berry in the backyard, underneath the stars and the patio lights. He has an insane urge to make a toast to the people of 2023 and tell them, “eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.”

They’re so unaware. Unbothered. It’s beautiful to see. Like the carefree cheers-ing that must’ve been happening on the Titanic cruiseliner 10 minutes before they collided with an iceberg.

He doesn’t feel sorry for them. He is jealous. They’re feting in the last roaring moments of civilization, right before the interminable lockdowns will begin. He conservatively guesses that half of them will be dead within the next ten years.

He stays as invisible as he can, observing his parent’s tender happy moments from afar. They’re so young. He’s nearly old enough to be their father.

During the ceremony he sees both sets of grandparents for the first time in his life in person. Maybe that should be his alibi instead of “cousin of the bride”, he’s much more believable as “colleague of the father of the groom”. If only he could remember what Grandfather Roiter did for a living… insurance, maybe?

He won’t stick around long enough for anyone to ask just how he knows the lovely couple anyway. He’ll stay invisible for now, just another speck in this world that doesn’t belong to him.

This timeline might be defunct anyway, he may very well be cautiously tip-toeing around what he only assumes is a sleeping beast, but may in fact be nothing more than a carcass. Peter errs on the side of caution anyway and sips champagne from the further-most table.

Callum Roiter, looking everything like the father of his childhood, stands from the center of the high table and clinks his crystal glass. His cheeks look hurt and shiny from smiling, he holds his new wife’s hand and makes his toast, he thanks the guests for coming and makes a joke about how more guests might’ve showed up had they hosted the ceremony on the Boleyn Ground. He’s so young. So untroubled. The trip to Essex was worth every potential risk to the balance to see the joy in his parent’s eyes in real time. He feels supremely lucky to be a product of such an astounding love.

And then Callum raises his glass higher, winks to Rebecca and announces, “and lastly, a great big thank you to American psychologist Doctor Eliza Knight,” There is a knowing laugh amongst the wedding party who are privy to the story of the bizarre phone call from a Dr. Knight. “Without whom, I would have never met my beautiful bride. Wherever you are, love, cheers.”

“Cheers” the crowd responds. Peter downs the rest of his glass, “to Beatrix,” he mutters.

“You know what that’s about, don’t you?”

It’s the first time anyone has addressed him all day. He hadn’t seen her approach. The young woman from the bridal party. The one who smiled at him as the flashbulb went off. Pink roses, purple gown, shards of glass, blood, and a cricket ball.

“What’s about?” His voice slips into the Essex dialect like it’s nothing. He wonders how much of that is the chip and how much of it is his real voice— the one his mother and father taught him to use. He looks down at his lap when the woman sits beside him.

“The American doctor story.”

Oh he knows. He’s heard the tale his whole life, moreover he’s overturned timelines and sold out the souls of billions for the American doctor in question. “No,” he says to the pretty bridesmaid. “Would you let me in on it?”

*******

“Can’t believe you haven’t heard it before,” you smile, “would have thought Cal and Bex told damn near everyone in England by now.”

“Must be a good one.” He says with almost no defensiveness. Almost.

He’s cute. Older than you. A little scruffy, but in a very pleasing way—slightly overgrown at the nape of his neck and shadowed in the roughness of his sharp jaw. His eyes are kind though. So hopeful, sweet, and terribly familiar.

“Come outside with me and I’ll tell you, it’s getting warm in here.”

He glances to the high table, there’s a line forming of folks offering their congratulations along with envelopes of money to the young couple. He nods to you, leaving his grey rented coat on the back of the chair. He offers you his arm and you take it with a “thank you”, leading him to the French doors and stepping out onto the grounds.

The air is late summer. Warm and green. A million twinkle lights glow along the pathway to the pond, the place where you’d first laid eyes on him this afternoon.

“What’s your name?” You ask, trodding slowly towards the gazebo, your arm still in his. His forearm is warm under the white cotton dress shirt.

“Oliver.”

“Hmm.” You smile.

“What?” Defensive.

“Could have sworn it was something else.” You goad.

You can feel his pulse pick up from your fingertips on the crook of his elbow.

“What’s your name?” He counters.

You ignore him. “I didn’t bring you out here to tell you my name, I brought you out here to tell you a story, remember? Do you want to hear it or not?”

Peter breathes deep as if he’s winding up to tell you something but all he does with the breath is exhale and nod, “Please.”

“Last year, November the 23rd, 2022, to be exact, both Callum and Rebecca got a mysterious phone call from a Doctor Eliza Knight, a psychoanalyst from America, telling them that she knew their son. That he was a 39 year old time traveler sent from the year 2062 named Peter Roiter and he claimed to be on a mission to save the world. What do you think of that, Oliver?”

His grin is tight, dismissive, “sounds like a nut job.”

“The odd thing is, Callum and Rebecca had never met each other before. Doctor Knight gave each the other’s information and told them it was crucial that they meet and fall in love and have this child. Peter.”

Peter says nothing.

“So they do get together. Because of the absurdity. They go out for a drink, out of curiosity, to laugh about the madwoman who told them they were going to raise the messiah of the twenty first century.”

Peter leans against the railing of the gazebo and glances back to the house where the party is winding down. “And the rest is history.” He nods toward the red bricked abode.

“That’s not all,” you smile conspiratorially.

“No?”

“No. See, I looked into it, just to check to see if there was a Doctor Eliza Knight, and there is… or there was.”

He remains silent and surreptitiously fingers the raised scar on the inside of his hand while you talk. Nervous habit.

“See, the very next day after she made the phone calls, Doctor Knight walked into an airport bathroom in New York City and disappeared… disappeared! They checked all the security footage. She walks into the restroom and never walked out. They did find her clothes, and a shattered syringe full of blood that wasn’t her own, a tape recorder in a trash can. But her? Nowhere to be found. Can you believe it? The very next day after calling Bex and Cal. That’s insane, right?”

He nods, lost in thought across the lake.

“It’s funny, most people get a real kick out of that anecdote. I was excited to tell you. Brought you out to the dim ambiance and everything.”

“It’s a great story. Really. I’m just tired is all.” He folds his arms across his chest and looks at you with a believable amount of sleepiness.

“You’ve heard it before, haven’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“That would be one explanation for your boredom— you know the story by heart… How do you know the bride and groom, Oliver?” You nearly whisper, stepping closer to him.

“Who are you?” He backs away a step, bumping into the rim of the gazebo and catching himself on a polished beam.

“Peter, you’re about to upset a very fragile ecosystem that we’ve been curating. I had to get you out of that party, I hope you understand.”

“We?”

“Peter, if you care about the future, you need to kiss me right now, in the next five seconds, it’s our only chance.”

Peter doesn’t hesitate. With a look of solid determination he takes two steps towards you, cradles your head in his hands and presses his lips to yours, kissing you with reserved lips that didn’t match the committed blaze in his eyes. You break the kiss in near disbelief and regret.

“That was mean, I’m sorry.”

Peter’s face scrunches and he takes half a step back, letting you fall out of his grasp.

“What? Wait, tell me who you are, what’s going on? Did the W.H.O send you? Do you have a message for me? Did the project work? Any word on Beatrix?”

You press your fingertips to your lips and your eyes widen.

“Are you fucking with me?” You accuse.

His face drops from hopeful to incredulous and the two of you stare at each other with mutual suspicion for a beat.

He licks his bottom lip. “Why did I need to kiss you? Who are you?”

“I’m… I’m a friend of Rebecca’s. I… hang on, are you— is your name really Peter? I just called you that because… because of what the doctor told Bex…” you can hear your heart hammering in your ears.

Peter’s eyes narrow, “you were teasing me?”

“Holy shit. The… the doctor? The story? Peter Roiter?”

Peter remains stock still, his back rigid, gritting his teeth.

You clap your hand over your mouth and laugh. “Oh my god! Bex is going to murder me if she finds out I snogged her son. This is so weird.”

“How did you know?”

“I didn’t! I mean, god, no one actually believes that story about the doctor, do they? it’s insane! something straight out of a movie! I figured they met each other on tinder and wanted a cuter “how’d you meet?” Story and made this one up for clout or something, but… then we were taking photos today and you were lurking in the back of the setting up, lurking the back of the ceremony, sitting all by yourself in the back of the reception— not talking to anybody… which is exactly what someone who isn’t trying to alter a timeline might do. What am I saying? And god you do really look like half Bex and half Cal… it’s uncanny.”

“You can’t tell anyone about this, you understand?”

“Tell anyone? No one would believe me if I did! I don’t even know if I believe me! Besides, I’m not joking about the whole ‘Bex would kill me’ thing, I’m kind of skeeving myself out right now. I mean they’re both fit and well obviously,” You gesture to Peter up and down before slapping your forehead, “oh my god, I need—I need to shut up.”

“Wait, wait, wait, just calm down. Okay. I need to—look, if this isn’t a dead timeline, I can’t have you treating Cal and Bex’s son any differently than you would had you not learned that.. that I’m him. So—“

“Hang on, dead timeline? What the hell does that mean?”

“Is the name not obvious enough for you?” Peter begins to pace around the pergola, the valley between his brows growing deeper by the minute.

Your eyebrows shoot up, “well excuse me for not understanding your sci-fi speak, Mr. Coherence.”

“Dead timeline. It means the statistical likelihood of salvaging the future of this particular timeline is… astronomically low. If this is a dead timeline, then there is a near 100 chance humanity will be destroyed within the next 40 years.”

“Oh god.”

“It might not be. There’s no way of knowing right now.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“It could be a loop timeline, in which case, it’s important for you to—“

“Not treat the forthcoming baby Peter Roiter any differently.”

“Exactly.” He breathes with relief.

“Even though he will apparently grow up to be a man who potentially puts me and everything and everyone I know and love into a dead future or whatever you called it.”

“That’s not—“

“It’s fine, Peter, the less I know the better, right?” You shift in your heels and lean against the polished railing. “Might make it difficult to take him out for ice cream knowing that I snogged him at his mum’s wedding. Bleeding Christ, I really am sorry about that.”

“You’re surprisingly easy to convince. And you’re taking this extremely well. I’m not used to that— people believing me. And it’s fine, its my fault for being here, for following you outside. I promised I wouldn’t interact with anyone and now we’re getting… inextricable.”

“I don’t know why I believe you. I mean I know it’s crazy, it’s the least likely explanation for all of this, but I just feel like, I have to believe you. I just… have to. Now that sounds crazy.”

He shakes his head. “I really thought I was being stealthy coming here today. It was probably a mistake.”

“Well, if we are in a loop timeline, as you called it, I don’t think there can be any mistakes. And if we are in a dead end, then the mistakes don’t matter, right?”

“Who are you?”

You tell him your name. He shakes his head with that same worried valley between his brows.

“I don’t remember you at all from my childhood. Or hearing about you from my mother. I’m not even sure you were in the photo that I broke.”

“The photo that you broke? What photo?”

There’s a sudden cacophony from the French doors where you exited the reception with Peter. A group of groomsmen stagger out, each with a champagne bottle in their hand, singing what you can only assume is a fight song from Cal’s alma mater.

Peter runs his thumb and forefinger over the stubble surrounding his lips. Those lips that you made him kiss you with. God, what is happening?

“C’mon,” he mutters placing a hand at your lower back and guides you to the path by the pond, further away from the celebration. “Just being cautious.”

There’s a bench aglow with twinkle lights near the pond, out of view of the estate house. It feels good to sit and take some pressure off the silk heels you bought special for this evening. You slip them off and let your feet rest on the cool grass.

“What photo were you talking about?” You ask.

“The bridesmaid photos with the bouquets on the bridge. I grew up with that photo in my house. But one day I was playing football— no, it was… it was cricket. I was playing cricket in the house and the photo shattered. I cut my hand trying to hide it from my mum, look.”

You take his hand, inspecting his palm and turning it over. He continues. “But I don’t recognize you. From the photo. I don’t think you were there. You weren’t looking at the camera. You were looking at me.”

“I don’t see a scar.”

“What?”

Peter pulls back his hand.

“It is kind of dark out, so that could be why.”

“Wha…” Peter holds his hands up to the twinkle lights in the willow branches above the bench. He shakes his head. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“Deja vu.” You whisper.

Peter’s hands fall from inspection, he rubs his fingers together at his sides. “What did you say? Did you say Deja vu?”

“Yeah. I’ve— I’ve been here before. This has happened before. With you. What’s happening?”

Peter sits back down next to you on the bench, grabbing your upper arms with insistence. “Are you messing with me again? Are you screwing with my head?” He’s breathing fast. He looks scared.

“No! No, I swear Peter. This just… feels so familiar. Do you feel it? The smell in the air, the champagne bottles popping, you checking your hands in the light, the kiss in the gazebo… what’s happening? What does it mean that I’ve felt this before?”

Peter lets go of your arms and runs his thumbs across the smooth insides of his knuckles. “It means… it means it’s elastic. This timeline is still alive. I’m not in a loop, I’m not in a dead end. Something is happening… or something will happen. Either way, we’re all still breathing…” Peter laughs quietly for a few moments before silencing himself with his own hand. “Somewhere, somehow, in the past 20 minutes or so, a vortex was formed— a shift in the timeline.”

“What does that mean? Is that good or bad?”

Peter shakes his head. “I don’t know. We—us in the future—don’t even fully understand it. It’s a technology we discovered from elsewhere in the universe. I’ve been thinking lately that we don’t have the receptive capacity to understand the dimensionality. Like trying to conceptualize a tesseract.”

“What are you doing here? Still trying to save the world?”

“No. That window closed. Or at least, I thought it had.”

“So your window is closed. You didn’t succeed?”

He stares into your eyes for several beats. He thinks about December 31st in Rome. How he waited on platform 23 at the piazza di Spagna until the last train came it at near midnight. And how he walked around the Villa Borghese alone when security shooed him away from the station, he walked back to the red tiled hotel alone. A doomed mission. He must’ve passed at least a dozen kissing couples that night ringing in the new year.

“No. I didn’t. I’m sorry.” His apology feels personal.

“It’s okay.” You say with a small voice, placing a hand on his knee. “So, now what? Do you go back, to your original time, the future?”

“Can’t go back. Can’t go anywhere. Even if I could, there’s no one to retrieve me.”

“So you just live out the rest of your days here in 2023 onward?”

