#even while she is *so* brutal and unflinching

[fictionadventurer]

First Letter from Julia I. Sand to Chester A. Arthur

[1881 Aug 27]

To the Hon Chester A. Arthur.

The hours of Garfield's life are numbered--before this meets your eye, you may be President. The people are bowed in grief; but--do you realize it?--not so much because he is dying, as because you are his successor. What President ever entered office under circumstances so sad! The day he was shot, the thought rose in a thousand minds that you might be the instigator of the foul act. Is not that a humiliation which cuts deeper than any bullet can pierce? Your best friends said: "Arthur must resign--he cannot accept office, with such a suspicion resting upon him." And now your kindest opponents say: "Arthur will try to do right"--adding gloomily--"He won't succeed, though--making a man President cannot change him."

But making a man President can change him! At a time like this, if anything can, that can. Great emergencies awaken generous traits which have lain dormant half a life. If there is a spark of true nobility in you, now is the occasion to let it shine. Faith in your better nature forces me to write to you--but not to beg you to resign. Do what is more difficult and more brave. Reform! It is not the proof of highest goodness never to have done wrong--but it is a proof of it, sometime in one's career, to pause and ponder, to recognize the evil, to turn resolutely against it and devote the remainder of ones life to that only which is pure and exalted. Such revolutions of the soul are not common. No step towards them is easy. In the humdrum drift of daily life, they are impossible. But once in a while there comes a crisis which renders miracles feasible. The great tidal wave of sorrow which has rolled over the country, has swept you loose from your old moorings and set you on a mountain-top, alone. As President of the United States--made such by no election, but by a national calamity--you have no old associations, no personal friends, no political ties, you have only your duty to the people at large. You are free--free to be as able and as honorable as any man who ever filled the presidential chair.

Your past--you know best what it has been. You have lived for worldly things. Fairly or unfairly, you have won them. You are rich, powerful--tomorrow, perhaps, you will be President. And what is it all worth? Are you peaceful--are you happy? What if a few days hence the hand of the next unsatisfied ruffian should lay you low, and you should drag through months of weary suffering, in the White House, knowing that all over the land not a prayer was uttered in your behalf, not a tear shed, that the great American people was glad to be rid of you--would not worldly honors seem rather empty then?

Make such things impossible. Rise to the emergency. Disappoint our fears. Force the nation to have faith in you. Show from the first that you have none but the purest aims. It may be difficult at once to inspire confidence, but persevere. In time--when you have given reason for it--the country will love and trust you. If any man says, "With Arthur for President, Civil Service Reform is doomed," prove that Arthur can be its firmest champion. Do not thrust on the people politicians who have forfeited their respect--no matter how near they may be to you as personal friends. Do not remove any man from office unnecessarily. Appoint those only of marked ability and of sterling character. Such may not be abundant, but you will find them, if you seek them. You are far too clever to be easily deceived. In all your policy, have none but the highest motives. With the lamp of patriotism in your hand, your feet will not be likely to stumble.

Do you care for applause? Of course, you have had it, after a fashion. Perhaps from the dregs of the populace, inspired by the lowest of politicians. Possibly it pleased you at the time--it may have served some purpose that you solved then. But in the depths of your soul, do you not despise it? Would not one heart-felt "God bless you!" from the honest and true among your countrymen, be worth ten thousand times more? You can win such blessing, if you will.

Your name now is on the annals of history. You cannot slink back into obscurity, if you would. A hundred years hence, school boys will recite your name in the list of Presidents and tell of your administration. And what shall posterity say? It is for you to choose whether your record shall be written in black or in gold. For the sake of your country, for your own sake and for the sakes of all who have ever loved you, let it be pure and bright.

As one of the people over whom you are to be President, I make you this appeal. Perhaps you have received many similar. If not, still believe that this expresses the thoughts in many hearts, today--and do not give those who have had faith in you, cause for regret.

Yours Respectfully,

Julia I. Sand.

46 E. 74th st. New York.

Aug 27th 1881.

#history is awesome #presidential talk #last week if you'd known me in real life there's a 50% chance i'd have tackled you and forced you to read this #isn't this letter just astounding? #imagine sending this to a soon-to-be president! #and him *saving* it! #there are such lovely turns of phrase #even while she is *so* brutal and unflinching #my favorite line might be 'you are far too clever to be easily deceived' #just appealing straight to his vanity #brilliant! #i haven't loved a letter this much since 84 charing cross road #the moral of the story is that the best letters are written by slightly cracked politically-minded literary spinsters

[wrenhavenriver]

Okay I’m not done talking about this actually. Re: the Dishonored series’ attempts to reconcile its critical views of imperialism with keeping the characters who sit at the very top of the Empire likable, I think DH1 is considerably less obvious/glaring about this internal conflict than DH2 because: 1) it’s, duh, the first in the series, and suspension of disbelief comes a lot more naturally the first time you’re told “things will be better now, for real” than the second; and 2) Jessamine’s rule sees so little screentime it’s much easier to portray the miseries of the game as entirely attributable to Burrows’ rule (and the actions of other assorted Bad People™) without directly confronting the imperial system that put them all in a position to seize and promptly abuse power in the first place. Under a read more because I can't shut up, sorry.

Like, say you play DH1 for the first time on low chaos: you get the happy ending epilogue speech, and even if it seems to smooth everything over a little too optimistically for a game that otherwise shows a collapsing society and the corruption that brought it to that state in grim, unflinching detail, well, that’s mostly okay—you maintained low chaos, after all, in essence proving the Outsider’s “Perhaps that’s just the nature of man” theory wrong, and the good effects just rippled outward to a much a larger scale, which was pretty much the point of the chaos system in the first place. If it all sounds a little bit like the happy ending to a parable not particularly grounded in the realities of systems of power that the rest of the game was critiquing, maybe that’s just what happens when an entity as long-lived and far-sighted as the Outsider summarizes a period that is little more than a miniscule blip in time to him. Stand far enough back from something and all the rough edges blur out to nothing.

(Plus it’s a video game after all, so maybe you can suspend your disbelief/any personal political beliefs about real world empires you may have brought with you. Maybe it's nice to imagine that things can change meaningfully for the better for Dunwall and the other Isles simply by plopping a Kaldwin back onto the throne.)

The existence of DH2 makes it clear, though, that the ending monologue to DH1 really is more fairytale than reality (or, you know, what happens when a game gets greenlit for a sequel the devs of three years ago didn't know they'd get). A Kaldwin takes the throne—under the watchful eye and protection of her witchcraft-using Serkonan father, at that, a man with viscerally personal history with the Abbey, the City Watch, and the deeply xenophobic nobility—and despite all those very real family connections and personal reasons to want to reform things for the better, we step into Emily’s rule to see the people of Serkonos being trampled on and worked to death in the silver mines, the Abbey still freely hunting down and torturing or otherwise “disappearing” people suspected of witchcraft, and the Guard casually beating and murdering citizens—in one notable case, by throwing one directly into the same brutal Wall of Light technology mobilized to great effect by Burrows’ corrupt regime and that is still in wide use around Emily’s Empire fifteen years later.

Some of this chaos was instigated by Delilah and her inner circle (especially the Duke) leading up to the coup, but much of it is preexisting corruption that can’t be blamed on her—she and the coven certainly had no reason to prop up the Abbey, for one, and she didn’t have to create the aristocratic bitterness motivating turncoats like Ramsey, only give them an outlet for what was already simmering. Meagan, Sokolov, and Lucia Pastor all make it abundantly clear that this was not a momentary slip-up—Dunwall Tower had been looking the other way while violence and unrest grew for some time, because the human cost of keeping silver flowing was out of sight and out of mind, a function basically built into the system of Imperial rule. Not a bug, but a feature. A tendency toward retaining corrupt institutions, an erosion of empathy, because that’s what keeps the wheels turning and wealth being funneled upward.

So when low chaos Emily professes in mission nine that she’s learned her lesson and that from now on she’ll Pay Attention, really! to the four nation Empire she’s the head of, and the happy epilogue plays and we get another Outsider monologue about the golden age ahead, it just seems…vaguely absurd? Like, we already saw this! Burrows, Campbell, and the Bastard Trio™ of the loyalists were deposed or otherwise gotten rid of, making room for Good People™ with Good Intentions™ to take their place in charge and fix things—you’ve got Emily on the throne with Corvo to guide her; Yul Khulan, a “kind” man and eventual close personal ally of Emily’s, becomes High Overseer; Curnow, widely reputed as a Reasonable Authority Figure and rare man of principle in the Guard, has survived (and presumably still has some years of service as a Captain before the retirement mentioned in The Corroded Man).

And then we fast forward fifteen years and all these groups...still suck? The Empress hates her job and is eating off plates made of silver mined by Karnacan laborers dying hideously of terrible respiratory ailments, the Overseers we see in Karnaca are ransacking homes and torturing Outsider worshippers (a group including such dangerous people as *checks notes* newspaper artists), half the City Guard is on the payroll of the shitty aristocrats supporting Delilah’s coup, and the Grand Guard is passing the time by throwing people into Walls of Light. Emily’s reign began with a veritable A-team of Certified Good People and fifteen years later it's barely made a dent, because the system of imperial rule is built from the ground up to shelter corruption and complacency, to resist change, no matter who’s in charge and whether that person is “paying attention” or not. It’s beyond the power of one sufficiently motivated Empress and a team of well-intentioned people in positions of authority below her.

It’s tempting to say “no, it really was just an issue of Emily not taking her duties seriously, look at Jessamine’s rule, or Euhorn’s before her!” but the thing is Obvious Disasters like Violent Coups Aside we really don’t have much evidence that their rules were all that much better, or at the very least any less prone to corruption? DH1 again has the advantage over DH2 here, mostly by way of omission. We don’t get to actually see what life in the Empire is like under Jessamine, just that tiny sliver of time in the Prologue returning as Corvo to Dunwall Tower, where despite the player being told there’s a deadly plague about to bring the city to a “breaking point,” the scenery is beautiful and calm and the staff are polite and affable. It makes for very compelling contrast when the game fast forwards six months to the dank misery of Coldridge Prison, and then later the grim state of the streets filling up with corpses and weepers.

Mission six completes the comparison with a return to Dunwall Tower, where the courtyard is now brimming with hostile guards and surveillance towers and tallboys, and one lone maid who openly laments Jessamine’s passing. Life under the authoritarian despot who purposely instigated a plague for the purpose of wiping out the lower classes is, obviously, much worse than life under the benevolent Empress who is introduced to us passionately advocating for saving the lives of all of her citizens. But, in the same way Emily and her inner circle of Well-Intentioned People weren’t enough to dislodge the entrenched corruption and brutality—or prevent a new wave of it—Jessamine’s kindness can’t paint over the miseries of the imperial system she presides over. We the players see Coldridge Prison for the first time in the six-months-later flashback of Burrows’ rule, but it existed during Jessamine’s time—guards state explicitly in the DLC that she and Corvo used to come inspect it, in fact. Jessamine wholly loves Corvo, a native of Serkonos, but anti-Serkonan prejudice runs rampant in her court and city. Corvo and Emily wholly love Jessamine too, but the people of Dunwall are somewhat divided on the matter (“Long live the Empress!” “She was a WENCH!” / “Not everyone did, but I really liked the Empress…”). Burrows deceived Jessamine and took advantage of her trusting nature, but he only had the resources to do so in the first place because of the system that promoted him to Royal Spymaster, a position of incredible power and very little accountability.

Euhorn we know the least about, but we are told he enjoyed a “prosperous age”—a sentiment that falls somewhat flat when we learn that he had an affair with a chamber maid (the power differential of which is highly questionable at best), strung along the resulting illegitimate daughter with promises of elevating her to a princess that he never intended to keep, then took his chance when said daughter was blamed for breaking a vase to throw her and her mother out onto the streets, where the mother is brutalized by a prison guard and eventually dies in agony in debtor’s prison, leaving the daughter to fend for herself alone in the world. All of which shows us that the Empire is, in this age of “prosperity,” still a place of extreme power imbalances where the Emperor takes advantage of women in his employ, debtor’s prisons exist, guards can cause fatal injuries to civilians on a whim and face no consequences, and children are thrown with disdain onto the streets to die. Which, on many levels, is not all that different from the ages of other rulers who follow.

tl;dr these games show us over and over again that the Empire is built on a fundamentally broken system that perpetuates corruption and then try to append “but it’s okay so long as the people in charge are good people who are paying attention to their jobs” to the end of them for the sake of keeping those characters likable, and while the first game can get away with this by virtue of being the first game and using Jessamine’s rule primarily as a way to showcase how bad Burrows’ rule sucks by comparison, this falls flat when the very existence of the second game provides ample evidence that the Good Intentions of Generally Good People are not enough to counteract the entrenched cruelties of the institutions that keep imperialism afloat. Okay I'm going to go get another hobby now bye.

