#rust breeches

[griffinequestrian]

Baby Bobby’s first time out on the trail.

#equestrian #horse #horses #horse back riding #thoroughbred #ottb #equine #trail ride #florida #fall #rust breeches

[silverskye13]

random thought, but i had a vivid image of, if helsknight and welsknight ever saw each other without armor (or just helsknight out of his armor tbh), helsknight showing welsknight the scar tanguish gave him and saying "this was intended for you."

i don't know how in character that is, but tbh it's haunting me. maybe it's part of helsknight's revenge against welsknight or something, calling out his unknightly behavior and unhonorable conduct.

"You didn't answer my summons."

Helsknight froze. It was a quick, momentary startle, a short-circuit of normality. The moment he did it, every instinct told him to keep moving. That old command [Do something.] blared loud in the quiet surprise of his mind. So he moved his hand to pick up the brush on his table, and pretended to be unconcerned.

"I'm not a dog. You can't call me to heel," Helsknight said simply. He smirked and growled, "Though if you feel like losing some limbs, feel free to try."

Behind him, Wels shifted uncomfortably. Helsknight liked making Wels uncomfortable, he didn't handle it well. He was a creature used to comfort and ease. Inconvenience often galled him more than a sword to the throat. Different tactics for different battlefields, and this battlefield was a delicate one.

Helsknight was cleaning his arms and armor, which was one of several reasons why he hasn't leaped for a fight when Welsknight had called him to one. He was only in a tunic and breeches. It was luck he even had his boots on. He had offered to run errands with Tanguish, but Tanguish had said he was visiting his church and wanted to go on rooftops. So Helsknight stayed home, and he left his boots on. That was the other reason Helsknight hadn't answered the call: Tanguish wouldn't know where he was, and he knew Tanguish got paranoid about being left behind. Besides, Helsknight had chores he could do at home [like cleaning his arms and armor] so he stayed. Cleaning the chainmail was almost a formality. Hels was hot and dry, and he wore it often enough that the rings clattering together cleaned themselves. But sometimes he just liked putting an extra shine on things, so he took out his brush and oil and started brushing it down for any miniscule specks of rust or broken links he could find.

Wels, always keen on the times he wasn't wanted, decided now was the perfect time to show up in his living room. He stood awkwardly, waiting on Helsknight to make some aggressive movement. When none came, he cautiously stalked further into the tiny living space. His emotions were loud and uncomfortable without the distance between their respective worlds to dampen them, and they clung like smoke against Helsknight's skin. Caution at an unfamiliar space. Disgruntlement at being ignored.

[Guilt, like ash on a burn.]

"Is this... Yours?" Wels asked, glancing around.

"No, I'm just squatting in a random house. Sounded like a fun way to spend a Tuesday."

Helsknight felt the ant-bite sting of vicarious agitation and smirked. He was already getting on Wels's nerves.

[Good.]

"Couldn't build something nicer?" Wels snapped impatiently.

"I'm a fighter."

Helsknight found a place on his chainmail to brush down and got to work. The rough, grating twinge of the coarse bristles on chain made Wels wince. Helsknight always found the noise pleasant. Like scratching an itch.

"So?"

"I have better things to do than spend hours building the perfect house."

Wels scoffed and looked around the room with renewed disdain. "Where's your little devil?"

It took Helsknight a moment to place what he was asking. He sneered, a quiet bearing of teeth, and caught the flicker of red in the reflective shine of his chainmail. Wels looked pointedly away from him.

[Like ash on a burn.]

"Not feeling remorse... are we, crusader?" Helsknight asked, finding a new place to polish. The coin-drop clatter of chain, and the shrill scrape of bristles filled the silence like an accusation.

"Of course not," Wels sniffed disdainfully, still refusing to meet Helsknight's eye.

"Careful." Helsknight murmured, that red flash reflecting off his chainmail again, anger simmering. "Lying's a sin."

"Why would I feel remorse for protecting my home?"

"A crusade well fought I'm sure."

"It's not a crusade!" Wels snapped, his own anger a living thing raising hackles. "A crusader invades! A crusader fights a holy war just for the principle."

"Right. And you're fighting because--"

"Because I'm protecting Tango."

"-because it's for his own good?"

Wels didn't exactly wince, but he did still, as though he'd heard someone draw a blade from its scabbard. Helsknight might as well have unseated his sword. He had stopped scrubbing, all pretense of work falling. The need to pace, to circle, to corner, rose up in Helsknight like a waking beast.

"Interesting choice of words. Protecting." Helsknight said, his voice low, his hands still. "I was under the impression they were friends. Do you often protect Tango from the people he's begging you to spare?"

"That doesn't matter." Wels said so firmly it was almost convincing. Almost. "People are convinced they need an abusive relationship. That doesn't change the fact it's bad for them."

"So many interesting words today," Helsknight hissed. He stood like a dark tower rising, all embered fury slowly stoking. Wels didn't bother turning to face him. He could feel his intent like thunder. "Abuse. Brings to mind the image of power. I do have a question."

"I didn't come here for your stupid questions."

"No, you came here looking for a fight."

"I didn't."

"You really do need to tame that lying tongue."

"I didn't come here for a fight."

"Did it feel powerful?" Helsknight demanded, pacing a step, and loathing the tiny room for denying him the space to circle. "The voice. The command. How did it feel."

"Shut up."

"To have someone begging you not to hurt them," Helsknight continued relentlessly. "Not your stupid play fighting on your stupid little server. True, shaking, terror. Did it feel good, crusader? Just?"

"I told you to shut up!" Wels shouted, taking a threatening step forward only to find Helsknight had closed the space between them and stood looming like a rook on a tombstone.

Fear, a caged thing howling, battered against Helsknight's anger. It made Helsknight feel almost giddy, the crash of malicious schadenfreude and self-righteousness against Wels; a flickering thing of brittle will. They made a terrible ouroboros together, fear feeding anger feeding elation feeding fear. They were always like this. No matter how calm either of them tried to be, once anger kindled in one, their emotions burned until there was nothing left but fury and loathing. Helsknight had been made to cut Wels down to size.

"Do you know what that kind of fear does to people?" Helsknight demanded again, his voice so near a whisper it was smothering. They were so close together, but they made so little noise, all will and wide eyes. "What happened to mercy for the helpless, crusader?"

"He wasn't helpless," Welsknight said, trying very hard not to back down. "He stabbed me."

"And a drowning rat bites. I wouldn't call it an apex predator. Certainly I wouldn't call it a danger to you, with your full armor and sword." Helsknight bared his teeth at Wels, something like a bitter grin. "I wasn't wearing armor."

Wels looked down, where Helsknight had drawn up his tunic to reveal the new scar in his abdomen. Wels looked like he'd stopped breathing.

"This was intended for you," Helsknight said. "You should thank me."

"You're-- you're here telling me he's harmless," Wels laughed nervously. "But he almost killed you. You."

Something in Helsknight snapped, and in the moment it took him to reach for it with white knuckles and compose it again, he'd shoved Wels hard in the chest. It didn't knock his other half off his feet, but he stumbled back hard enough hit the opposite wall. Not hard enough to hurt, but certainly hard enough to warn.

"He did," Helsknight snarled, pacing forward slow steps. "That's what terror does to helpless people, crusader. It makes them bite. It makes them beg. It makes them clamor to live. You. Did. That. What did it feel like to abuse that kind of power Wels? To turn someone into a scared animal? To make someone so desperate they would almost kill a friend? Did you find your righteousness there crusader?"

Helsknight didn't know what he planned on doing. Violence was in his blood like a serpent, and he wanted it. And Wels knew he wanted it. There was the ring of drawn metal, and the silver-bright glint of an enchanted blade in a dark room. Helsknight's advance stopped at the top of Wels's sword, not close enough to hurt, but close enough to warn.

"Stop." Wels said. A command. A plea.

"I'm unarmed."

"That doesn't matter."

Helsknight smiled, and there was loathing and euphoria in it, and the wine-dark dread of Wels right on the other side of it. The knowledge of a line crossed, a battle he hadn't even realized he was fighting made forfeit.

"Fine." Helsknight said. "My blood's already been spilled once on your behalf. At least this time do it with your own sword, coward. I'll make it easy for you."

He took a step forward, and nudged the blade with a knuckle, resting the point against his scar. The metal was cold, even through his shirt, the enchantments alive and writhing so close to his skin.

"How cruel have you gotten while I wasn't there to keep you in check, crusader?"

There was a long breath of silence between them. Helsknight stood, precarious and predatory, daring Wels to kill him. And Wels stood there, and dared himself to as well. And the room was dark, lit only by red anger and blue dread, and the pale, languid flicker of enchanted steel. And neither of them breathed. And the universe watched.

A loud clatter sounded on the roof. Both knights looked up towards the ceiling, Wels in startlement, and Helsknight in resignation.

"And he stays my hand once again," Helsknight sighed.

"What--?" Wels didn't get his full question out before Helsknight moved. He knocked the sword aside and lunged forward to grab Wels's shirt. In a move that would've made Martyn proud, he dragged Wels forward into his knee, knocking the wind out of him. In the time it took Wels to collapse to the floor, Helsknight had taken his sword, and held the point beneath his other half's chin.

"Go home Wels," Helsknight said, "before I send you there the hard way."

Wels, breathless on the ground, let out half a strangled laugh. "Why don't you?"

"Because I was asked nicely not to go running off and killing you."

"Helsknight?" A loud knock sounded at the door. Tanguish's voice, a bright comfort even in spite of its concern, called to him. "Is everything okay? I thought I heard something fall."

Helsknight glared meaningfully down at Wels, who only hesitated long enough for Helsknight to draw back the sword before slipping back to his world. The moment he did, Helsknight felt his breath leave him, the great void of being left to his own thoughts and emotions. In the wake of everything that was Wels, he felt ridiculous.

[What in hels had he even been about to do? Die on someone's sword to prove a point? Idiot.]

"Helsknight? The door is locked."

"I'm coming," Helsknight called, pausing only long enough to hide Wels's sword beneath the couch, where Tanguish couldn't see it and inevitably worried about it. He checked his tunic to make sure he hadn't managed to actually stab himself [he hadn't] and went to let Tanguish inside.

#rns ficlets #helsknight #welsknight #tanguish (kinda) #this one feels very dense and dramatic #i feel like wels actively seeks out hels when he feels guilty / bad / self loathing #its like a compulsion: punishing yourself because you did wrong #even though its ultimately unproductive #also something something helsknight making some kind of point about how #instilling terror in something to confirm your bias that its dangerous #is more even than the terrified thing causing harm #case and point i scared you into drawing your sword on an unarmed man #i dont know im tired and that was a really badass phrase to just drop on me anon #*evil not even alskdjfjf im going to bed

[cillianmesoftlyyy]

The Ward Pt. 1 | Jonathan Breech x fem!character

Summary: Jonathan Breech is sentenced to three months in a Dublin psych ward after trying to take his life. He meets a girl and thinks he's fallen in love... but is this just a product of opportunity and loneliness or could it be more?

Warnings: Based heavily on One the Edge (2001) so there is already a lot of mental-health specific discussions. More specifically- mentions of suicide, self-harm, death, depression, anxiety, feeling helpless and alone, medication, vomiting, pregnancy. There is nothing explicitly sexual in pt. 1 so there are no warnings for that here. Please don't read if you think any of the previously mentioned topics could be triggering! Some of this is taken from my personal experience with mental-health issues so read with care.

word count: 3098k

1979- The Smashing Pumpkins 🎶

Up the Junction- Squeeze 🎵

note- I named the female character because I personally don't love using "y/n." It can take away from the story that I'm trying to tell sometimes but the character is supposed to be general enough to be whomever you wish.

additional note (sry)- One the Edge is free on Internet Archive...

Please read the warnings before continuing, thanks!

Jonathan made his way through the hospital corridors, glancing briefly into each room they passed. 

“This is a pretty shitty hotel, eh? What do you charge per night? Whatever it is, I’m not fucking paying it,” he stumbled around behind one of the nurses and laughed lightly. They stopped in front of a room. 

“This is you. You’re expected in group therapy at 4.” The nurse deadpanned and unlocked the yellow steel door for him. Jonathan poked his head inside the door and whistled low. 

“Mhm, yep. Just what I was expecting,” he leaned out again and yelled after the nurse, “would it kill yeh to add some fucking color to this room? Fucking depressing.” He shook his head and wandered inside. He sat down on the mattress, the metal springs popped below and it sagged below his weight. He looked around at the drab gray room, the one window covered by rusted bars, and the bare bedside table. Jonathan emptied his pockets on the bed beside him and moved the carton of cigarettes to the table. A clock on the opposite wall ticked quietly and he watched it with his bright blue eyes, blinking every so often to the rhythm. 

A second nurse came by and handed him some clothes, pajamas. 

“What are these for?” Jonathan frowned, “I don’t need pajamas.” 

“You have to wear them during the day,” the nurse responded. 

“Why the hell would I do that when I have my normal clothes?” 

“Its policy, it distinguishes you from guests and day patients. In-patients have to wear these.” The nurse pointed to the pile of neatly folded clothes in Jonathan’s arms. “Put them on.” 

Jonathan sighed and kicked off his shoes. 

“You’re not gonna watch are yeh?” He sneered at the nurse when he didn’t leave immediately. The nurse turned and left, closing the door without another word. Jonathan stripped down to his underwear and examined the clothes that he was given. It was a matching pajama set in an icy blue color with smaller blue designs across the fabric. The sleeves were too short and ended at his forearm and the pants around his midcalf. He pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed under his breath. He put on his shoes and the cardigan he had brought with him, a yellow wool cardigan that still smelled like home. 

…

Around 4 o'clock Jonathan left his room and wandered aimlessly through the psychiatric ward, looking for the group therapy room. He walked until he spotted Dr. Figure walking into a small room and called out to him. 

“Heya, Dr. Figure. I’m here for my group therapy!” He said with a flare of dramatic excitement. Dr. Figure looked tired and responded with a strained smile. 

“Hello, Jonathan. Please come in.” They walked inside the room and Jonathan took a seat in a chair beside a boy around his age wearing a dark blue bathrobe. His light brown hair was messy and long and he wore round wire-framed glasses over his eyes. Dr. Figure sat opposite of him across the circle and cleared his throat as he arranged a stack of papers. Another boy and a girl sat at the circle too though neither of them looked up when Jonathan sat down. 

“Good afternoon everyone, thank you for coming today.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice,” Jonathan shrugged and pulled one of his knees up to his chest in the chair and rested his chin on his knee. 

“Yes, thank you Jonathan for coming anyway.” Dr. Figure sighed and gestured towards him, “this is Jonathan, everyone. He’s new and he’ll be joining us in group therapy. Why don’t we all introduce ourselves? I’ll start. I’m Dr. Figure and I’m the head psychiatrist here.”   

“I’m Toby.” The boy next to Jonathan nodded his head and Jonathan smiled at him. It passed across Jonathan to the girl on his otherside. She glanced up briefly to introduce herself with a small smile. 

