#whelp its their responsibility

[anxiousgaypanicking]

[Not a request unless you'd like it to be]

Okay, but mechanics!Janus and Remus reprogramming Robo!Patton and Logan into mindless sex bots?

i think janus and remus would absolutely be the duo to wonder how far they could push patton and logan away from their programming. how much deviation could they incite? how much deviation could they quite literally program?

so, they test it out!

patton and logan do consent to being reprogrammed, of course, willingly granting remus and janus access to their hardware (albeit hesitantly, due to knowing the duo lack... experience), but they never could have foreseen just how much theyd alter, or how much theyd love it.

most of their actual programming was deactivated. saved to a folder, of course - they know logan and patton (mostly logan) would be pissed if it was deleted entirely - but deactivated nonetheless. and gigabytes upon gigabytes of pure shameless sex and smut are downloaded in its place, causing patton and logan to turn into mindless, horny sex bots, who are constantly exposing their holes, ports, and plugs in hopes of being used.

they're also incredibly needy; they were made to serve, after all. so they want to constantly be serving janus and remus (more specifically, service their cocks)

[despazito]

Channel 5 really prides itself on trying to be as non-biased as possible which oftentimes results in a bizarre enlightened centrist position, in this case Andrew starts arguing that both the racing industry and the Grey2k anti-racing organization equally only care about making a profit and nothing else.

He makes the case that greyhound racing is good for the local economy even though attendance for this sport has gotten low and said economy is just online gambling with extra steps, as if that same property cannot be transformed into a different venue that could also create jobs.

Andrew has put out an addendum video basically admitting he may have been more biased towards the kennel owner because he tends to side more with whichever party he spent more time interviewing, in this case he spent and entire day with Steve Sarras and only an hour sit down meeting with Grey2k. I think Andrew also likes to align himself with the perceived underdogs of his stories, which here is painted as Steve the down-to-earth blue collar guy in a tshirt talking about how he just wants to make a living but is being battered by these insatiable "animal rights activists", juxtaposed by the villainous Grey2k founders in their stuffy suits and ties and lawyers. It's only in the addendum video that Channel 5 actually FACT CHECKS some of the bs Steve fed him about the dog doping scandal, but like why didn't you include this fact checking in the actual documentary?? Why didn't you interview a single veterinarian for any sort of medical opinion???

The whole video really centers more around the human characters than the welfare of the dogs themselves. The only dogs Andrew interacts with are the racing kennel dogs he's shown around and remarks they look healthy and happy. Like could you really not find a single retired racing dog, injured or not, to spend time with if you care so much about covering both sides? There's plenty of retired greyhounds who've had a leg amputated as a result of this industry.

He also makes the argument that why should Grey2k worry so much about greyhounds when there are millions of other dogs in shelters looking for a home, which really doesn't make any sense. The racing industry is contributing to that number, it doesn't matter if they've developed a system for dumping dogs to greyhound adoption orgs, they are still dumping dogs and if these kennels were reeled in then rescues could turn their attention and resources to those other homeless dogs. The pro racing people really like to talk about the racetrack-to-adoption pipeline as a net positive to every party as if it's not churning out hundreds of dogs in need of homes.

In the last bit Andrew interviews a guy outside who makes the point that if greyhound racing were to end, it would be detrimental to the breed itself. I do agree that it can be problematic for the health and function of a working breed to lose its primary purpose...but gambling on race dogs is not the only way to work a greyhound!!! That's the thing that really gets me about this documentary. At no point are we shown any alternative ways that people can enjoy to watch and work these dogs. Organized sports like lure coursing and flyball are great alternatives if you love to see these dogs go fast but not get exploited for money or bred en masse irresponsibly. I'm sure Channel 5 could've easily gotten an interview with a dogsports team if they reached out, but again it really didn't feel like they did any of their homework about this topic and the result is lackluster journalism that paints any opposition to this industry as kooky animal rights activism.

Man the channel 5 video on greyhound racing was dumb

[lwh-writing]

Skulker's Boring Hunt

“And now that we have located the proper biome, we are able to safely release the beast back into the wild.”

Skulker opens the cage door and turns the camera so that the virtual audience can watch as the peryton returns to the wilderness of the Ghost Zone, all the while silently bemoaning how he got here.

Ever since the existence of ghosts had become public knowledge, the Whelp had been determined to improve relations with humans. Part of that outreach effort included a handful of ghosts selected to begin ‘virtual relations’ through a process called ‘streaming’ and ‘vlogging’ so that they could ‘show the world that they weren't that different from everybody else.’

Skulker, honestly, couldn't give less of a damn about humans and what they thought of his kind. The only reason (and he very much means only reason) he had put his name on the volunteer list was for the easy access to the Living Realm and the new variety of hunts.

The Whelp, though, had put stipulations on Skulker’s ticket out of the Ghost Zone. Firstly, if he ever hunted in the Infinite Realms, he had to document and explain the animals he hunted so as to provide ‘educational value to his viewers’ or other such nonsense. Secondly, if any dangerous (non-sapient) ecto-animal was loose in the Living Realm, Skulker had to drop everything and stop its rampage. And last, and certainly least, Skulker couldn't kill anything.

Skulker had tried to reason his way out of that one, claiming that it contradicted his Obsession. The Whelp had tried to reason right back, claiming that he could still feed his Thrill of the Hunt without slaughtering something on live air. They had settled on a compromise: Skulker would run a poll with his viewers, and they would decide whether he gained a new pelt or not.

The fickle humans had, to date, always voted for catch and release.

“As this week's hunt has now concluded, it is time to decide what or who I will be hunting next week. The polls are now open.”

Skulker scrolled through his Fenton-Foley-Phone as he let his puny audience make their decisions. Ember had posted a recent picture of a restaurant in Barcelona, the latest city on her grand tour. Skulker gave it a like and looked back at the now concluding poll, a little surprised at the results.

Of the ten options given by his chat and selected by his moderators, there were a few picks that were always nominated but never won. It seemed his viewers desperately wanted to see him take on a dragon, a gorgon, a vampire, and some human named Lex Luthor. This week was no different, as all four of those options were just barely beaten by a new entry to the lineup.

“It appears that next week I will be hunting the Joker.”

Immediately, the chat exploded into chaos.

wonder_womanSIMP: pog

StardustSinger: skulker vigilante arc?? 👀

Penglow: RIP watch out for the Batman!

rock-mayo: RIGGED

golfAceVendetta: pog

OpperantParrot: LETS FUCKING GO!!!!

the_general_plum: :D

carbon-ham: D:

LizardSquid: E

egg_composition: gotham is going to chew you up and spit you out lmao

OtterCat: D:

“And once again, it’s time to decide my prey’s fate. Type one to vote kill, type two to vote spare. Voting is now open.”

That prompted another flood of responses, and Skulker returned to his phone, scowling a bit at his girlfriend’s posts. He was happy for Ember, of course he was. She was fulfilling her dream and chasing her Obsession, how could he be anything but ecstatic and proud of her success? He just missed her, though he would never admit it aloud.

Hm. Perhaps he could do a little solo hunting and send her a new pelt. Something to remind her of the Ghost Zone while she was away.

The timer went off, and Skulker dejectedly checked the results of the poll, only to do a quick double-take before smiling sharply at the results.

“Results are in. It seems this week I will be hunting, and killing, the Joker.”

The chat exploded with excitement right before Skulker started saying his outro and mentally mapping out his hunt in the coming week, unaware that at that very moment, a complication had arisen in his plan.

TheBloodSon: It appears that this may be a problem.

[i-suggest-aro]

aroallo here! just wanted to share a positive story, so ive been seeing this cishet guy for a bit and was like okay u know what im gonna tell him im aro, expecting to have to do the whole "this is what it means" spiel you often have to do w ppl. Imagine my surprise when his response is like "oh okay cool! I've thought i might be aro before too".

and weve stayed seeing each other and hes brought it up again like "i acc might be aro, i think when i looked it up as a teen i just saw aroace stuff and was like whelp im not ace so thats not me" and "its weird like when were hanging out im totally fine and enjoying it but sometimes before a date im like euuugghhhh i dont wanna go type nervous" and im like yeah man me too thats an aro thing for me, i have to mentally call it "hanging out" instead of "going on a date" and then my stomach stops making me feel like im gonna throw up and run away and hes like "..huh yeah that might work"

but like !!!!! so excited for him!!! hell yeah man so happy for you figuring yourself out!!! honoured to be here to help u out with it!!!

and usually when ive dated before I can get uncomfortable with cuddling and handholding and going out for 1on1 dinner dates bc it feels too "romantic/datey" but with him it's all been fine so far bc ik he knows i dont feel it like that and he knows ik he also doesnt feel it like that. Its so fucking cool I am having a great time. ive no idea where its going and i know my alloallo friends are surprised we arent "official bf/gf" yet but were just taking it at our own pace and enjoying spending time together with no strings attached or expectations or jealousy and its so so niceeee <22

OMGGG THAT'S SO AWESOME!!! actually living my dream irl. fuck yes for aro boys finding themselves, fuck yes for aro girls helping them. this is so awesome.

[wicked-by-nature--au]

Bular's hatching day

The second fanfic test draft finally done! :D

This one was a bit harder to write than the last one was, but I managed to pull through.

There's also few little doodles in there! ;)

⬇️—————————⬇️—————————⬇️

“30 years....”

Three decades since Gunmar sacrificed a piece of his own flesh to create a new life. The side where the chunk of the living stone was carved out has been healing over the years, leaving behind a dent, a scar as a bittersweet reminder of his young foolishness.

The birthstone, a beautiful glowing orange rock, resembling a little home-made Heartstone that formed from a mere piece of his flank. The stone grew and formed into the full-formed birthstone within the first year or so, and since then, it has housed the developing troll fetus for the rest of the years, which should hatch any moment now.

He wasn't quite sure what he was doing. Orlagk had informed and taught him the basics of taking care of a whelp, but the thought of such big responsibilities still stressed him out. The anxious wait for the whelp to emerge from its stone, he had kept track of every passing day and week.

And the whelp's feeding especially freaked him out. The nausea was uncomfortable, and his stomach felt like it was doing twists and flips after eating anything. Orlagk said it will get better with time, that the violent puking will ease, and soon feel like just smoothly spitting out the mush for the whelp... But that hardly reassured him.

•••

Gunmar was restlessly pacing around in his own lair, he hadn't really slept in the past few days, nor left his chambers even to nourish himself, and was basically running on fumes by now. He could sense that the whelp was soon to hatch, and he wanted to stay close to the birthstone at all times.

The only sounds that can be heard in the dark room are his breaths and grunts, and the thuds his hooves create against the stone floor.

After some time, he stopped his pacing and just stood there, letting out a deep sigh. He ran his hand through his thick mane, which still had some remnants of the overgrowth and puffiness from the nesting. He sighed and contemplated things, his mind was a fuzz and all over the place, the last few days had taken a toll on him mentally.

He let out a distressed huff, grasping a tuft of fur between his claws, before ripping the said tuft out. He knew this was a bad habit of his, but right now he couldn't really care less, there was still so much excess fur that it wouldn't make any difference if some of it went missing.