#kathryn plays video games

[drowning-in-cacophony]

Impossible Odds

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial, Prompt: All The King's Horses

Summary: the King's Horses have been cut down. TW: mentions of death

“Bad news,” he calls, coming back down over the ridge. “We just lost the last one.”

“Seriously?” She could kick something. Is sorely tempted to, actually, but doesn’t for the people around who’ll be watching her. Carefully watching her, tentatively watching her, because she’s next now, isn’t she? The next one up to the plate, the one they’ve all got to put their hopes and trust in, now the King’s gone missing and all of the ones who might have been able to shed a clue on where have just gone and- gone.

It's hardly the Horses’ fault; they were only mortal. In an uncharitable moment, she wants to blame them regardless. One hour more would have been something.

“Were they lucid, in their last moments?” Despite already knowing what the answer’s going to be, she has to ask. Maybe it’s not too hopeless just yet. Maybe there’s a clue still shed, something she can grip onto and make work for her. But the world’s never been that kind to her, because he’s giving her a regretful look as he shakes his head.

“If they woke up at all, it wasn’t clear. I think-” he hesitates, glances around. Lowers his voice, “I think it was too much for them all. The pain got them and dragged them down, and with it any last words they’d have wanted to give.”

Because that’s clear. If they could, they would have. The Horses have always been loyal to their king, and they would have done anything for him to be retrieved safely. It says something that not one single one had had even a moment’s lucidity, even a minute to scratch something into the dirt. Whoever did this did it well, enough to destroy any chance of clues while leaving behind a rather brutal message of what they can do.

There had been a whole herd of the Horses, and now they’re all cut down. Only a handful left to gasp their dying breaths onto her men’s palms, and not a single word to help. A job well done, by whoever did this, and she feels the bite of her fingers against her palm before she realises she’s curling her hand to a fist.

Ever conscious of the nearby eyes: she uncurls her fist, and hastily.

“Then we’ll have to look around manually. See what clues we can discover ourselves.” Her voice is brisk, her words like thick tree trunks, unflinching and confident. Like this isn’t a situation where hope could drain away as easily as that, like this isn’t bordering on impossible.

The King, gone.

The Horses, gone.

The clues are likely to be non-existent. The next steps are likely to be difficult. Her job is likely to get a whole lot more undesirable to anyone else looking on.

But there’s nothing like a desperate hope, if only it gives her more time to think on those next steps.

He gives her an equally brisk nod – he’s second to her, he knows what’s stretching in front of them, the bleak realisations, and he like her will want the desperate hope – and turns to give the orders. Search the area, carefully and considerate, and he directs them away from where most of the Horses laid their last breaths.

She can take that area. In a moment.

Turning in that direction so no one might see her face, she waits as she hears the footsteps, all shuffling off onto their tasks. Comb the brush, search the trees. Maybe they’ll get lucky. Maybe there’s an idiot on this mysterious opposition’s side. A footprint, a wrenched piece of fabric, a scrap of a map. Anything that she could pour into something better, anything to work off. It’s an impossible ask, as impossible as this situation’s shaping up to be. If this opposition is good enough to snatch their king, to kill all the Horses and get away… there won’t be idiots.

She’s either going to have to perform a miracle or get ready for the rest of them to tear her to pieces for the failure.

She scrubs a hand down her face, lamenting her luck. A whole herd of Horses hadn’t been able to protect the King, and that was meant to be the safest place for him. Among the herd, among his most dedicated. Only her luck would cause it to backfire like this.

She spends a minute on the lament, pressed against the leather of her glove.

Then she’s sucking in a breath, dropping the hand. It’s time to work on a miracle.

#flash fiction friday #flash fiction #short story #writeblr #anna's writing #word count: 760 #tw death

[euphoric-melancholyy]

the tender small gestures of love (and the way they all add up)

A Max & Tisaanah (The War of Lost Hearts) Fanfic

Summary: Max takes care of Tisaanah after a long day.

Or

“I love you, Maxantarius Farlione,” she said, still breathless. She kissed him again, tasting herself on his lips. “Bed - let’s,” she moaned as he caught her lip in his mouth and bit down, leaving her momentarily dizzy with lust. “Let’s go to the bed.”

“I can’t carry you and step out of this tub without tripping and catching us on fire,” he mumbled between kisses, not ready to part for even seconds.

Tisaanah threw back her head in a laugh, and stepped out of the tub. He followed. She made a show of standing up straight, jutting her chin up and out.

“I’m ready to be carried now,” she announced, erupting into a fit of giggles when he slung her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

Or

3,000+ words of shameless smut with feelings

AN: There were no fanfiction for my favorite book series of all time, so obviously I had to rectify this, while challenging myself to write ✨intimate smut✨

Huge shout out to Carissa Broadbent for writing the greatest books I’ve ever read, with the most amazing characters. Please, never read this if you find it.

Also on Ao3

Leadership revitalized and drained Tisaanah simultaneously. She loved the feeling of power, of knowing that her actions and words would be listened to, but she could live without the constant performance. She had hoped that part of her life was behind her, but nearly everyday she found herself sliding that mask back on, schmoozing with the royals of neighboring nations and the government of the Alliance. She threw herself into it with unflinching brutality, working from the wee hours of the morning until long after the moon crested high in the sky. It was mesmerizing to watch from the outside, and she loved it like a child. But it was in these times that she often forgot to rest, eat, or just stop and breathe.

So it was with dreams of sleep and a quick bite of whatever the kitchens had leftover, that she found herself walking to her room. In the background, she could hear the sound of running water.

“Max?” she called. He came around the corner donning a navy silk robe embellished in a floral pattern, and Tisaanah bit her lip to keep from laughing at the sight.

“The savior returns,” he quiped in butchered Therini. He had been practicing it more lately, small phrases here and there. She silently admitted he was getting much better, but the accent was still…rough.

“All in a day's work. What are you wearing?”

“Didn’t you know these are all the rage in Threll now? I’m a man of high fashion.”

“Mysterious and fashionable snake man?” She hummed, walking up to him and placing her hands on his chest. “How’d I get so lucky?”

“You forgot caring, attentive, best teacher that I’ve ever had.” He lists the attributes off with his fingers. It was a great test of her will not to burst into laughter at the quip, and the energy drained from her. It was the type of bone-deep tiredness that kept her restless, staring at the ceiling and trying to quiet her mind, the list of things she needed to do on a never ending loop. She frowned at the thought of another sleepless night, even if given the time to rest.

“I’m too exhausted to keep up with this level of humor.” She leaned into his touch, the warmth of him enveloping her and settling her in a way that even sleep could not. If she could not sleep, at least she could lay against him and listen to the pitter patter of his heart, his arms wrapping around her in a loose embrace, his knee tucked between her legs.

“About that. . .” He interlocked their fingers together pulling her with him around the corner to -

A bath, illuminated in the flicker of half a dozen candles. The scent of oils, lavender and something else she couldn’t place in her sleep deprived mind, wafted through the air. At the wide lip of the tub sat a tray full of fresh foods - fruits and bread, pork and cheese, and a bottle of wine.

If she felt tears in her eyes at the chasm of love in her chest, she’d blame it on the smoke from the candles, though it was barely there. This man, who had been working just as tirelessly as her, had prepared this for her. She could feel the heat of the water in the air from where she stood, the perfect scalding temperature. Her jaw dropped open in a choked “thank you.”

“Let me take care of you, my love,” he whispered, his voice reverent as a prayer. “Let me undress you.”

“You never have to ask,” she responded, just as softly. His calloused hands grazed her collarbone, their usual roughness masked by a thin layer of lotion that smelled of eucalyptus. She inhaled it, relishing how it mixed with ash and lilac scent of him as he slowly, so slowly, drew a path down and out, settling his hands on the lapels of her jacket. He removed her jacket first, undoing the buttons with a military trained skill, the thick material swooshing as it slid from her shoulders to pool on the floor. Her breath hitched as his hands went to her stomach, just above her waist. His nails lightly scratched at the soft expanse of skin there, the barest tickle of a caress, before he pulled her shirt up and over her head. As he continued to unclothe her, she watched him with a laser eye focus; the way his throat bobbed with every hitch of her breath, the broken lined-tattooed surface of his muscles straining with restraint, already needing to hold himself back. As his hands moved to the waistband of her pants, her stomach clenched. And when he finally slid her underwear down the length of her thighs, then her legs, the soft cotton tickling at the motion, she felt her breaths unconsciously hasten. And when she stood fully bare and exposed to the chill of the air, his eyes met hers and he smirked.

“I’ve kept it hot for you,” his voice was rough as he spoke, stepping to the side and directing her to the tub with a dramatic flourish of his arm.

She felt too choked up to speak, so she silently walked the two steps to the tub, letting out a satisfied moan as she submerged her body in the water. She dunked her head in, and his hands scratched at her scalp moments later, massaging shampoo into it. Tisaanah hummed in contentment, relaxing under his ministrations. He grabbed a cup and filled it, pouring fresh water atop her head to wash the soap out.

“Stand,” he instructed as he stripped off his robe and stepped in to join her, rubbing soap between his palms before caressing her shoulders, circling them until the soap was white foam upon her fragmented skin. He kneeled down, and she jerked as he rubbed along the back of her knees, up to her thighs, and over her pelvic bone, back and around to her ass. As he worked, he didn’t speak, didn’t need to as she turned to accommodate the warmth of his hands, soap dripping down her body. Gods, being touched this way was. . .She didn’t have words for it, the gentle way he touched her, pouring his whole self into caring for her, cleaning the grime of the day from her skin, and somewhere deeper in her soul too. It wasn’t even sexual, not completely, but it didn’t stop the butterflies from fluttering in her stomach, and a tightening in her chest and her core where desire pooled. The intimacy of it all brought tears to her eyes, but still she didn’t feel like crying - didn’t know if she could stop if she started to release the pent up stress of the past several weeks in that way.

There were other ways she’d much prefer to release it all.

She watched the firelight cast shadows across his skin, the insides of his arms, his shoulders, chest, and legs, as he poured more water over her, washing the suds of soap away. “All clean,” he murmured, after pouring the water over her thrice more. Her eyes locked with his. “There’s food, too. I probably should have asked about that first, actually. I had -”

“I’m not hungry for food.” Tisaanah cut him off, lifting her brow in challenge. It wasn’t exactly true - she knew she needed food. It just wasn’t what she wanted, no needed, most right now. “You’re beautiful,” she breathed, eyes taking in the dark ink encompassing most of his skin, the muscles of his abdomen tightening with each inhale of shaky breath. She hated those tattoos most days, its ink a permanent reminder of the hell he had been through. But they were his, and theirs, and a part of him now, so how could she hate anything that was part of him? She supposed he felt the same way about her scars.

She could see the moment his mind changed course from getting her to eat and sleep to giving into the consuming lust, his already hard cock twitching.

“I’m not either. Let me taste you.” He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around her. She started to kneel before him, but he urged her up and back. The tub sat against the wall, and she sat at its edge. He kneeled before her, looking into her eyes from between her spread legs. She could feel her breath quickening at the sight of him, and he had barely touched her. “This is about taking care of you, Tisaanah, not me. Let me. Just relax, and let me take care of you. You don’t have to do anything.”

“How can I say no to that, my mysterious snake man?” her voice was raspy, breathless, and she felt giddy with it. Drunk on the feel of his damp skin against her wet skin, the erratic beat of his heart against her flesh. Max groaned at her words, and she felt the vibration of it against her torso. He took one nipple into his mouth, biting then sucking before smoothing it over with his tongue. Rivulets of water still streamed down her skin, and he licked each droplet as it touched his lips, moaning as she bucked her hips up.

“You taste -” he repositioned himself, so that his head was level with her entrance, breath hot against her. “So fucking good, Tisaanah.” His tongue traced a path up her folds and back down again, stopping just before he reached her clit. Gods, she was going to explode at the slow, euphoric torture. “You work so hard, harder than anyone I’ve known, just trying to make the world a better place. It’s so -” his words cut off on a groan, her hips rolling to meet his mouth. “Sexy. I love you so, so much.” He spoke the words into the wetness of her sex, sucking her into his mouth between words.

Gods, she was burning for him. With him. Utterly and completely burning.

She needed more, needed him closer, needed his hand inside her, circling her clit with his thumb while he pumped his fingers in and out. She needed somewhere to put this overwhelming love that was burning within her.

As if he could hear her thoughts, he pumped two fingers inside of her, throwing his head back in a moan.