“I’m Margaret.” She said softly and looked down at her hands again as the last boy introduced himself. He had headphones around his neck and a walkman clipped inside the pocket of his robe. Jonathan looked back at the girl, studying her. She looked as though she hadn’t slept in a while with the dark circles shading her downcast eyes. She was wearing a vintage nightgown, he realized, one with long sleeves and a modest neckline even though the dress was shorter than her knees. On her legs she had long brown socks tucked into a pair of duck boots. Her hair was brushed away from her face and fell straight down her back but he couldn’t see how long it actually was. She had a busted lip, he could tell from the bruising around her bottom lip and a scab that looked as if it was still bleeding. She played with the hem of her nightgown and glanced up again, catching him as he stared at her but he didn’t look away, she did. She flushed and stared at the tan tile around her chair. 

“Now I’d like to pass this around and I want you all to add any recent fears or anxieties that may have come up in the last few days that we haven’t talked about yet,” Dr. Figure handed the clipboard to the boy next to Margaret. Toby raised his hand. 

“Yes?”

“What if we’re scared of filling out paperwork?” Toby asked and Jonathan laughed. Dr. Figure seemed to genuinely ponder the question before Toby added, “that was a joke,” and Jonathan laughed again. 

“Why don’t you tell us what you’re afraid of, doctor?” Jonathan smiled and Dr. Figure exhaled. 

“It’s not important.”

“I think you’re deflecting, doctor.” 

“Jonathan, if you’d like to discuss my fears then I would be happy to do so at a later time in my office,” Dr. Figure answered calmly. 

“Oh, I see. You can analyze us as much as you want but as soon as someone asks the same question of you, you can’t answer, eh?” Jonathan crossed his arms across his chest. 

“It’s just not something that I do with my patients during group therapy. This is your time to get better, it isn’t about me.” 

“You know what would make me better, doctor?”

“What’s that, Jonathan?” Dr. Figure rubbed his eyes and waited for Jonathan to answer.

“I want clothes that actually fit. These are too short, I look ridiculous! And why do we have to wear fucking pajamas? How am I supposed to feel good about myself walking around in these, eh? And no one told me that girls were gonna be here too! Jesus, it's embarrassing.” Jonathan huffed and complained loudly, leaning forward in his seat sometimes to emphasize his point. He looked over at Margaret who was turning red. 

“I understand that you’re upset about the clothes but they shouldn’t matter. You’re here to get better, Jonathan.” Dr. Figure crossed his legs and clasped his hands together. 

“Now, if we could, please continue.” He gestured to Margaret to take the clipboard from the boy next to her. As she did so, Jonathan stood up and walked towards the door. 

“Thanks, doc. That’s it for today.” He waved his hand and left the room, letting the door close behind him. He went straight to his room and sat down on his bed. Gray light filtered in through the window and he looked out at the rainy streets. 

…

That evening he found the rec room and sat down by a window, bracing himself against a heater. Toby was sitting by the window as well and looked up at him when Jonathan approached. 

“Hey,” Toby nodded.

“Hey.” Jonathan replied and opened the window but it caught after a few inches. 

“It doesn’t open all the way,” Toby smiled, “they don’t want us to jump out.” 

“Damnit, that was going to be my plan A,” Jonathan shook his head.

“What’s your plan B?” 

“Wait out the next four months,” Jonathan chuckled darkly and reached into his breast pocket for a cigarette. 

“They won’t let you smoke that in here,” Toby advised and glanced over at the female nurses speaking quietly near the door. 

“I wouldn’t mind getting in trouble with them, eh?” He smirked at Toby who laughed. “Toby, right?”

“Yeah,” Toby nodded and pushed his glasses up his nose. 

“Jonathan,” he patted his chest for a second and changed the subject, “By the way, what’s that girl’s story, the one from group.”

“Margaret?” Toby asked and Jonathan nodded. “She’s been here for a week or two. I think we came in around the same time. I don’t know a lot about her because she doesn’t say much in group. It must be hard being the only girl around our age here.” Toby shrugged and continued, “She’s had that busted lip for a while but I’m not sure exactly how she got it. I’ve talked to her a little and she’s nice.”

“And cute,” Jonathan added with a laugh and Toby nodded. 

“Yeah, that too. I think she’s been through some shit.”

“Haven’t we all?” Jonathan muttered and Toby nodded knowingly. They sat in silence for a moment before Toby spoke again. 

“You know I’ve been sneaking out of here a few times a week at night. I could take you if you wanted.” 

“No shit,” Jonathan whispered with a smirk, “really?”

“Yeah. Wanna go tomorrow night?” 

“Of course.” 

“Ok,” Toby smiled. 

“Ok.” Jonathan affirmed and hopped up. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“See yah,” Toby waved and went back to looking out the window. 

Jonathan left the rec room and wandered further down the hallways, passing the women’s ward. There was one men’s bathroom in the women’s ward and he went in. The opposite end of the bathroom had a short tiled wall that ended in a ledge below a row of barred windows. There were three sinks on his left and two stalls on his right, one a handicapped stall. A single urinal stood against the wall. Sitting on the ledge and leaning against one of the walls of the handicapped stall was Margaret, reading a book. The dying light from the window shone through her nightgown, showing the dark silhouette of her body underneath. She looked up quickly and jumped at seeing her. 

“Shit sorry, I thought this was the men’s room.” 

“It is, sorry.” Margaret closed her book and hopped down from the ledge, wincing as her feet hit the ground. “I like to read in here.”

“In the men’s room?” Jonathan raised his dark eyebrow, his pink lips pursed. 

“No one uses this bathroom in the women’s ward.” 

“The male nurses?”

“They aren’t allowed to work in the ward… legal reasons.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and held the book against her chest. He looked at the cover of the book. 

“What are you reading?”

“Jane Eyre.”

“That’s a bit on the nose, isn’t it?” Jonathan laughed and she smiled. 

“Maybe but I love it. I love anything by the Brönte sisters.” She fingered one of the pages on the book and met his eyes. She had a heart-shaped face with messy unkempt eyebrows and she was short, barely 5”3. 

“Did someone have you locked up in their attic?” He joked. 

“No, though it would have made my life more interesting.” She smiled at him, her cheeks pressed up into her eyes and flushed slightly from the conversation.

“You’re cute,” Jonathan broke the momentary silence and her eyes widened slightly. 

“You don’t know me,” she laughed breathlessly and brushed past him to the door. He spun around and followed her. 

“I don’t have to know you to know that you’re cute.” He protested and smiled as she took the door handle in her hand. 

“Don’t be stupid,” She frowned and he threw up his hands in surrender. 

“Personally, I thought that was pretty smart but hey- wait! Don’t go, I wasn’t actually coming in here to use the bathroom, I just wanted some space.” 

She looked at him for a moment and rolled her eyes, “word of advice? Don’t call girls cute, it's demeaning.” She cocked her head at him and left the bathroom. He left after her and watched as she walked down the corridor to her room. She looked back at him and smiled to herself as she went inside and closed the door. 

…

Jonathan woke up early the next morning for his private appointment with Dr. Figure. His room was cold and he’d slept in a t-shirt on top of his covers like a child. He was shivering when he finally woke up and quickly changed into his warmer pajamas, gritting his teeth as he remembered how short they were on him. He pulled on a jumper and laced his roughed up sneakers. Stepping out into the corridor, he rubbed his shoulders for warmth and hopped down the stairs two at a time. He pushed open the door to the garden and followed the cement sidewalk through a row of tall hedges. The morning was cold but the sun was already in the sky and shining on the hospital’s grounds. As Jonathan passed through the first set of hedges he looked to the side. Sitting on a small wooden bench was Margaret, still reading Jane Eyre. She had on a pair of men’s blue checkered pajama pants and a dark green jumper, also still wearing her duck boots. She sat with her legs crossed beneath her and her hair billowed in the short rushes of wind. He caught himself looking at her crotch and snapped out of it. He stuck his hands beneath his armpits and walked over, smiling wide when she looked up. 

“How was your first night?” She dog-eared the page in her book and squinted up at him. 

“Not bad, but I woke up fucking freezing.” 

“The heaters don’t work in the rooms. That’s why I go into the bathrooms to read.”

“Or outside,” he pointed at her book. She smiled and looked down for a moment. 

“It’s part of my treatment. I spend an hour outside everyday, for the fresh air and sun. It’s supposed to make me happier.” 

“You know they have drugs that do the same thing.” Jonathan smiled and rocked back and forth on his feet. 

“I don’t take them… I haven’t for a few weeks.” 

“Oh?” Jonathan sniffed, his nose already running in the cold air. She thought about telling him why she wasn’t on her meds but changed her mind. Jonathan noticed her change in body language and cleared his throat. 

“Look, I’m supposed to have a meeting with the doc. Could you show me where his office is?” He cocked his head to the side, twisting his lips into a smile. 

“You think you’re real smooth, don’t you?” She shook her head, laughing. 

“Don’t know, it depends on whether or not you say yes doesn’t it?”

“And what if I have something I’d rather be doing?” She smirked slightly and brought her knees up to her chest, balancing her heels on the edge of the bench. 

“Do yah?” Jonathan asked. 

“Of course.”

“And what is that?” He brought his head back upright and continued to smile, “what would you rather be doing than walking with me?”

“Eating real food at a restaurant with warm bread at the table, or going to a library where I actually have a valid library card, or buying expensive ice cream that I can’t eat because it's freezing outside…” she listed off the items, taping her lips with her index finger. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and Jonathan imagined how soft and cold they would be against his fingers. 

“What if in exchange for showing me where the old man’s office is, I buy you an ice cream when we get out of this shithole?” He shuffled his feet in the brown grass and Margaret smiled softly. 

“You think we’re getting out of this place?” She shook her head, almost sad but still smiling. 

“Why don’t we just pretend we are, for the sake of today?” He shrugged and twisted his torso side to side. She watched him for a second, trailing her eyes over his lanky body stuffed into clothing that was made for someone much younger. She had to admit that he was pretty but there was a reason that they were all in there, and Jonathan wasn’t exempted from that. She nodded and put her feet back on the ground and stood. Holding Jane Eyre in her arms she led Jonathan back to the path in the direction of the smaller house near the border wall. 

“So, what ice cream do you like?” Jonathan asked. His sneakers gripped the pavement and sent small pebbles bouncing across the pavement. 

“German chocolate,” she answered after a moment of serious deliberation. 

“You know, I’ve noticed something.”

“What?” She looked at him as they walked. 

“I don’t recognize your accent. You aren’t Irish.”

“No,” she shook her head, “are you disappointed?” 

He smiled and put his head back, “No, no. I’m just surprised. You don’t sound British either…” He bit his lip, trying to place her accent. 

“I’m American,” she answered for him and pulled her hair to the side of her shoulder. 

“American? What are you doing here?” He laughed lightly and she blushed. 

“I’m studying here for a semester.”

“Where?” 

“Trinity,” she glanced at him, “for Literature.” 

“Fuck, no wonder you’re depressed. Why would you come to Ireland for college?” He laughed and she blushed further. 

“I just wanted to get away from my family and Ireland seemed like the farthest place from home… and you have a good Literature program here.” 

“Ah, all the Irish poets and writers…”

“And Sinead O’conner.” She added and Jonathan laughed loudly. 

“You’re funny.” 

“And cute, apparently.” She shrugged, “you still haven’t apologized.” 

“For what?” He played dumb. 

“For calling me cute.” 

“I’m not apologizing for pointing out something that’s true.” He argued and she looked up at the sky, pretending to study the clouds. 

“I think you’re an asshole, Jonathan.” She looked up at him and he nodded slowly, a small smile stuck to his lips. 

“So do I.” 

They walked in silence to the house and Margaret left him at the door. He walked in through the door, strips of paint curled and fell onto the doormat. 

“Don’t forget that you owe me an ice cream,” she called quietly before the door closed and he gave a little salute before the door snapped shut.

...

end of pt. 1 :)

Thank you so much for all of the support. This community means the world to me and I feel very supported by everyone on this niche community. I love writing these silly little fanfics and I'm flattered that people like them. I read all of your comments and reblogs- lots of love!

#cillian murphy #cillian x reader #cillian x fem!reader #fanfiction #young cillian murphy #cillian fluff #cillian murphy x reader #jonathan breech #on the edge 2001 #fem!reader #imagine #multi chap fic #jonathan crane

[operafantomet]

I can't be the only one that is fascinated by the colour differences seen in Christine's costumes around the world? Here is a photoset showing those who tend to differ the most:

THE ELISSA SKIRT: Though the main colours are always red, green and gold, it differs which of these colours are most dominant. Sometimes there is a fair mix of all as well. Depicted here is a red skirt from Stockholm/Copenhagen, a golden skirt from Australia/World Tour, and a green skirt from Hamburg.

THE SERAFIMO SKIRT: Being striped skirts they usually feature multiple colors in pink, green and golden/ochre tones. But some skirts focus more on one of these. Depicted here is a mint skirt from Stockholm/Copenhagen, a white from Germany, and a rust/orche one from the US. There's also been blue and pink versions.

THE SERAFIMO BREECHES: As with the skirts these are often striped. Here's three exceptions focusing more on one main shade - green breeches from World Tour revival, black breeches from Australia/World Tour, and blueish brocade breeches from the US (albeit here used in the World Tour revival).

THE ROOFTOP COSTUME: The design feature a highly patterned and multi-coloured dress and it is said Maria Bjørnson never really made up her mind about the fabric. It also means costume makers has done many different interpretations. Here's three - pink in West End, blue in Stockholm/Copenhagen, and mint in West End. There's also been white and purple versions.

THE STAR PRINCESS: Ah, the Star Princess. Although always featuring various shades of pink and blue/purple, the exact saturation vary wildly. It also varies how much blue/purple is featured in the bodice, and how white the ombre effect of the skirt is. Here's a VERY pink version from West End, a silvery pink version from Basel, and a blue/pink/white version from Australia/World Tour.

(Original design by Maria Bjørnson)

#phantom of the opera #costume design #costume nerding #christine daae

[pursuitseternal]

“Relenting:” a romantic💞 update to ETL Astarion x Tav (OC) in “Our Blood is Thicker:”

Astarion x F! (OC) | E | 4.7K of angst and kisses

Summary: At the end of another long day, Cordehlia seeks a moment of isolation, only to have the source of her agony ask her for a bite. Same old pains resurface, same old ambition for power in his crimson eyes. Only trouble is, after a falling out, he hasn’t returned…. And there are more monsters in this forest than a charming Vampire Spawn…

CW: angst, self-loathing, fight, flashbacks, anxiety, some mildly graphic violence against werewolves, “first” kiss, post battle make out, cockblocking companions…

Previous Chapter | AO3 link | AstarionMasterlist

Chapter 4: “Relenting”

💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞

Hag destroyed. Tiefling allies made. A few goblins killed… more supplies for the camp, more loot for everyone’s pockets. Cordehlia turned the day over in her mind as they threw together a ragtag place to rest. Most of her companions were too tired to pitch a tent, settling for a bedroll under the stars of the Grove.

But not him. Oh no, he took every tedious care to set his abode just as he liked it. Just as he saw fit. Cordehlia shook her head, amused and irritated in equal measure. Her companions consulted one another around the fire, their plans for infiltrating the Goblin camp tomorrow… finding the Archdruid that was demanded. It would be another grueling day tomorrow.

Her elven sensibilities grated on her with how dirty she was, silently she grabbed a carafe of water and a rag, fishing out a bar of soap she had found among the Tieflings today. At last. Supplies and clean linens, a change of clothes in hand, she left without a word.