Gunmar shook his head slightly and turned around, glancing at the nest, made out of his fur and other soft materials, his gaze locked on the precious birthstone, snuggled into its nest. He studied it for a bit before he took a deep breath and approached the nest.

He crouched down on all fours and lay down on the soft fur pelts, close to the birthstone. As the days passed and the hatching day drew closer, the fear that the whelp might not come out of the stone had been swirling in Gunmar's mind, even though he knew that the little one was okay, he could sense its life force through the bond and connection that parent trolls have with their birthstones.

“Come on now....” He sighed quietly and let out a small grumble. He lay his head down next to the orange glowing crystal, slowly closing his eyes. The restless waiting had exhausted him, and the sleepiness was catching up to him by now.

And not too long after, he could feel himself drift into a light and dreamless sleep...

...

A few hours pass by, and Gunmar begins to stir awake from his rest as he feels a faint warmth close to his face. But his eyes shot open once he heard a small "crack"-

Gunmar quickly lifted his head and rose into a sitting position, looming over the birthstone and intently looking at it. Is the thing he has been waiting for so long finally happening?

The birthstone glowed brightly and radiated a subtle warmth. But most importantly, it was crackling open, shafts of bright light shining through the cracks.

Gunmar could feel the tingling of excitement bubbling inside him. He let out small, soft gasps as the stone cracked. Bright light shone as the birthstone finally popped open, which made the now lethargic father close his light-sensitive eyes.

Gunmar grunted and opened his eyes again, to finally look at his newborn offspring, which he had been waiting restlessly to see-

Amongst the shards and chunks of the dimmed birthstone, there was a small, dark, round, and fluffy little blob, wiggling slightly and making tiny mewls. Its dark fluff was damp from the mucus that was inside the birthstone.

Gunmar's face softened into a vulnerable expression, and he could feel his throat tightening. He carefully picked up the little whelp, holding it gently, like it were a fragile little porcelain doll.

It was fascinating how different troll young could be. Some whelps are almost right away walking and waddling after popping out of their birthstone, but this one wasn't, it was completely helpless and dependent on its parent. Some immediately open their eyes after birth, but this one didn't. And that made the Skullcrusher's parental instincts flare up.

The whelp bore a strong resemblance to its parent, being an almost perfect little copy of him. He was now holding his own blood and flesh, something good that he had made.

His breathing became hitched as he couldn't hold it back anymore, and he broke down in tears. He let out a soft whimper himself and pressed his snout against the whelp's slightly damp fuzz, the whelp letting out small mewls and meeps, and he whispered, “Welcome to this wretched world, little one...”

This was a vulnerable and intimate moment for him, a moment of pure happiness and immense pride. He swallowed the lump in his throat and lifted his head as he felt something nibble on his claw-

The whelp was munching on his finger, which made Gunmar crack a small warm grin. The little one was apparently rather hungry, REALLY hungry. It amused him that the whelp didn't whimper or cry for long, but rather, it was more focused on getting something to munch on.

Gunmar huffed softly and pressed his snout against the whelp again in an affectionate manner. “..Bular...” He named him. The word meant "glut" in trollish, which he thought would be quite fitting for the little glutton.

He then gathered himself and stood up. He looked down at the nest and decided that he would clean it tomorrow of the birthstone chunks and move the nesting material to his bed, not that the bed wasn't padded and nested already...

Gunmar sighed again, but this time out of relief. He looked up from the whelp and headed towards his bed, crawling into the comfortable closed space, there he felt private and safe with his baby. He laid the newborn whelp onto the soft and warm animal pelts, which let out small confused mewls. He lay down himself as well, creating a protective barrier for the little one, which seemed to calm it down.

Gunmar let out a soft chuff and leaned his head close to the whelp, and began to lick it clean of the birthstone's mucus. The whelp whimpered quietly as it felt its father's slightly rough tongue run over its face, horns, and fur.

Gunmar hummed softly, attempting to calm the little one. He continued to clean his whelp, feeling a strong urge to nurse and protect his child.

Little does he know that the small flyffy bean will one day grow into a strong and fearsome warrior, a vicious dark Prince... a great, great Son.

——————————————————————

Alright, what did you think?

My second time writing something. Was this better or worse than the last time?

I personally have a bit of mixed feelings about this one. It was harder to make since it doesn't really have dialogue, and I feel like I had to shove in too much info because there aren't actual previous chapters to tell those things.

I'm also doing this again-

And once again, do you have any tips for improving my writing and storytelling?

But regardless, I hope you enjoyed!

- HuttuHarakka

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash - EPILOGUE

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. Mentions of grief, war, blood, loss.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, Cregan Stark X Reader

Note: Whelp... Here we are.... This is it. This is the end. The end of Smoke, Fire and Ash. We are ending with this Epilogue in a five year time jump. And oh boy.... I can't believe it. I really hope that you enjoy how I finish this era lmao, with over 370k words.... someone needs to take my computer away from me. Again, I can't even begin to express my love and gratitude to you all, I just hope that you have enjoyed reading this as much as I have enjoyed writing it! <3 So as always.... ENJOY!

EPILOGUE : His Song of Ice and Fire

Time jump: 5 years into the future. 

There was a chill that had come early to Kings Landing that season, all those years ago. A chill that had swept across the stones of the Keep, cool air creeping into your bones through your gown.

But now, as you stood where you had many moons ago, there was no crisp breeze that sent goosebumps rising on your arms, nor was there a bite to it that came as a subtle and precursory warning for what was to come.

The courtyard of the Godswood was warmed by streams of glowing sunlight that blanketed over the cobblestones and grass.

A soft breeze rolled through as you walked forward towards the tree, having missed being in its presence over the years passed, mostly spent on Dragonstone.

It had been five years since your mother was seated upon the Iron Throne. Five years since you had been named her successor. Five years since Lords, Ladies and Heads of Houses pledged themselves to you and the Queen. 

Five years since the death of Aegon and all those responsible for the usurpation. 

Since you commanded dracarys and watched as Alicent was devoured by flames. Since Larys laid on the flagstones, blood seeping from his stomach.

Five years since your father had gone to Storms End and slayed Borros Baratheon for his play in it. 

Five years since Baela and Rhaena flew to Oldtown and rounded up all the Hightower's who had shown support for Otto and his kin. 

And five years since his death.

Five years ago, in these very walls of the Red Keep, you had plunged a dagger into your husbands neck. Your uncles neck. Your childhood companion. The man you had loved.

And not one day that had gone by did you not think of it. Did you not dream of it. Did you not see him in the corners of your eyes, or in the shadows of your chambers on Dragonstone.

Did you not see the blood that stained your hands when you would wake, or witness with bouts of anxiety.

In your hand, the old and worn cover of your favourite book, ‘Ten Thousand Ships'. A novel in which you had read under these very branches of the Godswood. On the grass your mother had sat with you, or your brothers, or your uncles and aunt. 

You watched as a small head of silver raced ahead of you, shoulder length hair billowing behind him, with two tidy braids holding the sides behind his head.

“Careful, Lucerys.” You called out gently, watching as your son climbed atop the roots and settled right into your favourite spot. His black and red robes crinkling as he leant back against the root of the Weirwood tree. 

The smile on your face stretched widely as you moved to sit beside him, the small boy crawling into your lap as you brushed his hair back behind his ears. Little hands reached out to play with the necklace at your neck.

Aemond’s sapphire.

Ever since Lucerys was born, he had always longed to touch or hold it, violet eyes always finding it with ease against your neck, fingers outstretched to play with it or caress it. He tapped it up and down upon his finger as he looked at it with content.

There was so much of Aemond in him, it was hard for all not to see. It was especially true with his eyes. Eyes that you had loved since you were a child, reflected on your own sons face.

His were, much like Aemond's, a way to read him almost immediately, showing so much emotion and character in them as he thought, or played, or argued. Long silver lashes blinked up at you, and you could not help the tug of your heart as you bent your head to kiss his forehead.  

The young boy scrunched his nose at you in mock disgust before grabbing the book from your hand to hold it open in his lap, finding the page that you had been up to not just the day before.

The bridge of his nose was dusted with light freckles, and there was such a boyish charm to his rosy cheeks, whenever he smiled his teeth would show, bar the one he had recently just lost. 

Little Lucerys was as Aemond had been as a young boy. Inquisitive, soft spoken, kind and daring. He had a longing for knowledge, and sought it out whenever he could in Dragonstone's library or by picking your brain with a continuous stream of questions and consciousness.

But then there was so much of you in him too. His nose, his sure fire temper when things did not go his way, and his utter refusal to back down, even when it brought him to tears.

You read to your son beneath the tree as you reminisced on your days before. On how you had sought solace beneath the branches many times. How your mother had read to you here. How your brothers and Helaena would sometimes join you or play. And how Aemond would sit behind the trunk and listen to you read aloud, your voice carrying enough for him to hear, but not loud enough to let him know that you knew he was there.

And as you read, you felt his presence, there on the other side of the Godswood, where he would sit as a boy, listening as you read to his son. Watching as he always did. There as he always was.

Always and forever more, would the ghost of Aemond haunt you. 

You read louder, just so you could be confident that Aemond could hear, just as you had when you were young, even though you knew he was not truly there. But it felt right. It felt the way it should have been. What could have been.

Familiar. 

That is where your mother found you, nestled where she used to, reading a book she had once read to you to your son, and loud as though you wished for your voice to carry to some unknown spectator.

You felt the eyes of the Queen and lifted your head, pausing your reading if only for a moment, and Lucerys, being as perceptive as he was, looked up and spotted his Grandmother, leaping from your lap all elbows and knees and ran towards her. 

The Queen opened her arms widely as she chuckled, bending down slightly to catch the young boy who launched himself into her arms, crown unmoving from the top of her head.

“Grandmother Nyra!” He had cried as she lifted him into the air, sitting him atop her hip as you dusted your skirts down and made your way over.

“It feels right to see you there. I can remember how eager you used to be.” She smiled, turning her head to look at the boy in her arms, “Did you know your mother had me read to her there too?”

The boy nodded his head, silver hair bouncing atop his shoulders, “Uh huh. And father too!”

Rhaenyra’s smile softened as she looked at the boy and back to you, “She did. Your father loved her reading.”

A small smile tugged at your lips as you leaned in to kiss your mothers cheeks, son still in her arms as he played with the crown at her head.

“Are you ready for this evenings feast?” Rhaenyra asked, swaying the boy gently as she pressed another kiss to the top of his head, once, twice, three times, exaggerating the noise as she sucked air through her pursed lips.

“Of course,” You adjusted the necklace at your throat in nervous habit, “We flew all this way for this evening, didn’t we?”

“Vermithor is grumpy, Grandmother. But he lets me on his back!” 

Rhaenyra opened her mouth and raised her brows, “Does he? Why, you must be the youngest rider ever!”

Lucerys beamed.

“Muña has been taking me to see Vhagar! She flies with us sometimes.” Mother.

The smile on Rhaenyra’s lips twitched, if only for a moment, before she regained her composure.

“Does she now? Vhagar must know that you’re your fathers son.”

Little Luc nodded his head, “I’m going to claim her. Muña said I shouldn’t because she is too old and grumpy and dangerous, but I know father wants me too.”

You cleared your throat, “That’s enough of that. Grandsire will have a new clutch soon, and you will have your own egg.”