Peter bites his lip and looks out over the pond. “Yeah.”

“What happens when baby Peter Roiter is born?”

“You’re too quick, you know that?” Peter snorts and shakes his head.

“I watch a lot of sci-fi movies,” you smile, shouldering off your lavender shawl and pointing out your tattoo. “See. It’s a—“

“DeLorean.” He traces his finger over the small line drawing tattoo.

“A 1981 DeLorean DMC-12 to be exact.” You grin proudly.

Peter swallows and traces his finger down your bare arm, making your hairs raise.

“You got it the day of your 18th birthday. You had a fight with your father and you got it on a whim. You were so angry at your father that you cried when you got it and when the tattoo artist asked if you needed a break from the pain you said—“

“How do you know this, Peter, you’re scaring me.”

“You said, I’ve had worse.”

“Peter—“

“I know you. We’ve been here before. This bench. The lights, the way they glow on your skin.” He swipes the side of your face lightly with the back of his unblemished hand.” He gulps. “I kiss you on the gazebo by the pond, I kiss you under a willow tree far away from the house, I—“ he shifts closer, his forehead nearly touching your own. “I carry you like a bride up the stairs and I kiss you in a room with golden leaves on the ceiling.”

You shift closer to him, your noses touching.

“Don’t you remember?” He asks, cupping your cheek. “No matter where I go. There you are. Entanglement.”

“I remember.” You nod. “Tell me, Peter. Tell me what happens when you’re born.”

Peter cradles your face in both of his hands and pulls back a fraction of an inch, eyes flickering between your own before he sighs and shuts them in a near grimace.

“I die.” He kisses you. And its so different from the kiss on the gazebo. Your little lie, your little trick in back there that got him to kiss you the first time. A lie— or so you thought at the time. Something made you say it to him you’re sure of that now. The deception was compulsory. It wasn’t why you led him out at the time. But now it its.

As sure as he knows the date of his own birth, he knows he will die. In almost exactly 13 months. Or sometime before; but never after. They didn’t teach him every facet at The Project, mainly due to their own ignorance; and he wouldn’t have to face his demise if he had only taken himself to the extraction point… but that had been out of the question. And what is he doing now? With you on this bench? 100 yards from his newlywed parents. This is a new dream he is fulfilling, the erasure of his scar, these new-old memories, the fulfillment of a loop.

Your silk shoes abandoned in the grass, he scoops up your knees onto his lap, he holds your face so tenderly and kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you beneath the willow tree.

He carries you like a bride to your bedroom at the top of the stairs. If any party stragglers notice you, you aren’t aware. You cling to Peter with your face buried in his neck, holding to his broad shoulders, your bare toes make brushing contact with the walls of the stairwell as you ascend. You don’t need to tell him which room is yours, he’s been here before hasn’t he? You certainly have. In a dream. In another life.

He lays you gently on the bed, kissing up your ankles, sliding the satin of your sheath dress up your legs as he goes, crawling up and up and up you, his lips trailing over the rise of your knees with abject devotion. His strong hands splay and scoop under your dress, under your hips, to grab your lace panties. He looks into your eyes from where he kisses the crest of your thigh when he slides the material down your legs and tosses them to the floor.

“How could I have forgotten you?” He whispers with a longing against your skin, pushing your dress up until it pools in a satin puddle at your middle. He kisses the tip of your hipbone before he settles between your thighs, his stubble scratches pleasantly at the sensitive flesh when he runs his nose along the junction of your hip and thigh.

Cradling your hips in his palms, he shrugs your legs over his shoulders. He’s still fully dressed, the only disrobing he did of himself was the grey jacket abandoned on the the back of the far-table chair in the reception hall downstairs, and the blue tie he loosened and discarded somewhere near your panties. His disguise.

He crawls up further onto the bed to fully press his face into your sex. He latches onto your puffy cunt with his kiss-swollen lips and licks you open with messy, savoring swirls of his tongue. His mouth hot and slick, chin and nose pressing into you with a rocking hungry motion. You don’t intend to cry out at the sensation but he’s making love to you with his mouth like it isn’t the first time and you have no choice but to strangle your own keen of pleasure and fully and gracelessly recline on the bed, the prop of your elbows unable to hold you up through the slick furnace of pleasure that is Peter Roiter’s mouth.

You scrunch your eyes closed and bite your bottom lip when his tongue focuses in on your clit, hot mouth still sealed around your pussy, he lathes you with stern and steady lashings to your point of pleasure. Your hands fist in the pool, of silk at your belly. He sighs hotly into you and works his own fingers through yours, loosening your grasping hands from your dress. He laces all his fingers flush with yours, soothing the sides of your palms with his thumbs.

He never stops the hot assault of your spread sex with his tongue. Your grass stained heels rest lightly on the taut warm linen of his dress shirt. You can feel the way the muscles back there flex, your feet sliding every so slightly when his hips buck gently into the mattress. You don’t open your eyes until you’re desperately close to cumming in his mouth and when you look up all you can see are flashes of gold.

Your hips lift off the mattress with the arch of your back and the contraction of your thighs. You let out a long low keen and his face tilts up to follow your clit, sucking you lovingly, his hands gripping more tightly to your own than ever before.

“Peter,” your lips tremble, you slowly open your clamped shut eyes.

There it is. The gold leaf ceiling glinting in warm yellow light. Just as he said. Just as your remember. You stare dazedly at it and you know in less than a moment Peter will crawl up your shaking sweating body and place a kiss on your lips. He does. You grab him by his thick curls and push and pull and twist him in a debauched kiss till he’s flat on his back and you’re on top. His mouth is hot and sticky and so, so giving.

He runs his hands lightly over the open back of your dress. You only unbuckle him enough, and shimmy his trousers midway down his thighs, to get him inside of you. When you sink down on him he holds your forehead against his and gasps in disbelief.

“I—“ He chokes, catching his breath and fighting his eyes rolling back so he can get a good look at you when you take him all the way down.

“What?” You smile, stroking his cheek.

“I— I’ve missed you. Ahh.” He grabs you hard then, sitting up slightly and clawing your dress strap down so he can bite and suck the softest parts of your chest.

You cradle his head there, grinding into his lap slowly, gasping softly at the feel of him inside you.

“You won’t disappear, will you?” You whisper in a daze of pleasure.

No, he chants against your breast.

“No, no, no. I can’t lose you.” He holds you tight to him like he means it.

Peter has pulled the top of your dress down to your waist now and his hands roam freely over your back, plotting the elevated terrain of your shoulders, the valley between your breasts, and the maps of rivers at your wrists.

He lays fully back down and takes you with him. You smile against his kiss.

“Getting tired, old man?”

“Mmm, I’m younger than you—technically— negative one years old next month.” He bites your ear. You laugh. He thrusts up into you. You moan and clutch him by his clothed shoulders.

Peter cups your cheek in his hand. The one with the missing scar. You turn your face to kiss his unblemished palm. You rock on him slowly, his mouth parts in bliss.

“Does this mean anything can change at any time?” You ask, glancing at the inside of his hand.

“Yes but that’s always been a given.” Cheeky.

“No, I don’t mean just anything. I’m not talking about normal changes, I concerned about—“

“Dissolving out of a photograph? Ceasing to exist?” He teases, flicking your tattoo.

“Or Chuck Berry never writing Johnny B. Goode?”

“Who?” Peter delivers in convincing deadpan curiosity before breaking out into a beautiful grin.

You pinch his side. “Rat.” You can feel the intensity of his jerking response to the pinch where he’s buried warmly inside you.

Peter nods, “I don’t know. I hate saying that I don’t know and I hate that worried little look on your face, but I promise that it doesn’t change anything. We are here and like it or not the only thing certain is change.”

“The mortal agreement.”

“There is one thing I do know. No matter what I change, no matter where I go. I find you. Even when I send you away, you bounce back. Right back into my arms. A less scientifically minded man might think that love has it’s own special inter-dimensional set of physics. We just… keep extracting entropy from a closed system. No matter how hard I break the billiards they fly right back to the center of the table in formation. Not always in the same order, but… still… accounted for. I thought it was fragile, like butterfly wings, you know? But I’m learning it’s durable. It’s elastic, alive. And you always bounce back.”

“Sounds less like time travel and more like pattern reconfiguration.”

Peter tucks your hair behind your ear and drinks in your face, nodding thoughtfully. “Everything you say. Everything you’ve said. It’s all like something that’s on the tip of my tongue.”

You grin, bending over him, taking his pretty face in your hands, you kiss him and suck his tongue into your mouth, bobbing your mouth on the tip of it suggestively, “is it?” You smile. He’s still hard in you. You hope he never stops. This is how you should have every conversation about everything from here on out. Joined together, the beast with two backs as Shakespeare would say.

“I don’t want to cum.” He groans into your mouth, “when I cum I’ll have to stop being inside you, and I don’t want that, I want to live inside you.”

Call it the contrarian in you, but the admission only makes you want to force it out of him against his will. To make him fall apart precisely because he said he was trying his best to keep it together.

You clench, ride him, and moan into his ear until he’s nearly tapping out from ecstasy and when he comes he calls your name.

“Oh no.” You gasp, looking around worriedly.

“What? What is it?” Peter halfway sits up, adrenaline opening his eyes fully.

“Do you think your parents heard us?” You grin teasingly.

Peter sighs with relief and shakes his head, kissing your cheek and crushing you against his chest in a hug.

You don’t worry about tonight, the shoes you left outside, the rented jacket in the reception hall, or what will transpire in the next 13 months. Everything will bounce back in the end.

=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=

Tagging everyone who interacted with the post asking who was interested in this Peter Roiter fic:

@ozarkthedog @toracainz @mundivagantsoul @ominoose @astroboots @orestesimp @spacecowboyhotch @steven-grants-world @convrsation16 @onefinnedwonder-fm @grumpyeagleandfriends @miguellohara @winchestershiresauce @user215sstuff @greg-drunk @poeedameronn @piptoost @danilovesyarn @toracainz @red-hydra @motleyfolk @ladywillowgrey @munasolid @karoblaer @theaterm @howellatme @mistaknight @dailyreverie @guruan @lunar-ghoulie

Usernames that have been crossed out, I was unable to tag, check your tumblr settings to receive tag alerts.

[lulu2992]

(This is a reply to this reblog because the post would have been way too long otherwise)

You’re right, @purplehairsecretlair; it would make so much more sense if the priest featured in the video was not Jerome! I was ready to accept this headcanon, but then I found the official description of the trailer:

This is about Joseph Seed's journey before he became the Father, before Pastor Jerome was forced to forfeit his status as shepherd of the County's souls.

So The Baptism is about Joseph “stealing” Jerome’s congregation… That said, I totally agree that this isn’t consistent with the game for several reasons (which you probably already know, but I want to use this opportunity to talk more about the trailer).

First, Joseph found John and Jacob before he started the Project, and they all arrived in Hope County together. In the trailer, however, as you pointed out, he’s alone. We see him creating Eden’s Gate, writing his own holy book, and recruiting his first followers. Also, this shot...

...looks like what the 2nd step of the Pilgrimage tells us in the game:

II. The Cleansing: Joseph Seed affirms his obedience to the Voice by cleansing himself with his own two hands, becoming born again.

Steps III and IV are about him getting his first followers and the Voice telling him about the Collapse, and he only “collects his blood family” at step V, which... I realize is not consistent with The Book of Joseph, unless that means he had already found his brothers and only “[anointed] them as his Heralds” at this point.

Regardless, the story told along the Pilgrimage path isn’t consistent with The Baptism either because he only brings his disciples to Hope County at step VII, but he’s clearly already there in the video. Plus, his Heralds don’t seem to be with him…

I tried looking for more information about the trailer, especially about the cast and characters but, aside from Greg Bryk, I couldn’t find the names of the other actors.

However, I found this. The website says the video has won 25 (in my opinion, well-deserved) awards and provides a synopsis, probably written by DDB Paris, the agency that created the two live-action trailers, The Baptism and The Sermon, for Ubisoft. It says that the little girl is “the daughter of the legitimate priest whose place [Joseph] took, ten years ago”. Far Cry 5 never implies Jerome ever had a child, so I don’t think that’s still canon, but I’m glad we finally know who she is!

I stumbled upon this other article (with a behind-the-scenes picture). It’s in French, so here’s a summary:

It was Ubisoft who “imposed” Greg Byrk on the agency, but the artistic director thought he was “perfect” even though they barely knew him. The copywriter comments he was “very immersed in his role” and “exuded something powerful”.

The video was shot in Canada, in Merritt BC. To help the team, Ubisoft sent them the “huge mood board” they made during their one-year trip to Montana.

Some shots were unscripted, such as the scene with the little girl on the swing.

About 150 people were involved in the project which also required dozens of supply trucks.

Finally, it says the trailer was released 14 months after the first briefing. Jerome and Joseph’s backstories had plenty of time to be rewritten...

I also remember reading this interview with the director on the now-offline UbiBlog years ago. So, in case anyone was wondering (I was), that string of saliva was, in fact, totally unplanned :’)

[sitepathos]

Worth Every Bit

A/N: a bit different from my usual posts, but I had this idea a while back and I just had to write it.

“Y/N, are you still out there,” your father yells from the back porch, his voice echoing through the forest.

“I’m almost done,” you yell back, adding the last of the lephria leaves to your basket. “I’m on my way back!”

Tonight is a full moon, so as your village’s only herbologist, you know that herbs gathered right now will be more effective than at any other time. And with so many of your fellow villagers being elderly, it’s important to have the best ingredients on hand should anything happen. Fall is coming to an end and soon the temperature will being to drop, meaning people will get sicker a lot more easily, so now it’s important to be able to brew potions as quickly as possible.

“Got everything you needed,” he asks as you walk towards him.

“Of course,” you beam, holding up your basket full of gathered herbs.

He smiles and pats you on the head, your omega instincts sponging up the attention. Of course, your father worries about you since you just so happen to be a male omega, a rare subspecies of human; omegas used to make up 10% of the realm, but after the Great War nearly a century ago, the omega population was reduced to less than 5%, and male omegas are less than 1% of that, so he’s constantly on guard. Your mother left not long after you were born, so you’re the only family the poor beta has.

“Let’s head to the tavern,” he says, motioning to said tavern. “I think the feast should be ready by now.”