Night crept in as she did the same, stalking to the edge of camp so as not to draw attention. Eager to wash the grime and blood from her skin.

She hurried, not wanting to get caught again by prying eyes. She laughed at the memory.

If only he knew… if only he remembered the eery and striking resemblance to what set them on their path to engagement. Being caught lusting after her… all those years of fondness and flirtation as youth suddenly solidified as the truth of his feelings came forward. Prominently. No denying it after being caught with his hand down his pants, that veil of dramatic pretense finally slipping away.

Sighing, she scrubbed her skin, letting the light clean scent of the soap reground her. It was enough for now. She smiled just a bit, assured and proud of herself that he still wanted her. For all the centuries of torment they both endured, she still made him… long. Long for her.

And long and hard.

She giggled to herself. But the sight of her dirty, rust-colored skin, stained with the results of her violence sobered her.

She was not that innocent She-elf. Nor was he that confident, devious, charming Elf lordling that set his sights on her.

He couldn’t even remember her.

She could barely remember herself anymore.

Washing in silence, the weight of her suffering grew with every swipe of the clean cloth over her skin. It should be making her feel free. Cleansed. But instead, she only watched as the once pure water ran stained as it touched her.

Corrupted.

Ruined.

Vicious.

She hastily threw on the clean tunic and breeches, and even with all the torment she struggled to fight back down inside her, it did feel good to be clean.

In her body if not her soul.

Footsteps approached. And she hurriedly grabbed her soiled clothes, dumping out the basin and wringing out the wash cloth.

“There you are…” that silken voice purred from the edge of camp. Astarion ran his eyes over her, the scent of soap and cleanliness hitting him strong. “Feeling better are we?” His smirk turned the corner of his mouth, that ravenous glint in his eyes as he pulled out another little bottle of ruby potion for her. “I thought you might give me a hand…” he drew near, “or a wrist, or a neck…” then he whispered right into the curves of her pointed ear. “Or a thigh, if your blood is running hot like mine.”

“Is this your ask every fucking night?” she snapped.

His eyes went wide. Mouth tweaking just a hint in surprise at her instant rage.

Good.

“Your blood might be hot, but not as I was hoping,” he couldn’t help the tease. But as he watched her face only growing redder, he softened. “Sorry, I… you’re not feeling better. Ahem…” He cleared his throat nervously. “I can just…”

She gave a feral growl, tugging up the sleeve of her shirt, balling her hand into a fist and shoving it in his face. “Here, be quick. Tomorrow will be grueling. Bloody. Another list of victims to add to my count, I would imagine.”

“Victims?” he queried, his voice gentle, almost as gentle as the way he caught her rigid arm in his hands and set it back down at her side. “What is going on, Cordehlia?”

She said nothing, only hissing breath from her mouth as she looked at her feet.

“You were glorious today you know, righteous…” he purred at her, his hand slowly stroking the bared skin of her arm. “No one looks so delicious covered in blood. Well,” he taunted with a dark little laugh, “maybe except for me.”

Scoffing, she shook her head. “I wasn’t meant to be this…” swallowing, she tried to pull from his touch. But he held firm. “I wasn’t meant to be blood-spattered and reckless. Violent and sadder and wiser. You were. You always were impetuous and rash and devious.”

Her body went numb. Chilled except for the feeling of his hand on her skin and the raging heartache that tore through her chest. He just let her stay beside him, his hand around her arm a steady tether keeping her present.

“Well,” he cleared his voice, all that honey in his tones gone, nothing but softness and the gentle rasp of his low tones in his throat, “you’re not alone you know, that feeling of being made into something against your will.”

The devastation in his voice drew her attention, meeting those dark red eyes, usually so exacting and seductive now wide and worried.

“We can even compare notes if you like, which would be easier if I could remember more…”

She swallowed that burning lump in her throat.

“But, for what it’s worth, as another being thrown into the darkness and made to do horrid, unspeakable things against my will… I am glad I’m not alone.” Those full lips of his tweaked slightly into a smile. “Not anymore.”

Gods, her face was soft in the moonlight. Bathed and glowing, and strangely familiar. Was she looking at him with longing on purpose? Were her lips trembling to catch his attention, bidding him to stay them with his own?

Her eyes began to flutter, and every muscle in her arm in his grasp clenched in expectation.

Until she took a deep breath, shaking her long red hair. “I…” she withdrew. “I am not myself right now,” she mumbled. “I need food, rest… all this business with the tadpoles, finding the Goblins, rescuing the Druid… it’s a bit much.”

“It is,” Astarion smiled. Holding his place. Letting her sway on her toes, undecided if she should stay or leave. Undecided if she should kiss him, by the way those lips twitched and puckered.

She looked down where his hand hung, the one that had just held her gently, that cool chill of his touch… He had given her something so small, so insignificant. Swallowing, she realized it was only fair she returned the favor.

So, she held up her wrist. “I need you strong, so feed, my vampire,” she whispered. “And be quick.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he smiled, caressing his fingers along the pinpricked skin of her arm to press her to his mouth. He looked into her face, expecting her to shut her eyes tight, bracing for the piercing pain of his bite.

But those silver eyes just stared back. Her breath was quick, her eyes dark as they dilated to watch his mouth on her flesh. That ivory of her complexion grew flush, just a kiss of blush on the crest of her cheeks.

His hunger took hold, that scent of her skin so close, the pull of her blood so strong. He bit, sharply and quickly, letting his lips and tongue do the rest. Drinking her down, as all the while, she watched. Licking her own lips as her blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. Forcing shaky breath after shaky breath from her lungs, hiding it from him with her silence.

She looked so… radiant, it made something inside his undead heart shift. And what was more, she had called him hers, her vampire…

He lifted his mouth, pressing the potion of healing into her palm. “Here, a little something for the effort from your grateful vampire,” he teased.

A weak smile twitched on her lips as she downed the bottle. “Little something for a massive effort. Each day seems to just be more. More cures that don’t work, more puzzles and people who need help… more mysteries and unanswered questions. These tadpoles aren’t going to remove themselves…”

“Well,” he stepped into her path. That wry look on his face. Calculating and cunning. It made her stomach sink, for she had seen it so often before. “I know you’re working hard to fix these little tadpoles of ours, but you have to admit… there is potential here.”

“Potential for what, exactly?” she cocked her chin. “Power? Influence? Control?”

“Well, yes, naturally.” He raised that brow, a flick of his wrist.

Cordehlia just shook her head. Some raging disbelief darkening her face and she hung her head low.

“Look, all I am saying is that we know there are many others under this influence, instead of removing them… what if… we found a way of controlling them… and those who possess them?”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Her voice fell soft. Sharp and cold. “You would like it so much, you would choose it above everything.”

“Above you,” he snapped, “you mean?”

Oh that little spitfire, she squared her shoulders and parted her legs. Her eyes narrowed with all the resolve she mustered. “Forgive me if my memory is intact, that I remember the consequences of your obsession with making a name for yourself… or to find a way to influence others to your benefit…”

“That was it, wasn’t it? The thing you accuse me of for leaving you… not that I can remember,” he snapped, his teeth bright in the moonlight. “So eager to keep me with you always isn’t that right, darling?” he gave that low, rumbling chuckle. “What if controlling these tadpoles was the way for us to be together for eternity? We know so very little, perhaps they grant us powers beyond even our ability to rip into the minds of others…. Long life? Power? Wealth? A way for me to kill my old master?”

“What if it causes loss and despair and heartache and death?” She hissed in reply. “What if it hurts others more than you could ever fathom, even if you finally got your head out of your…”

“Tch,” he interrupted, his own temper beginning to flame. “I have the feeling we aren’t discussing the same thing….”

Cordehlia scoffed, trying to push past him, but he slid effortlessly into her path again. “Let me pass,” she hissed.

“Not until you admit it. You’re angry with me, and I have a feeling we aren’t discussing anything related to these tadpoles at all…”

“You want to know? You want to know?” she panted. Her face now red with rage.

She closed her eyes, drawing upon the tadpole’s power inside them both as their minds smashed together.

“It won’t take me long,” Astarion grinned from atop his horse. “First, a few months study, then a career in the Magistrate’s office. I’ll have a name, influence, wealth, I’ll have it all…” He grinned wider, reaching a hand down to the She-elf beneath him. Her red hair dancing in the breeze, her silver eyes brimming with love, and desire, and longing. It made his heart full and his groin ache. “We’ll have it all, my love.”

“You know, I would wed you if you had nothing more than your charming good looks and the clothes on your back,” she smirked, grabbing his hand. “Of course those would most likely quickly end in a pile on the ground…”

“Vixen,” he purred, leaning over to place his lips on her fingers. So soft and warm and familiar. “Only a little time until that may happen… a few months perhaps. A blink of the eye for our kind. And then, we will wed. And you,” he gave her that same rakish leer that made her stomach flutter and her thighs hot, “you, Cordehlia Ancunín will be the toast of Baldur’s Gate, my bride.”

“It does sound rather nice,” she gripped his hand, running her thumb across the back of his hands, knowing the way every muscle, every vein raised in his pale skin. “The name… and the fame.”

“Doesn’t it just?”

The scene grew hazy… blurred as if she kept him from seeing, from hearing every detail. Just the galloping of hooves and the sight of him riding into the woods.

Then it was only her… standing in the road. A different day, a different dress. Her body was wrapped tight in white furs. The snow crunched under her feet, shaded by the barren trees.

She looked up the road. Shivering as she clutched her fur cloak tighter. Her hands trembled, but she held tight to something… letters, a thick stack in her palm. She was waiting. Again. For anything. For him.

Until the wind tore down the path, ripping every paper from her frozen fingers faster than she could scream and cry and chase after them.

Gone.

She had nothing now. Only a cleft of loneliness in her heart. The chill of winter, the death of her hope. The shiver of her body, the warmth of her love dispersing forever.

He was gone.

She released him. Her eyes filled with hot tears, but she wouldn’t blink. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of crying over him again. Not again.

Not to his face.

Before he could even open his eyes, she ran up the path and into the camp.

He was gone. Again. Or still. It was time for the night watch, and still he was away. Cordehlia’s heart raced, but from worry or just raw hurt, she wasn’t certain.

The only thing that made her feel slightly less worried was that Karlach had watched him take his daggers into the forest… grumbling about going hunting. It wasn’t much, but it was at least a direction he was spotted and a purpose.

But even as the company sat around the fire, her stomach turned blackly sour. It felt familiar. Him leaving. Her waiting. The old thrum of anxiety and not knowing….

She shook it off for now. He was no Magistrate, no elfling, he wasn’t even young anymore. He was a Vampire. More deadly than the vast majority of things in the woods.

It made her mind wander, her mouth waiting to speak until there was a break in the conversation amongst them. She turned to look at the human, the newest member of their band. “You were raised in Baldur’s Gate, were you not, Wyll?”

“Indeed,” he flashed that gentlemanly grin at her. “Son of the Duke, no less, though I obviously was promised for a different path…” He meant all that he had become too, Blade of Frontiers, warlock bound in service. Monster hunter.

“Do you know of Cazador Szarr?”

The question hung in the air, and by the weight in her voice, everyone grew silent. Heavy. Each surmising at least the source of such a wondering.

Wyll cleared his throat, “Can’t say that I have. But I haven’t been in the city since I was a youth. Is he new?”

Her eyes grew sad as she turned back to look into the fire. “I doubt it,” she murmured.

“I have heard,” Gale’s gentle voice slid right in to fill the quiet. “Patriarch of the Szarr family, centuries old and steeped in nasty business, if the rumors are true…”

“They probably are, if I knew of them.” She breathed. Unable to look into those kind eyes.

“I’m not surprised, Wyll Ravenguard, that you have no notion of them in your own city. They lurk in the shadows, nefarious as they come. Why, it’s rumored that he’s centuries old, some gift of immortality…”

Silence from the She-elf made him continue, even as she gave no reaction.

“…they also suspect he’s at the center of abductions, murders, missing persons…”

Still silence.

“… the boldest call him Vampire, his victims, those missing…”

“There is a wisdom in being bold,” she finally breathed.

Wyll’s eyes went wide. For someone new, he was clearly observant. “Your vampire rogue… you don’t mean…”

“It would be easier to confirm if he were here,” she snapped, raising her head to gaze into the shadows beyond their camp.

Gale scooted through the grass, closer to speak just to Cordehlia. “You know, if Astarion is Cazador’s spawn, there is danger. A master that powerful won’t stop looking for something that is his… And from what I’ve read, true vampires have such powers… turning to mist, flying, calling legions of were…”

A sharp howl pierced the quiet of the woods.

“…wolves…” Gale finished his thought as he leapt to his feet.

Cordehlia jumped, racing in the direction of the sound, managing to grab her blade and dagger as she sprinted.

Her heart pounded, every instinct in her elven body hummed to life, her quick feet and perfect balance launching her through the dark woods. Her battle intuition was on fire, following the scent of blood in the air, hoping it was from Astairon’s kill and not the Pale Elf himself.

Whatever it is, it was just ahead now. The ringing of a blade against… something denser than metal. The growling of many voices. And the grunt of one rogue, fighting for his life by the sound of it. Cordehlia drew her weapons, breaking into the clearing. No thoughts, just pure bloodlust and rage clouding her vision in crimson. Her blade tasted flesh, burying into matted grey fur. The beast howled, a death rattle as it fell to the forest floor.

All eyes turned on the now bloodied warrior, three more werewolves salivating with their glowing yellow eyes. But it was the look of pure, sheer relief on Astarion’s face that made her whole body spark and thrill.

He was alive.

And he was smiling. Feral, wild, relieved.

Cordehlia leapt over the carcass, facing the beasts, her vampire rogue at the ready at her side.

They moved as one, fluid and smooth and elegant, even as the creatures fell and spurted their streams of blood with each slice and stab the elves made. They were slow, lumbering and snapping, slashing their claws to try to block their shining blades.

But even three wolves were no match for their speed and stealth and deadly aim. With one last stab, Astarion buried his blade into the last werewolf’s neck, pulling it out to wipe it clean on the dark fur of its body.

Crodehlia stood, breath heaving, wiping her blade clean too on the nearest fallen monster.

She could feel the intensity of his stare on her back, but she wasn’t ready to face him. The question on her tongue burned too much. “Did Cazador send them for you?” she whispered, the silence of the woods falling back around them.

“Yes,” he gave that single reply. His throat bobbed up and down as he looked at her. His breath still ragged. Rough. Loud. “I thought that was it… I thought I would be taken… and then you…”

Silence. Just his breath whistling.

“Astarion,” she whispered his name with her own trembling voice.

He broke, descending on her, hands clutching around her head, pulling her lips against his. So rigid, as he kissed her, the moment their lips met, every part of her body softened. Melted. Molding into his. Relenting. Astarion couldn’t pull her close enough, and the way she tugged at him, hands pressed into his lower back, something just felt… right.

Familiar.

She was so tender… the taste of her kiss covering his tongue. And he ate it up, like one starved. Maybe he was. Maybe there was more he hungered for than blood. Than living blood.

Than her blood.