“But I-“

“-Hush, my sweet.”

Turning back to you, Queen Rhaenyra lowered the boy back on to the ground, letting him run circles around the courtyard as you spoke, “Is he still having dreams?”

You bit your lip anxiously, before nodding, “He knows things he shouldn’t. He is much like Helaena in that respect.”

Your mother gave you a reassuring smile, “A gift from the Gods no doubt. A most precious one.”

You nodded in agreement, but in some ways you didn’t agree at all.

Was it really a gift if it aided in driving Helaena to madness?

Rhaenyra held one of your hands, brushing her thumb up and over your knuckles soothingly. You didn’t dare look down, knowing that they would be bloodied, “There will be allies from all the realm tonight. I cannot believe little Rhaegar is to have his first name day already.”

Rhaegar was a small boy of silver hair and tanned skin, one violet eye, and one brown. The third son of Jacaerys and Baela, with yet another on the way. Baela had told you in secret that she wished for a girl this time around, but had been surprised when the small boy had been born. 

None were more surprised however, than when he had opened his eyes to peer up at your brother, besotted by his son already, staring down at the violet and brown eyes that looked back up at him.

Aelor, the eldest, was but a few moons older than your Lucerys, and the two got on more fiercely than even you and Aemond possessed. It was a beautiful bond the two boys had, full of love and loyalty. 

The middle child of Jacaerys and Baela was a sweet and quiet boy named Rhaelor. He had the most beautiful of curls like his mother, who braided it closely to his scalp with clips of gold and silver dangling from each. 

"I cannot believe it either.” You agreed, casting a quick glance at your son, “They grow so quickly.”

Rhaenyra took your other hand in hers and squeezed them, “You grew the fastest of all. You shot up far before your brothers. I feel like I blinked and then there you were, a woman grown.”

Chuckling, you squeezed her hand back, “Will Rhaena be joining us this evening?”

Rhaenyra turned to lead you away from the Godswood, Lucerys running up beside you to hold your other hand, “Rhaena sent word that she senses the babe to be with us any day now. It is too far to travel from the Vale to Kings Landing in her condition, but has told us we must all be ready to come see the babe once it is born.”

Rhaena, upon the death of Lucerys, had refused to wed for years. She had stayed loyal and adamant that she would not be betrothed to another, but then she had met Ser Corwyn Corbray, a knight of House Corbray one evening at a feast.

They had immediately connected, an older man with flowing black hair and deep brown eyes that almost looked black. Corwyn was a kind man, if not fierce and skilled as a swordsman, wielding an ancestral longsword of Valyrian steel named Lady Forlorn. 

“A shame that I will not see my half-sister again, but I’m delighted to hear the babe should be born any day now. We shall be having many name day celebrations close together.” You smiled.

As you left the cobblestones of the courtyard, you turned your head back to gaze upon the ruby red leaves of the tree. They shimmered in the light of the sun and rustled softly with the breeze.

And there, sat beneath its branches, was Aemond.

His head was leant back against its trunk as he watched you, sapphire missing from the empty socket of his lost eye.

He had not left you.

He did not speak as Helaena and Lucerys had. Not in full sentences anyway. Not anything but the familiar name of endearment that he had called you.

Zaldrītsos.

It was whispered to you in the dead of night, or in the darkest of rooms when your hair would stand on end. Or at times, whispered to you when you were with Lucerys.

It was never malicious.

Or at least, thats what you liked to tell yourself. Though it never felt like he was there with bad intentions. It felt neutral. And you liked to tell yourself that he was there to watch and keep you safe. To keep you company. That a piece of your mind had made him up so that he could live a life with you, and watch your son grow.

There would always be a part of Aemond with you no matter where you went. Whether in your son, or in your visions, or upon your neck and scarred skin.

Your heart ached at the thought.

Rhaenyra walked you back to your chambers, entering as your four maids bowed and began to get preparations in order to ready you for the feast. The chamber doors opened as they left, held open as the tall and built body of your father entered.

“Grandsire!” Lucerys screeched, and you winced as the sound sent fear racing down you spine.

Your heart jolted, the echoes of screaming in your ears as you plastered a smile on your face, eyes twitching, watching as Daemon lifted him high into the air, throwing him up once and catching him to hold him tight against his chest.

Loud noises sometimes did that to you. Threw you back to your time in the Keep before your parents had arrived. Sparking fear into your very core, to the point where sometimes you could not breathe, as though your brain stopped functioning and you were gasping for air, clawing at your throat.

In those moments, Aemond would whisper to you.

It had been especially hard when Lucerys was first born. His cries would wake you and send you into a fit panic, racing to grab the dagger beside your bed as you would check the chamber for danger, wide eyed.

It took several months to learn to live with it, with his presence there, and you would be lying if you didn't say that looking down at Lucerys in his crib as a babe made you feel a guilt that you could not fight away with common sense. A melancholy that ate away at you viciously.

You had fallen into a state of depression, and in your confusion you had sent a letter to your mother and father via raven asking for star fruit. Your mind was so confused, so lost. You barely slept, or ate, and were in a perpetual state of fear.

Daemon came at once, and ended up spending almost an entire year on Dragonstone with you to help, before he finally convinced you to come back to Kings Landing with him so that your mother could help too.

It was months of screaming through the night, months of support, months of pacing your chambers, wondering if it was all worth it. Wondering if it was worth living, worth staying another day in such Hell.

The same thoughts had replayed in your mind over and over.

My son will hate me for what I have done.

I took his father from him.

He will never love me.

He will resent me for my sins.

The thought of climbing out the window as Helaena had done became an almost daily occurrence. And it was hard. Hard to not give in to it.

But you couldn't do it. Cowardice be damned, you could not leave you son alone. You would not abandon him. You would not do it.

So after months of the turmoil that chipped away at you day by day, you told them the truth of it, the whole truth of it, and by that time, after voicing such things aloud, little by little, you felt a bit more of yourself.

Lucerys had had his second name day when you were ready to go back to Dragonstone.

“Se skorkydoso iksis ñuha byka Dārilaros?” And how is my little Prince? Daemon grinned, leaning down to press a kiss against your cheek as your son wriggled in his arms.

“Merbugon!” Hungry!

Daemon plastered mock shock upon his face, something that he would do often to you as a child, "Arlī? Yn ao sepār iprattan.” Again? But you just ate.

“Kesan ipradagon ao!” I’ll eat you! Lucerys growled, fake biting at his Grandsire’s arm.

The young boys High Valyrian was good, but nowhere near perfect. 

Daemon and Rhaenyra spent ample time teaching him, as did his uncles Jacaerys and Joffrey when you'd come to visit, or them you. His other uncles, Little Viserys and Aegon the Younger were not too many years older, similar to the age gap you and your uncles had had. They often played with him and Aelor.

Daemon dropped the boy onto the floor, messing his hair with a rough hand before pushing him away to go play with his toys, Saria and Aella sitting with him on the floor. Your fathers lavender eyes landed on you and he smirked.

“Tala.” Daughter, He greeted you, voice almost playful, “Do you look forward to tonights feast?” He pried, mischief twinkling in his eyes.

“I look forward to spending time with all of you, of course.”

“Kostilus kessa ao ūndegon iā arlie valzȳrys.” Perhaps will you see a new husband, He smirked. 

Rolling your eyes, you sighed, “Kepa.” Father, “Kostilus, daor bisa arlī." Please, not this again.

It was a conversation that had begun to come up more often than not. You knew the reasoning behind it. You were heir. And you would be expected to wed again, and soon. But all the Lords in Kings Landing you had met had not once sparked any sort of interest for you. And Rhaenyra had vowed to let you marry whom you wanted, when you wanted.

She had kept true to her word thus far.

Rhaenyra sighed, tilting her head up at her husband as she looked at him in exacerbation, “Henujagon zirȳla sagon.” Leave her be.

Daemon held his palms up in surrender, looking over you before he brushed your cheek with his knuckle quickly, “Ao jurnegon gevie hae va moriot. Hae aōha muña.” You look beautiful as always. Like your mother.

You smirked, “Don’t try and get in my good graces now.”

Rhaenyra grabbed Daemons hand, “We shall leave you to get ready, and see you at the feast.”

You watched as they left your chambers, Rhaenyra whispering to Daemon in your mother tongue.

You were readied by your maids, the two who had been in service for you for many years, and the two who had been your saving grace in the Keep for all those long and trying months. The four sworn to you, and almost never leaving your sight.

They dressed you in a style you were more familiar with, a style you had worn prior to the war. Tight bodice with dripping cleavage, short sleeves and dragons embroidered all over. Your hair was left in waves down your back, with braids nestled amongst them. Against your neck, the same necklace as you wore everyday. 

Lucerys joined the feast for a time, eating with the other young children, Maelor and little Jaehaera included, before they were taken back to their chambers by maids.

The ale flowed heavily in the Hall, and all wore smiles on their faces, the frowns and wrinkles caused by the tension of war having been smoothed from their skin.

You sat beside your mother, Jacaerys and Baela to your other side. 

Baela was glowing, stomach round with the new child and cheeks rosy from smiling. Jacaerys cheeks were rosy from ale, but parenthood suited him all the same. He had matured, that much was obvious, but his love and devotion to his family and wife had only gotten stronger. 

“Little Aelor is growing so quickly.” You smiled, bringing your wine to your lips to sip as you felt nothing but joy to be where you were. To be where you always should had been. The room aglow with your mothers supporters and love. All around you joyous and bright.

“Little Aelor,” Baela leant towards you, “Is a little shit. Not once did I ever behave such a way. He bit Rhaelor this morning because he wouldn’t play with him.”

Jacaerys chuckled and Baela elbowed him in the arm.

“It's all Jacaerys, I’m afraid. He used to bite me too.” You grinned.

“I did not! Not once did I bite you.” 

"You did too. I have scars to prove it. Even ask the Septa, she's the one who tore you from me like a rabid dog.”

Jacaerys turned to his wife for support, who only bit her lip to try and hide the smile that broke on her cheeks, “My sister condemns me with these lies. Do you hear her?”

Baela smirked, sipping her wine, “I believe her. You were terribly wild. I seem to recall you have bitten me on more than one occasion.”

Jacaerys blushed, tongue in cheek as he looked at his wife.

You made a teasing face of disgust, "Incorrigible, the both of you."

All three of you watched on as Lords and Ladies danced in the middle of the Hall, loud music bouncing off of the walls by the band that played in the corner, and all laughed and clapped with joy as they watched.

“It is good to be home.” Jacaerys grinned, watching the celebrations, “Driftmark, though close, feels miles away.”

“You’re both always welcome to visit me and Lucerys at Dragonstone again, perhaps a longer stay? I am sure he would love to have you and the boys more often.”

Jacaerys nodded, “We will come promptly then. If the heir beckons, we shall come.” He teased.

“You have been summoned then." You put on your most pious voice you could manage, bursting into laughter at the ridiculousness of it all.

As your eyes looked into the sea of people, a familiar face came into view. 

Jacaerys and Baela, also noticing, turned to face you.

“You know,” Jacaerys began, leaning towards you, “He only comes to these things for you.” He whispered, watching the way a soft blush creeped on your cheeks. 