The village always celebrates the end of fall with a big feast with music, games, and drinking; everyone gathers inside the tavern and goes home a few hours before the sun rises.

“Alright,” you say, excited to eat the mayor’s signature roasted boar.

Just then, the warning bell is rung, its chime telling everyone that something potentially dangerous is approaching.

“It’s a Tribal carriage,” the guard shouts from his watchtower. “It’s a Tribal carriage!”

And just like that, the air went stiff and a sense of dread entered your body, as it no doubt did to your father and everyone else in the village. The Tribe is the largest and most powerful kingdom in all of Arcadia; what started as just a small band of barbarians evolved into a vast kingdom that, under its current chief, everyone fears and no one dares challenge. For them to be here, a village on the edge of nowhere with no strategic value whatsoever, only makes this all the more scarier.

“Get in the house,” your father orders, forcing you inside the house before shutting the door and running around to meet everyone else at the main gate.

You run around to the front of the house where a window gives you a perfect view of the village entrance, where all the men have gathered, ready to defend their home should it come to it. Not that it would do any good, the Tribe is known throughout the realm for its strong and fearsome warriors who seem to lust for battle and blood; even if the carriage carries a single warrior, he would be more than enough to conquer the village and everyone in it… if there was any survivors.

Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, the carriage pulls into the village and comes to a halt just at the crowd. Two identical men jump down from the carriage and you instantly know who they are: the cousins and personal guards to the Tribal Chief himself, Jimmy and Jey Uso, known as the Twin Terrors. They’re known for being a deadly duo capable of fighting over a dozen men and coming out on top, fighting in perfect unison that many have thought they can read each other’s minds; they’re also known for being beside their cousin at all times, unless he’s sent them on a mission that requires professionals. From your spot, you can see they’re alphas; their sleeveless leather armor reveal the signature tattoos on their muscular arms and the hardened expressions they have show they’re here on a mission and won’t tolerate any interference.

Just what are they here to do?

Jimmy opens the door and out steps a bald man that you instantly identify by the very expensive and gaudy robes he’s dressed in: Paul Heyman, the Wise Man to the Tribal Chief and ambassador of the Tribe; he’s known for not only advising the Chief on running the Tribe, but also carrying out anything that requires shrewd negotiations. With three key members of the Tribe here in your isolated village, the mystery only grows. Just what could they want?

Then, the twins stand side by side on one side of the door and Paul stands on the other and the last occupant of the wagon steps down, and as he does, you feel your blood go cold and your heart skip a beat. In wolf pelt armor and a massive battle axe on his back stands the infamous Tribal Chief and Head of the Table, Roman Reigns. If Jimmy and Jey are alphas, then Roman is the apex of alphas as his muscular body looks like he crushes boulders as a hobby and wrestles bears for fun; his long hair and signature tattoo stretching from his right arm to the right side of his torso only adds to his fearsome appearance. As you look, you notice his last signature item: a gold gauntlet covered in blood; legend has it that a punch from it is capable of knocking any man down and leaves him unable to get back up.

As he looks around the village, you feel the atmosphere completely change for the worse. The Tribal Chief never leaves his castle unless he’s leading his men into battle to conquer another enemy. And right now, that seems to be the case.

“We welcome you, Tribal Chief, to Aster Village,” the mayor speaks, clearly trying to keep himself from shaking. “I am Alador Finnigan, the mayor of this fine village. To what do we owe this honor?”

“The Tribal Chief has come to make a deal,” Paul Heyman responds, his voice overflowing with the pompousness he’s known for. He turns to the twins who have pulled a massive chest made of silver and gold from the back of the carriage and place it next to the man’s feet. Paul opens it and reveals the massive pile of gold and platinum coins, gems the size of your fist, and jewelry of all types inside. Your eyes widen and all the men gasp at the massive amount of treasure. “The Tribal Chief is willing to give you all that you see here in exchange for the male omega that lives in this village.”

Once again, your heart stops. The Tribal Chief, the most feared man in the entire realm, is here for you?

“That’s my son you’re talking about,” your father grows, stepping forward, his knife drawn.

“You’re the omega’s father,” the Wise Man asks, though it sounds more like a statement than a question. “When the Tribal Chief had learned that a male omega, unclaimed and unpromised to an alpha, living in this isolated village, he knew he just had to have him. And, he’s willing to offer you all that you see here in exchange for him. Of course, for such a rare treasure, he’s agreed to offer you more.”

“My son isn’t livestock to be bought! Especially to some bastard who’s just going to use him for breeding!”

It’s then the Tribal Chief takes a step forward and if looks could kill, your father would be a pile of ashes from the look he was getting from the Tribal Chief.

“I understand you’re protective of your son, who many would kill to claim him, but you will show the proper respect for me, beta,” the man growls, making you shiver. “I’ll let this go, but talk about me like that again, and I’ll take your tongue.”

“My Tribal Chief,” Paul Heyman chimes in, getting between the two men. “I’m sure he meant no disrespect, it was just a spur of the moment. If we weren’t negotiating for his son, he would be acknowledging you.”

This seemed to placate the man, who took a step back and nodded, signaling to resume the negotiations.

“Sir, I can assure you that your son will not be used solely for breeding. The Tribal Chief has the purest of intentions with your son; he intends to take your son as his mate, and he will be treated with the highest respect. As you know, male omegas are highly coveted, so being the male omega to the Tribal Chief will earn him a place of honor at the table.”

“I don’t care if he replaces your Tribal Chief as the Head of the Table, he’s my son and he’s staying here.”

A blind man could see the look of fury on Roman’s face; he’s known for always getting what he wants and what he wants is you, and he’s not taking no for an answer.

“Sir, everyone has a price, and the Tribe has amassed treasure from all over the realm,” the Wise Man chimes in, clearly nervous at how the negotiations are going. “Just name whatever you desire, and I’m sure we can meet it.”

“We’re not haggling over the price of a set of armor, asshole! We’re talking about my son and as long as I breathe, he’ll never be yours!”

In that moment, you make up your mind. The Tribe’s reputation is known to all, and that reputation says they’re going to get tired of arguing and eventually resort to violence, which will result in the death of your father and probably the village. You throw open the door and approach the crowd.

“If you want me so bad, you should be talking to me,” you say, trying your best to sound confident, but at best, you keep your voice from cracking.

At once, all eyes fall on you and it takes all your energy not to melt into a puddle. The Tribal Chief’s eyes fall on you and smirks.

Guess he likes what he sees.

“Y/N, what the hell are you doing,” your father growls. “Get back in the house!”

He tries to pull you back to the house, but you yank your hand out of his grip and keep taking.

“I’m this village’s only herbologist. In addition to all the treasure for my father, if you promise to find a replacement for me, I’ll go with you.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Paul responds before looking to Roman. “Right, my Tribal Chief?”

“Yeah,” he says, his deep voice making you weak to your core. “We’ll have a new herbologist here first thing tomorrow morning.” He walks up to you, his hulking figure towering over you. He holds out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“Yes.” You take his hand and look up to him. “My Tribal Chief.”

His smirk grows and becomes all teeth. He motions to the carriage and you walk towards it without any argument.

“Y/N,” your father cries out as Roman opens the door and helps you up it. You can tell he’s trying not to cry, but the tears still fall. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And with that, you and your soon-to-be mate enter the carriage, followed by the Wise Man. As soon as the twins are situated at the front, the carriage begins to move, passing by the village gates.

“Are you satisfied, my Tribal Chief,” Paul asks, his tone rich in smugness. “I know you’ve been wanting an omega for so long and now you have the rarest of the rare.”

“You’ve done well, Wise Man. When we first arrived at that backwater village, I thought that we’d have to offer far more that that measly little chest.” He gently grasps your chin and makes him look at you. “And you worth every bit of those stupid little trinkets.”

[gemini-sensei]

Don't mind me and my chaotic af ideas, but- (warning for abusive households (non physical), controlling behavior, forced separation/break up) (@sensei-venus)

Imagine if Reader, Hawk and Miguel are in a secret relationship because her parents don't like them. So they sneak around, fall in love, and get it on. They're so happy in their relationship even though they can't tell anyone. They'd be much happier of they could be open about their relationship, but it just isn't an option right now. Juliet and her two Romeos will just have to wait it out.

Except Reader is hit with the unexpected and shocking news that her parents have been planning on moving out of the Valley. Her dad got a great job opportunity, so they'll be moving hours away and taking their daughter from the boys that have been causing trouble to them, thinking it will fix whatever issues they have.

However, trouble follows them.

Not in the form of Hawk and Miguel driving hours away to help Reader runaway or anything like that. But in the form of the baby they put in her belly before she moved, which was unplanned and unforeseen.

Reader feels so connected to Hawk and Miguel through the baby, but it also hurts because she can't tell them about it. She's forbidden from talking to them, her actions closely monitored. Despite not liking Hawk or Miguel, her parents tolerate her pregnancy and eventually the baby that's born. However, they don't do much to help. They provide a roof over Reader and her baby's head, they feed them, buy their clothes. That's more than enough in their opinion, leaving Reader to raise and careful her little chubby baby alone. They handle the financial, she handles the actual baby, "since she went and got herself pregnant," as her mom will say.

But then the job her dad got falls through. Shit goes bad and the family is forced to move back to the Valley, with enough luck that he was able to get his old job back. Reader is silently excited, knowing that being so close to Hawk and Miguel will put nothing in their way of seeing each other again. But it's been a year, people change. She certainly has...

So will they still care? Do they still love her? And what will they think of their baby girl? who looks so much like Miguel with thick dark curls and soft tan skin.

Reader manages to get away from her parents by saying her baby girl has a doctor's appointment to find her a new pediatrician, when really she's driving up to the dojo because she knows she'll find her loves there.

So imagine Hawk and Miguel's shock when they see not only Reader walking through the gate, but the baby blankets held to her chest that wriggle and move restlessly.

Hawk can't help but think Reader looks as beautiful as ever, with a little extra meat on her bones than he being on her the last time they saw each other. Full hips, fatter chest, pudgier belly. She's glowing with motherhood and he just wants to run to her and hold her fell her body with his own so he knows that he isn't dreaming and that she actually there.

And Miguel is ready to drop to his knees and burst into tears. Here's one of the loves of his life whom he thought he may never see again, at least not so soon. And she's cradling a curious and wiggly infant to her chest, smiling nervously at them until the baby starts to fuss.

She shushes the little one and bounces her, telling her everything is alright. "It's time you meet your daddies."

Everyone else is justifiably shocked. Maybe a select few people knew they were dating, like Sam and Demetri, but the baby - she's a huge surprise.

Daniel and Johnny welcome the pair into the dojo, pausing the lesson to allow for a much needed Q&A session. However, they corral the other teens away so Hawk, Miguel and Reader can talk.

"It's so good to see you again," Hawk tells her, kissing her cheek before they get into any conversation. He's so overwhelmed with happiness, his heart might burst. "We missed you so much. Who's this?"

"This is Rosalía, but I mostly call her Rosie," Reader giggles.

And Miguel breaks down as he hears the name because he knows Reader named their daughter after one of the most important people in his whole life. Hawk has to hold him and rub his back as he sputters and tries to suck it up. He manages to do so when Rosie starts fussing and whining because he's upset, and him being upset is going to make her upset.

"It's okay, Rosie," he tells her, voice a little pitched. He sniffles and wipes his eyes, smiling at the baby soon thereafter. "I'm okay, see?"

"Can we hold her?" Hawk asks, soft and hopeful, almost as if he's not supposed to ask such a thing.

"Of course," Reader giggles and passes the baby over to Hawk. She helps with the position on his hands and instructs him on how to hold her head. "Look at you. You're a natural at this."

Miguel comes close and gently touches Rosie's mass of curls, so soft and delicate. He kisses her head and smiles at her, then he and Hawk are saying hello and introducing themselves.

"We're your dads," Miguel laughs softly, making sure not to be too loud. He smiles at Hawk, who is wearing the same 'holy shit this is real' smile.

Hawk kisses Rosie's head. "And we love you so much."

Hawk and Miguel and Reader finally feel whole again after being apart for a year, though it felt like much longer. And the guys couldn't be happier with who Reader came back with.

[allyouneedisteaandlove]

no one asked but here's what I would do if I could rewrite the Parkers arc on TVD:

starting out Kai would leave after taking Jo's magic. I don't even care where he goes or if his final line in season six is "have a good life, sissy" but my boy would disappear and go run free for a while and leave mystic falls behind. So no second stent in a prison world or being a blood-bag for a bunch of heretics (like y'all wonder why he came back to the wedding swinging).

Listen, do I still want him to become a heretic ??

Yes, 100%.

But we'd need to figure out how to avoid killing Jo and Liv in the process, so we'd be relying on some silly TVD loophole. As coven leader his ass should be able to sever the ties binding them.

(or maybe jo gets given vampire blood at the hospital pre wedding and when he stabs her she wakes up too but as a vampire i don't KNOW and i don't care but we keep the three of them alive end of discussion. the Red Wedding is so deliciously evil of him part of me wants to keep it but maybe we focus on making it about killing their awful dad/the abusive family and leave the siblings out of it).

so yes, Jo would somehow make it through the wedding unscathed, leaving Caroline out of the horrible gemini baby incubator plot line.

Liv and Tyler get back together post wedding gate, and in season 7 they're hopefully enjoying college and making plans for the future. She's still broken up about Luke, obviously, but she's finding ways to heal. He's helping her, she's helping him, they're healthy and adorable and 100% on track for marriage.

In season 7 we'd see Jo and Ric adjusting to pregnancy/parenthood, with the mystic falls gang rallying around them to help.

We'd get an occasional check in on Kai: i want him off being ridiculous on islands and in europe and just vibing being a menace wherever he'd like; maybe the MFG call him for magical advice since he's wicked smart where the witch histories are involved or maybe hes still hung up on bonnie and calling every few months to see if she misses him yet (she'll never admit she does).

In Season 8, the saltzman girls start to get their powers. The gang hasn't heard from Kai in a while, maybe we haven't even seen him in town since he left in season 6. But he shows up unannounced one afternoon on Jo and Ric's porch (they've upped to a family house) asking if he's missed dinner. It's a holiday: my boys got an awful sweater on, a baked good in one hand and a sack of presents for the girls in the other. I'd also like a santa hat with a little bell if it's christmas.