“You’re so tight, so ready.”

Her back arched and she cried out as he found his rhythm, heat building and coiling as his pace picked up. A dozen curses tumbled from her mouth, a nonsensical mix of Therini and Aren and his name, a plea and a prayer. It was too much and yet not enough, never enough even as she felt as if she would burst from her skin, layers of masks and walls disregarded for him and leaving her at the barest, most vulnerable version of herself. Always for him. Only for him, her equal, her home. As much as he teased her about being savior, he saved her too in more ways than she knew how to articulate, or will ever know how to express.

“Harder,” the word came out as a whimper, and his thumb obliged, pressing against her clit as he pumped his fingers harder, faster inside her, curling inwards.

“Come for me, love. Let me feel you come, let me taste you as you come.” And fuck, she didn’t know if she could stop now if she tried, tension coiling with each thrust of his fingers, every swipe of his thumb.

Gods, oh gods, she couldn’t - “Max I - I -” Her breath stuttered out as her orgasm shattered, seconds or minutes where she was nothing and no one and everything all at once, her control leaving as she rode wave after wave of pleasure.

As she came down, she felt his kiss at the side of her mouth, her cheek, whispers of sweet nothings - I’ve got you, you’re so fucking beautiful, so good to me, my love - into her damp skin.

Her clit throbbed in the wake of her pleasure, and already she wanted more of him. Her hunger for him had only grown, not been sated. He was a drug she’d never not need, a question and an answer, his heart a place for her soul to rest.

“I love you, Maxantarius Farlione,” she said, still breathless. She kissed him again, tasting herself on his lips. “Bed - let’s,” she moaned as he caught her lip in his mouth and bit down, leaving her momentarily dizzy with lust. “Let’s go to the bed.”

“I can’t carry you and step out of this tub without tripping and catching us on fire,” he mumbled between kisses, not ready to part for even seconds.

Tisaanah threw back her head in a laugh, and stepped out of the tub. He followed. She made a show of standing up straight, jutting her chin up and out.

“I’m ready to be carried now,” she announced, erupting into a fit of giggles when he slung her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

Tisaanah’s laughter turned to moans as he placed her on their bed and kissed a line down her neck to her breast, toying with the peak of her nipple. Already, she could feel her orgasm building again.

It didn’t matter that they’d done some version of this a hundred times before - making love or fucking or just basking in the presence of one another, drowning in it until all she could feel or think or breathe was Max, Max, Max - it undid her. She was a thread, unraveling and wrapping around him until there was no beginning or end to either of them - a quilt sewn together in the deepest recesses of her soul. Shocks of pleasure shot up her spine, and she felt like she could combust with its heady feeling.

“Tisaanah,” Max moaned, as the tip of his cock teased her entrance. “You feel so fucking good. Like,” He slid in, just barely, and then out, his erection grazing the tip of her clit. She whimpered at the sudden loss of him inside her, of the too light hardness against the bundle of nerves. “Like home.” Her hips bucked up to meet his, and he bit at her earlobe, sucking it into his mouth. “You’re so wet for me.” The words were a vibration against her jaw, and her back arched.

It hurt, Tisaanah decided, to be loved this tenderly. To love this tenderly in return.

“Maxantarius, please,” she begged. She was not above begging now. Her desperation, her need for him had reawakened her, renewed in the fire of passion all the energy she had lost.

His hand gripped the inside of her thigh, tight enough to bruise. She smiled at the thought of bearing his mark from this moment.

“Fucking hell, Tisaanah,” he groaned, sliding in fully. He slowed, planting soft kisses along every surface he could reach, her temple, her collarbone, her jaw, her hairline, her neck. He gave her body time to adjust to the size of him, and the weight of him above her, before slowly, so slowly, beginning to move.

“Beautiful,” he said. Each thrust was punctuated by her cry of ecstasy, her whole body trembling as he continued his slow, sensuous fucking.

Too slowly. She needed him deeper, a mindless desperation crescendoing through her with shocks of pleasure.

Hooking her leg behind his, she shifted her weight and flipped him to his back. The jarring motion brought simultaneous moans from them both, and she rolled her hips harder, faster, than the pace he set.

“I want to feel you against every part of me,” she growled between kisses, sucking at his neck as he sucked at hers, his nails leaving red half crescent marks where he gripped her hips. “I want you to fuck me until it hurts, brand the thrust of your cock between my legs.”

“Fu-” he moaned, a full body shiver wracking his body. “Fuck!”

“Exactly, just like that,” she encouraged, unconsciously rolling her hips and sending him deeper with each thrust.

She could taste the salt of her tears she had been keeping at bay before she even realized she was crying, overcome with the intensity of this, and him, the feeling of rightness in being with him, his cock pulsing against her walls. Tisaanah basked in it, as pleasure coiled and tingled throughout her whole body, drowning in the feverish, frantic sounds of their ragged breathing, flesh pounding into flesh.

“Max, oh gods, Max -” It was too much, too much, too much -

She let herself go just as he did. And together they fell.

As her awareness came back to her, she felt the heaving rise and fall of Max’s breathing beneath her, his arms wrapped around her pulling her towards him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, kissing a tear from her cheek.

She laughed, a short joyous breath, “Never better, now.” She smiled as she said it, peppering kisses along his jaw and down his neck. “I think I will stay right here forever.”

“You won’t hear any complaints from me.”

“We will be like cement people.”

“Statues?”

“Statues! Yes.”

“Well, that sounds considerably less fun.”

In response, Tisaanah rolled her hips, moaning at the friction where he was still inside her.

“That’s not very statue-like of you,” he growled out. But before he could continue, she lifted up and off him, and turned to face him.

“Maybe not a statue then, just-” she waves her arm in the air as if to encompass everything, something. “A thing that sleeps and fucks.”

He bursted out laughing, a full body cackle with his head thrown back.

“How poetic,” he added as his laugh subsided, smiling broadly at her.

“I am an amazing poet, Max.”

“Clearly.” He brushed her hair behind her ear with his finger, the sweetness of the touch sending goosebumps to the surface. “Stay right here,” he said.

She watched his retreating form, appreciatively staring at his ass with a glazed look. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of smoke wafting from the bathroom as he blew out the candles and returned moments later with a wet washcloth. The coolness of it against her entrance startled her as he wiped the stickiness of their sex away. After setting the washcloth aside on the bedside table, he rolled back over and pulled her atop him.

“In case I haven’t told you recently, I love you, Tisaanah.”

She relaxed into him, thinking back to the bath he had run for her, the food that now sat cold at its edge, and the reverent way he touched her, held her, made love to her. She thought back to the war, and how he’d fought for her when no one else had.

“I know. You say it with your actions everyday. You show me with more than words, better than words.” She wished she could bottle it, this bone deep contentment and bliss that overwhelmed her when she was with him. She could pour it in drops, soak in its perfume when the hard days won. She had never felt more fully known, and loved in every crevice of her damaged soul, than when she was with him. And when it felt like she could never do enough, be enough, for the world pulling her in a hundred directions, shouting its opinions in her face, she came to him. He made her feel cherished and safe. And in his arms, she let herself sleep.

#my writing #fanfiction #the war of lost hearts #maxantarius #Maxantarius Farlione #Tisannah Vytezic #tisaanah #max x Tisannah #WoLH #Daughtter of No Worlds #children of fallen gods #Mother of Death and Dawn #booktok #fantasy romance books #smut #smut with feelings #smut fanfiction #books #romantasy #romantasy books #book community #booklr

[atlanticbones]

WARNING:

SPOILERS FOR SAW X

Welp, time to embarrass myself...

Okay, so, two things to bare in mind:

1. This isn't really a legitimate review, just my initial thoughts right after seeing the film.

2. I've never seen a Saw movie in my life up until this point, so my opinion may have been different had I seen the previous movies. All I knew were the premise of the series and a decent idea of who John Kramer is supposed to be.

This movie was fucking great. Up until this point, I've never had much of an incentive to watch a Saw film, I only went to see this one because my friend invited me and I thought why the hell not. Turns out going to see it was the best thing that could have happened. Not only did it drastically improve my mood, but it also gave me an incentive to check out the other films in the series.

First of all, I've always have a soft spot for Red & Blue Oni dynamics, more specifically, when the two of them are allies. Seeing two opposite personalities interact in a friendly manner is always fun to watch. While it's not as pronounced as the likes of Ronnie & Bull (friendly) from NFSMW 2005 or Kaito & Kokichi (unfriendly) from NDRV3, there's definitely a hint of this with Kramer (Blue Oni) and Amanda (Red Oni), with Amanda being more emotional and vengeful and Kramer being more calm and focused on his, shall we say, questionable form of redemption.

5D Chess anime moments are a guilty pleasure of mine. They're ridiculous, but always fun to watch and genuinely exciting when done well. I think you already know where I'm going with this one, so let's just move on.

Again, I haven't seen any of the other Saw movies, so I could've had a different opinion had I seen them, but I found Kramer to be a genuinely lovable guy in this movie. I am well aware that he isn't a good person, after all, removing someone's eyes and snapping their fingers is way too extreme of a punishment for thievery, but most other things he does in this movie is shit that I can support. Him being a father figures to that kid and attempting to save said kid at the cost of his own life was fucking heartwarming.

John Kramer is definitely still a villain, there's no two ways about it, but I like this movie's bad vs bad, lesser of two evils (sort of) dynamic. John Kramer, as an anti-villain extremist who thinks what he's doing is for the greater good, up against Dr Pederson, a genuinely fucked up scumbag. Again, I haven't watched the other Saw movies, so idk if this happened in any of them, but I loved it here. It's a good way of making a fucked up villain like Kramer, more genuinely heroic while keeping him in character.

I also love the (I swear there's a word for it, I just don't know what it is) of the final girl. This trope often involves the killer being a pure evil monster who only wants to kill and hurt people and the final girl being a heroic ultimate good guy. At first it seems like the movie is going with this, with Kramer being unflinching towards the brutality of his traps and being in complete control of a nightmare scenario, whereas Pederson has a friendly demeanour and is usually seen with a sweet smile and when her and her associates are put in the traps, she appears to be encouraging them to beat each trap. But near the end, John Kramer, the murderer with a brutal history, attempts to sacrifice himself to save a random child's life and is a sweetheart towards him, whereas Dr Pederson, turns out to be a selfish prick who's willing to let those close to her die for her own sake (also, let's not even forget her scamming sick and diseased people). As a franchise that revolves around the trope of "who you are in the dark" this is a great way to do its tenth installment.

So yeah, overall, nice film. Sorry if I sounded like a fucking idiot, my media literacy (if that's even the right term) skills aren't that good. I am definitely going to check out the other movies in this franchise cause goddamn!

#saw 10 #saw x (2023) #saw franchise #saw #saw x

[caperingcryptid]

The Agent sat alone at her dining room table, as she often did. Even before coming down to the darkness of the Neath, she had been a decidedly solitary creature, preferring the company of a good book over those of other people. It worked to her favor when it came to her career, where quiet observation and deduction was a necessity, but her social life was more or less dead in the water.

Business came first. As it should, really. Between the intrigues that she had wound herself in and her duties to Clarabelle and the Doctor, she couldn't afford to let herself be distracted.

However. While the Agent worked to appear otherwise, she was still infallibly human. There were times such as now that allowed herself the luxury of losing herself in her thoughts. So much had happened since she had arrived, names and faces drifting in and out of her life like dust motes. 

Right now, as she rolled the stem of a dried rose between her finger and thumb, she found herself thinking of him. 

The Smuggler hadn't as much drifted into her life as he did saunter into it. It didn't take a master analyst to see how he'd gotten himself in bandages: the man had about as much self-preservation as a drunken squirrel. Danger was his dearest lover, and he'd taken pleasure in pulling her along to take part in it whenever he had the mind to.

The Agent initially went along with it out of courtesy's sake. It had been, after all, a trusted ally of hers that had put them in touch. As...astoundingly forward he had been in his dealings with her, she had enough faith in their judgement that she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

Given that she was relatively sure he had committed a murder to get them both into the Museum of Mistakes, she found herself quickly rethinking her decision. Even if death was about as much of an inconvenience to Londeners as the flu, it still struck her as being a somewhat drastic move to make for so little benefit. When she had confronted him about it over dinner, he had waved her off. He had, he claimed, only given the guard a "trifling" head wound.

After that point, what kept the Agent returning his messages was less out of politeness, and more out of morbid curiosity. A curiosity she felt would likely be the literal death of her, but curiosity nonetheless. Again, she was human, after all. 