And she… that… vixen… met his hunger in equal measure. Stroke for stroke. Lick for lick. Her tongue dove between his lips. And those lips, he couldn’t get enough of their supple pucker between his own.

Gods, they had done this before. For all his mind had forgotten, his body remembered.

Remembered it well.

Her hands pressed him harder into her belly, and even without her blood in his veins, he could feel it. That fullness, that drive igniting in his goin at the way she drew herself along every inch of him.

Wanting him.

Her hands gripped into his shirt, brushing against his ass.

It was pure instinct; the override of his body, so natural and feral of a drive as his hands swept to her shirt. The collar was so flimsy, just a thin piece of fabric over her lithe, little body. It was so easy to grip and rip, the fabric giving way almost as willingly as she did. For the fearsome warrior she was, she put up no fight. Leaning in as his cold touch traced over her shoulder, caressing and adoring the swell of her breast in his palm. So easy, pressing her to retreat, her kiss keeping him bound to her, leading him until her back slammed again at a tree.

And then, she moaned. Nothing hidden or held at bay. The sound of her pure, wanton desire.

All her ferocity, her ice, her anger… gone. Relenting at last to reveal the fire inside her for him. Bright as her hair, brilliant as the lights in her eyes. Her own hands explored his body, more hesitantly.

Making him chuckle into her ravenous mouth. “Courage, my darling, you won’t hurt me. I won’t bite…” he laughed again, “unless you want…”

“Yes, Gods, yes,” she panted. The same intensity in battle now trained on him, fingers flying through the claps of his doublet, pushing it open from the curve of his shoulder.

Which he was more than willing to give her aid doing to let it tumble behind them. She breathed his name again, her voice shaking as her fingers finally explored beneath his shirt. The warm caress of her touch melting even the undead chill of his skin.

She clung to him with all the strength of her soul, desperate, fearful, relieved. The centuries of her waiting and longing finally giving way to him. Relenting to him, and the love she no longer could deny.

Somehow, he knew everything about her, with no memory to guide him. His fingers traced her cheek, that subtle rise hot to the touch as he stroked into her hair. A slight grip into the back of her head to angle her higher, making her mouth open all the more for him to plunder, a gasp that stole his breath as she moved so willingly at his command.

“You… remember…” she mouthed the words, her lips too busy to speak properly, not with the way his tongue tangled with hers.

But it was rent apart.

The crack of a branch, the crunch of leaves underfoot. It caught both their sensitive ears, making them freeze.

Hearts racing now for different reasons.

Cordehila tried to catch her breath, eyeing the pure carnage they had wreaked. “Foolish,” she chided herself, pushing him off her, finding her blades in the bloodied dirt. “That was foolish,” she hissed with wide eyes.

Astarion followed suit to find his own daggers, fighting hard to ignore the way her slightly torn blouse revealed the gapped swell of her breasts.

Gods, they looked divine. Milkwhite and full. He could still feel them in his hand.

It took all his effort to shake the lust from his head, tossing his silver curls as he tried to scan the distance for more danger.

They stood, ready, waiting, primed to kill again.

Until Gale burst into the clearing, Karlach right on his tail. “You’re alive!” she bellowed, pure joy in her breathless voice. “When you didn’t come back we thought you…” Her brows furrowed as she took into the sight of the fight. At the four dead and hairy bodies strewn about in the night. Silent as she turned her flaming head.

“Tried to come for you, he did?” Gale stating the obvious as the magical glow from his hands faded at the lack of a threat.

“I’m afraid there will be more where they came from,” Astarion sneered, that sarcastic humor lilting in his voice. “Cazador never kept pets before… other than us poor slaves, his spawn. These mindless servants are new… conjured to find me, to bring me back to…”

He shook and sputtered.

Cordehlia placed a hand on his arm. Even with them watching, in the sight of her band of fighters. Instantly, his body calmed. “We dispatched them before anyone could lay a claw on our Rogue.”

“So you can see, your little rescue was very… poorly timed…” Astarion grinned, sour and taunting as he resheathed his weapons.

He could feel the little shakes of Cordehlia’s silent laughter beside him. Gods, was that how close she was standing?

“Must have been a true battle, soldier,” Karlach's eyes went wide. “Your shirt is torn…” Then those glowing eyes rested on Astarion, equally disrobed and disarrayed. “Oh…”

She let the suspicion glance right off her, unshakable vixen she was. “It was nothing we couldn’t handle, but I am grateful for the reinforcements all the same,” she smiled back.

They all began walking back in haste to camp, Gale muttering about putting up protective wards tonight in case there were more in the woods. Hiding Astarion’s scent.

But it was that vampire rogue who insisted on following so closely on Cordehlia’s heels, she was the one who could smell him. “Grateful, are you? For the untimely help of that limp Wizard and the fire girl?”

“Grateful they care enough about us to come and help,” she replied, that same steady coldness in her voice. “You should be grateful too.”

“I’m sure you understand my reasons if I haven’t relented from irritation to find such gratitude yet…” he hissed, voice dripping with that seeping seduction. His hand catching hers where it swung freely at her side.

And she let him. Fingers interlocking for that moment. The warmth of her touch sending that now-familiar ache for more coursing through his body.

They walked that way to the edge of camp, their fingers lightly connected, their little secret behind their companions back, out of sight.

She only shook off his touch when they could finally spy the circle of light. Their campfire.

He glanced towards his tent, raising his brow at that humble little pallet in the cold. “You sure you want to sleep in the cold, darling?”

“What?” she taunted, folding her arms. “Would you rather I sleep with something cold?”

“Well,” he purred. His brows wriggled, raising and twisting in that voracious leer. “I do still get so chilled in the dark. Might be nice to cuddle up with something warm…”

“Goodnight,” she grinned, slyly and unrelentingly. “With Gale’s wards, you really should rest after that experience.”

“I’d rather… relive that experience…”

Her eyes flickered nervously, scanning around the camp. Her throat bobbed. Her face tweaking, as if her lips wanted his on them again.

Then she just gave him a warm smile, subtle. Inviting. “Goodnight, darling…” she purred back at him before crossing to her little bedroll.

“You know,” he called after her, keeping his distance as hard as it was. “After today, after how you leapt into the dark to … to help me, to find me, I hope you can see it is a strength for you to be so vicious, ruthless, and blood spattered. It’s what saved me…”

Her smile widened, her lips tweaking, definitely fighting the urge to kiss him now. Again. But she turned and departed for her bed. Alone.

Astarion could only shake his head and groan, a sigh of discontentment. But at least he knew he would maybe dream about the softness of her body than the glare of the wolves sent to hunt him down.

And for that, he was grateful.

#enemies to lovers #etl Astarion x OC #astarion angst #astarion fanfic #baldurs gate astarion #astarion x oc #astarion x female tav #astarion x tav #first kiss #astarion fic #hurt comfort #post battle make out #astarion romance #bg3 smut #astarion bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion ancunin #baldur gate 3 #baldurs gate smut #baldur’s gate iii #baldur’s gate 3 #baldur's gate #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate #baldur's gate iii #baldur's gate oc

[dontbotherwiththepronunciation]

The sound came softly, the scream of a rusted hinge. "Urri," he muttered, and woke, fearful. There is no hinge here, no door, no Urri. A flying axe took off half of Urri's hand when he was ten-and-four, playing at the finger dance whilst his father and his elder brothers were away at war.  - The Prophet, AFFC

But the footsteps stopped just when they were loudest, and the keys clattered right outside the door. The rat fell from his fingers. He wiped his bloody fingers on his breeches. "No," he mumbled, "noooo." His heels scrabbled at the straw as he tried to push himself into the corner, into the cold damp stone walls. The sound of the lock turning was the most terrible of all. - Reek I, ADWD

still stand by my Theon|Aeron - Ramsay|Euron - Jeyne|Falia - Kyra|Urri beliefs

#speaking #asoiaf #theon greyjoy #aeron greyjoy

[vampyrsm]

'The Forbidden Flame.' Chapter II Prince Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Synopsis: The Summer Festival is finally here. The tournament is meant to bring together the noble families of Ilgis, but instead, a clear divide is made when the Prince is unable to push down the anger that bubbles from his mouth like fiery lava.

Warnings: MDNI. There is no smut but it is graphic. Mentions of flaying, mentions of torture, slight misogynistic views, very detailed descriptions of violence, blood, fighting, character death, jealousy, yandere behaviour(?). Please take care with the warnings.

Word Count: 6829.

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A rustle of wind blew through the branches of the old grand oak trees that hung overhead and the long grass that came up to your calves. The birds were loud this morning, chirping as they sang their usual morning song to signify the start of the day. Sitting in this field not too far from your home was tranquil. It wasn't much, just a humble log cabin in which you and your family lived. You had a brother, a younger sister and of course your mother and father. Everything was great, the family business was thriving with the call for more weapons on the frontline.

You just never imagined that the frontline would be so close to home.

A long droning noise, similar to that of a horn of some kind, reverberated against your chest, the birds had fallen silent you noted and it was like the wind had died in the air. It was the only calm you got before you heard the screech of a man—no, a warcry—breech through the treeline at the edge of the field you were lounging in. It all happened so quickly, that you couldn't recognise the sigils of the men racing out of the forest with their rusted bronze axes and spears, their skin painted with dried blood and cracked white paint. That could only mean one thing, it was a northern tribe.

These northern tribes were never one to bend under the rule of the crown, they were known to rape and pillage the villages closest to their outposts that were so deep north that no one believed they could live up there in such horrific conditions. The stories they told of these tribes were ones you grew up on, having your mother tell the darkest of stories to ensure you never went out alone in the dark as a child. If you did, she said, you'd be taken away by these men in wolf fur and used as a sacrifice to their God; the Ice Giant.

Just as you scampered to get to your feet, grasping at the ends of your skirt to make sure you didn't tumble over yourself. You felt a different kind of booming chill you right to your bones, even the sound of the tribe running directly towards you was drowned out by something you could never, ever forget. It happened all very quickly, there was a brief moment of absolute silence before a screeching roar ripped through the air and then something darker than the night sky shot through the sky like an arrow fired from a bow.

You weren't a complete idiot, you knew what that was. It was a dragon, and only one family in the entire realm had dragons like that.

You felt the heat hit you like a brick wall, making you hiss and shield your face away with your arms when the blazing inferno spiralled down from the black creature in the sky. The screams of the men were drowned out by the sizzling of their bodies, by the whoosh of large wings that beat once before disappearing again into the clouds overhead.

Once you believed it to be clear, you slowly dropped your arms down to only stare in horror at the sight before you. There wasn't even anything left of the men, their weapons nothing but bubbling steel and their bodies were ash, flurrying away when another strong breeze rustled through the trees shaking you from your staring.

You had to get home, if the tribes were this close then your family could be in danger too. They clearly weren't a small tribe, and if the Northmen had to get a dragon involved in a fight—you hated to think about just how large scale of an attack was hitting the village you lived in.

Sprinting back towards your home, the smell of smoke and something you now knew was the smell of flesh that had been burned by something hotter than any flame you had ever seen. It turned your stomach uncomfortably, you worried about your family. Your father wasn't home, he had gone into the next village over to trade for the upcoming winter, your brother was the only man left in the house to defend your mother and sister but would he be enough?

These men were brutes.

You skidded around the loose dirt path that led up towards your home, but you could already see the fire from here. The smoke was high up into the sky, a signal to those who were passing through that the house had been successfully raided and to you, a signal that your worst nightmare had come true. But it was much, much worse than you could've ever imagined. The first person you saw was your brother, or rather, parts of him. They flayed him, like some deer, he was splayed out against the wooden door that had been ripped off of its hinges and used as the board to torture him.

The scream didn't fully escape your throat until you glanced through the now open doorway, and there was your mother. You couldn't identify what had killed her, or how they had managed to mangle her body so badly with just the use of their bare hands. The bile burned at your throat, your body lurching over to expel everything you had eaten for your breakfast that morning. You couldn't see your sister's body, she was much younger than you, your mind instantly leapt at the idea that she had been taken, the stories your mother told you as a child had come true. Your little sister would be used as one of their sacrifices, and there was nothing you could do.

...

You gasped as you sat up in the furs of your bed, hands clamping down into the sheep skin and fur to cling to it—to reality. It was just a nightmare, you had to keep reminding yourself, just a nightmare to taunt you. Your skin felt clammy, hair sticking to the back of your neck and around your face as you heaved in deep and heavy breaths. Glancing towards the cracked open window, the sun was just starting to rise, being so far into the city you didn't hear the chirp of birds. You missed your home, the south wasn't nearly as accommodating compared to further up north. The ground was mostly dried out from the heat, the water tasted different and the people here were much more hostile.

It didn't feel like home to you, but you had no choice but to follow your father here after the events that happened.

Deciding to get on with your day, you got up, trying not to cringe at the wet patch of sweat left in your wake in the many furs and sheets that you had bundled yourself up in last night. If the sun was just rising, you wouldn't have long until your father was awake. You had to get the order of weapons he had made yesterday to the arena before it all started, which gave you roughly two hours to get it completed. It shouldn't take too long, if you get through the city streets fast enough then you'd have time to spare before you attend the tournament.

With a plan now in mind, you got to starting your day properly. Taking a quick bath in the wooden tub, was more like a bucket than anything but it would have to do to just rid the sweat and the lingering reminder of the nightmare from your body. It wasn't unusual for you to get these sorts of nightmares, but it was no real surprise when they started to pop up more frequently ever since you started to live deeper into Dragon's Perch, seeing the dragons pass overhead almost every day was enough to send a shockwave of awful memories through you.

By the time you were ready to start loading the weapons on the cart, the streets had slowly started to wake up. Drunkards crawling from their shadowed sleeping spots in the dark alleys and young boys running through the streets with their excitement bubbling at the prospect of seeing the dragons up close and personal today. It was always a spectacle, everyone loved to be near the beasts, it was very rare otherwise to get close to them.

Hauling the weapons onto the cart seemed to be a job you underestimated, your father must've made more than he needed to. It made sense, you supposed, that a lot of the weapons would be destroyed by nightfall from the sheer ferocity of the fights that would happen in just a few hours. Lifting up one of the boxes seemed to be your downfall, a foot wobbling on the uneven cobblestone and the weapons clanged against one another as you tried to lift the box high enough to just shove it onto the cart.

A curse word was all you were able to shout, ankle rolling beneath you and you braced to expect the cold floor beneath your back and the possibility of being impaled by one of the many swords. That was until a large hand clasped around your waist, and forced your back to meet a solid body of warmth. Tentatively you looked up, expecting to see an old man or someone worse coming to your rescue, but you were pleasantly surprised by the head of green curls, some darker than others to give the illusion that he had black hair too.

His eyes reminded you of home, they were green, but they were warm also. Like he would never do anything wrong to you, that he would always make you smile no matter what. You felt safe. He was massive, at least a foot on you in height but he was slim, well-built you realised from the sturdy way he was holding your body effortlessly, not even noticing that he had used a single hand to grab the box of swords to push it onto the cart in front of you.

Realising you had been staring too long, you blinked quickly and removed yourself from his grasp and patted down your dress. You turned to face him properly, head forced back to meet his gaze. "Thank you, for saving me from a very sad death." you tried to joke lightly, smiling at him until he smiled back just as gently, a large hand running through the back of his hair.