“He comes for you, brother. You are friends after all.” You breathed, feeling your heart race in your throat as the man got closer.

“Kessa, yn ziry umbagon syt ao.” Yes, but he stays for you, Baela snickered.

“You are both as bad as each other.” You griped, finishing the rest of your wine quickly, hoping to distract yourself by pouring another. 

As you reached for the goblet, the tall figure of Cregan Stark stood before you at the table, donned in brown and black leather robes, his long dark hair tied back away from his face, and stubble casting a shadow across his defined cheeks and chin. 

His stormy grey eyes bored into yours, and the soft and yet polite smile of Cregan Stark greeted you.

“My Lady.” He bowed his head politely, “Jacaerys. Lady Baela.”

“Cregan.” They nodded.

Jacaerys and Baela turned their heads away, conversing with themselves in an attempt to give you mock privacy.

Though you knew they were listening.

“Cregan Stark. You have journeyed far for such an occasion.” You gazed up at him, watching as his eyes flicked downwards and then back to you.

“Of course, My Lady. It is not every day my good friend’s son has his first name day.”

“You could not have missed it, I would have never forgiven you.” Jacaerys chimed in, cheeky smirk on his lips.

Cregan chuckled, deep and heartily, “You’d burn me alive if I did not come. I think those were your words that you sent via raven.”

“Good memory, Stark.”

You smiled, loving the banter the two men had, “But to travel all the way from the North, it must be a tiresome journey, is it not?”

Cregan’s broad chest expanded as he pulled his shoulders back, hands held behind him, “Aye, a tiresome journey if on the backs of horses, and not dragons. Though I am gladdened to know I shall be well rested before my return. His Grace has offered for me to stay at the Red Keep for the month.”

You turned your head towards your father, who’s eyes were already on you, smirk on his face. Your gaze told him you would have a word with him later.

A stern word. 

Turning back to Cregan you gave him a smile, "That is wonderful news that you will be here with us in Kings Landing for longer than expected. I had not imagined you to be here at all.”

“Apologies if my arrival has offended you, My lady.” Cregan jested, and you felt a blush creep across your chest.

“Please, Cregan, enough with the formalities. You may call me Y/n. I think we are well acquainted enough by now.”

Cregan smiled, showing a line of white teeth, “Y/n.” He tested the name on his tongue, as though it was the first time he had spoken it.

He stood for what felt like an eternity as you looked at him, neither of you sure of how to continue this conversation. 

Jacaerys, being the meddlesome man that he was, decided that his false conversation about the weather with his wife had ended with perfect timing, looking up at his old friend with a shit eating grin.

“My sister here has been approached by many men this evening, all who call her the Beauty of the Realm. Do you find my sister to be beautiful?” He smirked.

Cregan blanched, but answered almost immediately after, “Aye. It would only be a fool who could not see it.”

You blushed, drinking half of your wine in one gulp.

“Then will you continue to do her the dishonour of not asking her to dance?” Jacaerys blinked at his friend from atop the rim of his cup, hiding his grin behind the silver.

Cregan looked as though he was ready to chastise the Prince, perhaps even hit him, but instead turned to you, bowing his head, “Might I ask for a dance, Your Grace?”

You looked at the tall man before you, dark hair that curled lightly in waves, with eyes as stormy as winter. 

“If only you call me by my name, Lord Cregan.” You pushed from your seat, turning to give your brother and half-sister a furious glare that the Stark could not see as you turned away from the table, moving towards Cregan who waited diligently for you, hand held out, palm up. 

Cregan was much taller than Aemond had been, broader, and when your hand slid into his, you felt your chest come alight. A rush that you had not felt in a long, long time. A sense of butterflies that fluttered about behind your ribs like a makeshift cage. 

Cregan led you down to the sea of people, feeling the eyes of your family upon your back. When finally amongst the crowd you turned to face each other, dancing with the rest as your hands intermittently connected. 

“I must apologise, Your Grace-”

“-Y/n.” You corrected him.

“Y/n.” He smiled, “It is not often that I dance in the North. I fear I may be a terrible partner.”

“You are yet to step on my toes. I think you are doing perfectly well, if not a little clunky.” You smirked at the tall man, watching as he looked away bashfully.

“There is still time for that I suppose.”

Each brush of his hands atop your body caused warmth to spread through you, tiny little tendrils winding their way up your flesh wherever his skin would make contact with yours. Your hands, arms, shoulders, waist. It was almost overwhelming, and the only time you had ever felt it before, was many years ago.

Five years ago, to be exact.

“Ao jurnegon gevie.” You look beautiful.

Your legs got tangled with themselves as you came to a halt, looking up at the grey eyed man who looked down at you wistfully.

“What did you say?” You breathed, uncertain if you had heard him right, or if it was your mind playing tricks upon you.

“I said you looked beautiful.” Cregan’s eyes roamed your face, brows beginning to furrow, “I apologise, Your-“

“-No.” You shook your head, “Ao ȳdragon Valyrio Eglie?” You speak High Valyrian?

A warm chuckle erupted from his chest, “No, My Lady. Just that and some other small things. Your brother has been a great teacher thus far.”

You tilted your head, trying to get your feet to unstick from the floor, blurs of people moving around you, but in that moment it felt as though they had all disappeared, and you were left alone with the man before you.

“He is a good teacher because I have taught him.”

“Then perhaps I must ask of you to teach me instead.” Cregan gazed at you hopefully.

You hummed, “Do you have need to learn it? I did not think the North had any speakers of my mother tongue.”

Cregan opened his arm towards the side, weaving you through the crowd to the edge of the table, grasping a goblet of ale and procuring a goblet of wine for yourself.

You sipped on the wine, eyed widening.

Dornish wine.

Of all the wine on the table from this realm, to the Redwyne's vineyards, from Essos, to Dorne. Cregan had given you the one wine you liked the most.

How did he...

“We do not." He replied, "The North has no need for tongues of fire, our breath is ice.”

“Indeed. I am not too fond of the cold, I am afraid.” You teased.

Cregan’s large hand moved to swipe at his chin with a thumb, stumble rubbing beneath it in thought as he looked at you, “And have you been to the North? It is far more than just ice. Winterfell has a garden that may rival the one in the Red Keep.”

The spiced Dornish wine was sharp on your tongue, “So I have heard. I have not had the Gods graces to witness it for myself. I have however, been gifted a Winter Rose.”

Dark brows pulled together as the Stark looked at you in confusion. Brown hair cascaded over his shoulder as he tilted his head at you, the earthy smell of oakmoss, ginger and pine surrounding you.

Oakmoss, ginger, pine. 

Not at all, smoke, leather, and sandalwood.

It was earthy, warm despite his origins, and gentle. Like a breath of fresh air. Like a scent of safety and calm.

“Winter Roses do not grow in Kings Landing. How were you gifted one?”

You swallowed, looking away momentarily. 

The energy around you shifted.

“My husband- late husband, had a knack for gifting me rare things in atonement for his temper.” The words came out sharp, crinkled on the edges, and tasted of iron.

Cregan nodded solemnly, “I am sorry for your loss.”

You blinked.

Not once, had a man or woman or any person who you had spoken to over the past five years, ever said they were sorry for Aemond. Not once had anyone offered condolences, except the silent stares of your family. In fact, most times, people congratulated you for your bravery, your strength, your ability to drive that dagger into his throat. 

People congratulated you for killing the man you loved. 

But not him. 

Not Cregan.

And it intrigued you.

You finished the last of your wine, “I have not had the chance to thank you for supporting my mother after all these years.” You began, taking a glance to look up at her, as she gazed lovingly at your father in small conversation. 

“Thank me not. A Stark never forgets their oath, and we made one to your mother.”

A smile wound its way on your lips, “And how cold does it get in the North, Lord Stark? How does one not freeze in the walls of Winterfell?”

Another warm chuckle floated from his chest, “There is much to be frozen in the North, but Winterfell was built atop hot springs. Brandon the Builder built it amongst giants. The hot water flows through the walls to keep us warm.”

“I thought I had read as much in a book once.” You smirked, feeling warm from the wine, “But I had never imagined such a thing to be true. Giants?” A cheeky laugh fell through your lips.

Cregan smirked down at you, goblet close to his mouth. It wasn’t a smirk that set you ablaze, nor did it create anger or contempt or suspicion. It wasn't a smirk to provoke you. Instead, it made warmth spread steadily through you, like the hot springs in Winterfell. 

“Aye,” He laughed, “What is hard to believe about giants? Your blood rides upon dragons, do you not?”

“I suppose you are right. I do ride upon a dragon, a large one to be sure. I wonder if it would marvel at the size of your giants.”

“We shall never know. Perhaps you might ride upon the great beasts back to Winterfell?”

Your heart began to beat quickly in your chest, fingers tapping on the side of your cup, “My great beast would swallow you whole for calling him such a thing.” Jest on the tip of your tongue.

“It would be an honour to be devoured by a dragon.” Cregan shamelessly flirted. 

Devoured.

I want to devour you, zaldrītsos.

You swallowed thickly, “And what would Lady Stark think of three dragons coming to Winterfell? My son has not seen snow or ice, I have little question if he would enjoy it.”

Cregan placed his ale upon the table, “There is no Lady Stark, unless you are referring to my Lady Mother. Winterfell would welcome you and your son with open arms, and furs to warm you.”

You felt heat in your cheeks, “Why would I need furs if Winterfell is as perfectly insulated by hot springs, as you say it is?”

Cregan Stark pushed his tongue into the side of his cheek as you gazed up at him, quick witted response ready to be fired back instantly.

“For all its warmth, there can be a biting chill that occasionally drifts through the cracks. Or if you are to be outside, say in the Godswood, you would need furs.”

“You have a Godswood?” Interest peaked.

“Aye. The Old Gods have not been replaced by the New in the North.”

“Good, I should hope so. The New Gods are an abomination in the eyes of the Old.” You paused, watching as grey eyes flitted down to your lips, if only for a moment, “And what of Dragonstone. Have the Kings of the North ventured as far?”

Cregan huffed a laugh through his nose, “No, I can say we have not.”

“Then perhaps you should see the great Dragonstone Keep. Its walls are the last of Old Valyrian stonemasonry. Fire and magic created it. Dragons live in the Dragonmont, and I am sure they would welcome the Wolf of Winterfell with open arms, and there would be no need for furs to warm you.”

“The Dragonmont sounds like the perfect place to be eaten by the dragons that live there. I may ask to be pardoned from venturing inside, a bite from a dragon would surely be the end of me.” Cregan’s eyebrows were raised, goblet to his lips again, smile peeking over the top.

There was something about this man. Something that drew you to him. Something that made you feel safe, wanted, unafraid. Like an invisible string was pulling you to him from the centre of your chest, the need to be closer to him, the want to be closer to him amplifying with each second spent in his presence. 

In all your five years past, you had not wished to be in the presence of any man again, said for acquaintances and family. 

But Cregan?

It was different.

It was the same pull you had felt in the throne room when he had sworn himself to you.

And that was why the next words that left your lips were playful, light, alluring. You wanted to draw him in. You wanted to taste him. You wanted to get to know the man who had helped to change the tide. The man who had stayed loyal to his oath. And a man who had travelled across the realm, just to kneel before you and swear his House to you, despite him not needing to do so.