There had been something strikingly earnest about the Smuggler, in his own peculiar way. Though he kept his secrets tucked up his sleeve (something she couldn't blame him for, given she was much the same way), he made no effort to hide what he was. He was brutal, careless in his actions. Petty, even. The Smuggler was a criminal, and he didn't hesitate to take pride in it. 

Strange as it was, the Agent found his unflinching nature somewhat refreshing. When one spent so long dealing in cloak-and-dagger, you came to prefer such frank behavior. Of course, if that had been all there was to him, she would have cut ties soon enough, but...

Well. It wasn't.

He had surprised her with his tenderness. In the little time they spent together, he had been nothing short of a gentleman. He was mindful of her and her needs, always putting in an effort to get her to enjoy herself. Even in the times she had to turn him down, whether for work or some other reason, he took it with grace and wished her well. 

She wasn't sure when her feelings towards him shifted from bemusement to fondness. Perhaps it was when one of his wry little quips got a smile out of her. Perhaps it was when he turned to her, and those brilliant green eyes gleamed with mischief and delight.

All she could really say for sure was that one night as they sat together high above the city, quietly watching the bats flutter past, she didn't flinch when the Smuggler tucked her against his side. She had, at once, let herself relax, however slightly.

The Agent looked up. In the opposite side of the dining room, the clock had begun its toll. It was getting late.

She stood from the table, glancing down at the rose in her hand. Though most of the bouquet he'd sent had withered away by now, a few still held themselves stubbornly together. She brought it to her nose, inhaled deeply, and went to tuck it away with its brothers.

Maybe she would sit down and write a letter to an old friend of hers.

#fallen london #failbetter games #the once dashing smuggler #creative writing #writing #oc

[lumi-klovstad-games]

My longest running Darktide character has a backstory at last

Born on the storm-wracked oceanic world of Incron, Immacena Furonus was no stranger to hardship. From a young age, she honed her skills as a militia lackey for the Planetary Defense Force, learning to survive in the face of relentless rain, howling winds, and treacherous sea creatures. By the time she reached her teens, the call to serve the Emperor burned bright within her, and she enlisted in the Imperial Guard.

Immacena quickly distinguished herself in battle after having saved saved a Castellan of the Incron Guard, who told her that she'd "done him a damned good turn, and now it was his mind to repay her by doing her a damned bad one" by giving her what she'd wished for, and she was transferred to the prestigious Moebian 17th Rifles, nicknamed "The Chosen Men" as a Corporal. Under the stern gaze of Sergeant Diana Vostig, she honed her skills with rifle and knife, earning a reputation as the regiment's best marksman. Her frightening and adept ferocity in hand-to-hand combat with little more than a common combat knife earned her both respect and fear, leading many to dub her "The Incron Fury".

One fateful day, during the brutal assault on Fortress Idarr, Immacena found herself pinned down by enemy fire. Her world turned red as she watched her beloved sergeant charge into the storm of lasfire to save her. Sergeant Vostig made it far enough to cover Immacena's retreat to safety before being fatally wounded by several lasgun shots perforating her abdomen and torso. Diana's sacrifice forever etched a scar upon Immacena's soul, and the Incron Fury swore an oath that day: she would honor Diana's sacrifice by fighting on, by becoming the warrior her fallen sergeant believed she could be. And so she did. Her prowess in battle grew legendary within her unit, her skill with the lasrifle unmatched with peerless marksmanship, able to pick off enemies from seemingly impossible distances with pin prick precision, while she honed her trademark vicious and savage knife-fighting to an almost supernatural degree, often fighting off a dozen or more enemies with the humblest of blades and emerging covered in blood. Her fearsome reputation grew even further, for Immacena was not just a skilled warrior, she was like a force of nature. Unflinching in the face of death, she devoted herself to every single battle with a wild and bloodthirsty ferocity that left even the most hardened veterans from other regiments awestruck. Her battlefield prowess, along with her ability to hold failing fire lines together with a respect that can only be earned and hardened in the trenches, earned her several promotions, including an officer's commission, and she eventually ended up Captain of the Moebian 17th's 3rd Recon Company, "Lamprey Company", consisting of 78 soldiers.

Yet, along with her skill and rapid ascension came a reputation for being a bit of a loose cannon. Immacena tended to speak her mind freely, with her wit sharp and often laced with a touch of morbid humor, though none who served with her ever doubted for a moment her sincere loyalty to her Emperor and Regiment. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for those who did not serve with her.

One day, while complaining about her subpar rations, Immacena made a typically flippant comment that would have dire consequences. During a brief respite, Immacena found herself sharing a ration of corpse starch with officers from another regiment. "This stuff tastes like someone I used to know," she'd quipped with her typical sardonic grin, unaware that the Commissar from the other regiment was within earshot. Such blatant disloyalty and disrespect for the Emperor's bounty could not be tolerated, and despite the protests of her comrades, Immacena was arrested and placed aboard the prison ship "The Tancred Bastion". Bound for the world of Atoma Prime, she faced a future of hard labor and an uncertain fate. As the Tancred Bastion cut through the void, Immacena somehow knew her tale was far from over. Even in the face of imprisonment and exile, the spirit of "The Incron Fury" burned bright, ready to face whatever darkness that awaited her on Atoma Prime... darkness that would be beyond anyone's ability to predict.

#I've been running Immacena since the Betas #and I wanted to write a history based on the character creation choices I made #because if they're not gonna matter in game I may as well make them matter in other ways #so yeah this is how she got in that pickle at the start of the game #my lovely feisty Irish as fuck Loose Cannon Veteran #And yes I did rip off the fuck out of Sharpe's Rifles for her early history #my ocs #my oc stuff #wh40k #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #video games #40k #darktide #warhammer 40k darktide #w40k darktide #warhammer 40000 darktide

[thischapstickaddict]

NEEDING/GETTING 3?!?!?!

OKAY SO, there’s actually three files in that folder.

The first is a two-shot about Luke and Leia when they’re nineteen, meeting Han. I have a summary, and exactly two wishes from that fic.

The Force was strong in Luke and Leia.

Their father was a superstitious pilot at heart. He called them gremlins: trouble-makers in the Force. Unexplainable and unanswerable to any rule or logic.

They had nothing on the chaotic entity that was Han Solo.

Find a scenario where Leia has to introduce herself as “General Leia Amidala Organa Skywalker, Princess of Alderaan, Naboo, and Tatooine, Gremlin of the Force and Padawan of the Greatest Jedi” with a completely straight face, while Han mocks every title behind her back. 

Find a scene were I can have this exchange play out:

Anakin’s mouth swished across his face. “But he’s so much older than you,” he prodded in that tone that made Luke’s instincts sit up and look for trouble.

Leia did that half-growl, half-laugh noise that said she was looking for a fight. “Remind me: what’s the age gap between you and Uncle Ben again?”

--

The second is a one-shot with Ashoka and Barriss. It’s tiny so far, and is really me throwing my feelings about the crystal mining industry into a fic:

“Why did you ask for me?” Barriss asked as she parked the cruise car.

“Because I wanted to see you,” Ahsoka replied. It was mostly the truth--but she had also wanted to see if the Jedi would allow it.

Also, even more honestly, the traffic on Coruscant intimidated her. How did anyone manage that with confidence? Everything looked like one stalled engine away from chaos.

The next crystal vendor was tucked into a small corner shop, between a wine seller and fine food grocer and a manufacturing office. It was a quiet little place. She immediately found the first handy display, looking to confirm their origins.

Crystal mining was a bloody practice built on forced labor and plenty of blood. Unless pulled straight out of the earth by her own hands, she risked buying something that would be carrying at taint and trauma. Of whatever brutal methods brought it forth.

Some of those brutalities could be eased. Most could not.

She froze upon seeing the obsidian sphere. It called. Pulled her close. Not like the black adler, which instinctively called to her worst impulses.

No; the obsidian remembered her.

Barriss came up beside her. “What is it?”

“I...I excavated this,” she muttered. Touched the glass encasing it. Tried to press through the barrier to reach it. “I found it. Shaped it. Polished it. It cut me, more than once,” she turned her hand over, showing off a range of scars her fingers and palm boasted. “The old lady sold it before I could finish it.”

She looked at the price tag. And blanched. “That’s nearly ten times what she sold it for!”

“Can’t afford it?”

“Not even close.” She was in shock. Obsidian was powerful, yes. But hardly rare or overly-coveted. It was too brutal. If quartz was the stone that molded and fit against her best energies, her highest wishes, then obsidian was the rigid, unforgiving mirror. Unlike her wonderful white crystal, that amplified and expounded and aided whatever energies were given it, obsidian was unflinching.

The mirror stone; it showed her shadow self back to her without mercy. Intensive and inescapable. Protective, but only if she bent to it. She would never ask anything of obsidian the way she asked for light from sunstones or obfuscation from bull’s eyes or labradorite. She would only supplicate before it.

--

The third is Anakin and Mace’s first conversation, which I shamelessly ducked out of in the original fic. It’s still kinda rough, and is more dialogue than anything else:

***

“How are you feeling?” Obi-Wan’s face swam before Anakin, the only stable point in a fuzzed outline of reality. Warm palms pressed into his forehead, pushing back his sweat-matted hair. 

“Dehydrated,” Anakin replied with a rumble in his chest. His eyes were full of grit and his tongue was thick in his mouth. 

The twins were a pair of heat-soaked energy-balls at his side. 

He’d need to talk with Ahsoka later. He had felt it when she had slipped on the avalanche of Force work he had enmeshed himself in. He had frozen up, grabbing at her to make sure she wasn’t swallowed by the power he was unleashing. 

One of the other Jedi had talked her through it. 

Possessiveness and pride warred in him over that. 

“Leave us, Master Kenobi.” 

Mace Windu was a tower of a man. Anakin’s mother had told him stories about towers, when he was younger. Something about them coming down…

“I don’t think that’s wise.” 

Obi-Wan was more of a rulebreaker than Anakin first thought. He bit his tongue to keep from spoiling what was playing out. 

“Wise or no, I’d like to speak with Skywalker alone.” 

Anakin wasn’t as high-strung as he would have been an hour ago. He knew where his kids were. Ahsoka was warm and safe, if exhausted from sticking her hand right in the middle of his work. He knew Obi-Wan was right outside the door, likely trying to eavesdrop on whatever he could pick up. 

In fact, he felt downright mellow. 

“Skywalker,” Windu said, calling his attention. 

There was something there, he supposed. He had been quick to gauge how each individual Jedi felt about him by what name they conferred upon him. The more hostile ones stopped just short of Darth Vader. A few had opted for the more neutral “Good Sir” or the like. 

A small handful had called him Anakin. That surprised him; more so, it touched him in an uncertain, caring kind of way. He hadn’t thought to expect that acceptance from any Jedi besides Obi-Wan. 

Windu had found a comfortable the middle ground. 

The Jedi took him in from nose to knee. Lingered over his mechanical hand. Anakin glanced down at it, curled into a loose fist against his thigh. 

He didn’t think about it much. It was a part of him--he adapted to it long ago, and hadn’t worried about it in years. 

“I remember the day I lost my hand,” he said, conversationally. Cheerful, almost. Windu said nothing. 

“I was leading a battalion through Rixlon,” Anakin recalled. “Barren little place. A speck of nothing really, in the long term. Amazing how strategically important a speck of nothing can be in a war slog.” 

“I remember.”

“Came across this group of Galactic Army grunts. Didn’t think much of it—I’m not much of a soldier. More of a…well, more of a weapon, really.”

“I remember.”

“And then this Master Jedi cut my hand off.”

“I remember.”

Anakin looked back up at Windu. “Why’d you do that, Master Jedi?” 

Windu’s face was nearly stone. “It was a favor to you,” he said eventually. 

Anakin laughed--there was no humor in it. “Explain that to me,” he said with no small amount of venom in his voice. “Nice and slow. Just so I understand.” 

“I tried to disable you,” Windu replied without guile. Or shame. “You tried to kill me. Neither of us succeeded, it seems.” 

Anakin leaned forward. Let danger seep into the edges of his aura. “Wanna try again?” 

“I’ve explained myself enough. Does Obi-Wan know?” 

“He’s never asked about it. Or this,” Anakin said, touching the scar on the side of his face, running through his eyebrow and the apple of his cheek. 

“That wasn’t me,” Windu cut down. 

It hadn’t been. Anakin dropped his hand. 

“If you and Obi-Wan don’t talk about that, what do you talk about?”

“Most of the time, I’m just trying to get him to fuck me on the nearest flat surface,” Anakin replied, as obnoxious as possible and wanting to make Windu uncomfortable. He had plenty of practice wearing this particular role--it was its own kind of armor. And Anakin had plenty of weak points he was desperate to cover, all of them under the roof of the Jedi Temple.   