"No need to thank me. Just happened to be at the right place at the right time I suppose." His accent was northern, painfully so, it made your eyes widen a little in curiosity. He sounded like he came from The Frozen Reach. "Do you need help with the rest of them?", he pointed to the large stack of boxes and crates that needed to be hauled up.

"Oh! Right," you turned to look at the boxes, huffing at the sight of them all. "If you wouldn't mind, of course. I don't want to keep you from your morning, it's going to be a very busy day." you glanced back at him, but he was already moving to the boxes and hauling up two of them effortlessly on top of each other.

He deposited them on the cart, moving to get another before he spoke "It's no problem, really, I don't have much to do today other than attending the tournaments later today." It made sense, most men didn't work today unless they were older, or too young to carry the heavy stuff. It was all about them getting a chance to prove that they were "real men", a barbaric way of doing it but it was something they apparently wanted.

You nodded, helping him with readjusting the crates on the cart in order to make sure they all fit. "Are you a fighter?" you asked, eyes trailing over the obvious muscles he was sporting despite being so lean, that he looked like he was a soldier. Perhaps a commander of some kind. If he was from The Frozen Reach, it was very likely he was a nobleman of his own house given his stature and the way he spoke, it wasn't inelegant as some of the other northern men you had met.

"Today I am," he smiled, pushing another crate on the cart. "But usually I'm just a stablehand." You blinked at him, wide eyes and slightly gaping mouth. A stablehand? He didn't look the type! Most of them were scrawny little boys who were being disciplined for being little shits to their fathers! He was a grown man, a big grown man. He caught the look on your face, a soft chuckle leaving his lips. "I know, I don't seem the type."

"No!" you started, "I mean, you seem far too..." he laughed when you gestured at his height and the size of his arms. "I would've never thought you were a stablehand, may I ask who for?" That made him stop for a moment, running a hand up along his forehead and through his hair, he eyed you for a moment clearly making some sort of silent judgement about his next words.

He must've come to a good decision as his shoulders relaxed, leaning a hip against the cart. "The Todoroki's." you gasped, the Todoroki's were a big house. One of the more noble ones, they were known for their fiery temperament in battle, and their unwavering need to be the best. "Though I rarely interact with Lord Enji, I'm more of a stablehand for his son."

"You mean the Shoto Todoroki?" he nodded. "Wow, I mean, you must be the subject of a lot of ire and envy from all the women in the North. I'm sure even they would muck out his stables if it meant to breathe the same air as him!" you exclaimed, it was true, the young Lord was no secret from the realm. Especially to those up north, he was almost like royalty himself—just without the crown, and dragons. Though you wonder what he would look like on a dragon, elegant and so graceful most likely. Nothing like the barbaric prince who grinned when he watched his dragon rip apart outposts.

"It sounds like you might be one of them," he winks, and you blush profusely and shake your head. Of course, you weren't blind, you could see that Shoto was very, very attractive but he was a Lord. Highborn, he was destined for great things whereas you were just a lowborn girl who worked for her blacksmith of a father.

"Oh, no, I don't think I could work with horses all day," you started, moving to connect the cart to your own family horse. "What I mean is it's not a bad job! Of course. I just wouldn't like to do it." you tried to recover, but the green-haired man didn't seem bothered.

Instead, he just shrugged a little, smiling. "It's not for everyone I get it, I'm happy to just have a place to sleep and eat every night." that got your attention as you sat on the wooden bench of the cart, the man sitting down next to you.

"I never got your name," you clicked your tongue, directing the horse on through the streets, they were much busier than you would've liked but it wasn't too bad. People moved out of the way quickly enough. "You speak well, so I'm assuming you come from a noble house."

The man next to you shifted, you were too focused on the road ahead of you to see the uncomfortable expression on his face. "Oh, Izuku." he supplied, just a first name was a little odd so you side-eyed him for a second, instantly catching his gaze. "Midoriya, it's a uh, dead house." That made more sense, but it was still odd that he referred to it as a dead house, a lot of people would be still brimming with pride that they couldn't be fully defeated. It left an odd feeling in your stomach.

"I see, sorry for asking." you were quick enough to reply, tightening your hands on the reigns. "I don't recognise the name, maybe it's because I'm not from as far north as you?" you wanted him to not feel so shameful about his name, having a house name was a prideful thing. You would kill to have a name worth recognising, but alas no one ever recognised the blacksmith's family never mind the blacksmith's daughter.

"Maybe," was all he replied with, again leaving you with an air of uncertainty.

The rest of the ride was relevantly silent, not that you minded much. Despite the man having the face of an angel, and a voice to match, he gave you an odd sense of dread that set deep in your stomach. It wasn't as if you felt immediate danger, it was more... the idea that he was hiding the truth behind who he really was. Only people who wished to hide from something, or someone, would say their house was dead. After all, who would search for a dead man?

Arriving at The Pandemonium, you noticed several other carts had arrived filled to the brim with armour, sigils on shields that would be wielded in just a few short hours. Numerous men with the Bakugou sigil on their chests were moving around, all the King's men ordering about the cart drivers and other workers to make sure the day went off without a hitch. It wasn't long before you were seen to, the man in the black armour giving you a look over before his eyes locked onto the tall green-haired man next to you.

You watched as the soldier's eyes wandered over his features for a moment, eyes darting from the green curls and down to his stature. Izuku was rigid as a rock wall, unwavering as he stared down at the man who was inspecting just a little too closely. Why would the King's men have an interest in Izuku? It made the palms of your hands sweaty around the reigns, your heart thundering in your chest at the prospect of being turned away. Your father would be furious, you dread to imagine what he'd do if you got turned away from the arena. He would—

"Good to go." The Soldier commented finally, a wave of relief washing over you from head to toe and you saw Izuku visibly relax a little out of the corner of your eye. Was he nervous too? I suppose it makes sense, it wouldn't be the King who deals with him directly but rather the Prince as he was commander of the army and all its men. The King was just to who they swore loyalty. You thanked the man, making haste to click your tongue and jostle the reigns slightly to get the horse and cart back into motion.

The back entrance to The Pandemonium was essentially just a large cave opening, carved out to allow the entry of the biggest of dragons. There were columns supporting the entrance from where it had been hand-carved, it was made from what looked like a mixture of stone and obsidian. The long tunnel entrance was dark, just the occasional oil lamp that was perched within a carved-out ditch in the wall, most likely to ensure the dragons didn't accidentally hit them on their way past you supposed.

It was like all sound suddenly vanished once you were completely in the tunnel, the drip of water from the limestone stalactites above and the rattling of the wooden cart behind you. It was unnerving, the darkness moved and flickered as if something was darting about to avoid being seen. Could it be a dragon? Would it attack? If it was small enough to hide in the shadows then perhaps it was just a young dragon, did they have those? Your mind was running a mile a minute as your eyes darted from corner to corner, flinching when the cart bumped into a hole and splashed water up onto your feet through the gaps of the wooden cart.

Izuku was watching you out of the corner of his eye, observing each flinch and hitch of your breath as you continued to venture further into the tunnel. He shifted his body slightly closer, large thigh now pressed against your own and he wasn't sure if you knew what you were doing, but you seemed to lean more into him as if you knew he'd protect you from the darkness, and what lurks there.

Or rather, who lurks there. He's familiar with that feeling of eyes hotter than hellfire boring into his skin, he knew just who was lurking in the veil of darkness. And Izuku couldn't stop the way his lips curled up into a smirk, of course he'd come out early to the Dragon's pit.

The low groaning of the metal gate at the end of the tunnel finally allowed you to relax, edging slightly away from the man to who you subconsciously leaned closer for safety. It felt like eyes were on you like something was preying on you. It was an unnerving feeling, something you had only ever felt once before when you had seen eyes as red as blood lurking outside of your home not too many nights ago.

Izuku was first to hop off of the cart once it slowed to a stop, helping you down and making quick work of offloading everything from the carts. At least now you can say you got them delivered safely, your father would have no reason to scream and shout at you now. Perhaps he'd actually smile this time. The thought was just a fantasy, of course, you knew your father hadn't smiled since the death of your family and he most definitely wouldn't stop shouting at you—blaming you for everything.

"Are you okay?" Izuku asked, having seen you stand staring blankly at the cart in front of you. He had finished unloading the rest for you, you hadn't even noticed until you blinked away the darkness shielding your eyes and you looked up at the man in question. "Does this place scare you that much?"

You laughed, albeit rather nervously and breathy which didn't help your case at all. "Oh, no, it's nothing." you smiled at him, eyes darting back to the cart and then to the unloaded boxes. "Thank you for this, really. You didn't have to."

Izuku shook his head, that charming smile gracing his lips again. "Don't worry about it, I'm always happy to help someone as beautiful as you." the comment made you blush, hard, the heat flooding your face made your eyes widen and abruptly look away from him. His laugh was loud, bouncing off of the rocky cavern walls, it was a joyful laugh but it felt almost predatory in such an empty space. "Sorry, that was a bit too forward. Even for me."

"No, no, it's just I don't hear that very often," you admitted, it was true, not many men would say such things to you. You were just a blacksmith's daughter, the daughter of a mostly dead family—you were too much baggage for anyone to take on, and the idea of a quick fuck had never appealed to you much.

It was quiet for a moment between the two of you before you jumped out of your skin at the walls rumbling with a loud roar that seemed so much louder than it should've been. It was as if it was right behind you. The walls crumbled a little at the sheer force of the roar, and your eyes briefly darted across to Izuku who was stood stonefaced and unflinching at the noise. How could he not be scared?

"Promise they're not as close as it might sound," was all he offered, a gentle smile on his face that didn't quite match the odd glaze of his forest green eyes. Something crawled down your spine, something like the realisation that this man was no longer safe to be around, especially not in a dark damp cave surrounded by roaring dragons and hardly lit oil lamps.

"R-Right," you cleared your throat, hopping back onto the empty cart and adjusting the reigns in your hands. "We should be getting back, we have only two hours until the first fight." You watched his face light up when you mentioned the fight, and he wasted no time in hopping back onto the cart with a different air of excitement about him now. Maybe you'd put a little more effort into making sure you got your cart back home quicker than usual, you had to get away from this man.

...

Crimson.

That was all that shrouded his eyes, his head pounding with the blood that was sloshing around his body in heated waves. He was enraged, the pounding of his heart was like a drum in his ears. The metal that was currently in his hand bending under the pressure of being crushed inside of his curled fist, and the chatter around him was loud. Too loud. Everything was too loud, and far too much for the Dragon Prince.

Katsuki had never felt this kind of rage, it was a bubbling type that built up from his stomach and encased his heart before it clawed up at his throat like a volcano ready to erupt. And all his mind could supply in a time like this was the same images on repeat, over and over. And each time they always involved you. He didn't understand it, this sudden obsession his mind had taken with you, he shouldn't have cared when he was lurking in the shadows on the way to Xol, when he heard a voice he hadn't expected to hear today.

His stomach turned at the reminder of how the familiar green-haired man pushed himself closer to your body on that cart, how he draped himself practically around you—as if that could ever stop Katsuki or any of the dragons that were just beyond the walls surrounding you. It wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't caught the glimpse of that self-satisfied smirk on Izuku's face, the way his eyes were darkened with something Katsuki had only ever seen in the worst of men.

"Your Grace?" came the voice of one of his guards, his eyes darting to look at who dared to address him just to come face to face with Eijirou, the man had removed his usual helmet and held it under his arm. Just to his side were the other two guards assigned to the prince; Denki Kaminari and Hanta Sero. The two were just as fearlessly loyal as their tall red-haired commander. All of them would be having their own fights today, it was a festival of celebration and everyone was invited to take part.

Of course, though, they'd never fight the Prince himself out of fear of what may overtake him in the throes of intense battle and bloodlust.

Katsuki blinked away the imagery in his mind, trying his hardest to focus for the remainder of the day. He can't afford a slipup, not if his father was watching so closely. "What is it?" he snapped back to Eijirou, the man seeming relieved that he got a semi-normal response from the blonde man.

"It's starting, you'll be up first so they can free you up for the rest of the day." Eijirou stepped back once Katsuki got up from his perched position on top of the old wooden table, he stretched his arms high above his head and rolled his neck from side to side.

The first thing of the day was the hand-to-hand combat fighting, later in the evening would they bring out the dragons as they were creatures of the night, they'd be more 'feisty' to fight with. Katsuki knew he'd come out on top of the fights, he always did. The only fight he had looked forward to was the one with the bastard of Blacksummit but now that had been ripped from beneath him and replaced with this new burning rage he had felt from this morning.

On the other side of the portcullis, Katsuki could see the large crowd that had filled the seating area that surrounded the sand pit. It was deep because of the dragons, but that also meant he would be able to get away with causing damage before someone would come down and stop him. It was a messed-up thought process, but he needed the outlet he realised, if he didn't find someone to punch and kick the living shit out of then he wonders if he would finally explode from the pure anger that was festering in his body.

The portcullis screeched as it rolled upwards, and the uproar of cheering got louder at the realisation that it was about to start. Katsuki could now see his father and mother up in the royal stand, the large throne that had been made just for him sticking out like a sore thumb whilst his mother's glare was deadly once they met eyes. He stepped out into the stream of light that came from the open top of the arena, the screams and clapping thunderously loud against his ears.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The Herald yells loud enough over the crowd, gaining their attention instantly. "Today marks the start of the long summer! And what better way to start such a season than to have our very own Prince of the Dragons fight for us!" The crowd cheers loudly. The fucked up idea of seeing blood and guts spilt by one man gave Katsuki goosebumps. They all came here for him.

Katsuki stood just in the centre of the arena now, he wasn't wearing his traditional armour that one might see when jousting or sword fighting. He abandoned it all for a bare chest, only his forearms covered by tight black sleeves and fitting trousers made of sheep skin that would allow enough movement for him to really lay into whoever was unlucky enough to face him. Around his neck was his family sigil engraved into a necklace, made up of obsidian, glinting in the morning sun as he turned to gauge the audience.

His eyes honed in on a head of green, and then your own. His heart lurched in his chest, you were cornered by the man once again who was crowding you against the seat you were in. Whispering something in your ear and all Katsuki could do is watch at the way your eyes were pleading with his very own, why would you plead for him? He didn't get the chance to think more when the sound of clinking metal and scuffed feet in the sand announced his first rival.

By the looks of it, it was one of the lesser houses' sons, probably pushed in by his father or brothers to be humiliated in front of most of Corvos. Katsuki rolled his shoulders, lowering his stance slightly as the man stripped his own armour off—Katsuki imagines that the boy most likely believes somehow that it would make the fight 'fair', but in truth, it was already over before it began. The poor boy would probably have life-changing injuries once Katsuki was through with him.

Katsuki was the first to make a move, dashing forward that got a loud cheer from the crowd and his arm reared back, a vicious snarl on his face when he saw the fear in the boy's eyes as he widened them, finally realising just who the fuck he was fighting. The second Katsuki felt skin connect with the flesh of his knuckles, it was like his mind blacked out. Giving over the reigns to the pure primal part of himself that fed off of the screams of the crowd when he landed a particularly nasty punch or when he kicked so hard the entire arena cringed at the sound of the other person's bones snapping from the force.