The loophole about Jo saying she'd kill him if he ever came back is that now she's a mom, and the girls are confirmed witches (which makes them official members of the coven) so if he dies they die, and he doesn't think Jo will kill her own kids.

Obviously he's right, so a super weird and uncomfortable "family" dinner ensues. The girls have no idea who he is at first, but they're thrilled to meet a new Uncle. They have questions about their mom growing up, and questions about Kai now and where he lives, and Josie, especially, has questions about what's wrong with them.

Lizzy is nervous around new people, but Josie isn't even the tiniest bit afraid of him. She peppers him with question after question, hardly letting him catch his breath:

If he's a siphon like her, how come he has magic of his own now? Can she ever have that, too? Does letting her magic drain out ever stop hurting? Will she ever be as good a witch as Lizzy? Why were they born like this?

And Kai can't help but fall for her. No one answered his questions when he was a kid, so he takes his time telling her the truth now. He still doesn't know why the spirits did this to them and not their sisters - but there's nothing stopping Josie from being as powerful as she wants to be.

(Except him, of course, but she doesn't need to know that.)

At dinner, Jo and Ric sit at either end of the table, and Kai sits in the middle across from the girls. Lizzy's warmed up to him now and keeps asking him for special tricks. They haven't seen a real witch except for Aunt Bonnie, and having one so close for the evening - let alone someone they're actually related to, is a novelty they can't pass up.

Suddenly Kai flicks his wrist, and the girls freeze in their seats. "They're cuter than I thought they'd be," he admits.

"What did you do to them?" Ric growls, starting to stand. But Kai keeps him in his seat with another wave of his hand, smiling at both of them.

"We need to have a little chat," he tells them, "grown ups only."

"So send them to their rooms," Jo snaps, "we don't use magic on our children-,"

"Oh nice," Kai nods, "good on you for breaking the family traditions. But this will only take a moment, sissy, and they won't remember a thing. Pinky promise."

"Fine," Jo says, "what is it?"

"Simple question," Kai sighs. "I know which one of them is my favorite, but how about you two?"

Jo and Ric can only stare at him.

"You probably like Lizzy best, right?" Kai asks, rolling his eyes at Jo. "But what about you, Ric? Does Josie being a little freak bother you? Or does it not really matter, since you've never been a witch anyway?"

"Kai-," Jo tries to stop him, but he brushes her off.

"Don't pretend you don't have a secret favorite," he says. "You and I both know every parent does. Now tell me which one it is, and I'll unfreeze them."

"Why would I ever do that?" Jo asks. "I don't HAVE a favorite, I love them both."

"Well," Kai hums. "I suppose I could kill them both, if it's what you want. But between us it only really needs to be one of them. I thought you'd at least want to pick which one you got to keep."

He flicks his wrist, and the girls go back to peppering him with questions. Jo and Ric exchange panicked, horrified glances.

"Why are you two looking at me like that?" Kai asks, making sparks dance on his fingers for the girls. "I'm being nice, or did you miss the part where I said you could keep one of them?"

*

Later, after Ric and Jo have had a heated debate on what they should or shouldn't do, Jo takes the girls into the living room where Kai's waiting.

"Oof, bit harsh, sissy," he says, standing, "making one of them watch?"

Jo doesn't say anything, she just stops before him, the girls standing between them.

"Who's it going to be?" He asks, cracking his knuckles.

"I don't know," Jo says, "because I can't decide, and I'm not going to."

Kai tips his head back, groaning. "Come on, that wasn't the deal-,"

"I didn't agree to any deal," she reminds him, keeping a tight grip on each of her daughters. "I love them both, Kai, equally. If you want me to pick Lizzy because she's the easier option, I'm not going to do it. Josie is just as much a witch as any of us, and I'm not going to give up on her just because we might have hard days. I'm their mother, I can't make this choice."

Kai glares at her, knowing where she's headed.

"So if this is really what you want to do, then you look at your nieces right now," she orders, "and pick."

Kai rolls his eyes. This is her big plan?

Fine, easy.

He drops down to his knees before the girls, looking at each of them. Josie shuffles a bit closer, tugging the edge of his sleeve.

"Uncle Kai," she whispers, "did we do something wrong?"

Kai's expression falters. "No," he says, "you - you haven't done anything."

"Then why are you and mommy fighting?" Lizzy asks, tilting her head.

"Because your mom is being difficult," Kai pinches the bridge of his nose, "can you two just be quiet for a minute?"

"Sorry, Uncle Kai," Josie shrinks in on herself, drawing her little hand away from his arm.

He stares at them, and they stare right back at him. It should be easy - but it isn't. Josie has his eyes, his hair, his curse. And Lizzy can't shut up to save her life, she's twitching now with the need to ask him something else.

"You're both so - small," he says, one hand on each of their cheeks. "You're kids," his eyes flick up to where Jo still stands above them, "they're just kids."

"I know," Jo agrees, "so were we."

and just like that, we've got an immortal coven leader and no need to ever do a merge again

anyway thanks for coming to my ted talk

[kylobith]

LotR Week - Day 4 (14th Dec)

friendship | family | loyalty

Word count: 3,668

Flutes, fiddles and harps enlivened the streets of Minas Tirith on the day that the silver crown graced King Elessar’s head. Chants, clamours and cheers resounded from the gate to the citadel in celebration of the rebirth of Gondor. Fairy lights and colourful banners hung between the houses and the royal colours were hoisted high from the roofs, if not from the facades and the ramparts. As the people raised their pints and cried out their elation from windows and doors alike, giddy of heart and red of face, it seemed that the promise of a bright future had reached them at last. All looked up to the White Tree, now certain that it shall flourish and blossom anew. Hope had returned.

At the citadel, a banquet was thrown in honour of the new monarch and his company. In the Hall of the Kings and onto the terrace where the coronation had occurred, distinguished guests walked out and about, goblet in hand and lavishly clad. They mingled and met, talked and shared, bowed and laughed. In the crowd stood Men and Hobbits alike, Elves and Dwarves equal. Hearts were lighter, as were their shoulders now rid of armour, with the exception of military leaders. Common soldiers had been permitted to shed them for the festivities, facilitating movement and dancing.

Aragorn moved from group to group with his beloved Arwen at his arm, in order to thank them warmly for their presence and for their loyal service to Gondor and the greater good. By the end of the feast, he would have met about everyone, now that he had paraded the streets of his new seat, meeting with the people he swore to serve and protect until he last drew breath. His arrival and ascension were met with unanimous enthusiasm by the population, who had long suffered the decline of their realm and the tarnishing of the glory their land had once known. He intended to restore all of it and more. This time, Gondor would never falter again; it would stand tall and proud, strong and loud until any evil-wisher would be vanquished. All the while, he could not help but think to himself how much he wished that Boromir were there to see his cherished city come to life again.

Farther away on the terrace, the remaining members of the Fellowship gathered organically, clinking their glasses and exchanging smiles. Towering over them, Gandalf looked ahead to watch the king, his chin raised and his eyes wrinkling at the corners.

‘It is a new era begun,’ he announced in peaceful solemnity. ‘It should not be long until the White Tree burgeons again.’

‘It is indeed,’ Legolas acquiesced, sipping at wine. ‘I, for one, am honoured to witness this change.’

‘Change will be an onerous task still, whether in Gondor or in Rohan,’ the wizard continued with a nod of his head towards the Elf. ‘Nothing will ever be the same again. And I can only imagine that it also rings true to any of you. Tell me, my friends, what will you endeavour to do next?’

There was a momentary pause as his companions thought about what their future entailed. Their perilous journey, only just completed had left no room for contemplation about what they would do once peace was restored and the enemy defeated. Starved and strained, sore and struggling, the mere idea of home was nothing but a fantasy, a faraway illusion whose existence they so often doubted. At times, it had felt as though their fight had occupied their whole lives. As though they had been born right in the middle of combat and left to fend for themselves, or grown up climbing mountainsides and venturing through cursed marshes. When they were finally given the luxury to ponder about it, ideas and inspiration eluded them.

To nobody’s surprise, it was Legolas who answered first, running his fingertip along the rim of his cup.

‘I will return to Taur-nu-Fuin and report to my father. Then, I suppose we can finally clear our beloved woods of its evils and see it reborn.’

‘I remember the days when Mirkwood was a most inviting forest,’ Gandalf responded, rubbing his bearded chin pensively. ‘When birds and butterflies flew by each other’s side and deer and boars feasted on the plentiful grass. It was nearly as green as the meadows in the Shire!’

The Elf nodded knowingly, his thin lips curving into a joyful grin at the recollection. Yes, there used to be a time when Mirkwood was not so… mirky. His kin had witnessed it, but none of the living Men, Hobbits and Dwarves had been graced with its fulfilling sight.

Gandalf eyed his other companions, wondering whether they had plans once they returned home. The Hobbits shrugged and shook their heads, exchanging innocent glances.

‘We will return to the Shire, yes, but what we are going to do there, we don’t know,’ Merry said.

‘There is this book that Uncle Bilbo started to write,’ Frodo spoke up, his gaze lost ahead of him, as though seeing something that none other could behold. ‘He left blank pages for me to write my own adventure. Perhaps I should do just that.’

‘Yes, that is a wonderful idea, Frodo,’ the wizard chimed. ‘If you do, none of the fallen will have truly disappeared. They will live in your tale.’

Frodo bit the inside of his cheek, the tips of his eyebrows pointing upwards and creasing his forehead as he considered Gandalf for a second. Whether the old man was right or not, he could not tell. Maybe it depended on one’s belief. Or, perhaps, it was another way for the wizard to protect the young Hobbit’s feelings. It was something that had irritated him as of late, although he never showed his annoyance at it. Everyone walked on eggshells around him, weighing their words and smiling more than usual. Why would they do it to him, and not to the others?

As he distracted himself from his frustration by tasting the bitter pale ale of Gondor, it was Sam’s turn to express his enthusiasm.

‘I believe I will return to gardening and add flowers from the various lands we crossed on our adventure to my beds,’ he beamed. ‘But I will also make time to tend to Mr Frodo as he heals.’

‘And we just don’t know,’ Merry and Pippin said in unison, before the latter added: ‘Perhaps I will pester Sam from time to time to keep things fun.’

‘You do that, and I’ll make sure that Farmer Maggot gets his hands on you for stealing his crops!’

All of it was in good fun, of course. As soon as the words had left Sam’s mouth, they were followed by a hearty laugh as he wrapped an arm around the younger Hobbit’s shoulders, squeezing him against his side and clinking their pints together.

‘Well, it seems that there will be much merriness in the Shire after all, and I should worry about neither of you,’ Gandalf chuckled, before bringing his attention to the Dwarf smoking his pipe with a foaming mug of ale in his other hand. ‘What about you, Gimli?’

‘Aye, I would set out to recapture Moria if I weren’t on my own,’ he announced in his husky voice. ‘I’d much like to see my cousin’s hall restored to its former glory. If Minas Tirith can, Khazad-Dûm should know the same fate!’

‘I see. Perhaps you should seek the help of Ironfoot. Now that the Balrog is gone, I am certain that he would be willing to send troops to rid the Misty Mountains of its goblins.’

Gimli blew out the smoke from his lungs and swigged the ale, leaving foam bubbling on the copper hairs of his moustache and the tip of his large nose.

‘Dáin will never agree to it. He lost too many men in the mines already.’

‘He would be foolish to refuse. Besides, the fallen Dwarves deserve a proper resting place, not a forsaken mass grave.’

‘Aye, they do.’

Before he could take another sip of his beverage, a group of children emerged from behind him and jumped on his back. Taken by surprise, Gimli let go of the mug — narrowly saved by Legolas’ sharp reflexes — and his pipe, eyes wide and arms waving around to try and rid him of his assailants. The children held on, roaring with laughter as they laid their hands on the Dwarf’s head. Swinging from side to side, trying not to tumble down, Gimli shouted and protested, cursing his mates for watching the scene in amusement and laughing along with the little ones. Once their cheeky deed was done, the four boys fled, and the little girl accompanying them pecked his cheek before hitching her skirts up and following them.

‘Ah, children,’ Gandalf exclaimed, his shoulders still shaking from his laughter. ‘I believe that two of them are the offsprings of the Lady of Lossarnach.’

‘Noble or not, they are little rascals all the same,’ Gimli grumbled, patting off his sleeves and his tunic. His motion was interrupted, however, when the stifled chuckles of the Hobbits reached his ears. ‘What?’

‘Don’t you think that Gimli smells better all of a sudden?’ Pippin asked Merry, eyes watering as he restrained himself to keep his composure.

‘He sure does, Pip! Like the loveliest lady!’

‘What are ye two blabbering abo—’

As the Dwarf’s eyes lowered to his tunic, he caught sight of daisies adorning his beard. He patted the top of his head and felt flowers in his hair as well, dropping his hand by his side as the pair of Hobbit finally allowed themselves to give in to a fit of hilarity. Gimli snatched his pipe from the ground and proceeded to wipe the mouthpiece from dust and gravel, before retrieving his mug from Legolas.

‘Oh yes, make fun of the Dwarf! I was attacked, I’m telling you! Attacked!’

Gimli’s remark did not quieten his peers’ amusement. Rather the opposite. Merry and Pippin scampered off as he grumbled in their direction, and Gandalf seized the opportunity to talk to Frodo and Sam alone. Left with Legolas, the Dwarf sighed and thanked him for saving his pint. They stood in silence for a few seconds, before Gimli shook his head again.

‘Bairns…’

‘Well, they certainly made you look rather elegant,’ Legolas teased with an eyebrow raised. ‘They managed what I could not.’

‘Nobody can change this Dwarf,’ Gimli scoffed and puffed his pipe.

‘Certainly not.’

The Dwarf peeled one of the daisies from his beard and instantly heard the gasps from the children a few feet away. He met their gazes and took notice of the flowers they had gathered in the palms of their hands. They loomed over him as a threat, ominous and menacing.

‘Ah, well,’ he said loud enough for the children to hear, sliding the daisy back in the coarse red hairs of his beard, ‘I might as well leave them in.’

‘Good choice,’ the Elf acquiesced. ‘Children are not too bad, are they? They have seen their share of suffering here. They should embrace their childhood now.’