The all-too obvious pieces were there, just waiting to be put together: Windu had all the power in this conversation. The moment he mentioned Luke, Leia, or Ahsoka, he’d have Anakin at his mercy. He’d do anything to keep them safe. If Windu told him to get on his knees and grovel, he’d do it. If he ordered Anakin to cut off his other hand, he’d do it. If he demanded complete, unfiltered access into every recess and sacred space in Anakin’s mind, he’d do it. 

And that scared Anakin. He couldn’t defeat that fear, or banish it. So he had to use it.

But his attack went wide. Windu’s face didn’t break, and his aura was too controlled in the Force to give away anything--intrigue, disgust, desire. Nothing. 

“And after that?” 

“Meditation and conflict,” he said. “Which inevitably leads us back to sex. Works out pretty well for me, actually.”

“I didn’t kill you when I had the opportunity, Skywalker. And try as I might, I never regretted that decision. Do you know why?” 

“I’m too cute to kill.” 

That got Windu to roll his eyes. “I never killed you, because every time I meditated on your death I saw myself falling to the dark side. And you weren’t worth that.” 

“What does falling to the dark side look like to you?” 

“Like losing control. What does it look like to you?” 

“Like an authoritative rule.” 

Windu sat back. “Your children talk a great deal.” 

For the first time in their conversation, Anakin’s composure broke. It was a reflex beyond his control. His hand spasmed, his face broke.  

“Obi-Wan told me they would be safe,” he whispered. “He <i>swore</i>. I’m asking--fuck, I’m begging you not to make him a liar.” 

“No,” Windu commanded. “No, we are going to put this to bed right now, Skywalker. They will never be used as leverage against you. I swear to that right now. But that goes both ways--neither will they be a shield for you. You have things to answer for, and you cannot hide behind them to evade that.” 

“I would never--,” 

“Stop--this is what I mean. We need to speak about your children, and I need you to behave like their father. Not the man whose hand I cut off. Bringing them into the conversation does not give you license to lose your focus. Obi-Wan’s lessons should have taught you control. Find it now.” 

Anakin pulled on every scrap of patience he ever had. It wasn’t much. But his shoulders straightened. 

Windu nodded. “As I was saying, your children talk a great deal. For all of that, they manage to say very little. Like how they managed to find a planet that’s been lost to our Order for generations.”

Anakin shrugged, only slightly baffled. He trusted the Force. “I told them to find somewhere safe.” 

#needing/getting #obikin #chapstickaddict #ficlets #star wars #Anakin Skywalker #ahsoka tano #mace windu

[theggning]

I'd you've discussed it before, I missed it. So no pressure if you don't want to rehash, but ... Can I get your general thoughts on Elder Maxson? Your opinion of him/headcanons you might have?

He's such a complex character imo, and lately he's been living rent free in my head.

Yeah, absolutely! I’ve previously given him a lot of shit and I make fun of him often (we all know What He Did) but he is actually a really complex and fascinating character. 

I actually feel really sorry for Arthur Maxson. The poor kid never had a chance to be well-adjusted or have a normal life. Arthur is the last living descendant of the man who founded the Brotherhood of Steel, and he comes along at a time when the Brotherhood is heavily struggling for relevance. In the west, they’re strictly and dogmatically isolationist, and you end up with groups like the Mojave chapter fading into obscurity in a bunker. In the east, you’ve got Owyn Lyons, who makes a stand for what he believes in (altruism), gets his entire chapter disowned, and loses half of his soldiers because they disagree (the Outcasts from FO3.) 

Meanwhile, Arthur carries the blood and the name of the one person EVERYONE in the Brotherhood believes in. When we meet him in FO3, Squire Arthur Maxson is a smart, shy, gentle 10-year-old boy who’s been sent eastward away from his parents both to protect him and to “make him stronger” (his parents die while he’s away.) He had no friends his own age and no friends at all, actually (except for Liberty Prime-- a journal entry mentions a scribe chasing Arthur out of the lab and scolding him for trying to befriend a machine.) He hero-worships Sentinel Sarah Lyons, but he’s too young and clumsy to follow her out into the field. Everybody treats him like a small soldier or a messiah, no matter how he tries to downplay his lineage and claim to be a normal boy. This literal child spends his entire life being told he’s special and mighty with a “soul forged from eternal steel.”

The pressure and the expectations eventually start to push him into embracing his “destiny.” By 12, he’s improved his combat skills enough to kill two raiders on patrol. By 13, he single-handedly kills a deathclaw (and earns his face scar.) By 15 he’s taking out important super mutant leaders. And by 16, he’s so hardcore that the West Coast BoS gets back in touch with the East and names Arthur Elder. At the age normal teenage boys are socializing with peers or having friends or letting their brains finish developing, Arthur Maxson is the goddamn supreme commander of a military force. And the East Coast BoS actually thrives under him, becoming more powerful and relevant than they’ve ever been. And this is how we go from the shy, quiet squire to the charismatic, highly-beloved (MOTHERFUCKING 20-YEARS-OLD) Elder Arthur Maxson in FO4. 

I wouldn’t say that FO4!Arthur buys into his own hype. Despite how he’s been treated his whole life, he doesn’t believe that he is a god or a messiah. But he does believe literally every single word of the BoS codex. He does believe that they are saving humanity and doing what’s best for the future. He has been living as the legend people expected of him for years now, and is determined to continue down that path. 

I think in his own twisted way, Arthur actually does care about the people of the Commonwealth, as he claims to. But it’s in the same way that a king cares about his subjects. He knows what’s best for them and doesn’t really care to seek their input before doing what he likes. Though he genuinely does believe the Institute is evil and he genuinely wants to protect the world from their menace, he also comes to the Commonwealth because he wants to lead his own glorious war of liberation, the way Owyn Lyons did in the Capital. 

Also, for all people claim the BoS were “ruined” by Arthur in FO4, keep in mind that  

A. Lyons’ BoS and their charity and altruism were actually outliers- most of the BoS are a bunch of isolationist asswipes (see: the entire West Coast branch) B. The BoS hating non-human races is the norm, not the exception C. Arthur has actually fairly smoothly integrated BoS traditions with Lyons’ more fair and altruistic beliefs (which he grew up with.) He clearly maintains a lot of respect for the Lyons family (even if the current BoS party line is to denigrate them in favor of praising Arthur.) 

Here are some things that Arthur has commanded of his BoS that make them the kinder, gentler version of the faction, and also just some general nice things he’s done as Elder: 

Civilians are ordered to be treated fairly. BoS soldiers are not permitted to harm them (except in self defense) and any and all tech they possess is to be traded for fairly with food and medicine. If they refuse to trade, they are left alone. 

BoS soldiers are to defend civilians and initiate proactive strikes on super mutants, feral ghouls, Institute synths, and other threats. BoS vertibird crews are to protect caravans from above. 

BoS soldiers are to be monitored for mental health concerns as well as physical. Arthur explicitly orders Cade to treat all mental conditions the same way he would treat an injury. 

He shows deep personal concern for his staff and crew. This is notable in the terminal entries re: Ingram, where Arthur is apologetic for denying her field duty-- and when she disobeys him and goes to Mass Fusion anyway, all he does for punishment is to write her a sternly worded letter. 

Arthur Maxson is a cold, brutal, unflinching military dictator with a god complex. He is a lonely, frightened child carrying the weight of the world and desperately trying to prove himself. He’s a compassionate, charismatic leader. He’s a terrifying enemy. He’s an idealistic liberator who wants to protect humanity. He’s a dogmatic bigot who thinks evolving his views is showing weakness. He’s all of these at the same time. He could only get the wide and varied fandom reception he does by having this many facets of his personality, and by being one of the most complicated characters in the game. 

And okay, I’ll say it: his beard and his jacket are pretty sexy. 

#fallout 4 #arthur maxson #gg answers #i pick on him but honestly maxson is really interesting #he's just mean to my boy so i want to give him a swirly #he's a great and complex ally/antagonist and they did an amazing job with him #fallout meta

[dramionecommentfest]

Reader profile: smozark

Next up in reader profiles we have the one, the only, the incredible @smozark. I must admit to fangirling when smo agreed to be profiled; she is an incredibly supportive reader who I have seen *all* over the fandom and have been truly wowed by how engaged she is in this fandom. Without further ado, I present to you @smozark!

Location: East Coast, United States Hogwarts House: Slytherdore Pronouns: she/her/hers

When did you start reading Dramione? How did you originally find fics to read?  I think it was early to mid 2019-ish? I got started because I thought it was cool that Emma Watson and Tom Felton are friends. I read the word "Dramione," Googled it, and found “We Learned the Sea” and “Isolation.” I discovered AO3 shortly after and found authors like @provocative-envy and @lovesbitca8 and @indreamsink and I was hooked.

How have you gotten more involved in the Dramione community? What platforms/websites have you participated in, and which do you like? I got involved with the community by posting comments!! It was so much fun to interact that way, so when I figured out what Discord was I joined and started chatting there. I also really love the artists in this community and enjoy commissioning works when I can. I'm only on AO3, tumblr, and Discord. I am actually not a huge social media fan, so I am fairly passive and lurker-like on tumblr. I'm much more comfortable on Discord.

Tell us about any reading preferences or practices! I read daily on my phone. I've been known to block time on my work calendar to catch a chapter drop. [Editor’s note: GOALS] Honestly, this fandom was my refuge in 2020. I feel no shame in admitting that I escaped the dumpster fire by immersing myself in other people's creativity. I'm so grateful to authors who can make their ideas into published works so we can get some respite.

Do you like to leave comments? If so, what is your advice for leaving comments? YES. As often as I feel moved to do so. My advice is to comment whenever you can, but don't feel bad if you don't want to. Writers aren't obligated to publish, you aren't obligated to comment. That said, I will also advise that if you comment, make it positive. Why add needless negative to the world? I have read hundreds of fics. Some are really tough to get through. Maybe the story is slow, maybe the grammar is bad, maybe there are some characterizations I'm uncomfortable with. I will NEVER make a comment about any of that. If I'm not beta-ing, it's not my place. If I can't find anything to compliment, I close the tab and move on. That's rare, because there's always something wonderful. Even a story with poor grammar and usage can have a really cool story or interesting characters. So find what you like and tell the author about it! Unless you don't feel like it. 

What is your all-time favorite fic you’ve read? Oh gosh, what a cruel question. I have no idea how to even answer. They are all so different!! Over/Under by @provocative-envy is my favorite in all of HP fandom. The entire summer camp collection, if I'm honest. My favorite Dramione ….. Gaaaahhhhhhh the pressure!!!!! Ummm. I'm going to shamelessly cheat and say my fave one-shot is My Brown-Eyed Girl by @pacific-rimbaud and my top 5 favorite finished multi-chaps right now are the Wait and Hope series by @mightbewriting (more cheating), Remain Nameless by @heyjude19-writing, A Thing With[out] Feathers by @senlinyu, and Anchors in a Storm by @inadaze22, and Protective Custody by @colubrina. I'm cutting myself off there. If I keep going or add WIPs, we'll be here all day!

What fic gave you the most feels?  What You Think Is Right by @icepower55. Hands down. Didn't even have to think. It is a raw, unflinching, brutally honest look at a broken marriage. It was incredibly authentic and helped me process some of my baggage. It's just gorgeous. @icepower55 is so talented, and she has a great beta team!! I'm writing this the day the last chapter posted, so go binge if you haven't already.

Who is your favorite side character from any Dramione fic? Another impossible question!! How can I pick between Theo or Pansy from Wait and Hope? Grix from Love and Other Historical Accidents or Jonathan Gable from One and Done? Ginny or Sasha from Remain Nameless? Mippy or Blaise from Rights and Wrongs?? Charlie or Hamish from Universal Truths? You don't. You shamelessly cheat some more and list them all!!! (Please never make me play FMK. I'll spontaneously combust.)

Tell us a fun fact about yourself! I worked at a butcher shop for a while. I hated my first job out of college, but it was the recession so I couldn't exactly quit. I convinced a local artisan market to let me apprentice after work. They paid me in meat. It was awesome.

Thank you so much, smozark!! A true fangirl moment right here! Thanks for sharing with us, and please accept my apologies for the cruel questions. 

Be like @smozark! Put a hold on your calendar when new chapters drop (I will repeat: GOALS) and also sign up for the Dramione Comment Fest! Sign-ups close ***TOMORROW*** aka Saturday, February 6, 2021. Check out the rules here and sign up here. We hope you can join us!

#dramione comment fest #dramione #dramione fanfic #dramione fest #reader profile #we heart readers #we heart commenters #we heart smozark #smozark is reader goals #calendar holds omg what genius

[seismicsight]

Why do you ship Tophzula?