“I will only bite if you ask me nicely.” You purred.

A blush crept across the mans face, and you felt your heart soar. 

He cleared his throat, adjusting his posture, his eyes half lidded, “I will come to Dragonstone when you beckon. But I fear a wolfs bite may rival that of a dragons.”

Grinning you tilted your head, looking up to the table, to find all eyes on you both again, a large smirk on Jacaerys’ lips. 

“I do not like to make commands, but I shall beckon you. If,” Your hand came to graze his arm gently, sliding down, before your finger traced along his that held the goblet of ale, “You show me these hot springs in Winterfell, and that you have furs for me and my son to be kept warm. I make no illusion to thinking there would be furs enough for Vermithor.”

Cregan’s finger twitched beneath yours as you dropped your hand back to your sides, sliding them together behind your back.

He bowed his head, “Of course, Your Grace. But there may not need to be a use of furs to keep you warm. Your blood is of fire, and I have a strange inclination that you would wish to be warmed in another manner.” Your cheeks grew hot, warmth sliding down to settle in your gut.

Cregan wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, “I will await your invitation, Princess.”

You smirked, “And I, yours. Though, you are to be here until the next turn of the moon. I am sure we will see each other more often than not in these walls.”

“I should hope that I would have the privilege of your company whenever you would wish for mine.”

“That you will, and that I do.”

With a nod of your head, you turned, walking back up to your table, spring in your step, and heart pounding against your ribs. You could feel the warmth of Cregan’s gaze on your back with each step you took to the table. Jacaerys, Daemon and Baela all watching you with knowing eyes as you moved to sit back down once again, cheeks ablaze. 

You ignored them all, reaching to grasp your goblet and sipping the wine as your eyes instinctually found the pair of icy grey ones that watched you from across the room. He lifted his goblet to his own mouth, mimicking your action as you sipped in tandem. 

The sound of laughter and chattering surrounded you, and it was hard to not get yourself lost in the excitement of it all. 

How things had changed.

Jaehaera and Maelor, Helaena’s children, had been taken in by your mother immediately, and at first, had been terrified, and quiet, and reserved. But now they had now grown into beautiful, soft and sweet children who doted on their nephews with care and familial excitement. 

Jaehaera was so much her mother, and often was woken in the night by terrors of her twin being slain before her eyes. But as time went on, the nightmares lessoned with age, but her visions grew stronger.

There was no denying that the little girl had the same gift as her mother, the same brilliance, the same intuition. And your Lucerys and Jaehaera often understood each other on level that others didn’t, an almost instant connection sparking between the two, and you watched as Jaehaera doted on your son with fierce devotion and loyalty. 

Maelor, was very much like Aegon.

Loud, boisterous, terribly cheeky at times, but kind. Something that he was allowed to grow into with the nurturing of your family, the nurturing of your mother. Something that he would continue to be. Maelor was a whisper of what could have been for Aegon, if he had not been raised with the vile whisperings of the Hightower’s in his ear since birth. 

He had the same round face as his father, the same round face that Alicent had. But there was no sadness in his lavender eyes, no hollowness that settled behind them. And for that, you were most thankful. 

They both especially got along with Lucerys, and that gave you a greater joy like no other, and often stayed with the two of you on Dragonstone.

If you were to say that you had gotten used to being surrounded by so many people, you would be lying. But there was no doubt in your mind, that as the years went by, you would eventually find yourself again, or at least the fragments of her that had survived. 

You had changed. 

But so had they.

And there were some things that would never change. 

Some things that would always stick.

And the visions of your brother, your aunt, and your uncle, would remain forever more. 

Or at least, you hoped they would.

As a reminder.

As a punishment for your deeds.

As a comfort.

Whilst the Lords and Ladies in the court danced, and drank, and sang, and cheered, three familiar faces watched from within the crowd, unmoving, unblinking as they were. 

Observing, watching, with two smiling softly.

The third face however, had not smiled in years, and would never smile again. He watched you, from across the room, hidden behind dancing bodies, long silver hair cascading down his back, an eye of violet, and a shadowed socket peering up at you. 

He never left. 

He was always there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Your hand came to play with the sapphire that sat heavily against your chest.

“What did you and Cregan speak about?” Jacaerys inquired, leaning towards you, breaking you from your stare at a man you missed most terribly.

“Hm?” You turned your head blinking at your brother.

“Cregan, what did he say?”

Baela leant an elbow on the table as she watched, a hand rubbing her swollen stomach in soft, gentle circles, soothing the babe inside.

“Merely asked how I have been, how I have been faring. Pleasantries is all.”

Jacaerys’ brown eyes danced with delight, “Pleasantries? Spoke of pleasures did you? You know, I wouldn’t let him speak to you if he was not a good man. He is a Stark. Dutiful, full of honour, kind, and a skilled swordsman.”

“And I have a dragon. Swordsmanship does little against fire.”

Baela snickered, “And why would he be near dragon flame? Have you promised him a ride upon Vermithor?”

A blush settled across your cheeks, “He wouldn’t.” You argued, feeling exacerbated by their prying, “I was just saying, swordsmanship does not warrant a marriage.”

“Who said anything about marriage?” Jacaerys smirked, and you felt your mouth go dry. 

You gripped your goblet and tossed the rest of its contents greedily down your throat, shivering at the heat that settled in your bones, most of which not caused by the alcohol, but instead the memory of his warmth, eyes, and touch.

Sighing, you looked at the pair beside you, “You have been all but pushing us together for the past five years.”

Jacaerys snorted, “I have not. But there is no denying the pull you two have to each other. You’re allowed to be happy, sister.”

And Jacaerys was right. 

There was a pull. 

And no matter how hard you tried to avoid it, brush it off of you like water, close eye and look the other way, it was there, and it pulled at you. 

“I am happy.” You argued, but it felt wrong. False.

Jacaerys had his chin on his fist as he gazed at you, curled brown hair looking a mess as many a hand had brushed through it. His cheeks were rosy, and pink lips plump from smiling or biting at them to keep his mouth shut. It was clear that the ale had gotten to him, but Jacaerys was never one to lie to you, especially about someone he considered a good friend.

And Cregan was his closest companion.

“It’s a perfect match,” He began, and you groaned loudly, rolling your eyes, “You being hot headed-“

“-I am not hot headed-“

“-And him being cool and patient. Blood of the North and Valyria. Perzys se Suvion.”

Fire and Ice.

A strum of recognition tickled in the back of your mind as Jacaerys continued.

“Opposites attract, even you out, and all the other nonsense some love sick fool would tell you. You would be good together, Y/n. He would calm you, and you would warm him.” Jacaerys teased.

“Don’t tell me you’re in love with Cregan, brother.” You teased back, watching as Jacaerys narrowed his eyes, “All this talk of opposites being perfect for each other, why do you not take him as your second wife? I am sure Baela would not mind sharing.”

Baela smirked, rubbing her stomach, “I wouldn’t mind a break. And Cregan looks good in-“

“-Keligon bona.” Stop that, Jacaerys chastised his wife, turning his attention back to you, “Think on it. He would be good for you.”

“I don’t need a man to make me whole or 'be good for me'. I will be Queen one day, and a husband will do naught but hold me back.”

“You will have to marry again someday, you know this as well as I do. And he would help you forward, if only you let him.”

You huffed, looking back out at the sea of people again, eyes immediately falling on him.

He was talking to a Lord, who’s gold and yellow robes shimmered in the light of the chambers. But as though he felt your gaze upon him, Cregan turned his head, and his eyes immediately met yours.

Instinct.

That pull.

“He invited me and Lucerys to Winterfell.” You told the two of them, seeing Jacaerys and Baela give each other excited looks in your periphery, as a soft smile found its way on Cregan’s as he looked at you, your own stretching your cheeks.

“Will you go?” Jacaerys’ voice hopeful.

As you watched Cregan, his gaze still on you, man beside him still talking, not having noticed his companions attention had been taken away, you felt the pull again. A sharp tug in your chest, the string having wrapped itself around a rib thrice, just below where your heart would sit.

It tugged again, and your hands curled into fists in your lap, desperate to keep yourself seated as you looked at him. Desperate to fight the urge that made you wish to go to him, stand by him, be close to him.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips as you watched him, your brother and half-sister staring at you from your periphery as you feigned thought. 

But you knew your answer already. 

You knew it before he had even asked, before Cregan had even spoken to you. 

Instinct.

“Yes.”

Hen ñuha ānogar māzigon Kivio Dārilaros, se zȳhon kessa sagon Vāedar Suvio Perzo.

From my blood come the Prince that was promised, and his will be the song of Ice and Fire.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

@izzicle @ej-shitchats @may-machin @alegria1580 @witchy-jadda @videovampire @inkdelicious @queteimporta39 @virtualsweetsqueen @fo-cus @auratiqs @feyres-fireheart @queenofshinigamis @asoiafwh8re @teasandcrumpets @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl@queenofsarcazm @marihoneywk @curlszx88 @virgogaia @loser-keiji @asoiafwh8re @whore-of-many-hot-men @vipervixxen @theonewiththeimaginaryboyfriends @watercolorskyy @lavendervisions @mazmack666 @chokefrog @orangejump-suit @nik2blog @serrhaewinin @ohemgeewhat @winxschester @cryptidsrcool @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @celestedonut @bloodyvelvet777 @iamapersonthatsalive @av-sos @yentroucnagol @sanzu-s @opheliaas-stuff @bellameshipper @maviee @persephonerinyes @neytiri-09 @ensnaredinwonderland @xbluegracex @sotragedynut @nattieot7 @shesawaywiththefairies-blog @coffedraven @prettycutebunny @celestedonut @the-jess-life @ssulfurr @out-of-life @madislayyy @crazylokonugget @cicaspair418 @katwmk @relminnie @milovart @teagrex @visenyaverse @bellameshipper @toodlesxcuddles @tempt-ress @dontmindmereading7 @qyburnsghost @55gyi53vtnquwziq5 @notnormalthings-blog @maidmerrymint @qyburnsghost @madislayyy @chelseaouat

Bold is who I cannot tag!

[redcloaklynx]

party banter in a tadpoled cazador au

Lae'zel: "I do not understand this Loviathar god. What is the point of injury if not to kill?" Cazador: "I do not understand Loviathar worship either. For one, their methods could use a lot of refinement. Have you seen how crude their whips are?" Astarion: "I'm going to scout ahead. Do alert me when he stops talking."

---

Cazador: "Boy, I have heard you lay flirtations on practically every member of this party aside from me." Astarion: "Cazador! Have you been waiting your turn?" Cazador: "Yes. I believe I might have a scathing enough response that you finally fall silent."

---

Gale: "Cazador Szarr... I've seen your name on research publishings. I'd not expect the face to be Kozakuran." Cazador: "The Wizard of Waterdeep, is it? Does your city find itself inundated often, or does its wizard wish that I remedy that?" Gale: "Er, no need. It was an academic question."

---

Karlach: "Between my body temperature and Gale's magic nonsense, I wonder who's got the worst blood in the party." Cazador: "It's the wizard. I keep my distance from him when I can." Gale: "Side effects of terminal Netherese contamination may include vampire repellency- noted."