‘Aye, aye, they should. Perhaps they should even make me a flower crown. And one for you too, Elf.’

Legolas laughed and finished his wine, watching the little humans tiptoeing through the crowd of nobles in search of their next victim to embellish. There had been a time when he had wished for children of his own. He had longed to hold his flesh and blood in his arms, to look after and coddle until the bairn would have been old enough to train in archery with him. Often, he pictured himself braiding his child’s hair to keep it out of their youthful face until they were able to do it themselves. And such a day he would have fervently dreaded, for it would have meant that his help and love in such simple gestures would no longer be needed.

But after all that he had seen and lived, the idea of producing offspring sounded much less attractive to him than it used to. For once, he found himself yearning to care for the living more than for the unborn. He felt no sorrow at such thoughts; if anything, there was peace in his decision. He would gladly tend to the children of his dearest friends, but having his own would be out of the question.

Lost in thought, it was the unexpected pressure against the side of his neck that dragged him out of his reverie. Blinking in confusion, he caught a glimpse of Gimli folding his arm back against him and looked down at his pale blond locks, among which one daisy was nestled. Legolas chuckled and took it out, tucking it above his ear instead with a smirk.

‘Much better,’ he commented, flipping his hair over his shoulder. ‘See? You are not that much of a grouch after all. You do have a heart underneath that tough shell of yours.’

‘Of course, I do, pointy-eared lad!’

‘You do indeed. You have a lot of it, I must say. It is one of the reasons why I like you.’

Gimli flinched and furrowed his bushy brows as he stared up at the Elf. His heart seemed to have stopped as all colours drained from his face. His mouth opened and closed, yet no sound escaped it. Not a peep. Out of panic, he snapped his head around and called out.

‘What is it, lad? I’m comin’, I’m comin’! Sorry, Pippin is calling me.’

With this said Gimli hurried away, cursing under his breath, leaving a dumbfounded Legolas behind. The latter shrugged it off and approached one of the tables to find something to nibble on.

The celebration continued until late in the night. Dancing was now the main preoccupation, and many were the pairs twirling and pressing their hands together in the lofty hall. Aragorn and Arwen engaged in the most elegant choreography, once taught to them in Rivendell. Sam danced with one of the few children still awake, complimenting her on her steps and spinning her around to trigger a laugh from her. Merry and Pippin leapt around the place, inebriated and their mouths full of food — it was a wonder that they had not yet choked on any of it. Farther towards the thrones, one could see the tall, dark-haired beauty from the coastal lands of Gondor bowing and circling around the unusually bashful, yet pleased king of Rohan in a traditional dance of the realm. Under the arches, resting their weary feet on a bench, Faramir placed his head on Éowyn’s shoulder as she weaved her fingers through his hair, spying on her flustered brother with a bemused stare.

Gimli did not partake in any of that. He leant against one of the columns, drinking more ale and stealing fleeting glances at Legolas. The Elf seemed deep in conversation with Prince Imrahil, unaware of the Dwarf’s scrutiny and scowl.

What did Legolas mean by what he said? Gimli could not wrap his head around it. Was there something on the Elf’s mind that eluded him or that he was too blind to see? Had he done anything to warrant such words?

When Legolas bowed to Imrahil and excused himself, Gimli instantly looked away, focusing instead on Sam and Frodo sharing a pastry while sitting on a bench on the opposite side of the hall. The Elf approached Aragorn and Arwen and whispered something in their ears, which he could not discern with the music and the clamour of the guests cluttering his hearing. The king pulled Legolas into a warm embrace and patted his back, smiling and speaking words that did not reach the Dwarf either. Arwen did the same, and smiled sweetly at the Wood Elf, squeezing his arm before waving at him as he left the festivities.

Yes, he might as well go, Gimli thought while grumbling, lighting up the weed he had shoved into his pipe while observing the scene. If Legolas was in the mood to pronounce such silly words, then he could not be helped.

Blowing out a cloud of smoke, the Dwarf pressed the back of his head to the pillar behind him. Despite everything that was happening around him, he could not get the damned Elf’s words out of his head. He had tried to follow conversations, but it took less than two sentences for him to find his mind wandering back to his embarrassment earlier. Gimli scrunched up his face and grunted. He needed to know.

Once in his quarters, Legolas stretched his back and sighed in relief, his head buzzing after leaving the constant hubbub of the coronation feast. He delicately removed his belt and unbuttoned his silken tunic, lifting the intricate circlet from his brow and placing it back on its velvet cushion on the nightstand. Disrobing and carefully folding or hanging the pieces of his garment, he entered the bathroom and picked up the satin robe he had left there in the morning, covering his bare body with it.

Before he was even done tying it around his waist, there was a soft knock upon the door.

‘Ent—’

A loud bang thundered across the room as a furious Gimli kicked the door in and entered without letting him finish his invitation. The Elf shrieked and nearly tore the robe off himself in a start. Not giving him a chance to protest this violent entrance, the Dwarf pointed his finger at him and stomped over to him.

‘What did you mean earlier? I’ve thought about it over and over again and it makes no sense to me!’ he roared.

‘What are you talking about?!’

‘You said that you liked me! Now, what was that about?!’

Legolas stared at Gimli for a few seconds, before erupting in a fit of laughter. He squeezed the Dwarf’s shoulder as he passed him by to close the door, relieved to see that it was not damaged despite the forceful kick it received. His friend watched him in confusion, an eyebrow raised as the Elf went to sit on the edge of the bed and patted the space next to him.

As Gimli joined him, maintaining some distance between the two of them, Legolas grinned and tilted his head.

‘What I meant by that,’ he started, his voice quiet, ‘is that I like you. Nothing more, nothing less.’

‘I don’t understand, lad.’

The Elf snorted and rubbed his bare heel against the wooden floor.

‘Is it so difficult to conceive that I might consider you as my friend?’

‘Well, it’s odd comin’ from an Elf.’

‘Ah, that is what worries you.’

‘Mh. Not really.’

Gimli sighed and relaxed his shoulders, dropping his hands onto his lap. Now that he knew for sure that there had been no hidden meaning behind any of it, he felt rather foolish. The heat rising to his cheeks reddened them into a similar hue to that of his hair and beard.

‘You know,’ Legolas intoned, tucking his hair behind his pointed ear, ‘now that the Fellowship is dissolved, I fear that I will lose most of what I hold dear. And you are part of it. I sincerely hope that the end of our journey does not mean that we must sever our ties.’

‘Nah, laddie, don’t worry ‘bout that,’ Gimli guffawed, patting him sharply in the back and sliding a little closer to his mate. ‘We’ve been brothers in arms through the worst our world has seen. There’s no way that I’ll let this happen.’

Silence settled in as Legolas gave him a nod of gratitude. He noticed that Gimli’s hair was still full of drying flowers, and he could not help the grin from forming on his lips. Indeed, the Dwarf had much more heart than he had originally given him credit for when they met in Rivendell at the start of their saga. And even after the horrors they had encountered, he would not trade it for anything in the whole world. Neither would Gimli, although he did not express it openly.

What Gimli did express, however, was his desire to see Legolas again once the celebrations ended.

‘Will ya visit me in Erebor?’ he asked bashfully.

‘I would love nothing more. And you are welcome anytime in Mirkwood. After all, we do not live so far from each other, do we?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

Another moment of contemplation lingered as they gazed at each other. An idea bubbled in the Elf’s head, but he hesitated to voice it at first. When the Dwarf raised his eyebrows, taking notice of his conflicted expression, Legolas yielded.

‘You spoke of retaking Moria,’ he intoned. ‘I can try to speak to my father about it so he can send some of his men to accompany you. It will take some convincing, but I am sure that we can find a compromise with him. And even if he refuses, I will gladly help you reconquer your cousin’s hall if you accept me.’

Gimli grinned and bowed his head.

‘Aye. There’ll always be a place for you in my company. It’s about time that Elves and Dwarves bury the hatchet. It’s caused more harm than good to our kin, and your deeds likely earned the sympathy of my kind.’

Legolas placed his hand over his friend’s and squeezed it gently, smiling from ear to ear. The twinkle in his eye pushed the Dwarf to say something else.

‘Besides, counting dead Orcs is only fun when it’s you I’m competing against, lad.’

‘You stand no chance against me, Gimli.’

‘We’ll see about that!’

They shared a hearty laugh and Legolas cupped the back of Gimli’s head, tilting it closer to his until their foreheads touched. Understanding it as a gesture of affection and acceptance from the Elf, the Dwarf held Legolas’ head in turn and grinned.

‘I’m glad that I know you, brother.’

[sadwizardlover]

No Hope in Hell

Summary: The ambush on the tieflings in the Shadow-Cursed Lands and its aftermath, from Rolan's perspective Tags: Hurt, angst, absolutely no comfort or light whatsoever TW: This story contains descriptions of violence and torture

Link on AO3

"Hope hurts. That's what you need to learn, and fast, if you don't want it to cut you open from the inside out. Hope is bad. Hope means you keep on holding to things that won't ever be so again, and so you bleed an inch at a time until there's nothing left." --Seanan McGuire, Every Heart a Doorway

"Surrender in the name of the Absolute, or die." 

It's a voice that will haunt Rolan's nightmares for weeks to come, long after they've left the Shadow-Cursed Lands and he can no longer place a face to it. A voice devoid of any emotion or inflection, it sounds almost bored, as if condemning an entire caravan of people to their deaths is as commonplace as discussing the weather.

Everything changed so quickly. One minute, they were on the road to Baldur’s Gate: wary but not yet terrified of the shadows around them, trusting in their torches and spells to keep the worst of the darkness at bay. Muted conversations, Alfira singing to calm the children’s nerves. Cal and Lia beside him. 

The next–

Cultists emerging on the road ahead of them, flanking them from the woods, cultists coming up from behind. Appearing so suddenly and noiselessly they seem almost to be born of the shadows themselves. Armed with bows, greatswords, maces–all aimed at the trembling band of tieflings caught in their trap.

"Surrender in the name of the Absolute, or die." 

None of them know what to do. Their own weapons are raised in response; they aren’t outnumbered, from what Rolan can tell, but how many of them actually know how to fight? Back at the Druid’s Grove they’d needed an outsider’s help before they’d been able to push back the goblins; he doubts they’ll be so lucky here. There is no closed gate standing between them and their would-be murderers, no cave for the children to hide in. They’re completely vulnerable.

And yet–

At the Grove, Zevlor had rallied them before the battle: told them that though they were afraid, though they’d never been handed the easy choices, they had to resist. For their children, for their future. His words had given them courage and led them to victory against a much more powerful foe than the cultists they now face. Rolan doesn’t normally believe in the power of mere words over steel and magic; but what other hope do they have? Surely Zevlor will say something, will do something, to keep his people alive. 

The others must be thinking the same because all eyes are focused on their leader. Tilses, Zevlor’s faithful aide, turns to him and quietly whispers “sir, what should we do?”. Zevlor seems not to have heard her; his gaze is unfocused, staring off at something in the darkness that only he can see. “Sir? Sir!” 

Finally Zevlor turns to face them. He still doesn’t seem to be entirely there, he’s not looking directly at them but through them, like they’re ghosts from his past–but still, Rolan thinks, now is when things will turn in our favor. It’s not a thought he previously would’ve indulged in, especially in a situation where all the evidence in front of him is screaming at him to run, to hide, to do whatever it takes to keep himself and his siblings alive, damn all the others to the Nine Hells. But then a tadpole in the form of an intrepid adventurer wriggled its way into his skull and gave him the slightest hope that maybe, just maybe, they could win against impossible odds.

A slight hope that is snuffed out faster than a moth landing on an open flame.

“The Absolute…will protect us,” Zevlor says. "The Absolute is giving us a chance. Lay down your weapons. Please!" The shock that runs through the caravan is palpable. Looks of confusion and dawning horror pass through the party; from off to his right, Rolan hears Lia hiss "what in the hells is happening?!"

"Sir." Tilses is still trying to plead with Zevlor and make him see sense. "Sir, please. We can't just give in, they'll kill us all!"

No point in begging, Rolan thinks, the old man won't hear you.

Some of the other tieflings feel the same. One of them–Amek? Locke? Rolan has ceased to give a shit about remembering their names–angrily spits out "Some Hellrider you are, Zevlor! Fucking coward." Another shouts "rot in the Nine Hells, we're not going anywhere!" This voice Rolan recognizes as Okta, the motherly woman who made him and Lia and Cal gruel and let them stay in front of her tent. He hadn’t realized she had such guts.

It doesn’t matter of course. The cultist in charge actually chuckles, a noise that makes Rolan wish he could strike them dead then and there, then turns to one of the others. “Line ‘em up so we can bring them to Moonrise.”

Zevlor is still, for gods only know what reason, begging and pleading–not with the cultists, he’s not asking them to show mercy or let them go, no, the disgraced Hellrider is begging to his own people–telling them to lay down their weapons, the Absolute would save them, he would save them. Whether Zevlor’s actually turned traitor, is being compelled, or some combination of the two, Rolan doesn’t care. His entire focus has narrowed to a single pinprick. He will get Cal and Lia out of this alive.

A sharp elbow to his back forces him into line with the others: Lia and Cal to his right, Alfira and Lakrissa to his left. Towards the end of the line are Asharak and the children who don’t have parents to see to their safety. To Rolan’s surprise, the cultists don’t take their weapons away or even order them to be sheathed, so Lia is allowed to keep her bow. In this moment he thinks the cultists have forgotten to confiscate them out of sheer ineptitude or stupidity; later, when he has nothing better to do than drown himself in bottomless glasses of wine and reply this scene ceaselessly in his mind, he will realize it’s the opposite.

The cultists know exactly what will happen in a few minutes.  They’ve set the perfect trap–one baited with that faint, faint hope that maybe there’s still a chance for them to all to survive–and the tieflings have strolled right into it. They want them to fight back because that will make justifying their deaths even easier.

Once they’re lined up, they aren’t immediately ordered to start marching, and the waiting is torture. The cultists point and snicker at them, making crude comments on the state of their clothes, how bone-weary and haggard they look, how easy it would be to just let the evil lurking in the shadows consume them like the hellspawn they are. Their leader is the worst of all. They use the tieflings as a lecture, a morality play to prove the righteousness of their cause.