Oh for a lot of reasons, but most importantly I think they would have a very interesting dynamic.

Before I get into it I need everyone to understand that I only ship Tophzula (romantically or platonically) in circumstances where Azula has not only gotten the help she needs, but is also in the process of making amends for her past actions. I don’t sit here during rewatches of A:tLA and delude myself into thinking there’s any interest, platonic or otherwise, happening between them. They would not make for good friends in the circumstances during or directly following the series.

Now, to the meat.

Toph and Azula are both prodigies used to being the best at their respective crafts and by extension, being some of the most powerful people in the room. They both have pretty large personalities that, while prone to clashing, could also make for a resilient pairing. I can see them sparring and having an ongoing friendly rivalry, gossiping with each other during formal events, being introverts together, using their perceptiveness and bluntness to hold each other accountable during arguments, and shamelessly oversharing about their romantic lives to get a rise out of their friends, etc. 

I can see Toph teasing out the inner child in Azula and teaching her to let loose just a little, and I can see Azula making Toph feel seen. Azula, for one, would never forget Toph is blind. I think Toph and Azula would find camaraderie in being raised in nobility and all the emotional struggles they endured, understand one another as people who have different than normal ways of expressing affection, and respect one another’s unflinching reads. Toph would tease Azula for being awkward in relaxed social situations, and Azula would chide Toph for being a gross little gremlin who flicks her boogers at people on the street. Toph would find Azula’s sharp intellect engaging, as Azula would recognize Toph’s own brand of genius, and they could both enjoy witty repartee. They would definitely find each other’s prowess attractive. Toph would call Azula out when she falls into old habits of haughtiness or shows signs of regressing, and Azula would do the same when Toph lets her old hurts or stubbornness win over. Toph would be a good rock for Azula as she navigates her lifelong battle with her demons. They wouldn’t be intimidated or put off by the other’s hard edges.

They could also challenge each other during conflict. I think they both have very sharp tongues, and have the power to cut each other deeply during arguments. But they have the emotional intelligence to know how far is too far. They’re not shy about saying what someone needs to hear, even if they don’t like hearing it. Sometimes when their friends are loathe to be brutally honest with them, they can rely on one another to tell it like it is, no sugar-coating. They could be SO good.

Toph was the first person to reach out to Zuko when he approached the Gaang with peaceful intentions, and was even quick to recognize that he acted accidentally when he burned her feet. When she heard his side of the story, she could have held onto her anger or went with everyone’s suspicions but she didn’t. This tells me that she tends to give people the benefit of the doubt and doesn’t see the productiveness in holding grudges for very long.

This isn't to say that she would find it easy to forgive Azula by any means. HOWEVER, I think Toph is the second-most forgiving person in the group, after Aang. It makes her a great candidate for someone in the Gaang who Zuko could reasonably introduce to Azula following a personal redemption arc or who could realistically offer an olive branch on their own. 

I have more thoughts but this about sums up the major points.

#tophzula #|i can be your basket case|: tophzula #answered;; #also Azula is the only one who has beat her seismic sense and I think that piques Toph's curiosity #toph x azula

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Blood in the Rivers: IX

A/N: Apparently I cannot write short chapters. Thank you for your patience and for all the likes and reblogs and kind comments on the last chapter. I love you all so much. Special shout-out to @starlight-starwrites​ for listening to me whine about this chapter.

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand x F!Reader (Tully)

Rating: NC-17, for acts of warfare (blood, guts, and gore--our Tully is a little mean), Face-sitting, fingering, using sex to go to sleep, a few kisses

Word Count: 14.2k ( ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

Read Chapters I-VIII here! Or on Ao3!

Chapter Nine: The Monster, The Maiden

King’s Landing still smelled of piss and soured bread.

Robb’s missive had come just after they had set the Lannister fleet alight at Lannisport. Yara and her fleet would be left to sack Casterly Rock with a majority of Y/N’s small band of men while Obara and Arya and a handful of Riverlanders set off toward the capital with Y/N.

Cersei had grown desperate and crazed. Growing only more bold and paranoid after she was crowned Queen.

King Tommen was dead. Margaery had been thrown into the Black Cells under suspicion of his murder and the new queen had pulled nearly all of her loyal bannermen to protect the city. Obara surmised that it was a Faceless Man, sent after the king after the Iron Throne refused to pay their debts to the Iron Bank of Braavos.

So much had changed since she had left the safety of Sunspear’s shadows. And yet not enough. The Lannisters still called themselves the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms and the Realm still suffered.

Obella’s tactics had kept all but a handful of the men under Y/N’s command alive. The Westerlands had been put to the torch and their gold and silver mines plundered in the dark of the night. The small band of Riverlanders hid in the dense forests and picked off the Lions’ bannermen when the roads forced them to march two-by-two. She, Arya, and Obara had been welcomed as guests at Pinkmaiden and settled there as their first command stronghold. When asked why she did not think to travel to Riverrun, Y/N’s answer was simple. “I have asked men to leave their homes to fight. I do not go home until they do.” They had never stayed in a location for longer than two days, moving from target to target with brutal efficiency.

But now she was back in the gods-forsaken capital that she had narrowly escaped.

“Has it always smelled like this?” Obara asked, nose crinkling as the wind carried the putrid stench up to the high hill above the city.

“Yes,” both Arya and Y/N answered.

The men at their backs looked grim and anxious in their cloaks, trying to hide their armor. While the Northmen and Dornish were still marching toward the capital, the Reach knights and cavalry had been the first to arrive at the gates of the city, demanding the release of Margaery—the rightful queen. It provided a well-enough distraction.

Y/N slipped off Qēlos’ back and patted the mare’s side in thanks. The beautiful horse had earned her weight in apples a thousand times over in this terrible war. She handed the reins to Lord Blackwood who promised to keep her safe until she returned.

“But are you certain-”

“Lord Blackwood, my answer has not changed since the last time you asked. I thank you for your concern but it is unwarranted.”

The older lord’s face colored with an embarrassed blush and he dipped his head. “Of course, my lady.”

Arya barely concealed a laugh as she, too, dismounted but Obara was stone-faced as her feet hit the damp grass. Patrek Mallister was quick to offer his hand to take her horse’s reins. (In truth, he’d been quick to do anything Obara needed. When they were still setting the Westerlands ablaze and picking off their infantrymen from the cover of forest, Y/N noticed that the majority of men under Obara’s command were either half in love or half terrified of the eldest Sand Snake. Patrek was decidedly the former. His time as a captive of the Freys after the Red Wedding had stripped him of the wandering eye he was known for.)

Obara and Arya stepped to Y/N’s side and they each took a deep breath.

“May the Warrior protect you,” one of the men whispered at their backs.

But Y/N could scarcely hear it over the thudding of her heart. No matter how many times she had readied for battle and shadowed warfare, her heart always leapt into her throat. And maybe that kept her alive, the slight-panic keeping her senses heightened.

“This way,” Arya said, leading them down, down, down. While Tyrion’s crude drawing of the placement of the wildfire around the Red Keep and King’s Landing was safely tucked into Y/N’s small pack, Arya was the one leading them into the mouth of the passages beneath the city. She had warned them about the smell.

It did not help.

Once pleasant and cool water gave way to stink and muck that had Y/N retching. Arya shushed her above the lapping brown water as one of Euron Greyjoy’s longboats neared where they had been treading against the waves. And then, much to her horror, it became clear that they would have to submerge themselves in the muck to avoid detection as the boat sailed by. Through the brown water and with burning lungs, Y/N watched the boat sail across the surface and she nearly vomited when they quietly crested, feeling the disgusting water line her mouth as she clutched her pack to her chest.

“Nearly there,” Arya whispered, starting a slow swim toward a dark corner of the wall.

They were quiet as they hoisted themselves up into the stone hole, gurgling with more sludge. But Y/N could not hold back her retch any longer as they finally curled around a jagged corner. It echoed in the dark and she winced when she heard it.

“Come, Little Fish, do not let your stomach fail us now.” Obara’s words of encouragement were stilted as she tried to keep her own rolling stomach contained.

“The worst is behind us,” Arya whispered with a small smile, murky water on her lips.

Both Obara and Y/N sighed at the girl’s unflinching (if not dark) optimism they quickly set off after the young Stark, following her steps in the dark, twisting tunnels and up the tight steps of uneven stone stairs which led to more tunnels and more stairs. They walked in silence for a long stretch of time, the squish of their soaked boots the only sound they heard. But dim light soon trickled down from some unseen room above to light the path Arya led them on. With the light came the realization that they were surrounded by dragon skulls, damp and dusty with the passing of time.

“I once thought they were monsters,” Arya whispered, a far-off look on her face.

“Is this what you found when you disappeared for half a day?” Y/N asked, skirting around a skull with teeth as long as her arm. It all seemed like a lifetime ago that she had been worried about where Arya had hidden away and Ned had sent Y/N and half his guard out into the city to look for her. When Arya arrived back at the Tower of the Hand, reeking and dirty, near dark, Ned had been both relieved and furious with his youngest daughter.

“It was,” was all Arya said, voice sad. It had been a lifetime for her, too.

And now they were here, in the bowels of the castle that had tried to rip their lives asunder and had very nearly succeeded. But now it was their turn.

The dim light only grew a fraction brighter as Arya finally slowed to a stop—but the noise grew, too.

The first voice was unmistakably Cersei; “the Red Keep has never fallen.”

“Our own father helped it fall. Have you forgotten everything?” Jaime near-snarled in return.

Y/N crept closer to light on quiet feet and followed it so she could more properly hear the conversation. Any bit of information was valuable, even if she was soaked in muck down to her skin. She pivoted so she could look up into the room above, a tiny sliver of stone crooked in its place. She recognized the carved pillars and marble lions of one of the interior courtyards even through the small field of vision the stone allowed.

“Father is here—he will never allow-”

“Our father is not a god despite your best efforts to make him one in your heart of hearts. And neither are you.”

“He will keep us safe. I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms! Let them try to take my crown.”

“They will try!” Jaime pressed. “The Tyrells are at the gates and the wolves and Martells are coming. What will you do when they arrive and Father’s plans fail you? Yara Greyjoy’s fleet have taken Casterly Rock. There are whispers of Riverlanders picking our bannermen off from the trees after torching most of our bannermen’s lands. What will you do?”

There was a pregnant pause and Y/N felt Obara tug on the back of her jerkin, trying to get her to move.

“Let them have ashes.”

Obara tugged again and Y/N let herself be pulled away this time as she fumbled to grab the wax-coated map of Tyrion’s wildfire storehouses from its hiding place in her pack, unhearing of Jaime’s reply. “We must be quick.”

Arya huffed. “You were dawdling.”

But the three of them set off in search of the glowing jars of fire and found them almost exactly where Tyrion had said they would be and quickly—and carefully—started to move them, hoping that Tyrion’s map proved accurate again. It took hours of cautiously shuffling in the dark to move the cracked glass jars and half-filled barrels they found to where they needed them for this plan to work. They did not have the time to completely empty the city of its wildfire caches and knew there were still piles of them in secret coves and shadowed corners of the city’s underbelly.

Through more thin walls and cutaway stones, they heard whispers. Whispers of the forces outside the walls. Whispers of movement of the gold cloaks and Kingsguard around the city. Whispers of doom with the arrival of the Northmen at the gates.

Whispers whispers whispers.

When her arms ached and her clothes had dried, they moved the last little jar into their pile. But the tiny jar refused to settle and tried to topple from its perch. Y/N thrust her hands out and caught it before it shattered on the floor. A single drop leapt from the jar’s depths and missed her hand before it spattered on the ground, hissing and smoking against the stone.

“We have to go,” Obara said. Even through the thick walls, they could hear the din of movement along the balustrades, readying for battle. Obara had a small barrel in her arms, too. The second-to-last piece in their plan.

Y/N froze for only a moment before she tore off the sleeve of her tunic and shoved it into the top of the jar in as a makeshift stopper. She could use it later, she reasoned to herself, as she stuffed it into the small bag at her back.

Arya was pressing her ear up to the slab of stone at the end of a squat, dead end tunnel. She only needed to stand on her tiptoes to reach it, face tight with concentration. “We’re good,” she whispered before reaching up to move the stone. A whoosh of cooled night air came with it.

Obara started to slowly pour out the contents of her barrel, leaving a sickly green trail from the pile of jars up to Arya’s side. “You first, Pup,” she said, crouching to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling.

Arya then leapt and scrambled up into the dark. Her little hands reached down for the barrel Obara was holding and Obara followed her path up once the barrel was out of her grasp.

“Little Fish,” Obara whispered, “come. We’re nearly finished.”