The next time Katsuki blinked he was standing in the centre of the arena again, watching as the squires dragged off another unfortunate victim. His chest was heaving in heavy breaths, his once clean bare chest was now coated in a thick layer of sticky sweat and blood that didn't belong to him. His ashen hair was wilder than usual, and his blood-red eyes were scanning the crowd, in a way a predator would when searching for their prey, as he tried to figure out if he had won already or if someone would dare to challenge him one final time—

"It seems we have one more challenger for the Prince!" The Herald yells again, the crowd cheering right on cue and Katsuki turned just in time to see the man jump down from the ledge that led down from the crowd and into the pit, it wasn't usual for someone to jump in from the crowd but it also wasn't banned. It was a free-for-all after all. The beast deep in his heart snarled at the sight of green curls that bounced once he landed, and his muscles tensed when he stood to his full height.

Izuku Midoriya.

The young Lord of the House that rebelled against the crown.

Katsuki thought the fucker had run off and died somewhere like the sad pathetic bug that he was, but apparently by the looks of things he had been bulking up, training hard if the way his biceps rolled when he pulled off his own cotton shirt and threw it off to the side. Katsuki snarled, larger than normal canines on show and his pupils blown wide as he honed in on his next victim, this was the man that was all over you. This was the one who made you uncomfortable, the one who was smirking when you sought safety.

The Herald announced the start of the fight once again, and the cheers grew louder when Izuku was the first to make a move. His large bounding footsteps caught Katsuki by surprise, a man of that stature shouldn't move so quickly but alas, he was reeling back an arm and Katsuki registered the copper on his tongue before he realised he was staring up at the open ceiling of the arena.

"Ha, surprised to see a familiar face again?" Izuku taunted, words deaf to those in the crowd but louder than any warcry Katsuki had ever heard as the man lashed out for him again. This time Katsuki was quick to move out of the way, body bending to the side with practised ease before he swung his own fist forward, his right hook one of his most famous moves of the day.

Katsuki relished in the way Izuku's entire body reeled backwards from the uppercut, feet staggering back in the bloody sand. "No. Just surprised you had the fucking balls to step foot into my city, you lowlife piece of shit!" he roared, launching himself forward to collide hard with the man in a harsh tackle. Izuku went down hard, but still, he was able to get his hands pushed against the Prince's chest to practically propel him backwards and off of him before he could lock him into position.

Izuku wasted no time in getting up, wiping away the blood that was pouring from his nose with his battered and bruised fist. He was readying his next attack when he noticed Katsuki's eyes weren't even on Izuku anymore, but rather in the direction of where Izuku was previously.

Ah.

"Oh? Someone got your attention, your majesty?" Izuku snickered, enjoying the enraged look that Katsuki shot his way once he had fully gauged your reaction; you were watching with wide eyes but you weren't staring at Izuku, you were watching him. "Sorry to say this, but you don't have a chance in hell with someone as beautiful as her."

The reaction was immediate, Katsuki lurched forward with his fists ready to strike over and over but Izuku was just now warming up, practically dancing around each hit from the blonde. "Shut the fuck up." was all Katsuki could growl out over the rage crushing his throat, his vision was blurred around the edges as he watched Izuku's features light up with glee.

Izuku retaliated, fist reeling back to catch Katsuki directly in the chest which sent the prince tumbling backwards onto his ass, the crowd gasping at the rare sight of the Prince beneath someone. "She really is beautiful, isn't she?" the fake light tone Izuku adopted made Katsuki's stomach turn, the green-haired man approached Katsuki slowly, leering over him like a natural predator and the Prince the unsuspecting prey. "I bet she'll look even better when she's sprawled out beneath me, begging for me to ruin her. Like the common whore she is."

Something snapped deep inside of Katsuki's mind, the way Izuku spoke of you, sullying your name, disrespecting something that was going to be his. Izuku was about to open his mouth again when Katsuki slammed his fist against the broader man's knee, his body instantly crumbling to the floor as his knee buckled. He wasted no time in changing the positions, throwing Izuku down into the sand as he clambered up on top of him.

Izuku's eyes were wide, a maniac grin on his face that screamed he had finally won by managing to make the Prince unbelievably angry. Katsuki kept Izuku pinned beneath him, arms being crushed by the tense grip of the prince's thighs and he was pretty certain he had shattered one of Izuku's knees from the force of the fall. "Yeah, just like this. I bet she'll look even better when I rough her up a li—"

A solid punch to Izuku's jaw sent his head reeling to the side, spit and blood spraying from his mouth and mixing into the already blood-soaked sand. The crowd cheered, chants that vaguely sounded like "Kill! Kill! Kill him!", and the Prince of Dragons was never one to disappoint his people.

Katsuki made the decision, right then and there, that this would be the only true way to clear out the rage he felt, to soothe the burning jealousy that clawed at his skin. It wasn't like it was completely unwarranted either, the man beneath him was an enemy to the crown. His fist tightened again, blood pouring from the open cuts littering his knuckles, waiting for Izuku to meet his eye again before he brought his fist down again.

And again.

And again.

And.. again.

The crowd gasped, screaming in jubilation and disgust when there was a sickening crack followed by a loud squelch. Katsuki couldn't see anything but the red-tinted veil over his eyes as he watched Izuku's features morph from something akin to fear, a realisation that he had made a grave mistake in poking the dragon, and then into nothing but a bloodied mixture of protruding bones and brain matter that stuck to Katsuki's fists as he continued to lay fist after fist against the mans face.

The green of his hair turned to more of a dark green, almost black, with the blood soaking into it. Katsuki didn't stop once he felt the sand on the other side of Izuku's skull stick to his bloodied and most likely broken fists. All he could focus on was securing the fact this monster wouldn't be a threat to you, a threat to a future including the both of you.

This was all for you.

A set of large hands hooked under his armpits, yanking him rather viciously off of the lifeless body and his head lulled back, catching sight of the red hair of Eijirou who was shouting something over his head. Katsuki followed his line of sight, seeing his father stand up with his mother clasping a hand over her mouth. They knew Katsuki was a vicious fighter, but they had never seen him crush a man's head with his own bare hands and continue to rip him apart like he was the dragon.

Katsuki let his eyes drift over to where he last saw you, he thinks you're crying with the way your eyes are wide and you have both of your hands clutching against your stomach. You look sick, had he disgusted you? But he did this for you, can't you see? He did this to protect you, to defend your honour, to see that he was the perfect man for you—

The slam of the portcullis cut his view of you off, and he didn't fight the way Eijirou dragged him as if he wasn't the prince. He didn't care about how Eijirou was shouting at the other guards, demanding that they get Katsuki something to wash off the blood from his hands and to get a doctor down here immediately to tend to his wounds.

He didn't care about any of that because all he could focus on was you, and how you looked disgusted with him. Before his eyes rolled into the back of his skull from the exhaustion of splitting a man's head open with his bare hands, and the pain of his injuries setting in deep into his bones, he promised himself that he would seek you out. He'd find you, and he'd show you the reasonings behind his violent fight.

He'll show you.

[Glossary] | [Masterlist] | [Previous] | [Next]

credit for the background image/banner: @vampyrsm please do not plagiarise, or recommend my work to places such as TikTok. taglist: @lyn-soso

#bakugou katsuki x reader #bnha fanfiction #bnha x you #bnha x self insert #bakugo katuski x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki imagine #bakugou katsuki x you #bakugo katsuki x you #katsuki x you #bakugo x you #mha fantasy au #fantasy au #long fic #The Forbidden Flame #'The Forbidden Flame' #series

[atopvisenyashill]

Hello! I have a question and I hoped that you might help me. I’ve seen a lot of posts in the asoiaf tag where people claimed that GRRM is criticising feudalism. My problem is that I don’t understand why would he? Feudalism isn’t a system that actively exists anymore. It’s not like criticising capitalism or totalitarianism which still exist. And it’s a fantasy series and most fantasy series have a somewhat medieval setting. It doesn’t make sense to me.

oo fun question anon.

well, first off, i would say he’s not just critiquing fuedalism. he’s also critiquing monarchies, which unfortunately still exist, and power structures in general, which definitely still exist. for example, that famous broken man section, sorry for length but the whole thing is good:

“Ser? My lady?” said Podrick. “Is a broken man an outlaw?” “More or less,” Brienne answered. Septon Meribald disagreed. “More less than more. There are many sorts of outlaws, just as there are many sorts of birds. A sandpiper and a sea eagle both have wings, but they are not the same. The singers love to sing of good men forced to go outside the law to fight some wicked lord, but most outlaws are more like this ravening Hound than they are the lightning lord. They are evil men, driven by greed, soured by malice, despising the gods and caring only for themselves. Broken men are more deserving of our pity, though they may be just as dangerous. Almost all are common-born, simple folk who had never been more than a mile from the house where they were born until the day some lord came round to take them off to war. Poorly shod and poorly clad, they march away beneath his banners, ofttimes with no better arms than a sickle or a sharpened hoe, or a maul they made themselves by lashing a stone to a stick with strips of hide. Brothers march with brothers, sons with fathers, friends with friends. They’ve heard the songs and stories, so they go off with eager hearts, dreaming of the wonders they will see, of the wealth and glory they will win. War seems a fine adventure, the greatest most of them will ever know. "Then they get a taste of battle. For some, that one taste is enough to break them. Others go on for years, until they lose count of all the battles they have fought in, but even a man who has survived a hundred fights can break in his hundred-and-first. Brothers watch their brothers die, fathers lose their sons, friends see their friends trying to hold their entrails in after they’ve been gutted by an axe. “They see the lord who led them there cut down, and some other lord shouts that they are his now. They take a wound, and when that’s still half-healed they take another. There is never enough to eat, their shoes fall to pieces from the marching, their clothes are torn and rotting, and half of them are shitting in their breeches from drinking bad water. “If they want new boots or a warmer cloak or maybe a rusted iron halfhelm, they need to take them from a corpse, and before long they are stealing from the living too, from the smallfolk whose lands they’re fighting in, men very like the men they used to be. They slaughter their sheep and steal their chickens, and from there it’s just a short step to carrying off their daughters too. And one day they look around and realize all their friends and kin are gone, that they are fighting beside strangers beneath a banner that they hardly recognize. They don’t know where they are or how to get back home and the lord they’re fighting for does not know their names, yet here he comes, shouting for them to form up, to make a line with their spears and scythes and sharpened hoes, to stand their ground. And the knights come down on them, faceless men clad all in steel, and the iron thunder of their charge seems to fill the world… "And the man break. “He turns and runs, or crawls off afterward over the corpses of the slain, or steals away in the black of night, and he finds someplace to hide. All thought of home is gone by then, and kings and lords and gods mean less to him than a haunch of spoiled meat that will let him live another day, or a skin of bad wine that might drown his fear for a few hours. The broken man lives from day to day, from meal to meal, more beast than man. Lady Brienne is not wrong. In times like these, the traveler must beware of broken men, and fear them…but he should pity them as well.”

When Meribald was finished a profound silence fell upon their little band. Brienne could hear the wind rustling through a clump of pussywillows, and farther off the faint cry of a loon. She could hear Dog panting softly as he loped along beside the septon and his donkey, tongue lolling from his mouth. The quiet stretched and stretched, until finally she said, “How old were you when they marched you off to war?” “Why, no older than your boy,” Meribald replied. “Too young for such, in truth, but my brothers were all going, and I would not be left behind. Willam said I could be his squire, though Will was no knight, only a potboy armed with a kitchen knife he’d stolen from the inn. He died upon the Stepstones, and never struck a blow. It was fever did for him, and for my brother Robin. Owen died from a mace that split his head apart, and his friend Jon Pox was hanged for rape.” “The War of the Ninepenny Kings?” asked Hyle Hunt. “So they called it, though I never saw a king, nor earned a penny. It was a war, though. That it was.”

Bolded parts mine! All of it, but especially the bolded parts can apply just as easily to soldiers in the war of the five kings, the war of the roses, world war 2, vietnam, and every war in between. Think about the way military recruiters show up to high schools with cool gadgets and the promise of free college, and the way Meribald talks about the lords showing up pressing young boys into service. Think about the fact that the British military executed three hundred and six soldiers suffering from PTSD after WWI for "cowardice" and the starving soldiers Meribald talks about abandoning their armies just for an extra mouthful of food. when meribald talks about the soldiers looting from peasants, think about the fact that the innocent people in gaza are starving to death while a handful of miles away, there are restaurants booming and food enough to throw away. War is war, regardless of whether it's being waged a thousand years ago or a thousand years from now.

it's important when discussing asoiaf to remember that george is often holding a mirror up against our own society - he is saying that this, the violent patriarchy of westeros, is our natural endpoint if we continue to treat each other the way we do. it's about taking these typical tropes and roles and archetypes and asking what they are really like, how hard they really are, how awful they really are, and if this is the life we want to befall our own children. it is about asking if we, as in the reader, are capable of breaking the cycle of violence as surely as it is about asking if the characters can break that cycle too. There's a reason, for example, Ramsay's story is so tied up in domestic violence, or why Robert's character focuses much more on the way he has failed his family than anything else. There's a reason there's so many sibling groups (Martells, Daynes, Starks, Lannisters, Tullys, Baratheons) that get wrecked by the Rebellion and that the series tracks the way this wreckage seeps out into the realm. Yes, asoiaf is about feudalism but it is about us as well.

second, while feudalism doesn’t technically exist any more, the relics of feudalism still haunt the world; from hereditary noble titles to literal monarchs with absolute power to extreme barriers to social mobility and even serfs. you'll see a lot of academics, especially since the pandemic started, talking about "neo-feudalism" and the idea that just like the middle ages was shaped by pandemics that ravaged populations and made it easier for upper classes to get richer and stop social mobility, the pandemic has enriched the richest people in the world and made everyone else exceedingly poor. while george obviously wasn't writing about the neo feudalism people are talking about today, this is a concept that's been kicking around since the 1980s so I think it is likely that George had done some research into the relics of feudalism and the criticism of modern governments working like corporations. Because this history may seem a long time ago - the war of the roses ended over a thousand years ago, after all - but feudalism and it's relics are still very much within living memory. Russia still had serfs until the 1860s, Bosnia and Herzegovina up until 1918, and Bhutan until the 1950s! There are also still countries all over the world that still have what is basically legalized slavery, whether it's workers stolen from one country and trafficked to another, a minority group that is used as slave labor, or prison labor. I think George is also knocking at the remnants of it as well. I mean, the UK monarchs aren't even that powerful in the grand scheme of things and yet every time they have one of their lil events, they destroy tent cities and mass displace the unhoused populations of London because like, homeless people are gross instead of actually doing anything to help those people. Diana was a teenager when she married Charles. Yeah, that's a far cry from like, poor Rhaella but that doesn't mean it's not still a fucked up institution that is worth taking aim at!

but thirdly!! feudalism exists in fiction constantly still - as you said, a lot of high fantasy has a medieval-ish bent (even books pulling from non western cultures or authors from non western cultures still tend to pull more from history that falls pre-1500s; this is mostly just my opinion as a librarian and fantasy reader, but it's really only been the last decade or so that fantasy has branched out into non medieval time periods like with stuff like babel, six of crows, some of katherine arden's stuff, etc). the divine right of kings is still alive and thriving in fiction and (again, this is my amatuer opinion here) I do think at least part of this is because a lot of american fantasy writers have never lived under a monarchy, so the bad affects of it are far off and easier to romanticize. as well, you get a lot of "times were simpler" PoVs from non americans who have lived under some sort of monarch as well. and that’s why i believe he’s criticizing it - he’s critiquing the genre itself for its romanticization of feudalism, monarchies, kings and queens, and the idea of the divine right of kings. he's saying "look realistically this shit sucked for everyone" and then rubbing your face in how bleak the feudal system actually was. It's the aragorn's tax policies aspect - there is more to being a leader than a watery tart throwing a sword at you!! it's jaime's entire riverlands arc - house lannister won the war on a technicality, and yet the horror, the desolation, the despair are still fresh in the minds of the common people, in the minds of the people who lost their loved ones.