“See how those who reject the Absolute must cower in the darkness, weighed down by the burden of their unworthiness and sin. They believe themselves to be strong, to be deserving of the air they breathe and the ground underneath their feet. But see how their leaders–” here the cultist leader gestures to Zevlor, still babbling about the Absolute himself, “--see how their leaders shatter like glass when faced with the might of the Absolute! Only through embracing the Absolute can they be made pure. Those who reject the Absolute, those who resist, must be culled like vermin!”

One of the children begins to cry. Asharak tries to quiet them and keep them from drawing the cultists’ attention.

“Shh, it’s alright, it’s alright. Remember what that hero said, back at the Grove? You just have to be strong for a little bit longer, we’ll be okay.” His voice is barely a whisper and the cultist leader is at the opposite end of the line, but somehow they still hear him.

“You,” they say, in a voice dripping with bile, malice, authority. “Do you doubt the truth of the Absolute?”

“No, you didn’t think, did you, that anyone would call your lies into question. Heretics rarely do. I think,” they give a curt nod to one of the cultists near the end of the line, “a little lesson is in order for these children. Better they have some honesty in their lives, however short lived they may be.”

“W-what?” Asharak says, quaveringly. “N-no, I–I’m just trying to calm the children–”

“By telling them lies? It’s alright, we’ll be okay,” the leader echoes mockingly. “Do you really believe they will be spared from this? That any of you will be?”

“I—I don’t—I didn’t—”

“Don’t hurt them, please! They’re only children, they haven’t done anything wrong–!”

“Not them, boy. You will be their lesson. Now kneel.” Asharak remains standing, eyes bulging in horror and confusion. “Kneel.” The cultist behind him grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him to his knees. 

Rolan’s head is spinning. He doesn’t know what’s coming, only that it will be terrible, something he doesn’t want to see, something he doesn’t want Cal and Lia to see, because as soon as they do there will be no going back to who they were before.

“Eyes that deny the truth of the Absolute,” the cultist leader says, “shall be plucked from the unworthy.”

The cultist pinning down Asharak pulls out a dagger with a blade that somehow still gleams menacingly even in the dim light of the Shadowlands. Asharak begins to shake and struggles to free himself from their grip; they kneel down behind him and lock his head in a chokehold, then roughly jerk his chin so he’s facing them. Stupid, brave Asharak is still trying to get away, clawing at their arm, twisting and squirming. The last things he sees in this life are the face of his captor and then the fall of the dagger.

No one screams, no one even breathes. The horror of what they’ve all just witnessed defies anything they’ve seen before; even the fall of Elturel into the hells couldn’t match the sheer, unbridled evil of cutting a man’s eyes out for comforting a scared child.

The worst of it is that Asharak is still alive. He’s moaning and whimpering, blood streaming from where his eyes once were, but he’s still alive, somehow. Asharak, who looked after the children, told them stories and taught them to fight. Gods, the pain he must be in…

“Tongues,” says the cultist leader, snapping everyone’s attention back to them, “that sully the Absolute with lies and deceit shall be sliced from the unworthy.” They signal again to the cultist holding Asharak in place.

They all know what to expect now, know to look away before the dagger drops. But that doesn’t protect them from the noise: the noise of metal through flesh, the noise of Asharak keening in pain, the noise of the cultists chanting “Praise the Absolute!” en masse, as though a god who could condemn a man to such a torturous and slow death for committing no crime at all was worthy of such slavish praise. The Absolutists’ jubilant shouts are matched by the desperate prayers, sobs, and pleas of the tieflings. Zevlor is entreating the children to look away; someone is retching up what little food they’ve had to eat. 

While the cultists are distracted by lauding their murderous god, Rolan feels a trembling hand slip into his. Lia is shaking, he can’t tell if it’s with fear or with anger, but her eyes are clear and determined. He recognizes that look. It’s the Lia is about to do something incredibly stupid and I need to stop her look. But by the way she gazes at him–so focused despite her fear, ready to throw her own life on the line to protect everyone else–Rolan realizes in a heartbeat that he won’t be able to. Next to her, Cal has a similar expression; his is softer than Lia’s, less ferocious, but no less set on doing something dangerously heroic.

When did you two get so big, Rolan suddenly thinks. When you were little you wouldn’t dare do something this stupid in front of me. When you were little, I could protect you.

Lia squeezes his hand tightly. “Spells and swords, Rolan,” she murmurs. He knows what she’s asking of him. Knows she’s calling on him to fall back and shield the children, like they did in the Druid’s Grove. Knows she’s trying to reassure him that they’ll be fine, her and Cal, they can take care of themselves. He knows, and the fear that this may be the last time he’ll ever hold her hand is so overwhelming Rolan wishes it was him with his eyes and tongue cut out and not Asharak. It would be far less painful than this.

“Spells and swords, Lia,” Rolan whispers. And then he lets go.

Lia immediately turns away, pulling an arrow from her quiver and aiming it straight at the cultist leader’s throat. It flies true; if Rolan weren’t so damned afraid, he’d be proud of his sister’s marksmanship. The leader clutches at the arrow and yanks it out, gasping down their last gulps of air before the life dribbles out of them. At the same time, Cal lets out a roar and charges at the cultist closest to them with his pike.

All hell breaks loose.

The tieflings scatter in all directions. Some of them go running off into the shadows; others join Cal and Lia and begin fighting back against the cultists. A cacophony of screams, of weapons clashing, of people dying, cuts through the darkness.

“Run, Arabella!” 

“Danis?! Danis where are you?!”

“You vermin will never see daylight again!”

“No…this can’t be happening, no…no…NO!”

Rolan tries to tune out the chaos as best he can and makes a mad dash for Alfira, who’s collapsed on the ground next to Asharak’s now still corpse. Her eyes are wide with panic and her face is streaked with tears; the children are clinging onto her like she’s the only thing keeping them from being snatched away. It enrages Rolan to see her just sitting there weeping while his siblings are fighting, are dying–

No. He won’t think that, not right now anyway.

“Get up!” he shouts, shoving her roughly. “If you don’t want to die, grab the children and run, now!” This snaps Alfira out of whatever trance she’s in and she quickly stands up and starts to run, pulling the children with her. One of the cultists tries to go after them; Rolan hits him with a magic missile volley and he falls to the ground, dead. He sees Mol stab another cultist in the thigh and yells at her to come with them. 

Then they’re running, running, running, him and Alfira and the children, along with whichever refugees are smart enough and fast enough to follow them. Rolan doesn’t know what spells or cantrips he’s casting to beat back the cultists; his arms are flying almost as fast as his feet. He just knows that he has to survive this, not for his own sake but for Cal and Lia. Who will remember to come back for them if not him? He doesn’t let himself think about how he might be coming back to their dead bodies, or worse, to nothing left of them at all. 

He doesn’t know how long it takes them to get to Last Light from where they were ambushed. It could be minutes, it could be hours, he doesn’t care, before they burst forth from the darkness into the shimmering dome of light encircling the inn. Another Rolan, in another lifetime, would’ve been fascinated by the magic required to create such a massive protective barrier.

This Rolan, in this lifetime, is covered in someone else’s blood and just wants a fucking drink.

There are Harpers and Flaming Fist at the inn who bombard the others with questions about where they came from (“we were on the way to Baldur’s Gate from the Druid’s Grove”) and how they managed to survive the ambush (“Rolan saved us”). They want to talk to him, too, but after he demands to know when they’re going to be attacking Moonrise to free the prisoners and is met with pitying looks and half-hearted reassurances that they will save them, eventually, they just need to know what Ketheric Thorm is planning first—Rolan refuses to speak to them. Cowards, the lot of them. Cal and Lia are worth a thousand of their kind.

Lia and Cal are worth a thousand of you, Rolan.

He sets himself up in front of the bar. Doesn’t even find a bed to rest in, doesn’t try to sleep, because he knows as soon as his eyes close he’ll see everything as clearly as if he’s still trapped in the shadows: Asharak with his eyes and tongue cut out, the cultists laughing at their fear and misery, Cal and Lia looking at him with complete trust before doing something suicidally reckless. The liquor will keep the darkness at bay. With every new cup he pours, Rolan thinks, this time. This time when I get to the bottom they’ll walk through the door. They’ll probably be tired and scared but I don’t care, I’m going to yell at them, how could they be so stupid and leave me alone like this? Every cup carries an enticing whiff of hope that his siblings are playing some childish prank on him and hiding just out of sight, waiting to jump out and yell “surprise, we didn’t die in a ditch!”

Every cup ends in fresh disappointment. 

The others try to console him, initially. Cerys tells him that he and Lia and Cal were brave for what they did, braver than Zevlor who stood by and did nothing while his people died, but this praise means nothing to Rolan. He’d much rather be in Zevlor’s place right now, because then at least he’d be dead, or in some prison cell with the others. Instead he’s here, nursing a drink and a headache, just him and his thoughts and all his flaws. 

Alfira tries to comfort him too. She quietly approaches him at the bar–as he’s thinking yet again of what a fuckup he is, it should be him in prison and Cal and Lia should be here–and gently places her hand on his arm. “Rolan,” she says softly, “I wanted…I wanted to thank you. For saving us. For saving me. I would’ve died if it wasn’t for you, and for Cal and Lia, too.” Alfira swallows nervously. “I know…I know it’s not my place to say anything, and you’re going through a lot, but. I just want to say, I know they’d be proud of you–”

“You don’t know anything,” Rolan barks, wrenching himself away from her. “I didn’t want to save you, I didn’t choose to save you. I would let you all rot in the dark out there a thousand times over if it meant I could have Lia and Cal here with me. None of you mean anything to me and don’t you dare say they’d be proud of me for what I did, don’t you dare even speak their names.” He knows he’s being unimaginably cruel, that Alfira is only trying to help, that she’s grieving too. But in his alcohol-addled haze, his grief seems so much bigger, so much more important than hers, because it’s a grief built on a solid foundation of shame and self-loathing. Alfira can cry about losing Lakrissa but it’s not really the same, is it? It’s not like she could’ve bashed a cultist on the head with her lute. 

But Rolan. Rolan is supposed to be a magical prodigy, the future apprentice to the greatest wizard in all of Faerun, and yet he couldn’t do the one simple thing that was his responsibility and his alone. He couldn’t protect Cal and Lia. If he’s failed so miserably at this, how can he expect to succeed at anything else? Maybe the voice in his head that’s always nagged at him for not being enough is right. Maybe he truly is an irredeemable nobody.

Having to be around the children is the worst part of being stuck in the purgatory that is the Last Light Inn. They are keenly aware that every one of them would be dead if not for him; they are also keenly aware of how angry he is, but because they are children, have no way of understanding why he keeps yelling at them and demanding they refill his drinks even after all the other adults have told them to quit serving him. They want to thank him, want to repay him for getting them to safety, but because they are children all they can do is watch helplessly as Rolan drinks himself into a stupor. How can he tell them that every time he looks at them, he sees Cal and Lia at that age: small, happy, healthy, alive? They’re a living reminder of his failure. They’re not the children he wants to see. His thoughts fill him with such shame and he swallows the shame back with another glass of wine.

As the minutes melt into hours melt into days, Rolan’s ire switches focus and lashes out at everyone not present. At the Cult of the Absolute, for their sick belief in a sick god who sees torture and murder as a way to bring about purification. At Zevlor, for tricking them all into thinking they were strong enough to take on any obstacles in their way, and then abandoning them when they needed his leadership most. At–and here Rolan’s mind disgusts him so much that he has to down an entire bottle of beer before he can even get the thought out–Lia, at Cal, for being so stupid, for having to play the hero when they can hardly do anything without his help, for abandoning him. 

But. The person Rolan loathes the most (apart from himself) is that intrepid adventurer. That hero. That interfering menace, who popped into their lives for only a short time and yet in one fell stroke managed to completely upend everything, simply by giving them hope. If they hadn’t helped Zevlor fight the goblins, he wouldn’t have been deluded into thinking there were still good people in the world, wouldn’t have passed that delusion on to the rest of the tieflings and then betrayed them. If they hadn’t fed Asharak and the children some line about “being strong” and “trusting each other”, Asharak might’ve kept his stupid mouth shut in front of the cultists, instead of being left to bleed out in a dark wood, sightless and speechless. If they hadn’t convinced Cal, Lia, and himself to stay and fight, he and his family would be in Baldur’s Gate by now, safe in Lorroakan’s care and protection. 

Hadn’t they known how dangerous hope was to people who had long ago resigned themselves to a life of hopelessness?

Rolan hopes he never sees the adventurer again. He hopes they’re dead, cut down on the road somewhere; it’ll still be better than they deserve, for all the pain and damage they’ve caused.

Rolan hopes the adventurer is alive, that they’ll come striding through the door so he can punch them in the face, can scream at them about how they’ve ruined his life, they’ve ruined everything, why did they do this to him? What harm did he ever cause them to deserve such punishment as this?

Rolan hopes that the adventurer will come save him, will save everyone, even though he knows this is the most futile hope of all.

Rolan doesn’t know what he hopes for anymore. 

When he eventually does drift off to fitful slumber–his head cradled in his arms on top of the bar, a mug of ale still clenched tightly in his hand–his last thought is that he doesn’t need hope. He has himself, his sense of purpose, and that is enough to get him through whatever lies ahead. The Flaming Fist and the Harpers are too scared to attack Moonrise? Fine, he’ll do it on his own then. Rolan isn’t afraid of the shadows, of the curse that chokes the land outside their little bubble of safety. He’s seen things that are much, much worse than mere shadows in the span of a few days, and those things have his siblings. He will get them out of there, even if he kills himself in the process. Rolan makes a mental note to record a message for Cal and Lia on the scant chance that they manage to escape and make it to the inn while he’s still searching for them in the dark. If he does fall, he wants them to continue to Baldur’s Gate, and not mourn him the way he’s mourning for them right now.

With this plan of action set firmly in his mind, Rolan finally sets his tortured thoughts aside for a time and lets the oblivion of sleep take him.

[pupntumble]

aphrodisiac/love potion from the POV of the person who gave the other person the drugs?