Y/N glanced back at the pile of wildfire. It looked so much smaller from a distance. She hoped it was enough. Obara held out a hand for her and Y/N took it, needing the help to get out of the tunnel. They were just outside the city now, right at the edge of one of the Old Gate. The grass was damp beneath their feet with early-morning dew as Obara took the barrel from Arya and quickly emptied its contents down into the hole and then trailed it away to leave a smoking green puddle. She discarded the barrel as they crept toward the sparse forest, hoping the growing sun would provide enough cover so the guards on the walls would not see them. The murmur of a city ill-at-ease crept over the high walls and gave a beat to their retreating steps.

Tytos and Patrek were hidden behind the first handful of trees, looking more worried than Y/N expected.

“The Tyrells have retreated for the moment. The archers on the walls have kept them from battering down the Lion Gate,” Tytos said as he handed over the reins to her horse. “And the Northmen have arrived.”

“Have they seen you or our men?” Y/N asked as she rifled through one of the saddlebags for a canteen and a scrap of cloth and quickly wet it, wiping it across her face.

“I do not believe so, my lady.”

Y/N nodded and then tossed a fresh and damp cloth to Arya and Obara, letting them clean their faces, too. She then grabbed a small canteen of ale and swished it around her mouth before spitting it out. “Raise your banners. It is time we made our presence known.”

Tytos nodded once again and signaled toward the men lining the dark of the trees.

Y/N hurried to pull on her armor and huffed out a thanks when she felt Obara’s rough fingers tightening laces or adjusting the pauldron over her shoulder that she had skewed in her haste. Arya’s armor was impeccably placed even without help and Obara slapped at Patrek’s hand when he tried to assist her.

The banners of the Riverlands started to rise as they stepped out of the tree line. Shouts came from the wall when they were spotted.

Y/N patted Qēlos’ flank as she pulled her bow and quiver from the horse’s tack, sending the mare further into the woods to wait.

“Archers!” Some gold cloak yelled from his perch. “Archers!”

Y/N nocked her arrow and Arya lit the end. Dirty fingers pulled the string tight for just a moment as she angled it up into the sky and then let it loose. It sailed through the air and hit the small puddle of green at the base of the wall.

A terrible crack and boom filled the sticky dawn air and Y/N nearly lost her footing as some invisible force shoved her back. Green flames filled the air and the city wall erupted into a storm of broken brick and black dust.

“The wall!” someone cried, muffled against the ringing in her ears. “They’ve breached the wall!”

Y/N righted herself and watched as her small band of Riverlanders and Obara and Arya surged forward in a wave, quickly followed by men in copper armor, pressing into the city’s wound as the green flames of the wildfire continued to eat at the wall and screaming soldiers.

The Dornish had come.

She nocked another arrow and let it fly, tearing into the neck of a distracted solider at the top of the crumbling wall. Another pushed an archer taking aim from his perch. Again and again she picked off the remaining soldiers on the balustrade above the hole in the wall until her quiver was empty. But then, even over the din of the battle, she heard a distinctive crack. Metal breaking and smacking against stone and brick.

“The gate! Defend the gate!”

And now there were two.

Y/N slung her bow across her shoulders and drew the pair of small blades from her belt and pushed forward, trailing behind the press of Dornish and Riverlands.

The city was in chaos. Gold Cloaks and Kingsguard and Westerland bannermen were scrambling over the rubble and wreckage, swords clashing against the invaders. But the Reach and North had pushed their way through the Lion Gate.

There would be no escape.

A man in red and gold armor screamed as he ran at her, spear thrust out in front. Y/N was able to dodge it but his feet could not be stopped and she sank the end of one of her blades through the eye slot of his helmet. She knew she needed to keep moving. Her armor was not meant for full-scale combat like this. But she would not leave her men, Riverlander or Dornish, to fight alone.

But the battle raged. Her small blades were coated in crimson and her arms ached as they pushed forward toward the Red Keep. Toward Cersei.

She caught sight of Arya in the skirmish ahead. The little wolf was holding her own for the most part against some City Watch brute but a well-timed kick to her stomach had Arya falling to the ground, her little sword slipping from her grasp.

“Arya!” Y/N screamed as her heart leapt into her throat to strangle the air from her lungs. “ARYA!” She pushed through the pulsing group, watching the Gold Cloak sneer and stalk toward Arya who struggled to get to her feet. Y/N fought against the crowd, dodging an ax at her throat and a sword at her stomach with a desperation and savage grace a person could only conjure for someone they loved. But she knew… She wouldn’t get to her in time. She wouldn’t make it. The man raised his sword, sweaty face pulled tight with glee and ready to strike the life from Arya Stark and then-

A golden hand caught the sword just as its reached its crest and Jaime Lannister shoved the man back before driving his sword through his belly.

Y/N slid to a stop on her knees as she reached Arya’s side, pressing Needle into Arya’s grasp again and urging her to her feet and back into the near-safety of the advancing crowd. Jaime gave them both a look as they stumbled back, unreadable and…sad. But then he was gone between the swarm of swords and shields.

The Bells did not ring. There would be no surrender. She expected nothing less from the queen.

But perhaps she should have remembered Cersei’s cruelty, her need for control, and Cersei’s own words. All Y/N could think about was finishing this—finishing this war, this stupid war that had taken too much from everyone she cared about.

As the sun started to settle high in the sky, she heard a rumble. Even over the roar of the growing battle, she heard it. Felt it shake the stones beneath her feet. And then the city burst. Green flames and thick smoke filled the air as brick and wood rained down like a terrible storm, ripping through Westerland armies and invaders alike. Dirt clouded her mouth and she tasted fire as her ears started to ring with an intensity she had never experienced, pushing her back and on unsteady feet. With dazed eyes, she watched a man in a gold cloak stumble forward, mouth open in a silent scream as the emerald flames blazed across his armor.

Someone’s hands grasped at her arm and tugged her to the side, finding a bit of refuge behind the fallen remains of an inn. Arya was looking up at her, covered in soot and blood and Y/N watched her mouth move for a few moments, unable to hear anything but then it came back in a wave.

“-taking the Red Keep.”

“What?” Y/N asked, tongue heavy in her mouth.

Arya frowned. “Did you hit your head? Robb is about to take the Red Keep. Cersei must have sent someone to light the rest of the wildfire.” Arya turned to look at something over her shoulder and stiffened. “Come on. We haven’t finished this yet.” The younger girl pressed Y/N’s blades back into her hands. She hadn’t even realized she had lost them. And then Arya was striding away through the rubble, disappearing into a haze of smoke as green flames continued to lick at the wreckage.

Y/N shook herself, trying to free her mind of the buzzing and sluggishness and opened her pack, making sure that her own stash of wildfire had not started to crack or bubble. It was intact, thankfully, and it gave her enough momentum to push forward. Another gold cloak ran into her path a few steps later. His armor was blackened and charred, and buckled when she kicked at his chest to knock him toward the ground before driving one of her blades into the small gap between his cuirass and helmet.

It was easy when they staggered and stumbled or looked too long at the green flames. It was easy. When had it become so easy?

But it didn’t matter when she kept Obara from falling to some red cloak’s sword through her back or when Tytos was knocked from his horse by a City Watch soldier. It didn’t matter that it had become easy when she was keeping her people alive. The ground continued to rumble as more small pockets of wildfire roared to life and burned everything it could. But she kept moving forward, her steps trailing behind Obara’s as they pushed up the steps toward the Barbican of the Keep. It had been reduced to chunks of splintered wood and twisted metal, trampled over by the advancing armies. Y/N turned as she reached the top—just for a moment—to see the destruction the war and wildfire had brought upon the city. Almost a quarter of King’s Landing was gone, swallowed into the maw of black smoke and broken stone. The Red Keep was still burning. More green flames had reduced most of its outer walls to piles of smoking rock and ash. Only the Holdfast still stood tall. If Cersei’s plan had been to burn the advancing armies in the streets—she failed. But a sizeable group of Kingsguard and Gold Cloaks still stood between them and the crown that sat on Cersei’s head.

And they pushed and swung their swords and battered their shields, driving the loyalists back or into the ground.

But then something caught Y/N’s eye. Drew her attention like the Stranger had placed their hand upon her head and turned it.

Tywin Lannister was standing outside the smoking Tower of the Hand. His sword was bent and his helmet fell from his fingers with a clatter. His guards had abandoned him; his grand army reduced to only a handful of men. But his face still hardened when his cold eyes raked over her. Even as the battle had clearly been lost, he held his head high and pointed his sword toward Y/N with a sneer. “Come along, girl. Let us finish this.”

Equal parts dread and joy stoked her soul then. And her heart thundered in her chest even as she knew that the time was short. As Tywin took a step toward her, she threw one of her blades, aiming for his throat—and he deflected it easily, as she knew he would. But her hand dove into her pack and her fingers found the warm glass. Y/N threw the jar at him, uncaring of how her shoulder popped and ached with the sudden movement. All she could do was smile when she watched it smash across his chest plate, dripping green. His eyes grew wide as recognition flickered across his face. She bent to pick up a piece of burning wood and threw it at him, watching the green flames erupt.

Fire makes people dance. And Tywin was no exception. He screamed through the green.

The scrape of a sword against a sheath gained her attention.

It was Oberyn. Dark eyes alight with want and fury and, with a single stroke, took Tywin’s head from his shoulders. It still burned as it rolled across the stone, spitting green embers in its wake. The body slumped to the ash-covered ground, plate armor smacking against broken stone. And then Oberyn was marching toward her, sliding his bloodied sword back into its sheath. With his usual brutal grace, he wrapped his arm around her waist and slanted his mouth against hers, uncaring of the grime or dirt. Y/N quickly reciprocated, pressing her lips firmly against his. Months of separation, months of wondering if she would see him again despite her promise, months of yearning poured out of her as she grasped at the back of his neck to pull him closer, uncaring for the moment of the surrounding destruction. All there was, was Oberyn Oberyn Oberyn and his beautiful mouth that she had missed too much.

He only pulled back to breathe before he took another kiss, smiling against her mouth. “Blood suits you, my moonlight.”

And it suited him, too.

**

Tywin’s head looked large as it sat next to Cersei’s. Most of it had escaped the wildfire because of Oberyn’s quick removal but half of it was still charred.

The man and woman who had destroyed her family had been reduced to silent heads on a soot-covered floor.

Robb was sitting on the Iron Throne, Widow’s Wail across his lap and a hammered bronze and iron crown settled over his dark auburn curls. The grime and blood of battle still streaked his armor but he looked every bit the portrait of a king with Grey Wind sitting near his feet, gnawing on something that looked suspiciously like someone’s arm. The remains of the Throne Room were filled with dirt-smudged commanders and lords who had sacked the City. Oberyn found all of it tedious and had slipped away with a kiss to her temple to help his men settle into camp for the night.

The sun was setting, casting the entire room in the warm glows of pink and orange over its broken walls and melted windows, like the gods were presenting them all with a bit of beautiful quietness for their victory. Their dead would be tended to later, before the city would be looked over to see what could be salvaged. The story that Cersei had set the stashes of wildfire alight as a final effort to kill the advancing armies was already being whispered throughout the smoking city. No one needed to know that the only reason why more destruction had not been reaped was because of Y/N, Obara, and Arya’s actions in the winding tunnels. It was their secret to keep and hold.

As Robb started to hold court, presiding over the captured Lannister forces and learning Euron’s fleet had turned and run when the wildfire had started, fleeing East toward Essos, Y/N excused herself, trying to fill her lungs with something more than soot. She walked through the winding halls, some half broken and others still filled with groups of injured needing a healing touch. And perhaps it was muscle memory, but Y/N found herself standing outside the door of her old room before she could remember turning that corner or walking down this hall. Her fingers brushed against the wood. The wound from Gregor’s sword had not been patched and it splintered under her touch when she pressed against it. For a moment, she thought of opening the door and walking in and seeing what else had changed or stayed the same. But her hand retreated. Her life was not here anymore. There was no need to step into a place of terrible memory just for memory’s sake.

Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention and Y/N’s heart leapt into her mouth at the sight. “Jon?”

His face morphed from anger to surprise to joy and then he was running toward her with outstretched arms.

She met him halfway and threw her arms around him, uncaring of the blood or dirt and grime. He still smelt of fresh snow and pine even over the stench of battle. His gloved hand found the back of her head and he held her close—like he was afraid she would disappear from his grasp if he let go too soon. “Your hair is so long now,” she murmured into his shoulder.

And his answering laugh sounded choked in his throat. “I have so much to tell you.”

“We have all the time in the world.”