---

Cazador: "A Ravengard, are you? And yet I cannot remember your presence among high society in Baldur's Gate." Wyll: "We should all get to know each other more. Let's share a few bottles around the campfire, tonight." Lae'zel: "What does this bottle-sharing entail?" Wyll: "We'll drink alcohol and take turns asking each other innocuous questions." Cazador: "Innocuous questions, yes. But I will not, before you ask again, be telling you the location of all side entrances to my mansion."

---

Shadowheart: "Say, Lae'zel, how do your people do interrogations?" Lae'zel: "We amputate fingers, eyes and limbs until they speak. If that does not work, we try to starve or burn them." Shadowheart: "Really? I'd always heard the other way around. Beatings, starvation, then amputatation." Cazador: "I enjoy flaying before amputating, personally." Shadowheart: "Does that make them more likely to talk?" Cazador: "No, but the vampiric charm I cast once I am bored does."

---

Cazador: "Who is it that handed Astarion a sewing kit yesterday?" Wyll: "I did, I found one in the Blighted Village. Damn, I didn't know vampire senses were that sharp." Cazador: "Oh, I very sharply sensed this morning that somebody undid the seams to all my clothes and sewed my socks together in the night."

---

Cazador: "This incessant wiggling between the eyes is driving me mad. Is this how a heartbeat felt?" Gale: "Not in the slightest. Which begs the question, how many years ago were you buried underneath?" Cazador: "I am older than the goddess you were wildly unfit to dally with, whelp."

---

self-indulgent last one. i headcanon cazador to be very depressed

Cazador: "Now that you've had other blood to compare to, was rat-blood really a reason for offense?" Astarion: "Are you kidding? Wyll's blood is richer than the finest vintage there is. It's incomparable to rat-blood." Cazador: "Hm. Perhaps the passage of centuries has diminished my enjoyment in things." Astarion: "Am I included in 'things'?" Cazador: "Yes." Astarion: "Ugh. All those years spent torturing me, and you weren't even having fun?"

[jewishgirlrevolt]

Whelp. This was a great way to end an already shitty week.

I just don't understand what the point of building up BuckTommy in that sweet domesticity they had only to break them up and in such a quick way. I hope its not the end, I hope they fix it in the spring. But for now I am very disappointed in the show. I think the writing this season ( like how the Gerard and Ortiz of it all happened) wasn't great. So I hope there's time to fix it.

I'm tired of will they won't they and drama for the sake of drama. Like imagine if Tommy had left without giving Buck an answer, and Buck taking a couple of episodes to really figure out what he wanted. I wanted Buck to be happy and loved, and to love. I wanted him to start building a future together with someone, and now we're right back where we started. It's boring and it's mean.

What's cruel is they gave us reasons to root for them, and love them, and celebrate Buck getting off the hamsterwheel. Only to take it away and toss it all aside. Especially given the risk they took and all the positive responses they got to Tommy and BuckTommy.

[alicenchanted]

A Court of Silver Storms, Chapter 2

FMC is Nesta Archeron’s twin sister

Word Count: 2304 words

Potential Pairings: Azriel x Archeron!OC, Archeron!OC X Illyrian!OC

Summary: Taryn Archeron has been moved from the Townhouse to the House of Wind. She trains with Azriel in the woods of Windhaven, learning how to handle small blades

Content: Chapter 5 of ACOSF

Warnings: some of Azriel’s trauma, mentions of blood

Author's Note: I am promising you delicious slow burn for this fic, so be ready for that. I'm still waiting to be allowed to have a stupid AO3 account.

Read on Ao3

Chapter 1

Taryn

The House of Wind was warm, somehow, without the fires that usually danced in their black marble hollows. Taryn drew up straighter. It was day two in the House of Wind. Day one had been spectacularly empty. Taryn hadn’t seen Elain or Tristan, but the troves of boxes dropped off in the bedrooms told her they had been there. Azriel didn’t stay to talk after carrying her to the House. Taryn had tried to speak to Nesta, explain things to her, but Nesta had only disappeared to her room. After that failure, she hadn’t felt like talking to Cassian, who spent the day with Mor anyways.

A chill wormed its way through Taryn’s gut as she sat down. The kitchen table was perfectly smooth and spotless, some kind of dark oak that complimented the black marble fireplace. A set of doors opened upstairs, followed by another down the hall and her sister’s furious muttering.

“You need to eat,” Cassian was trying to sound patient. Taryn would have been grateful, but she didn’t know how long that patience would last. 

Nesta was about to retort when she locked eyes with Taryn at the table. She looked surprised, as if she expected Taryn to stay locked in her own room until removed by force. Maybe it did make Taryn a sell-out, or spineless, but she didn’t want to make things harder than they already were.  

Four hot bowls of porridge and a few fried eggs plated themselves at the table. Cassian took the seat next to Taryn, likely just so he could stare blatantly at her sister, but she was grateful to have it taken up. Azriel joined a few seconds later. 

“I’m not eating this,” Nesta grumbled, watching with disdain as Taryn choked down a bite. The Illyrians shoveled down mouthfuls. The food in Prythian was spectacular, nothing like the dried venison she’d had to savor growing up in the cottage. She didn’t know how they could stomach such a lumpy, tasteless meal knowing there was a bounty of alternatives.

“The lesson will be for two hours. Right until lunch. You won’t be eating again until then. Eat” Cassian’s tone brooked no argument. Across the table Azriel’s eyes met Taryn’s. He looked expectant, and suddenly, Taryn felt an embarrassing responsibility for her sister. She was no better than Feyre, it seemed.

“Nesta you should try to eat, even a little.”

Nesta glared at her with a rage so icy Taryn felt the anxious fluttering light in her chest go dark and cold. 

“Not eating won’t bring your father back,” Cassian said. Taryn gasped, turning to look at him with a glare as Nesta stiffened, but before she could say something, Nesta fired.

“You don’t know anything. You don’t fucking know anything.”

Taryn could see Nesta shaking, her hands trembling as she sat down and stubbornly cleaned her plate in silence. A few minutes later, she was striding back out of the room. Quiet somehow echoed against the sturdy walls of the house as Taryn excused herself to go put on her own leathers.

Taryn was considerably curvier than her sister. Even as kids with plenty of food on the table, Nesta had always been made of elegant angles and curves where curves should be. Taryn had been the opposite. Her mother had always said it would do her good someday, that a Lord who wanted hearty sons would find her body a prize. It had always had the effect of making her feel disgusted, not confident. Nesta was her little queen, and Taryn nothing more than a whelping bitch.

Taryn grunted in frustration as she attempted to put on the Illyrian leathers borrowed to her. The stiff material snapped and hissed like a coiling snake, nearly ripping as she forced it over her hips, sucking in her stomach just a bit. By human standards she was merely stocky, but she imagined that the Illyrians would find her grossly out of proportion. 

Taryn joined Nesta at the landing, admiring the braided crown of dark hair pinned in place. Their hair had always been a smidge darker than Feyre’s burnished gold and Elain’s sun-kissed wheat. No matter how low Nesta sank, she always managed to look good.

Mor arrived mercifully quick, looking cold and unhappy as she winnowed Cassian and Nesta past the House’s wards. Azriel approached Taryn slowly. Perhaps he was afraid all the tension would have her lashing out like her sister. “You’ll be okay flying with me?”

“I don’t think I really have any other choice,” she shrugged, but gave him the go-ahead. It wasn’t really Azriel’s fault that Rhysand had suddenly deemed her unfit. Pushing him away seemed unwise at the moment, especially when they were to train for an indefinite amount of time. Mor stepped out from a shadowed rip in the sky and whisked them off.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆

Taryn had greatly underestimated the amount of Illyrians that would be there.

She had hoped Rhysand would have chosen a quieter corner for Nesta to train in, but it seemed as though he wished for her to be even more embarrassed of herself than she already was.

Taryn watched Cassian’s large, winged form dip down to a flat, stony clearing, but Azriel didn’t slow. Immediately the males were flocking Cassian, sizing her sister up. Taryn could almost hear the fervent whispers. Witches, she had once heard a winged male hiss. Taryn caught the sharp smile gracing Nesta’s face as a large grove of gnarly pines finally blocked the view. She couldn’t quite tell if that smile was hiding fear, or if Nesta simply enjoyed being thought of as strange and wicked to the Illyrians. Growing up, their father had told them stories of mythical witch clans and their faraway wasteland. Nesta had always seemed the most amazed by stories of those women, raised to butcher with teeth and nails of sharpened iron. 

Azriel flew them past the Illyrian village, weaving in and out of columns of chimney smoke and towering trees. His eyes roved over the land like an old lover, full of hatred, but also an unquenchable admiration. The gentle snows that hailed the coming of winter had made this village something that could be called beautiful, but only by someone who had not grown to fear it. 

Azriel’s scarred hands tightened on Taryn, as if a very similar sentiment had echoed in his own mind. For a moment Taryn feared he could read minds like Rhysand. There was some special word for it- demon perhaps? No, too fitting. Feyre had attempted to train Taryn on enforcing “mental shields” against said demons but none of it had stuck. Azriel had only his shadows, though, and she didn’t need to fear him breaching her thoughts.

The booming of his wings startled her as Azriel flared the sturdy bones up and out- like ships’ sails. He caught the wind just enough to slow and lower them, placing Taryn on the ground with an unnerving sort of gentleness she hadn’t known he possessed.

“Is there a reason I’m not training with my sister?”

“We had a feeling she might gut you the second a sword touched her hands.” A little smile tugged at his handsome mouth, stretching a silvery scar across his lower lip. Taryn recognized the statement as an attempt at humor, but it wasn’t funny. Not at all, really.

“My sister is not a murderous beast,” she said tightly. 

“I’m sorry, that was inappropriate,” he mumbled, no longer meeting her eyes. At least one Illyrian could own up to his actions. “Truthfully, I think Rhysand envisions Nesta as being an asset on the battlefield, you… not so much.”

The words were blunt, but Taryn found herself appreciating them. The Inner Circle liked to keep things from them. From Taryn, from Nesta and from Elain, too, for various, unknowable reasons. Taryn knew they were wary of her. Nesta had told her bits and pieces of what life had been like after. She tried not to think about it. Most days she was successful, but every once in a while she would see Nesta’s face and remember the way she had screamed. Maybe Nesta remembered it too. Maybe that was why she had been so distant. 

Taryn realized she had gone quiet as Azriel tugged on the hilts of two weapons. One was a simple wood dagger, the other- well it was Truth Teller. Her lips flattened as she remembered the way Elain looked, covered in the blood of the King of Hybern. She remembered the way that blade glided through skin and arteries like warm butter before Nesta’s sword finished the job. While her sisters’ had taken up the cause, she had done nothing. Not one useful thing.

“I thought I wouldn’t be useful on the battlefield,” she had meant for the words to come out neutral, but bitterness laced each breath.

He held out the hilt of the wooden dagger. It was weighted, and though it didn’t feel comfortable in her hand, there was a subtle craftsmanship behind the shape that she could admire. They truly meant for her to train, then. “You should be able to defend yourself. Even your own blade can be easily used against you if you aren’t practiced.”

She held it up, pointing the knife end toward him. He looked slightly bewildered.

“Is that how you think you’re supposed to hold it?” The question sounded genuine enough, but she felt her face turn hot with shame.