Some kid in your frat grew up close enough to the university that he still lives in his parent's house, and he's been using this gift to host shit parties every time they're out of town. Driving up the hill to his McMansion makes you bite your cheek to keep down the jealous rant you've been writing in your head for the past half hour. While you've got student loans and two roommates, he's living life easy on a trust fund. But you keep your mouth shut. Insults don't get you through the gate, flattery does. Flattery, and the various drinks stowed away in your trunk. Your major in alchemy is the only reason you're in the frat at all, getting drunk next to sorcerers with heritage bloodlines and wizard kids that buy pre-written spellbooks, all of them too sheltered to realize they're paying triple the price any of these concoctions would normally be worth.

You park sideways in the gravel driveway, walk up to the door and knock. You're let in immediately. It takes a few minutes to obtain a folding table, setting up buckets full of ice with little note cards in front of each one before shoving the bottles in haphazardly. Setup sells the show, but anything too fancy would stick out like sore thumb. You head to the swanky in-house cinema once you're done. It's where your usual group hangs out, out of the way but not far enough to seem antisocial. There's a dip in the floor right in front of the giant screen, probably meant to double as an altar or some other rich-person shit. Whatever it's used for, it makes a great spot for chitchat and drinking games, and you've got a suggestion for tonight's fun.

It doesn't take long for people to filter in. There's the crowd that always ends up here, plus a few guests, other students that got curious as to what you were doing. You recognize one of them. He's some sort of star student, a born sorcerer from what's supposed to be a warlock family. Nobody calls him an illegitimate child to his face, but it's an open secret, no matter how much he acts like he's better than everyone else. Seeing him here gives you an idea, actually. Something that might be a little more fun than you expected.

"Okay, I've got a suggestion for the next game. New spin on a classic. Everybody knows spin the bottle, everybody's played before, and everybody has clearly programed hard. So consider: We play spin the bottle, but with whatever I've got in my bag. Keep spinning until somebody refuses their dare. When they refuse, they have to chug what's in the center. And what I've got in here is about 50 percent duds, 50 percent experimental nonsense. So you better be damn sure you want to take the risk of refusing."

There's pretty much no discussion. Two people leave, but the rest are either curious or intoxicated enough to stay. You pull out the first flask, swirl it to show off the dark blue sludge inside, and set it down in the center of the circle. The game begins.

By the time four drinks have been chugged, five people have left the game. One person headed home early, two people dragged a third to one of the bedrooms upstairs, and the fifth person went to the bathroom to most likely puke up the dud they'd gotten stuck with. There's still plenty of people left, sure, but your odds have gotten better, and you're a bit impatient. You rummage around in your bag for the next concoction, pulling out a vial of green liquid that fizzes when you set it down. Nobody else here knows what it does, of course, but you do. You made all these potions. You know exactly what all of them are. A quick spin later and it lands on the bastard son from before. Some god is absolutely smiling on you tonight.

"Dare you to tell us who your real father is."

It's a low blow. Normally it'd even get you a punch to the face. But you're giving that crooked smile as you say it, playing up the shots you took earlier, making it seem more like a light tease than an outright insult. And hey, you've been supplying the fun tonight, keeping everything going, and it'd be a shame to ruin things now. You can see the anger on his face for just a second, before he decides to give you the benefit of the doubt. A quick laugh and he grabs the bottle off the floor, brings it to his lips, and looks you in the eye as he downs it. You watch as his lashes flutter right before he swallows, then let everyone else focus on his face while you glance at the obvious bulge in his shorts, at the way it twitches while his adam's apple bobs. Good boy. Just a little more preparation before you get your prize.

You pull something else out of your pack, not even bothering to look, only paying enough attention to kiss one of your friends when you're dared to. Sorcerer boy seems to be having trouble staying upright, constantly swaying in your direction, glancing away whenever he realizes he's staring. At one point you gesture to a friend across the circle, and they bump into him hard enough to send him crashing to the ground. You make up some bullshit about it probably being the potion he drank, and he doesn't protest when you offer to watch over him until it runs it's course. There's bedrooms upstairs, soundproofed so as to get him away from the noise of the party, and he could probably use some rest, right?

You only really let yourself enjoy it once the door is locked. He'd never act like this normally, clinging to your shoulders and staring up at you with pupils blown wide open. He looks at you like you've hung the moon, instead of merely dosing him with the most potent roofie you could brew in your housing center's lab. He wriggles his hips as you pull down his basketball shorts, fumbles for the condom tucked in the waist and of his boxers. He probably thought he'd fuck some wasted chick tonight and laugh it up with his friends in the morning. He won't have much of a story to tell tomorrow, though. All he'll remember is what he feels tonight, not which person fucked him until he cried. Which is what you'll be doing. You grab the condom from his hands and toss it to the side, flip him onto his stomach before pulling your bag up onto the bed with you.

He's got a truly impressive dick, bigger than you expected now that it's hard. He whines as you get one hand around it, then let's out a truly pitiful yelp as you rub some freezing cold lotion into his shaft. He goes limp almost immediately, and you let go in order to pull the chastity cage out of the zippered pocket of your bag. Before the magic in his system can get him hard again, you slip the sound of it into his slit and then connect the cage portion to the ring behind his balls. The keys for these things are usually enchanted so you can find them if you've got the cage, a security precaution that is the whole reason you buy this model in the first place. right now it's working against you, until you figure out exactly where to put the key. He opens his mouth as soon as you tug his head up and back, and you shove your fingers down his throat until he swallows. He coughs for a second, swallows again when you command it, and now you're relatively certain the key is settled inside his stomach. Good enough.

Now's the time to get him prepped. You'd use the same ice-cold lotion as before, just to toy with him, but you're horny as hell and the extra time you'll have to spend isn't worth it. You grab your nice lube, the fancy stuff that'll help relax his muscles without numbing anything. It's got the added effect of cleaning him up as you shove the rim of it into his ass and pour a good portion into his intestines. There's a reason you spend extra money on the good stuff. He let's out a little groan, probably from the pain of his cock trying to harden and the uncomfortable feeling of the lube pouring into his hole and the way it tingles as it cleans him up. If you were feeling nice, you might rim him for a bit just to get him riled up a little more, but you're hard and you've been stressed lately and he makes such a pretty picture as he struggles to push himself up.

He nearly manages, too, before you shove two fingers into his ass without warning. He collapses forwards, and from the loud moan that the mattress can't quite stifle, it seems your prep has done it's work. You spend a little more time getting the third finger in, before hiking his hips up, taking your dick out, and thrusting inside in one smooth motion. You take a second, let him get antsy, and the moment he starts to beg, you start moving again. The pace you set it punishing, fast and hard and completely uncaring for his pleasure. The potion he drank will make sure he enjoys whatever you do, and you've basically been on edge all night waiting to get your dick in him, so it's not like it matters if you're gentle. Hell, from the sounds of it, he probably prefers it this way.

You let yourself think about how he's feeling as you rock your hips. He's probably never been overpowered during sex, and he's absolutely never bottomed before. When he wakes up, all he'll remember is loving it, and he'll probably stilk be aroused while the last of the drug burns through his system. Especially because the sound in his slit will preventing him from cumming properly all night. He sounds even more into it than you'd expected, too. Like he's enjoying this beyond what you're making him feel. Maybe you'll leave him with a present. Let him wake up, unable to even get an erection, the only pleasure available being from the dildo you'll leave in his ass. Maybe he'll wake up and fuck it into himself, desperate enough that he doesn't care how he got into this situation, just wanting to feel the same way he feels right now, with you pounding his ass and gripping his hips tight.

You cum with that thought on your mind. He's babbling nonsense that peters out into a groan as he feels you spill inside him. You savor the way he clenches around you for another moment, grabbing the cheapest dildo in your bag and pushing it into him as you pull out. From the way he rocks his hips, it's absolutely pressing against his prostate, the perfect torture with his dick still locked up. You pull his boxers back up, leaving his shorts around his ankles, then slip a small mirror onto the bedside, angling it just right before you leave. Tomorrow morning you'll use the matching one in your dorm to check in on your new project, and see exactly how he reacts upon waking up.

[donnetellotheturtle]

River BG3 drabbles

“Wait weren’t you born in baldurs gate?” Wyll asked.

River chuckled, looking at the fire. “Yes, technically. But I was born on the river…that’s why they named me that you know. Mum was a trader who had this great big ship.” River smiled to themselves. “We would go up the river and visit baldurs gate for a week or two, then down the river to the forest were mums family was.”

River shifted, pulling up the side of their blanket. “But my favorite times, was when I was on the water, and mom was steering and there was crew people all around. I had so many aunts and uncles and big brothers and sisters, cause they were my family…” River trailed off for a second. “they still are.”

“you must miss being on the river.” Shadowheart said.

“I do sometimes. But I have new family here. With all of you. That makes me feel a little less homesick.”

Astarion laid on his back. “that’s very cheesy.”

River threw their pillow at him and the small crew erupted into laughter as he groaned, then huffed.

“I love you too, Teri.”

“…Don’t call me that.”

“too late.” Gale, who had been quiet the whole time spoke up. “that’s what you’re called now.”

“What about your mom?” Gale asked.

“hm?”

“you said you grew up on her boat. What was it like?”

River chuckled. “well, she didn’t teach me the things moms usually teach…she taught me to be wary of strangers who lure you away from others. She taught me to be kind but never gullible. She taught me to keep your most important secrets in your chest, never in the heart.”

“meaning?”

“Meaning, don’t let the secrets consume you…I was taught that I never owe anyone kindness, bur always my help. It’s never pity I use when I fight for others.”

“well, your mom sounds like a treat.” Astarion said. Another pillow directly to the face.

“She was!”

“Was?”

“…..she died a year ago. Marring fever.” River smiled ruefully to themselves. “She was strong willed, right up to the very end. She told me, “River Dune Rize, you will change the world just by being you. Don’t let anyone bring you down. Don’t let any of them cut you down.” ….that was the last somewhat coherent conversation I had before the fever took her.”

“I see…” shadow heart mumbled.

“I’m sorry.” Wyll said.

“don’t be. I’m going to see her again. When my times up. So there’s no sense crying anymore.”

--

Gale woke up to the sound of crying from rivers side of camp. He frowned, then moved over.

“River”

They gasped, seeing Gale. They had clearly thought everyone else was asleep. They quickly wiped their tears. “Oh Gale…I um, sorry. Did I wake you up?”

Gale sat. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing. It’s just…it’s nothing. Don’t worry “

Gale just raised an eyebrow.

River looked to their feet. “…fine. Everything’s is a lot…but today…today was…”

“was this about the siblings?”

They nodded. “I couldn’t save them…I couldn’t fix it.” They sniffled. “I…”

Gale didn’t know what to do, really. But he wrapped an arm around River and pulled them in. It was a moment before River let out everything they had been feeling. Everything that they had been holding in.

When the sobs finally subsided, River pulled away. “sorry I got your shirt all wet…”

“Don’t be…thank you for confiding in me.”

“Please don’t tell the others. I don’t want them to know about…everything.”

“theres nothing wrong with feelings.”

“There is when our lives are at stake. Feelings could cost us everything…I let that hag go because I felt guilty and scared. Now she’s just going to hurt someone else.”

Gale paused for a moment, then stood. “cone on, we better get some rest. You’ve had a long day.”

River nodded and took his outstretched hand, letting him pull them up. He wrapped an arm around them again.

“Gale…im glad you’re my friend.”

“I’m glad you’re mine.”

[alyshiba]

Lilagon hen zaldrizoti

Part seven: Storms gathering

Read on Ao3

Summary: AU where Visenya, Rhaenyra's only daughter lives and is born as her eldest child. To all of Westeros she is seen as the only trueborn child of Ser Leanor and Rhaenyra, but in truth her father happens to be Deamon.

Warning: mention of violence

Prequel | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11

Visenya hated the feeling of clothes glued to her skin, or how sweat made her palms slippery, and most of all, she hated when she wasn’t good at something. So after Ser Edric parried another one of her blows, as if she had hit him with a feather, she threw the wooden sword on the ground with all of her strength and groaned in frustration. &lt;<It is useless attempting to overpower me, Princess>> said the knight, lowering his own training sword. She hummed in response, not caring for what he was saying, and strolled towards the waterskin that lay forgotten on the sand. The Princess didn’t realize how dry her throat was until she tasted the fresh water, so she started gulping it until she was out of breath. <<Your body won’t grow strong like a mans>> He began, gaining frustrated and angry glares from the girl. Her whole life she had been told that she would never be as capable as a man in everything she did, and knowing that this time she didn’t have any chance to prove the Queensguard wrong enraged her terribly. <<But you can be much quicker and agile>> He must have read her emotions, for this time when Edric addressed her he was more cautious with his words, dancing around the subject. <<You are wasting your energy in landing those blows, use it to dodge, parry and strike only when you find an opening>> What he said made sense, and it also would save her from the terrible feeling of her very bones vibrating from the backlash of his parries: every time it was as if she had slammed her wooden sword against the stone walls of the keep.

She was about to pick up the sword again, considering Edric’s suggestions, when she saw the familiar vast shadow of Balerion approaching. She let a frustrated huff escape her lips when she realized that yet another lesson had finished without her landing a single blow on the knight.

Every morning they used Balerion as an excuse to disappear for a few hours without interruption, Visenya would pretend to go flying, or tend to her dragon, so they walked down to the sandy beach where he laid, waited for him to fly off hunting and trained until he came back. No one dared question or follow them. In fear of the great black beast, he was the perfect excuse.

When Balerion landed with a thud, signaling the end of the lesson, his rider approached and patted him on his snout. She wondered if he could even feel her hand on his scales considering how vastly huge he was than herself. The Princess then turned towards Ser Edric, whom in the moons since he had become her sworn protector hadn’t warmed up to her dragon at all, and proclaimed they were to return to the castle, defeated once again.

It was almost time for lunch when the Princess and Ser Edric passed the main gate of the keep and entered the yard. It was still full with many people, mostly spectators eager to get a glimpse of the princes sparring. She spotted Aemond’s long silver hair in the far corner of the train yard: he was sparring with one of the Cargyll twins, which one was impossible to tell, but it was the crowd right in front of her that got her attention.