#asks #anons #grrm #rani attempts meta #getting on my soap box

[light-end-dragon]

Acanthe - translation and EN lyrics

✦✦Valkyrie ✦✦Enstars ✦✦

**This is not an official translation. All rights to the lyrics and characters etc. are property of Happy Elements. The only thing that is my own is the translation**

~Acanthe~(1)

Mika: 春のParfum　誘われ目覚める

The spring perfume…invites me awake, and slowly,  I open my eyes

Shu: 愛を閉じ込めた 　記憶と思い出たち

Remainders of our memories / and the love they bore are caged there within you 

Shu: 呼び起こす　命の啓蒙

Calling out your name / to wake you to life again 

Mika: 淡く騒めく

So Fleetingly I stir 

Both: 希望を知って

Is our prayer of hope heard?

✦✦✦✦✦

Shu: 蘇れ(2)

Come back to life!

Mika: 歌声の花が舞う

Oh, how the flowers sing and dance for me 

Shu: 古の

And these faded dreams

Mika: 想いは咲き誇り

Will set their glorious blossoms free 

Shu: 香り立つ

The scent they bring

Mika: 恩寵の

Fills the air with blessings from god

Both: 雫を待ち焦がれている

And so we wait for the rainfall!

✦✦✦✦✦

Mika: 朽ちながら

And as time forgets

Shu: 憧れと幻想を

You lay longing for the world you lost

Mika: 期待して

Let it fall on me 

Shu: 眠れるHermitage(3)  

While you sleep in your hermitage

✦✦✦✦✦

Both: いつか　心を吹き込む口付けと

Someday, this kiss I give will lead your heart closer to me  

Mika: 永遠を

To eternity

✦✦✦✦✦

Shu: 春のLumiere　確かな温もりは消えない

The Spring Lumiere…..this warmth I feel / It shall not fade away from me 

Mika: 硝子越し　途切れた時間を

Through the glass facade / The hourglass, I fear, is empty

Shu: 三度動かす

And thrice it starts again

Both: 出会いは運命

As the wheels of fate spin

✦✦✦✦✦

Mika: 甦れ(2)

Wake me again

Shu: 歌声が芽吹く今

I listen to your song as it matures

Mika: 永久の

And forever on

Shu: 想いが棚引いて

Shall I let my heart endure

Mika: 馥郁と

And the fragrant rain

Shu: 輝きに

The brilliant light within

Both: 満ちた未来を夢に見る

Will fill us with the dream of ardent future

✦✦✦✦✦

Shu: 錆び付いて

I fight back the rust-

Mika: 壊れかけた孤独に

I cry out scared and desolate for you

Shu: 寄り添って

Let me hold you close! 

Mika: ここはHermitage

Together in this hermitage

✦✦✦✦✦

Both: いつか　その身を抱きとめる腕と

Someday, you'll have the arms to reach out and hold onto me 

Shu: 永遠を

For eternity!

✦✦✦✦✦

Shu: 巡る季節に終焉など無いと

Even if the spring and fall shall keep coming back upon thus

Mika: 物言わずとも魂が在ると

Even if my soul remains without a song to sing between us 

Shu: 伝える為に

Every time I will declare

Mika: この綻びを

Each frayed seam I will repair 

Both: そっと結び合わせて

So I finally find my way back to you

✦✦✦✦✦

Shu: 追憶の

I reminisce 

Mika: 残り香を慈しむ

Of the petals’ dance that lingers on

Shu: いつぞやの

And how time ago 

Mika: 愛情は飾られた

Our love is what adorned this song

Shu: 傷跡も

And The scars you bear 

Both: 時代を超えてきた証

Is proof enough that all can cross over with you

Mika: 末枯れようと忘れはしない

I will not let it go even if I wilt away!

✦✦✦✦✦

Both: 歌声が消えようと

Even if the song you sing dies out

Mika: 幾度と

Time and time again

Both: 想いが途絶えようと

Though you may forget what it's about

Shu: 与えよう春を

The spring I grant to you remains  

Mika: 繰り返す愛を

And will let love bloom once again

Both: 心を吹き込む口付けと  永遠を

I hope this kiss I send will tell your heart of me-

Eternally!!

✦✦✦✦✦

(1)-Acanthus is a genus of herbs/flowering plants also commonly known as "bear's breeches". Roman and Greek culture often used acanthus leaves in architecture, and the leaves have many different medicinal uses.

It is also seen as a symbol of rebirth, immortality and persistence through hardship, due to its wide habitat and perennial nature.

(2) Hermitage means a place or period of seclusion, often for religious purposes.

(3) An interesting note here is that Mika and Shu are actually using the same verb, よみがえ. Or rather, they are using verbs here that have the exact same reading and almost indistinguishable meanings.

Through some of my research and poking around though, I've found they can have subtle differences.

Both verbs have the meaning 'to be revived, to come back to life' but the version Shu uses, 蘇れ(, is usually used for living things like a person coming back to life/being resurrected.

However, the version Mika uses, 甦れ, while meaning 'to be revived' seems to be used more for figurative concepts or things coming back to life. Like memories being recalled, a 'car coming back to life', or, a doll being repaired.

These lyrics are not a word for word translation, and are an adaptation of the original song's message, made to (pretty much) fit in with the original vocals. Again, it's my interpretation, but I wanted to keep the meaning close to what it was in Jp while coming across as what one would write in an En song.

anyway thank you for reading I shall now sink back into the bog I came from.

#xar tl #enstars translation #enstars valkyrie #enstars #mika kagehira #shu itsuki

[quarmasworld]

First time writing a fic

Hello jonsa fam, this is my first time writing a jonsa fic (well, any kind of fic actually :D)

I wrote it without thinking of any particular couple but rereading it, I think it's perfect for them <3

I guess it could be interpreted either as wolfish!Jon meeting Sansa after the resurrection somewhere at Castle Black, or wolfish!Jon and Sansa right after having reconquered Winterfell together, when it's still in ruins. It's not that important, but i just wanted to give you a sort of timeline :D

Enjoy and let me know what you think!

P.s. it's written in jon's pov 😌

Her eyes were like black ink, almost translucent, looking at me as if I could be her salvation. Or her ruin. Like she wouldn’t have minded either way.

Her copper hair was a waterfall, bright and alive with every breeze coming through the window, every breath she took.

She turned to me and she was asking a silent question. “Will you set me free?”

And I wanted so bad to answer.

As the world turned dark and shadows were all around us, I gave her my hand, as an invitation, as a deal, as a curse.

She took it, and smiled at me, faintly, like she was whispering a prayer she could barely remember.

I grabbed her hand and she melted on me, around me, inside me. I’d never seen a beauty like hers, so quiet, so scary.

She looked me all over once, twice, then her mouth was on mine, harder than I thought she could be, kissing me like she was grasping for air, for a way out.

“I’ve been waiting for you” she seemed to be saying, while her pale hands explored my hair, my neck, my shoulders. She gasped as my own hands gripped her waist then her curls, tugging her head back so my mouth could taste the length of her neck. Salty, like she had been bathing in the ocean, or like all the tears I had been holding back had covered her like a gown.

Her defty fingers were working on my shirt as mine were uncovering her back, caressing it like velvet. She started kissing my chest, healing all my wounds and scars with her sweet lips, and i was torn between asking her to live there, just above my heart, or leave me and my demons alone forever.

She moved away from me for just one second, and I realised I could never survive that second option. She looked at me, catching her breath, her lips swollen and her hair a mess, and I thought she was like a vision in a dream I never wanted to wake up from.

She grabbed her sleeves and pulled, letting her gown slip from her shoulders and puddling on the dirty ground.

All around us were debris, broken glass and rust and dust, all melancholic, decadent beauty. But looking at her - her curves and plains and smooth skin - made the place look like a fine palace, carved from marble and perfect and infinite.

She reached for me again and threw herself at me, and she was everywhere: in my hair, in my heart, under my breeches, creeping up my soul.

The vision she was froze me to my feet, and I felt like I was soaring up up up, away from my body as she stared at me, keeping me there, tethered to her, while her hands moved down down down and she was tugging at the laces of my pants. They fell to the ground with a quiet noise that woke me up from the dream, plunging me back into reality as I gripped her wrist and stopped her movements.

“I’ll set you free” I wanted to scream, to shout into the night sky and to the moon, as I hoistered her up and gently set her down into the makeshift hay bed in the corner.

“I’ll set you free every day of my life, if you let me” I whispered into her skin as I moved down her body. Letting her soar high high high, reaching a place she’d never gone to before.

#jonsa #jonsa fam #jon x sansa #jonsa fic #jonsa twow

[draftmare]

The tack sale yesterday was mildly depressing. It was held at the “nearest major tack store” so I was hoping that would bring in a good amount of foot traffic. People did seem to come in waves, but not nearly the numbers I was thinking would show up, and it was really odd that at times I would glance out the windows to see the parking lot absolutely full, but the store seemed really empty… I knew that taking my half pads and higher end bridles would probably be a moot point (and I was pretty much right, other than a lot of people touching my sheepskin half pad, not a single person even asked about the price on that one), but the really depressing part was that even my $5 and $1 stuff wasn’t selling. I am use to tack sales being mostly parents looking for cheap stuff for their kids, and a lot of western pleasure and trail riders buying tack that looks like it’s barely holding on by one rusted screw, but this tack shop has a pretty extensive English department so I was hoping a few more English/dressage riders would come through. Turns out the only other dressage riders I saw were also manning their own tables! It was fun to network and meet people though. Plus lots of people came through with their dogs, so I got to pet lots of puppies! During the lulls I also got a lot of reading done in my current book, so that was relaxing. While I was there I went on a hunt for other tack sales in the area, and unfortunately all of them interfere with wedding planning appointments/stuff. So, I guess my tote will have to sit in the basement for another year.

The things I did sell I felt like I practically gave away just to get rid of. I managed to clear out some of my extensive polo collection from my super matchy-matchy days, sold two bits from our hunter/jumper days, a grooming tote that wasn’t even in my tote of tack anyway so didn’t help clean out my tack for sale tote, and a pair of breeches. Oh and a hoof pick. In total after subtracting my booth fee I made $120. Not horrible for 1 day of “work,” but the other tack sale I use to go to I would easily make $500 in 3 hours vs the $120 I made sitting all day. Sigh.

#horsblr #equestrian blogging #text post

[weirdowithaquill]

How about Five American Engines? Is that part of your ERS? Is it the 5 I would expect (*counts on fingers* Caitlin, Connor, Porter, Hank... erm... I'm blanking... Philip?)

Five American Engines sort of fills a weird space in my mind and in general. It's technically not part of my ERS series, but it's done in that style and would technically fit in that world.

The base premise was a heritage line in the USA looking to preserve some of the steam engines being withdrawn at the end of the 1950's.

And I'll keep at least some of the characters a secret for now - but what I can give is part of the first story in the bunch that I wrote:

Hank sat on his siding, watching as the engine in the siding a couple tracks across from him was dragged away to be scrapped. To his left sat a little experimental Boxcab engine – one who didn’t really seem to grasp what was going on.  

“Is he also going to the sheds? Can we go?! It’s cold out here.”   “No Philip, you don’t want to go to the sheds,” Hank said gently. “It’s not nice in the sheds.”   “Well at least in the sheds we wouldn’t be covered in damp! And there’s a weed growing under me – it’s tickling my axle.”   “Philip, listen to me. And listen to me well,” Hank said. “You NEVER want to go into the sheds here. Stay in this siding. Please. And keep it down. Do not attract attention.”   “But they might let us in the shed!”   “You don’t want that, remember?”   “Oh. Okay.”  

Hank sighed, and looked up. The sky was a dull grey, dreary and threatening. If they were lucky, the rain would only last for a few minutes. Or maybe it would go on all night. Then he really might rust through. The engine on his other side looked over.  

“You’ll have to tell him eventually,” she murmured. “You can’t protect the experimental forever.”   “I can try,” Hank replied sombrely.  

The year is 1959, and all across the USA, steam engines are being withdrawn and placed in cold, damp sidings. They watch as their friends are taken into the sheds – and never return.  

Hank is one of these engines. He had worked for the Pennsylvania Railroad faithfully since the First World War, pulling passengers and then freight. He’d raced the Hudsons across the Eastern Seaboard, then enjoyed quieter workings along the lakefront. Now he awaited his fate.  

Or, he did, until he saw a well-dressed gentleman in grey breeches and a top hat stride into the scrapyard, staring up at the engines in wonderment.   “Hello?” he called. The man looked over.  “Are you a K4?” asked the man, wandering over. “Quite the specimen! And look, some sort of experimental boxcab design. Both of the Pennsylvania Railroad of course – such good condition too! Why yes, you will be perfect.”   “I… beg your pardon sir?” said Hank slowly. The man looked up at Hank and beamed.  

“I’m Sir Robert Norramby of Sodor, and I want to preserve you!”  

#ttte hank #ttte philip #Sir Robert Norramby #usa #American engines #American steam engines #Scrap #ask answered #fanfiction writer #pennsylvania

[curseofkolyana]

high there!! (heh get it) anyways, hi!! choose any oc/pc(s) for this although i may be biased for cos/ravenloft pcs hehe but here you go!!

💸 Money With Wings - Would OC commit tax evasion?

🐛 Bug - If OC was a worm, would anyone love them? How would others treat them?

🎮 Video Game - What would OC's gamertag/username be?

👀 Eyes - What would be in OC's search history?

✍🏽 Writing Hand - Your OC is given five seconds to edit/alter/adjust something about themselves (or their story). What do they try to change?

🎯 Direct Hit - Is OC "Wanted" in any village, kingdom, etc.? Dead or alive? What is the reward for them?

🎨 Artist Palette - If OC was a color (or palette), what color would they be? Would others assign them the same color?

👔 Necktie - Does OC dress Modestly? Skimpy? Classy? etc. Do they have a dynamic, loud, quiet, etc. style?

💄 Lipstick - Does OC enjoy fashion? Would they enjoy styling others?

🎭 Performing Arts - If others wanted to join a cult devoted to OC, what choices would OC (or you) have in the style, theme, design?

🧣 Scarf - How often does OC change their style? Daily? Weekly? Seasonally? etc.

🛒 Shopping Cart - OC suddenly has a lot of money. What is most likely the cause of this? What do they spend it on?

🎼 Musical Score - Share an OC playlist you associate/made for OC!

💠 Diamond With A Dot - What is something OC indulges in, publicly vs. privately?

🥰 Smiling Face With Hearts - What do you love about OC? What events, art, work do you love to put OC in?