“Well how am I supposed to know- I don’t- I’ve never-”

“It’s okay, I’m going to show you,” he said quickly. She swore the ghost of a smile crossed his features, but he quickly grew serious as he stood closer to her. She waited for him to grab her hand, to arrogantly reposition her and whisper like this in her ear as she had read men sometimes did, but he didn’t. He held his right arm next to her own right arm, letting her watch the movements at the angle she herself would see. 

They spent an hour just learning positioning. It had been a lot less about strength than she anticipated. It was more about balance, weight and efficiency. After she had learned proper grip, he worked on her stance.

“No, lead with your dominant foot. If you strike horizontally like that with your left you’ll lose your balance.”

She huffed, but switched feet, inching her too tight boots across the loamy soil until he nodded.

“Keep your knees bent, no, no- not a lunge.” She huffed again, trying in vain to fix the curve of her leg. He stepped closer, bending to a knee, and looked up at her. “May I?”

She gave him a strange look and he tapped her leg. “Oh, yeah sure.”

His hands braced her calf and the lower part of her thigh, his fingers applying the gentlest pressure as he coaxed her body into the proper stance. “Does this feel more comfortable?”

She nodded, and he was back to facing her. He beckoned with a hand as his own knees bent slightly. 

“What, you want me to hit you?” 

“Don’t worry, you won’t,” his lips pulled up at the corner and Taryn wrinkled her nose. She supposed Azriel was not immune to the Illyrian arrogance.

“I’ll make a fool of myself.”

“Everyone does on the first go, that’s what I’m here for. I’d rather you make a fool of yourself in front of me than in front of someone who will kill you first and laugh later.”

Taryn took a step forward. She tried to place her foot where he had shown her, tried to measure that distance with her eyes as she shifted into an offensive stance with painful slowness.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” he murmured, watching the way she twisted her heel to the side slightly, “your body will tell you what’s comfortable and what’s not.”

She grumbled. This was pathetic. She was pathetic and he was cooing as if this was the Illyrian equivalent of a toddler’s first steps. “I can’t do it.”

“Yes you can, start again.”

“No.”

“Taryn.” His jaw tightened and he closed his eyes, letting out a held breath. “I know it feels wrong, awkward. I know what it feels like.”

“I doubt it. Even lesser fae like you have more grace than me.” Taryn’s eyes widened as she realized how that sounded, but he didn’t flinch at her nastiness. He must have been expecting worse from her. That wasn’t exactly comforting either.

“You know,” he said, “I was the last of us to master flying.” He had gotten closer to her now. The clearing he had chosen was a good distance from Windhaven’s village, but he talked as if he didn’t want anyone else overhearing this. “My family… they didn’t train me like the others. Most Illyrian males are flying before they’re even fluent in speech. I only learned after Rhysand- after I met him and his mother. It took me months.” He sounded pained. The memories were still alive in him. “I’d go as far to say years. The first month was spent just learning to hold my wings up, keep them off the ground.”

Taryn watched him flex the muscles in his back, lifting a wing up to show her the ragged, torn bottom. There were places where the bat-like membrane had scarred from trailing the rugged mountain ground, and other places looked as if he'd gotten caught and the flesh had ripped. 

“I didn’t know,” her cheeks warmed again, her chest tightening with guilt. She hadn’t meant to push him into divulging something so sensitive. 

“I wanted you to know,” was all he said.

[uriahblack]

"CAMARILLA CAREER" rank 2: Neonate | #Sims4 #VTMMod #ComingSoon

A neonate is a recently embraced vampire that has passed through the initial stages of vampiric existence, the fledgling stage. It is the sire's responsibility to ensure that the childe does not embarrass itself or its sire in vampiric society. Derogatorily, a neonate is often called a whelp.

Neonates are generally lightly involved in the true machinations of undead society. They aren't powerful enough to really matter, and are consequently used primarily as pawns by their elders. Conversely, they still have an investment in the mortal world of the 21st century and are less likely to adhere to the feudal character of vampiric society.

Source: https://whitewolf.fandom.com/wiki/Neonate

[ajbullet]

My thoughts on PJO episode 3: part 2

Part one:

We have no food so I’m back

-Having Alecto outside the Garden was such a clever way of adding intensity to the scene and answers the question of like why didn’t they just leave?

-I loved the changed to them knowing who Medusa is right away. It fits the characters and the vibe of the story so much better

-MEDUSA Omgs

-She was perfect. Her outfit and voice and presence was just absolutely intimidating while also almost nurturing? I was confused as where I should trust her or not, which is the point.

-the way they changed her story was astonishing and all the better for it. Her devotion to Athena. The parallel to Annabeth and how they both worshiped a god who has never recognized them (besides the cap). Medusa’s blind faith and her hatred towards Poseidon after he used her.

-“I’m a survivor” 😘👌🏻 perfect delivery

-Medusa calling Poseidon a monster and it reminding Percy of what his mother said.

-HIM TRUSTING MEDUSA BECAUSE OF HIS MOTHER

-The parallels between Medusa and Sally. The unity Medusa believes they share.

-“I don’t think she’s like that” The only one who can speak about Annabeth like that is HIM

-The INSTANT Medusa mentions killing Percy’s friends he is out of there. Like most people have pointed out: a great nod to his fatal flaw of loyalty.

-The labyrinth was so freaking cool guys. Like wtf. That was amazing. I kept picturing the scene from the movie and it blew that out of the water (even tho that’s my favorite scene from the movie. I mean come on, the iconic iPod reflection? Shall never be forgotten) But the invisibility cap was really cool too

-Grover flying of into the distance, screaming his head off, and Percy and Annabeth just being like “whelp, new plan”

-THEM WORKING TOGETHER

-Annabeth watching Percy kill Alecto. Again, wasn’t sure exactly what she was feeling when I first watched it but looking back I think she’s finally realizing like, oh, this boy is more capable then I thought. Maybe he can be useful. Maybe he can do this. Maybe I have a crush on- wait no not possible. Eww.

-Them finally reconciling after Grover broke.

-Oh and I love that they made the uncle Ferdinand a more sad, meaningful moment. I mean, that part in the movie was funny, but that wouldn’t have fit the vibe at all and I think it really added to Grover’s character. I wanted to hug him.

-Leah’s expression after Percy says he picked her cause they could never be friends. She was hurt and it broke me.

-THOSE TWO ARE GOING TO FALL IN LOVE

-Percy not realizing Annabeth’s hat is so important. Then immediately giving it back.

-“I am impertinent” This boy is Percy incarnate.

-LIN MANUEL MIRANDA wtf I wasn’t ready. Jump scare bro. Like give a girl a heads up.

I’m sooooo excited for next episode!! I think it’s going to be one of the best yet. This episode was perfect in its changes and implications. It was a new take on what we’ve read and seen before and even tho some people are mad about it, you have to realize that they have to keep it new. They have to adjust and change and ADAPT! I knew what was going to happen but yet I didn’t and it kept it interesting to me. It was a job well done. Again, please comment or reblog with any other takes or add one because I love seeing everyone’s perspectives. Just please remember to be kind!

[sohannabarberaesque]

Something I was just thinking about (as if the several cars in the Wacky Races and Fender Bender 500, not to mention The Mystery Machine, weren't already overrated):

What would you fellow Old Hanna-Barberians have in mind for the motorhomes or camper vans for such diver types in the Funtastic Pantheon of Hanna-Barbera characters as--

Peter Potamus and His Good-Time Divers;

The Three Wolves and the Divin' Wolf Pups;

Scooba-Doo (essentially an original character of mine imagined as a littermate of Scooby-Doo from the same whelping);

The Hair Bear Bunch;

Emmy Lou and Jenny Lee; and

Sheena the Lioness and Raquel Wrench?

Specifically, with respect to what sort of form such should take ... its interior appointments ... its provisions for dive gear and diving requisites (especially so the air tanks) ... and its outside looks. (Not to mention being capable of four-wheel drive, the better to reach especially remote beaches and dive locales "off the beaten track.")

To that end, comments and/or illustrations in this regard would be welcome in response, especially through reblogging. Mindful all the while of the Hanna-Barbera studio's belief in not talking down to the audience, yet at the same time "projecting warmth and good feelings" in their flicktoonry, having a sense of fun and whimsy all the more.

@warnerbrosentertainment @trailerpark2 @hanna-barbera-land @joey-gatorman @passionateclown @archive-archives @hanna-barberians @thevansarebackintown @madamemario @vanagonlust @warnerbrosent-blog

[scribbles97]

Listen

Whelp... after one hell of a haitus Scribbs is back writing for the Thunderbirds Are Go fandom again! It's been a while and what I've produced is only short, but it felt good to get back to my comfort characters again. Thank you @gumnut-logic for the hugs and support that you continue to give me <3

Virgil had known as soon as Gordon had sunk into the co-pilot seat on Two. 

A run of back-to-back rescues was the final nail in the coffin on a week that had seen them reach six out of eight continents, and more ocean than he dared to count. He wasn’t sure when he had last seen Scott, their paths crossing less frequently than normal with the financial year end meaning the board were demanding more of his older brother’s attention when he himself wasn’t out on a rescue. Grandma had caught them each time they had returned to the Island, hot food cooked by MAX readily available for them to wolf down as the ships refuelled. 

John had assured them as the retrieval mechanism had wound Four back into the module that there wasn’t anything else to demand their immediate attention. Their space-bound brother confident that they could all take a much needed break - world ending disasters notwithstanding. 

The way Gordon had paused as he had sat down and not immediately stretched his legs forwards as he always did on their way home was enough of a tell. 

Virgil had been piloting with the aquanaut at his side for years, and had known his brother for nearly two decades before that. They had seen the swimmer through rehabilitation after two life-altering accidents that had left him scarred and fragile - but not as broken as doctors would have anyone believe. 

Yet, he knew better than to comment. 

It wouldn’t be received well. 

Not when Gordon was still well enough to climb out of Four and make it back to the cock-pit of Two. There was clearly a niggle, something somewhere apparently sitting just not quite right, but that must have been all. 

Virgil hoped that a hot bath and some yoga once they got home would see his younger brother right. Gordon hated the bad days, the worst ones when his back locked up and the tension in the same muscles that provided much-needed support left him crippled. 

Virgil hated those days too. 

Hated that there was little any of them could do to help. 

It was the same reason Gordon was always so prickly when his back did decide to play up, knowing full well that painkillers and patience were the only real options when it came to riding out the ache. 

That he was quiet most of the ride home, save for the occasional sigh, simply served to assure Virgil he was right in his diagnosis. 

Gordon had two extremes when he was bothered by something - full throttle chatter, or deadly silence. Not that he’d ever admit it, and not that Virgil would call him out on it in the moment. 

Still, it was a big brother’s prerogative to at least ask. 

“You good?”

Gordon’s sigh was heavy next to him, answer enough in itself.

“Ready to be home.” 

Which was code for tired. 

Which was code for hurting. 

Because, for all Gordon was prickly when it came to his back, he wasn’t stupid. He was perhaps the most aware of them all as to how close he had come and how far he had to drag himself back. The rest of them had merely been spectating supporters, very much aware of the problem and its implications, but with no real idea of what it was like. 