Everyone immediately parted to let her through when she made her presence known, and once Visenya reached the center, her heart skipped a beat: her little brother Luke was sparring with Aegon. Their uncle was older, taller, and bigger in form than Luke, and he had much more years of practice with the sword. That meant that she had to watch as her brother struggled to parry Aegon’s powerful blows. Her uncle was laughing and mocking, showcasing his skill and torturing a boy half his size. It made Visenya’s blood boil, her hands started itching, and the knowledge that she couldn’t stop the fight angered her even more. She was physically restraining herself, trying to control her anger and the flames she felt in the pit of her stomach, all to avoid reckless and stupid actions. She knew all too well that if she interfered, she would tarnish Luke’s reputation forever, for he would become the boy who had to hide behind her sister’s skirt from a fair fight.

Her control went in flames the moment Aegon pushed Luke flat on his back. Her uncle then struck a blow that hit the ground inches from Luke’s shoulder. If he hadn't rolled out of the way, it would have shattered the bones. It was enough for her.

Visenya’s hand went on the familiar weight of her dagger, ever hidden between all the layers of her clothing, &lt;&lt;Ser Edric>> she called, loud enough for all to hear, her tone betraying her boiling anger <<I think my uncle needs someone closer to his size to practice his skill>> the knight nodded and lazily walked over to the two contestants. Edric helped Luke back on his feet and pushed him in her direction and then turned towards the older Targaryen.

Once Luke was close enough, Visenya grabbed him by the shoulders and looked for any injuries he might have suffered. &lt;<Are you out of your mind? >> she whispered angrily, <<he would have killed you given the chance>> Luke simply shut his mouth, stared at his feet and refused to speak, embarrassed. When she turned her attention back on the Queensguard and her uncle, she saw Aegon raising his hands in defeat, clearly not wishing to have any part in a spar with one of the most renowned warriors of Westeros.

Her blood burst into flames again when she saw Aegon walking in their direction. This time Visenya gripped the hilt of the dagger with the intention of unseating it, if he dared come closer. The more steps her uncle took in their direction, the louder her brain screamed for her to push the blade into his flesh.

The moment she started to unseat the blade, a strong and muscular arm enveloped her in a tight hug, blocking her arm and all of her movements. &lt;&lt;My beloved wife>> said Aemond’s overly sweet voice. Her husband was standing right behind her, blocking her between his arm and his solid body, as if he had sensed her anger and intentions from the other side of the yard. Visenya felt him as he grabbed her right hand with his free one, slowly dragging it to his lips to kiss her knuckles, <<calm>> he whispered against her skin for her only to hear.

&lt;&lt;Husband>> She felt torn between annoyance and gratefulness for his action. She glanced at Luke with the corner of her eyes, the way he was biting his lower lip and swallowing down his distaste for the scene wasn’t lost on her, &lt;<my Lord Strong>> mocked her husband, he had barely noticed her younger brother’s presence for he had his sight fixed on Aegon, <<you should learn how to pick your fights>> was all he said to Luke. Visenya felt relieved when neither man gave the other any more attention, for they were all too busy waiting for the former King’s next move. <<Brother>> he shouted, opening his arms in greeting. She couldn’t say whether he was really pleased to see Aemond or if he was mocking him. Either way, his voice was enough to cause her stomach to turn. 

Her husband simply hummed in response to the greeting, and tightened his grip on her, making her retreat a few steps. &lt;<I merely tried to gift you the eye you weren’t man enough to take yourself>> Said Aegon. Behind him, she saw Edric slowly making his way towards them with his hand on the hilt of dawn. She felt Aemond’s body stiffen at the insult, but he didn’t make a sound. Aegon inched closer, close enough as to run one of his fingers on Visenya’s side of the face. She turned her head on the side, attempting to make him stop, for his touch on her skin felt like the cut of a blade. The more his finger lingered on her skin, the more her stomach threatened to spill its contents at that very moment.

It was Aemond that saved her from that torture. He grabbed his brother’s wrist and held it firmly away from her skin. &lt;&lt;She is a beauty>> Aegon lewdly said, laughing despite his brother’s glare. <<You should fuck a child into her before someone else will. I trust you know how to, or else I can show you>> If Aemond wasn’t holding her so tightly, she would’ve carved his tongue out of his mouth already. She did notice, however, how tight her husband’s grip was, how Aegon’s hand was slowly but surely losing all color as the blood was failing to reach it.

Visenya breathed in and out slowly, calming her nerves, as her grandmother had thought her long ago. She had to be smarter, to allow her fury to get control of her thoughts. She knew that word of this would spread like wildfire, and if a brawl would ensure between her, or her husband, and Aegon in a matter of hours all would whisper about the new Queen’s lack of control over her own daughter and house, about the rift she wasn’t able to mend between her family. And if she couldn’t even control her children and brothers, how could she hope to hold the realm together? Why should Lords listen to her, when her own blood did not?

&lt;<I wonder what your wife thinks of the bastards you fathered on the whores of the street of silk>> She began locking her gaze in Aegon’s eyes, <<it was there, in a whorehouse, they found you the day Viserys died, no? >> She might have taken it too far, for she saw the jolt of fury in her uncle’s eyes. Visenya will never know how Aegon would respond to her insult, if he would’ve just brushed it off or even raised his hands on her, for Aemond basically dragged her away. <<I wish to have lunch with my beloved wife>> He simply said, releasing his brother’s hand and turning away without another glance.

&lt;<Antagonizing him like that will only cause you harm>> Aemond said as soon as they were alone, without any other ears present. She was beyond furious, at Luke for putting himself in such a situation despite knowing of fragile the ground on which the peace they had bargained for stood on, at herself for letting it happen, at Aemond for dragging her away like a rag doll, and mostly at Aegon, just for the reason of his existence. In that moment, though, there was only Aemond to be the target of her wrath, <<and what was I supposed to do? Be a spectator when he almost mutilated my brother? >> The words poured out of her mouth without control. She had to spit out all the anger that had built inside of her, like a wave that needed to crush on the shore, and even if her body was small and tiny, it could hold all the fury of the world.

The mouth of her stomach shut as if someone had pushed a hand in her belly, grabbed her guts, and held them tight when she looked in her husband’s eye. For the first time since she had seen him in Storm’s End, Visenya saw an emotion written on his face. It was clear as day: Aemond was hurt, not by her or her words. What had hurt him so, she realized, was the knowledge that she would have stepped in and take the blow for Luke, that despite the rumors and the possibility of them not being full siblings, she showed him such devotion and brotherly love that he never got from Aegon, especially on the night he lost his eye. She swallowed down, but her stomach refused to let even her saliva pass, &lt;&lt;Aemond>> she uttered. Visenya had never been good at comforting, or at fixing anything, really. She was hotheaded, highly flammable, restless, chaotic and so stubborn she never stopped until she had reached her goal. She was her father’s daughter. So when she looked at Aemond, she didn’t know what to do. She felt responsible, bad, and she hated it. &lt;;<What happened to you was unfair>> She began, not knowing what to say, how or why, she only wanted to go back to feel normal, to free the mouth of stomach from the tight grip it was in <<I know nothing could erase or truly repay that, or whatever you had to go through in the years after>> Visenya was choosing her words more carefully now. She didn’t really know what had happened the night Aemond lost his eye, sure she was in the hall of the nine after, and heard the story told by her sisters and brothers. But she had always trusted her eyes and heard more than the words of others, even if they were her own blood.

A few moons ago she would have blindly picked her brother's side, but now that Aemond was her husband she vouched to remain impartial, for the sake of the balance they had found in their marriage. &lt;&lt;;But? >> Asked him, his usual mask of indifference back on his face, <<but you cannot ask me to stand by and not act in defense of my family>> he looked at her for a long instant, a question clearly on the tip of his tongue. She knew what he wanted to say, to ask, so she preceded him: <;<that includes my husband, even if he is old and big enough to defend himself>> Aemond smirked, and then proceeded to remove his eyepatch with a careful and slow movement, <<and what about my eye? Hmm? >> he teased slowly inching closer to her, like predator to prey. She did not completely understand her husband. How could he jump from one emotion to the other? Maybe he was insane, or maybe he had to learn to hide his human side behind a shield, a heavy thing made of all the sides of his person everyone feared or were attracted from. All so that they could forget he had a disability, or a weakness.

&lt;<You and Aegon do share some features>> She teased refusing to back off from their stare down, <<mayhap I can gift you one of his eyes on your name-day and settle both of our quarrels>> Aemond hummed, reaching his prey and gripping her waist tightly. His intentions were obvious, but the quiet corridor they were in would soon start sprawling with life as it was almost time to serve lunch, so Visenya unclasped her husband’s hands, looped her arm around his and ignored his frustrated groans. <<I am hungry>> She simply said.

—

When she entered the small council room, the air had cooled a bit. Sea breeze came from the windows, carrying again the foul smell of a big city with not nearly enough infrastructure.

She walked over to her place on her mother’s right and looked up at her father’s face. Daemon looked like someone with a hundred questions on his mind, all waiting to be asked, but none were voiced. She wanted to say something when the Queen entered the room, flanked by Ser Harrold Westerling, the commander of the Queensguard, and Ser Edric. Both knights stood at a respectable distance when Rhaenyra sat and placed her small orb into its place on the table. Everyone quickly mimicked her and sat.

&lt;&lt;;My Lords>> She began. Visenya knew her mother very well. She knew when she spoke with Rhaenyra, her loving parent, and when she had to address her Queen, when to speak up, challenge her, or when to shut her mouth and just listen. Today it was both and none at the same time. It was chilling. <<We still have no news of Casterly Rock and of the lady Johanna, the reagent of the Westerlands. We also seem unable to track the Lord of Harrenhall>> The Princess was not really worried about Larys Strong, but she understood the importance of having the Lady Lannister make the trip to King’s landing to swear fealty to them. In the moons after the execution of her husband, Lady Johanna had basically barred herself and her son in their fortress, refusing any contact.

Visenya turned to her father, reading his intentions: he was about to suggest flying to Casterly Rock himself and see if the Lannisters still refused the call, the Princess knew. She would have agreed with him. It would be the easiest and most effective solution, &lt;<but this is not what we should focus on>> her mother said, looking between them as if able to listen to their wordless conversation, <<a raven came from Dorne>> a small scroll appeared on the table, the seal broken. She allowed Daemon to grab it first, despite her urge to know what was written. His expression hardened almost immediately, and her mouth went dry. <<Qoren’s sentinels on the border reports of armed men gathering in Stormlands>> He said, throwing the scroll on the table with force. With the corner of the eye she saw as Edric, he looked at the gesture and then at her, smirking. She ignored him and chose to inspect the beautiful writing of the Prince of Dorne instead.

&lt;<I swore Borros that I would make another Harrenhall out of Storm’s End if he rebelled>> Visenya said, passing the scroll to Cregan Stark, her mother’s new master of justice. She heard Daemon’s laugh, <<I intend to stay true to my word>> She looked at her mother, waiting for any sort of sign of her approval, but Rhaenyra was busy studying the reaction of her council.

If Borros Baratheon was raising an army, he was doing so without the Crown’s permission, and not in response to any apparent threat to his lands or people. It only meant that he was ordered to do so. A chill went down her spine. Visenya knew she had to question Aemond about this, to grasp any information he might have on the subject, and most importantly, to know on which side he stood. But he couldn’t know the extent of the information they had.

&lt;<We will not strike first>> Rhaenyra said with a tone that left no discussions. The Queen looked at her and her husband in the eye before moving on, <<if Lord Baratheon has intents to rebel he will be dealt with accordingly. But we will attack only if provoked>> Visenya bit her tongue and looked at her hands, <<if I order an attack>> her mother explained to basically only the two of them, <<I shall be the tyrant who rules with fear, a monarch whose claim to the throne is so weak she must murder those who would oppose her. And I shall be the monarch who ordered the death of the hundreds of innocent people who live inside Storm’s End>> she could feel her mother’s anger in the way she was restraining herself. Visenya knew that the Queen was right. That striking first will only damage their reputation, but she couldn’t sit and watch as the Green’s plans to usurp them unfolded once again.

&lt;<So we just sit here and wait for Borros to raise his army? >> She contained her emotions when addressing her Queen, because that was the person she was facing. Monarchs were a different kind of creatures, they were like the flames: beautiful to look at, they made you feel warm and safe as long as you were at the right distance, but could incinerate you should you wander too close or become bold enough to touch them. <<We will keep watch over his movements, as well as those of whom were loyal to Aegon>> Rhaenyra spoke each word calmly and slowly, <<;Aegon himself will be watched even more closely>> the next part of the phrase was implicit: in the same way you must keep vigil about your husband.

—

When she found her way back to the apartments she shared with her husband, it was dark outside. The day that was about to end had tested her anger so much she felt the urge to just take off and disappear for a few hours.

&lt;<I wondered when my Lady wife would return. I felt quite lonely>> Aemond’s monotone voice came from somewhere in the bedroom, Visenya passed the table, where her dinner was still waiting for her, and reached her husband. She found him in the bath. He was neatly brushing his skin with the washcloth, washing away a day’s worth of dirt and sweat. <<This day had greatly tested my patience>> She said grabbing a stool and placing it behind Aemond’s back, <<I felt the need to clear my thoughts and regain my composure, so I took off upon Balerion>> Visenya started carefully brushing his long, silver hair, still damp from being washed. She delicately brushed away all the knots, taking care not to pull too harshly.

&lt;<What did he do to you? >> Asked Aemond, slowly turning to look her in the eyes. The pure hatred she felt towards Aegon didn’t go unnoticed. Visenya bit her lower lip and tilted her head to the side. <<;Does it matter now? >> he grabbed her chin, guiding her closer to his face. She started thinking about the council meeting, the Baratheon’s forces assembling, and Aegon's behavior. Something was happening, and she needed to know if she could trust the man in front of her. <<;He is going to rebel, isn’t he? >> Visenya changed the subject. She knew exactly what would turn Aemond on his own brother, what she had to do. But being with child meant staying on the ground, depriving her family of the greatest weapon existing.<<My mother only cares for the safety of her children>> Aemond said, <<she fears Rhaenyra will get rid of us eventually>> Visenya huffed and cursed under her breath at the idiocy of that woman, <<Aegon wants back what he now believes was stolen from him>> she had thought that with Otto gone, the machinations would end. That they would be left only with a hotheaded man and his barely adult dragon. <<And you now stand between him and the throne he wants>> Visenya said, again, <<my mother wishes not for her sibling’s blood. But I cannot say the same for Aegon>> Aemond turned back, closed his eyes and allowed his wife to finish her work on his hair.

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