🤗 Hugging Face - How does OC make others happy? What do they wish they could do, or plan to do for others?

💢 Anger Symbol - What is OC's pet peeve?

💀 Skull - Is OC cursed? Haunted? Possessed? Fated to tragedy?

Thank you for the asks!!! Long post, so answers under the read more!

I'm answering for my CoS Tatyana PC, Maria Kolyanna Von Zarovich

💸 Money With Wings - Would OC commit tax evasion?

No, she is the one collecting the taxes.

🐛 Bug - If OC was a worm, would anyone love them? How would others treat them?

Yes, Strahd, obvs. She'd have the best compost bin, I'm sure.

🎮 Video Game - What would OC's gamertag/username be?

Oh, this is a tough one. Probably something like.... B4rovianRoulette

👀 Eyes - What would be in OC's search history?

"Immortality spells" "Resurrection Magic" "Can you resurrect your husband if he goes to hell" "Am I going to hell quiz" "Can the church stop you from going to hell"

✍🏽 Writing Hand - Your OC is given five seconds to edit/alter/adjust something about themselves (or their story). What do they try to change?

Maria would bring her mother and father back. Not her biological parents; Her adopted ones. The ones who raised her.

🎯 Direct Hit - Is OC "Wanted" in any village, kingdom, etc.? Dead or alive? What is the reward for them?

Maria would be wanted for so many crimes (including, but not limited to: arson, murder (assassination), murder in the 1st degree (three counts)). Unfortunately, she runs the country and no one would try to take her to court.

🎨 Artist Palette - If OC was a color (or palette), what color would they be? Would others assign them the same color?

Copper, Rust Red, Royal Blue, Cream White, Gunmetal grey I think most people would assign Maria to be the same. Those are her signature colors.

👔 Necktie - Does OC dress Modestly? Skimpy? Classy? etc. Do they have a dynamic, loud, quiet, etc. style?

Maria is the poster girl for ostentatious (fantasy, not totally accurate) 1890s fashion. She loves her big crinoline/bustled skirts. She loves delicate lace work. She loves ribbon chokers. She wears red, black, and blue, and that's about it. When she is at home, she wears comfortable lave and velvet tea gowns. I think that when she goes adventuring, she steals Strahd's shirts and wears them with a corset and high waist-ed riding breeches. She loves to wear her hair down.

💄 Lipstick - Does OC enjoy fashion? Would they enjoy styling others?

Maria loves fashion. She was, last time she checked, up to date on all the latest Barovian fashion plates. I can only IMAGINE how much she'll love clothes from different cultures once she gets to explore the outside world.

🎭 Performing Arts - If others wanted to join a cult devoted to OC, what choices would OC (or you) have in the style, theme, design?

The closest thing Maria would have to a cult would be a circle of noble ladies who sort of bend to her will. They would be your usual court ladies. They would be fashionable, well-mannered, and cunning.

🧣 Scarf - How often does OC change their style? Daily? Weekly? Seasonally? etc.

Maria does not have a lot of clothe s(by our standards. By Barovian standards, she has a lot). She has a full set of outfits for every season. She doesn't actually need to worry about the weather; Hot and cold don't actually bother her. No, she needs to remain fashionable in all seasons though. Wouldn't be caught dead wearing a summer lingerie dress in December.

🛒 Shopping Cart - OC suddenly has a lot of money. What is most likely the cause of this? What do they spend it on?

Cause: She married rich. She immediately gets the coolest guns she can find. Magic ones.

🎼 Musical Score - Share an OC playlist you associate/made for OC!

^^ This is the playlist. So named because of a quote from Escher, "No matter how hard we try to get rid of you, you just keep coming back like a heart-breakingly beautiful cursed boomerang."

💠 Diamond With A Dot - What is something OC indulges in, publicly vs. privately?

Tbh, her greatest "indulgence" is probably sex. She doesn't have any real vices. Wine and drugs don't affect her because she's a construct. Violence isn't necessarily an "indulgence" but something she does when she has to. I don't think she would see any kind of food as an indulgence. I don't think she would do anything she considered "indulgent" publicly.

I do think, however, that she spent enough of her life living with Religious Repression that she would consider sex an indulgence.

🥰 Smiling Face With Hearts - What do you love about OC? What events, art, work do you love to put OC in?

Tbh, I loved Maria's character trajectory. I loved how I intended for her to be a soft, naive sacrificial lamb for the plot, and at some point her trajectory changed to "I will use love to save the world, and I don't stop trying until it kills me." I loved how one of Maria's defining traits was her ability to love, and I loved that that's what made her a villain. I loved her corruption until her story arc of "became a villain because I fell in love" mirrored the path that Strahd took to become what he was.

I draw Maria so much. I would love to draw more casual art of her. She's my fave character I've ever played.

🤗 Hugging Face - How does OC make others happy? What do they wish they could do, or plan to do for others?

Maria, when she is so inclined, which is rarely, will do acts of service for other people. She may not *like* doing it, but she will try to do things for people.

This is also, unfortunately, how she tries to get people to do things for her, so watch out.

💢 Anger Symbol - What is OC's pet peeve?

Literally any amount of resistance when she's talking. She doesn't like when people disagree with her. Whether or not she is correct is irrelevant.

💀 Skull - Is OC cursed? Haunted? Possessed? Fated to tragedy?

She was cursed against her will to die young, over and over.

Now, she's cursed by her own actions to live an eternity alone.

#rocky rambles #maria posting #syrips #rocky answers

[lya-dustin]

Someone will remember us

Chapter 82

Cw: atonic seizure; visions of gruesome death, you know the usual

Gif by @vera-kozhemiakina

Taglist: @stargaryenx @mercedesdecorazon @arrthurpendragon

He had been nearly two and ten when he claimed Vhagar.

‘What if you lose an eye?’ He remembers Aemee asking as she snuck out with Silverwing ‘just in case’.

‘What if you lose your life?’ He can hear her say even when she is sound asleep in their bed.

He needs to do this.

He needs to claim this dragon.

“Lykirī.” Aemond speaks as if the dragon were human. “Dohaerās.”

Vermithor growls but does not move to leave or attack.

He is too comfortable roosting with his mate, who curls up at his side like a cat.

Silverwing would not let harm come to him, she is as protective of him as her rider.

He supposed the Silver Queen could put up a fight should this fail.

“Lykirī.” He repeats and comes closer, holding his hand out with confidence.

The Bronze Fury huffed, sniffs but refused to attack even when Aemond touched his hor snout.

His eyes narrow as he regards him, seeing him as a harmless nuisance.

“Dohaerās.”

There is no growl and Aemond does not hesitate to approach the saddle.

It is the same saddle the Old King used. No one, not even Hugh the Hammer could remove it.

It will need to be repaired, the leather worn out and the steel rusting in some places.

A wonder the previous rider managed to live that long.

Aemond, King of the Six Kingdoms, husband to Queen Aemma, is eight and ten when he claims his second and last dragon.

“Sōves.” It comes like a whisper and yet the Bronze Fury does as he is told.

He feels the rush he felt when he was boy.

The thrill of dragon flight made his blood run hot as if it were his first time.

The thrill of knowing your gamble paid off.

He wished Aemee had been here like she had been when they were children.

Aemond had felt so on top of the world those glorious moments before he lost his eye.

He had felt bold enough to think he could march to Rhaenyra band Laenor and demand they grant him Aemma’s hand in marriage.

He would have done his duty had he been betrothed to his sister, but Aemma had always been the girl he knew he would marry.

They had flown together that night, her demonstrating how to control the reins of his dragon and showing him the commands he needed to know.

Aemond had hoped she had come with him, but she had begged him not to go when he bounced the idea off her.

“I do not want to lose you, Aemond, please don’t do this.” She had said shaking with fear and crying thinking the worst would befall on him.

“You won’t lose me.” he had said, squeezing her hands to assure her. It was not a lie, he had meant it.

He only waited until she was asleep to slip away.

The guilt gnaws at him when she meets him in the air wearing his cloak over her nightgown and looking as frantic as he had expected.

“You could have died!” she berates him once they are on the ground again, her hands pulling him to her by his cotton shirt.

He had chosen to come in just his breeches and a plain shirt, had their enemies been in the woods they could have ended him with a well-placed arrow.

“But I did not, Aemee. See, I am fine.” He assures her, taking her face in his hands and have her see it for herself.

“Don’t make me live in a world without you.” She begs him, hugging him hard as if he might turn to dust if she let go.

“I won’t, I promise.”

“You have your daughter, why do you not go to her, your grace?” Lady Darklyn asks after the queen begins to overstay her welcome.

The greens were advancing towards the capital, Borros Baratheon won over by a rumored marriage between his eldest girl and the Usurper.

He was in Storm’s End, supposedly, waiting for reinforcements from the Reach and the Marcher Lords.

Rhaenyra’s daughter amassed her own army, the North and the Riverlands stood behind her and her dragons.

Aemond Targaryen had killed Daemon Targaryen and if she was to believe the news, claimed Vermithor.

Jaehaerys and Alysanne, only this time Alysanne is king and Jaehaerys her consort.

“You would have me beg my ingrate of a daughter for aid?” the queen asked shocked at the mere idea of giving up and letting her stupid little girl think she won.

It was one thing to turn her cloak against her own mother who birthed and raised her, it was another for her to declare the Great Council a fraud.

To say Rhaenyra had no right to inherit her father’s throne, to say her grandfather who declared her heir the day she was born sat on stolen throne, was another.

In the end, Duskendale turns her out, Steffon Darklyn deserts her and Queen Rhaenyra is forced to sell her father’s crown to buy an armed ship headed for Dragonstone.

She will punish them all the humiliations and death they have caused her.

Starting with these disloyal lords and ladies and ending with her stupid daughter.

They will pay.

They finally move south; Nettles chooses to leave for the Vale and deliver the news to Rhaena and Lady Jeyne herself.

No matter, they are the only faction with dragons anyways.

Baratheon chose Aegon with the promise of Cassandra mothering a new king, Lannister had sided with them if Dalton Greyjoy was dealt with.

Mother’s supporters came as well and while Aemond and Cole do not trust them, Aemma knows it is Aegon’s who they shouldn’t trust.

They are ten days away from Kingslanding when House Darklyn comes to bend the knee.

Even worse Ser Steffon, mother’s former Lord Commander, comes with her crown.

“Your grace, the Lady of Duskendale prays daily for your health and your imminent victory.” The knight offers the crown in box of carved wood with gilded dragons.

She feels sick to her stomach.

The blood rushes from her face when she realizes they expect her to take it.

To kill her mother and take it as Jaehaerys’ rightful heir.

Instead, Aemma’s eyes roll into the back of her head, and she falls forward from the force of her vision.

Aegon laughs and drinks from father’s favorite wineskin as Sunfyre eats her mother alive. Little Aegon is held by guards who force him to see it.

#aemma velaryon #someone will remember us fic #aemond targaryen x velaryon!oc #ocappreciationtag #asoiaf au #fyeahhotdocs #hotd fanfic

[lambergeier]

hi!! ive been reading your fics for years and ive been seeing u rb lots of akechi/p5 stuff. i was wondering if you had any plans for a fic for that fandom? if not, mind telling us about a wip you’re excited about?

hello!! unfortunately i have no plans to write any p5 fic, i'm sorry :( i adored the game when i played it the summer before last and i am, as you have noticed, totally and enthrallingly obsessed with akechi to this day, but idk, somehow the right sequence of synapses didn't fire such that i felt compelled to write fic. possibly i could simply never compete with fucking nuts akechi is in canon ❤️

as for wips i must admit i really just don't have much going on in general in the fic zone rn, but here's a felix fe3h thing i've been picking at for months, i gift you the first few paragraphs lol:

North of the Oghmas, 1185, spring tries to kill summer in the cradle. Rain comes down like the concerted will of the saints, washing out the roads, the towns, the fields, and a not insubstantial fraction of the armies. Blades rust and rations spoil. Knights, horses, oxen, and the goats that give milk to the miles-long train of camp followers all turn their ankles. When Dorothea comes to stand outside Felix’s tent in the pummeling rain she’s wearing no fine jewelry or dyed silks, all of which was packed away in doubled sacks weeks ago. Her breeches are muddy up to the knees and her fine dark hair ribbons down her neck like blood.

“What,” Felix says, when she’s stood two minutes outside the open front of his tent without saying a word. Everyone in this army likes to think he doesn’t see them fucking around when he’s sharpening a blade.

Dorothea and Felix came to a short-lived detente after the attack on Garreg Mach. The peace dissolved over the subsequent years, as her fascination with the specificities of his nature and his flagging interest in her company failed to produce a meaningful relationship. Now she’s as cool with him as he is with her—usually. Outside his tent, this afternoon, in the storming rain, she’s looking at him with an unbearable amount of pity.

“What?” he says again, harsher, as he sets down his stone and sword. “Are you staring just to stare?”

She sniffs, annoyed, but the pity’s still there, stamped boldly across her features. “We were looking for you,” she says. Her voice is strong, yet another attribute of her life and personality she’d surely attribute to the damn opera, but at least it’s audible over the rain. “We found a note in Sylvain’s tent.”

#also i did tweet about akechi a lot lmao so if you head over to twitter dot com and search #from:lambergeier akechi #and from:firegeier akechi #you will find further thoughts there.

[blueiskewl]

A PAIR OF SCOTTISH ALL-METAL FLINTLOCK BELT PISTOLS BY JOHN MURDOCH, DOUNE CIRCA 1750-60

Each with three-stage barrel with flared octagonal muzzle, ramped fluted breech and engraved with characteristic panels of scrollwork, engraved bevelled lock signed 'Io. Murdoch' and inscribed 'Doun' (sic) along the leading upper edge, three-quarter length stock engraved with neo-Celtic patterns of interlace inlaid with silver over the length of the butt, with panels of foliage, scrollwork and border ornament over the remaining surfaces, inlaid with three engraved silver bands on the underside, a pair of vacant silver ovals on the butt, silver button trigger pricked and engraved with an expanded flowerhead, pierced engraved belt hook, and original ramrod (the prickers each missing, small patches of light surface rust). 11¼in (28.6cm).

Lieutenant-General Hugh Percy, 2nd Duke of Northumberland (1742-1817, acceded 1786). The pistols were given as a present to a Mr Wood, factor (manager) of the ducal estates at Alnwick, Northumberland. Thence by descent to the present owner.

Prior to his resignation from General Lord Howe's army in 1777, Hugh Percy had served with distinction in The American Revolutionary War. As commanding officer of the relief column at the Battle of Lexington and Concord Percy saved the retreating British forces from total defeat. In 1775, as a Divisional commander, he was engaged in the Battle of Long Island and led the storming of Fort Washington.

In 1786 Hugh Percy succeeded his father as 2nd Duke of Northumberland and worked in continuation of the program of agricultural improvements at Alnwick. He held twice-weekly meeting at Alnwick Castle with tenants and tradespeople, these occasions being almost certainly organised and attended by Wood.

#A PAIR OF SCOTTISH ALL-METAL FLINTLOCK BELT PISTOLS BY JOHN MURDOCH 1750-60 #weapons #guns #pistols #scotosh pistols #ancient artifacts #ancient weapons #history #history news