None of them had a spine that was a third artificial. 

Gordon knew his limits - even if he did sometimes push them too far - and knew when to ask for help. An athlete at heart, he knew when to listen to his body and how to look after himself. He knew when enough was enough, and what was needed to reset himself to best function. 

He knew when to ask for help. 

Scott would have heard the coded response and immediately had any of them down to the med-bay. Big brother, ever protective over his brood, would have needed a full explanation and a med-scan before he had been convinced that it was just an ache that their little fish had been feeling. 

He meant well, but sometimes their oldest brother was blinkered by his need to keep younger brothers safe and well. Not that Virgil blamed him, Gordon had given them all enough grey hairs to warrant wrapping him in cotton wool for the rest of his life. 

Virgil knew he himself could be guilty of just the same, but he’d been working on it over the years. He’d taken the time to figure out the more subtle signs and listened to what Gordon was really telling him. 

Ready to be home, was an answer. 

It wasn’t stubborn silence - I’m hurt but I don’t want you to find out. 

It wasn’t inane chatter - I’m really hurt and you’re going to take me to hospital whether I like it or not. 

And it wasn’t an outright admission - I’m hurt but I already patched myself up so it’s fine. 

“Want a heat pack?” He offered, glancing across to gauge how well the question would be taken. 

Gordon’s grimace said enough, “I’ll get it - probably best to keep moving.” 

Virgil simply nodded, returning focus to keeping the flight of his ship as smooth as possible. They’d get home eventually, little brother would get his bath, some painkillers, and with any luck a few days off of rescues to recover fully. 

Whilst he did, Virgil would do what he did best, and listen.

[treevore]

*claps* Now back to your other ocs. Yeah you got me there I was looking at Lothric. However let me tell you my thought process as I was looking at him. It went something like “wow two dark urges and ascended Astarion? That’s gotta be interesting I wonder how that works with two? What’s the dynamic between the three? Did they forsake bhaal to be with Astarion? I gotta ask but while I’m here let me look at all the other ocs…IS THAT A GANGREL?!?” It’s actually crazy how many of my interests align with yours. If I could shake your hand right now I think it would come off. So with that being said I’d like to know more about Lothric and Randy.

- Detective

DETECTIVE ANON I AM KISSING U ON THE MOUTH

YAY LOTHRIC TIMEEEEE

so that originally happened because @transkovsky and i were both talking about our durge runs, and then went "would be fun to put them together" and then that spiraled wildly to the point where lothric is inseparable from myce'la in my mind

which, in their canon (this diverges from a decent amount of pre- and post-game canon) myce'la is the one who is pure dead flesh created bhaalspawn, whereas lothric is a situation much more similar to orin, where living bhaalspawn begat bhaalspawn (in this case, bhaalspawn father raped his mother). myce'la spent a significant percentage of their life in the temple in baldurs gate, whereas lothric didn't even come to baldurs gate until he was around 70, and spent north of a decade as a sex worker before the bhaalspawn murder urges began to rear their bloodthirsty head.

the problem with lothric is he's good at what he sets out to do, in large part because he is EXTREMELY charismatic and attentive to social nuances and performances. the OTHER problem with lothric is, he is a love leech. he feeds off love and affection and legitimacy and if that starts to wane or transfer to someone else, his response is to betray that source of affection. bhaal's love was split three ways and he wasn't getting enough? ally with gortash. gortash sounding like he wants too much power? make a secret secondary pact with the netherbrain itself (this is, in my canon, his warlock patron, as he is a great old one warlock)

both lothric and myce'la were taken out by orin in the tadpole incident, because orin played the two of them off each other. pre-tadpole, lothric and myce'la haaaated each other, and so it was easy for orin to lure myce'la in with the promise of "we'll kill him together, it'll be just us again" and because lothric is arrogant, it was easy to get him alone with "lets celebrate, as you're about to usurp the whelp and put that dog in its rightful place." lothric got taken out first, and while myce'la was playing with his barely-alive body, orin took her out as well

as for bhaal and the temple, things are a bit muddy as to who lothric and myce'la "belong" to, as they'd become astarion's spawn in the interim of time when orin was the champion, but lothric and myce'la did wrest that power back from orin so it's a bit of "not forsaken, but bhaal has to go through custody talks with the vampire ascendant"

AND THEN ALSO RANDY!!!!

so randy's my...i want to say 9th gen, i'm not looking at his sheet, gangrel who was turned during the limp bizkit riot at woodstock (in game canon it happened in '92 instead of '99 because i am bad at remembering years) and then spent a significant amount of time (30-ish years) removed from like, every part of vampire society living with his sire moving through the more backwoods parts of the south, primarily louisiana, before breaking away and moving to vegas.

he's a societal moron, he's got a significant affinity for rats (his bite can possibly infect victims with leptospirosis, the only animals that respond to him are rats, toward the end of the game he frenzied bad and ended up with rat ears), he's a master at improvised automobile repair and a shitty driver, he has bizarre gaps in knowledge and equally bizarre spikes in knowledge (find another guy his generation who knows about kaldunism i dare you)

initially, he was a part of the camarilla and was largely affectionately attached to the mmmmmmalkavian primogen (i may be wrong on clan) through the events of the game, before meeting with various anarch members and deciding "actually, fuck this. i'm going to LA"

[shadows-aflame]

⭐️

<3

from this ask game

Ooo, can I yap about Miraak headcanons? I wanna yap about Miraak headcanons.

So in Chapter Four of Dragonsoul, Gislie witnesses a vision of a boy- who she doesn’t know but the audience can correctly guess as Miraak- interacting with a pair of Dragon Priests who speak at him, and to each other about him. I used this particular chapter to explore a little headcanon of mine, specifically in the segment below.

CW: child abuse, violence

Eyes void of any emotion or expression gaze into the masked visage, framed by matted hair and dark circles around deep eyelids. The youth says nothing, his only acknowledgment being the turn of his head when the Priest lowers to his level, and a slow, almost solemn blink is his only response. “Answer me.” The sound of a harsh, rapid strike echoes through the cells when the Dragon Priest smacks him across the face, and Gislie soundlessly cries out, her lips parting in an empty cry of protest. Desperately, she tries once more to rush forward from her spot, but she is paralyzed into her place as a bystander. Yet to her surprise, the youth doesn’t flinch or shy away even as the gloved palm makes contact with his face. Indeed, one might not even know he was injured if it wasn’t for the red mark forming across his left cheek, or the way his eyes were blinking just a little faster. What kind of child would ever respond like this, as though greeting pain with such familiarity? “Striking him like a disobedient whelp will not solve anything,” the second Dragon Priest remarks from the cell’s doorway, and Gislie can hear the utter exasperation in their low voice. “The last time we questioned him, it took fifteen lashes before he even began to flinch. This child is more resilient than most."

This passage was incredibly difficult to write, but I wanted to not only demonstrate the harshness of the Dragon Priests themselves (I truly don’t think that serving Draconic overlords was a life Miraak ever wanted in the first place), but also a headcanon of mine regarding his almost unnatural tolerance for pain.

I personally like to think that he doesn’t have any kind of special resistance or whatever, but rather, the fact that it takes enormous amounts of pain to even fully register for him. Even then, fully responding is in itself another matter entirely.

This also translates to how I perceive the fight against Valhok, and its outcome. Had Hermaeus Mora not intervened, I don’t think Miraak would have survived purely because he would’ve kept going until his body gave out around him. He’s relentless, and a tolerance for pain that borders on numbness would only exacerbate that fact.

[a-vampire-culturelover]

As Time Goes on- Chapter 2

For as long as the two siblings remembered, it was dark. Dark when they were awake, dark as they slept, and dark as they preyed. Many feared not just them in the lands, but their brethren, their swarm that bit and tore and mauled.

The radiation of the bombs, years after they went off, had managed to seep into the ground and affect a large group of survivors. Those who changed grew ears pointed like daggers, teeth sharp as needles, and an eerie paleness with glowing, reflective eyes. Those not changed by the “Gift” as they foresaw it were laid waste to, their giftless flesh and blood providing sustenance for years to come.

And when they ran out or fled? They flocked through the night, avoiding the giftless and tearing into small communities. Perhaps just for the food, or maybe the thrill of it.

For generations this is what Hierophant and Moon knew.

Never did they expect to be kicked out of their own colony, to fend for themselves.

They never expected to find who they thought had The Gift like them in a vault.

_ _

“Is it awake?”

“Stop poking her you pup!”

“Hmph. Are you sure this thing is.. Gifted like us?”

“Pointed teeth and suckling fangs, telltale signs brother!”

“I wanted to eat it.”

“They are the only Gifted we have seen outside of our colony. We mustn’t waste a friend to quench your belly.”

Empress was suprised to see she wasn’t dead when she woke up. Rather the strange creatures she had hid from that had eaten her cult were standing patiently above her, staring at her like they were waiting for something..

Her first instinct was to back away. She may have spoiled herself with the lavish life of a cult leader, but even she knew what to do when faced with danger.

Backing the fuck away of course.

The taller of the two, hairy and masculine, growled at her, kept on a so called leash by what appeared to be his sister, a shorter girl with an odd bat ear on top of her head, her hair dark and almost long enough to hit the floor. She gave a chitter, then a sniff, and seemed to hesitantly hold her hand out, waiting for a response. Against Empress’ better judgement, she shook the girl’s hand. And gave a brief flash of a toothy smile, unnerving Empress.

‘So many fangs so many fangs so many fangs-’

“Greetings, fellow Gifted.” She gave a hum of amusement to Empress as the two shook hands. How could someone so innocent and deadly sound so sinister..

Well actually it did make some sense.

“What do you mean ‘Gifted’?”

“Do you not know your own gift? Poor brother, she doesn’t even know how blessed she is!” The girl teased her brother, giving a genuine look of pity to Empress. She hated pity..

“What even are you two?”

“Do you not know your own kind, whelp? The Gifted, our fangs and ears? If I knew not any better I’d believe you were one of these loathsome giftless we devoured!”

“Brother, ease. She clearly knows not what she is.” The girl’s response seemed to anger the man, although despite his snarling he dared not attack his own kin.

Realizing what mess she had gotten into, and what would happen if she told them the truth, Empress decided that lying was her only option left.

“I.. guess you could show me?”

“Excellent! You’d make a fine edition to our colony!” The girl purred, embracing Empress. She would have spat vile words at her had it not been for the stakes of her life.

“Since when were we a colony? We were kicked out of our own just a month ago!”

“We’ll make our own colony, dearest brother. One that doesn’t abandon its kin.” Empress recognized solemn in her voice, as the girl went back to dancing eerily around Empress.

“Do you two have um… names?”

“Names?”

“Yeah, names. I um, don’t feel comfortable calling you by relatives, that’s why. Yeah.”

The girl seemed confused, her brother just annoyed. Deciding not to go through a debate regarding the new issue, Empress left for her room and pulled out two tarot cards while covering her eyes, pulling out two cards: The Moon and The Hierophant.

Handing the cards to her new companions, the girl took the card with the insignia of the moon, her brother trying to gnaw on his, but finding complacency in the namesake of it.

It was at this moment that Empress noticed something scrawled on the back of one particular card, the card being “The Empress”.

…It was addressed by her mother, Eleanor.