But then Mace Tyrell cam huffing and puffing into the hall, still clad in his gaudy golden armor and red in the face. “My lady, Lord Snow, His Grace is requesting your presence.” He then turned and half-ran back toward the throne room without an ounce of grace and his tarnished golden armor untightened and slapping against his extremities with each step. Y/N hid her laugh behind her hand until Jon nudged at her shoulder.

“You have not changed at all, Y/N,” Jon quietly mused.

“Oh, I have changed quite drastically, dear cousin. But not the parts that matter.”

Jon shook his head with a small smile. “I will hear your stories one day.”

“As I shall hear yours,” she promised just as they walked through the broken threshold. But the respite was torn away the moment she noticed who had been lead in chains in front of Robb’s new throne. A handful of Freys were on their knees and snarled at her as she walked past when Robb waved her forward to stand at his side. They were surrounded by the small band of men she had brought to King’s Landing—every one of them looked hungry for blood. And if there had not been an audience, Y/N would have let them slake that need.

“House Frey has refused to bend the knee,” Robb said, his light eyes cold and hard as his gaze moved to the men at his feet.

“Usurper-!”

Whatever insult the Frey had wanted to spout was silenced when Tytos cracked him across the face with a closed fist, his dented gauntlet still covering his hand. “Silence!”

He turned and spat blood. A tooth clinked against the floor. “Bitch.”

Tytos raised his hand again to claim the rest of his brown teeth but Robb stood from the throne and strode down to the man and grabbed the Frey’s greasy hair and yanked his head back to expose his throat. The edge of Widow’s Wail pulled a thin line of crimson from his throat as he gulped. “Tell her what you confessed. Tell her, braggart,” Robb seethed, making sure to angle his face to look at Y/N. But every other person was staring at her, too.

And Y/N wished she had Oberyn to stand with—to feel his steadying warmth at her side when the man’s hard stare ripped across her face. But Arya was a comfort too, moving to stand at her side with a snarl of her own. “We found your father outside Pinkmaiden. He tried to bargain, said the Red Wedding did not have to stain all of our hands.”

Y/N could feel her heart stutter in her chest but fought to keep her face neutral. “But you did not care to treat with my father.”

“We dragged him to Harrenhal,” another man said with a laugh. “Took his head and gave the rest to the bear.”

Y/N felt her stomach roll. Bile was rising in the back of her throat in a terrible wave as she curled her into fists behind her back. Grey Wind rose from and licked his bloody chops, baring his sharp teeth and the man cowered and shriveled. “You boast of your own damnation. Have they never taught you of what becomes of men who do not heed the gods’ warnings? Or have the gods never touched The Twins?”

The Freys bellowed, screaming and hollering this and that but all she could hear was a dull roar in her ears, watching their dirty faces contort with their own simple rage.

She dragged her gaze to Robb. “I have heard what they had to say, Your Grace. What else would you have of me?”

Robb stood straight, ignoring how the prisoners still fumed. “I would have nothing of you, my lady. You and your house have paid a high price for your loyalty.”

Robb’s words pushed something both cold and soft against her fragile heart. She nodded once, knowing his words meant more than their simple meaning. “House Frey has wronged more than just me and mine, Your Grace. You know that better than anyone. Do with them what you will. I do not care for their mortal coils and the gods will not care for their souls.” And she watched, a little entranced as they were dragged away, one by one, and slowly the Freys’ screaming was snuffed out. Y/N noticed a bit of tension leech from Robb’s posture as the quiet settled over the crowded room and he retook his seat.

But it was quickly washed away as the next prisoner was brought in, chains singing with each step. A quick kick to the back of his legs brought Jaime Lannister to his knees in front of Robb. And the last living lion in the city actually smiled. “Stark, we must stop meeting like this.”

Maege Mormont started to draw her sword when Robb held up a hand. “You once made my mother a promise. An oath. To return her daughters to her care.”

“I did.” His green eyes flickered to Arya at Y/N’s side.

“You failed.”

Jaime clenched his jaw. “I did.”

“And then we find you fighting alongside your sister.”

“To be fair, it seemed your sisters were already in the care of your cousin so my oath-”

“My sister is the only reason your head is not on a spike,” Robb seethed. “She told me of how you saved her life.”

“Is this true, Lady Arya?” Some lord from the Reach asked. He was quickly met with looks of derision from the surrounding Northmen for questioning her or Robb. (“Of course it is true! She’s no reason to lie!”)

“It is true,” Y/N said, stepping in front of Arya who looked ready for the ground to swallow her whole. Her pride was a fearsome thing. “I saw it with my own eyes. Against his own bannerman, he raised his sword to keep Arya safe.” Murmurs started to slide through the assembled crowd and Robb’s jaw ticked to the side but all Y/N could see was Jaime’s soft, sad smile when he looked at her, like he was remembering how she cried and asked him not to tell anyone. A quiet kindness repaid.

“Your brother has been granted exile.”

And Y/N watched Jaime’s eyes widen, almost hopeful, as Robb continued to speak.

“You will have until sunrise to find a way out of my kingdom. If I see you again, your head will be thrown into Blackwater Bay.” Robb waved his hand and the chains encircling Jaime’s wrists and ankles were released. “A life for a life, Lannister. I suggest you make the most of it.”

**

“Perhaps they’ll have a song about my father when this war is truly over and the city is rebuilt. They can call it the Fish and the Bear.”

“I would hope the bards would grant him a more fitting song. He had more tales to tell than the way he left this plane, my moonlight.” Oberyn wrapped his arms around her as they stood on the balcony of her room, watching the city settle in for the night and she pressed her ear over his heart, listening to its beautiful beat and letting it steady her own.

It had been nearly a week since they had taken the Red Keep and Robb had been proclaimed king. Everything was slowly being rebuilt. Northmen and cavalry from the Reach were staying to help the city’s smallfolk resettle and survive, creating a sense that all would be well. The gold taken from the Westerland mines settled the Iron Throne’s debt with Braavos. Margaery had been surrounded by the maesters and healers the Tyrells had ferried with them in the war, making sure her time in the Black Cells had not permanently injured her, but had been presented to Robb just this morning and he had gladly accepted her as his queen. It was all a show, of course. The alliance between Robb and the Reach had been forged in the shadows long before he ever set foot in the city. The plan that Oberyn and Ellaria carefully crafted had unfolded beautifully. There were a handful of pieces left to move but Oberyn and Dorne were thankful for a bit of respite and Y/N was grateful for his arms to fall into when she felt that insidious ache once again grow in her chest. Oberyn made it easier to bear. He had kept her close when the other lords and ladies started to learn of her campaign in the Westerlands and what she had done—looks of horror and morbidly curious whispers disappeared when Y/N was in his arms. She only wished that Ellaria was there, too. It had been far too long since she had them in her arms. She needed them both.

“You are being called back to Sunspear, are you not, my prince?” A raven had arrived from Dorne just after they had broken their fast.

“We are being called back to Sunspear,” he mused before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “But you are not coming with me.”

Y/N had not said anything to give him that inclination. But Oberyn always knew. She felt him breathe in the scent of her skin as she sighed, burrowing a little closer to his warm chest. “I have to finish it.”

“I know, my moonlight, I know. And I will never keep you from your wrath.” He leaned back to gently cradle her face in his warm hands. “But I will have you promise me, again. Promise me that you will not forget us. Come home. When you are finished, come home.”

**

“Tell me something, Arya. Something good.”

“I met a boy. Named Gendry.”

A dense fog had settled over the damp grass, curling its ghostly fingers around the trunks of the trees that sheltered Y/N and the armed men from any eyes that might be scanning the land from the safety of their chambers.

Arya spoke, unhurried but succinctly, about her time disguised as ‘Arry’ with Yoren and then the Brotherhood without Banners, as Y/N waited for her men to finish a perimeter check. Most she knew, having gleaned it from conversations with Arya back in Dorne when they took breaks at the training grounds with Obara. But it seemed she placed the secret of Gendry a little closer to her heart. “I thought I saw him in King’s Landing before we left. Working as a blacksmith again.” Arya almost sounded wistful. “I didn’t ask or get too close. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t know what to do if it was him.”

“I think we have both learned that fear gets us nowhere, Arya,” Y/N said softly. “If he makes you happy, makes you laugh, try. Seven know you deserve some joy.”

Arya’s mouth tilted up in a small smile and she looked out toward the formidable fortress of The Twins, seat of House Frey. A strange location for such sentimental talk but it seemed the pair both needed a bit of respite. The handful of Riverlands men who had gone with her to King’s Landing were accompanying her for one last mission. And a small band of Northmen who were heading home were given leave by their king to help Y/N if they chose—and they did.

Ghost, Jon’s white direwolf, trotted to her side on silent feet and Qelōs whinnied in greeting. Y/N had met Ghost after taking King’s Landing when she found Jon wandering the ruins of the holdfast, trying to find a kitchen so he could feed Ghost. The direwolf was decidedly quieter than Grey Wind but no less protective of his chosen Stark or anyone Jon seemed fond of.

And where Ghost was, Jon always appeared. She watched Jon slide through the trees to stand at her side.

“Twelve guards on the perimeter. Five archers in the Water Tower.”

“Inside?”

“No more than forty.”

Y/N nodded and tightened her grip on the reins. She knew most of the Freys and their allies had been in King’s Landing and had been disposed of in battle or by the ax.

But she wanted all of them.

“They seem to be gathering who they can. Must’ve heard whispers of us marching North.”

But the Freys had few allies left. They were the only house in the Riverlands who had not sent forth supplications and oaths of fealty to the new king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And the simple bit of parchment in Y/N’s saddlebag was all the protection and fodder she needed to fan the flames already consuming the dark part of her heart that had led her here. It read simply; House Tully was once again Lord Protector of the Trident and the liege lord of the Riverlands. Any and all actions House Tully made on behalf of the Crown to secure allegiance and peace were sanctioned and accepted.

Perhaps Robb did not know what Y/N meant to do. But maybe he did, letting her loose on the House that had caused both her and her sweet cousins so much pain. She had kept her wrath contained while at war. It burned and raged under her skin but she had pulled it back like a tiger on a chain, knowing that if she had let herself be blinded by her need for vengeance, she would have only caused herself and others more heartache as her men would fall to the sword and ax because her plans would have left them vulnerable instead of safe. But now they were safe. This was the final piece. And she could let it finally burn.

A window pushed open and caught Y/N’s eye. A glint of metal, a cage, was revealed in low candlelight. The rookery, it would seem. Y/N watched a raven fly and pulled an arrow from her quiver. She nocked it and pulled her bow taut, listening to the string sing under her fingers. The arrow flew and took the bird from its flight. They would have no support.

Y/N drew another arrow and turned to Jon. “Give the signal.”

**

“Your father would be proud, my lady. You are a force, just as he.” Tytos was still filled with compliments even as he let a maester stitch up a gash on his arm.

Y/N managed to smile and dipped her rag into a bowl of fresh water and dragged it across her blood and dirt caked face and neck as she glanced out the window. For a moment, she doubted Brynden Tully would be proud of her. Letting loose a band of men still raging from victory and anger from the betrayal of the Red Wedding onto enemy territory and giving them permission to do whatever they wanted and needed to take the fortress was not honorable or something he would have ordered. But he was gone and she still breathed. She was a survivor—and she knew he would be proud of that.

Portcullises crumpled and arrows flew. Swords ran red and the fortress burned. The siege had lasted all of a handful of hours—just long enough for her to spend her quiver of arrows as she picked off fleeing Freys as they ran across the bridges. But it was finished. Almost.

Y/N grasped Tytos’ uninjured shoulder and squeezed, telling him to rest as Patrek ran into the room and told her they had finished gathering the Freys as she requested. He led her out of the damp, dark castle and onto the grass just on the edge of the Green Fork. A band of about twenty men were on their knees as the Northmen and Riverlanders created a circle around them with dirtied swords kept them from wavering.

The last of the Freys. All of them were guilty. Every single one of them knew of the plot and drew their blades when the time came. Each one had benefitted in some way from the slaughter of the Red Wedding and murder of her father.

Patrek continued on as Jon separated himself from the group and touched her arm just before they reached the group. “This will not bring them back,” he whispered, dark eyes pleading. He had seen enough bloodshed.

Y/N pushed his hand from her arm and stepped forward. “No, it will not. But blood begets blood. And I shall bathe in it. There shall be no root or stem left.”

Patrek had dragged a large stump from the tree line and set it at her feet. She watched a few of the men nervously glance between the stump and Y/N, knowing what was coming.

“Your men have refused to swear fealty to King Robb, the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. Your House has refused to bend the knee. Guest Right was violated for greed.” Y/N held her hand out for the ax Lord Cerwyn had across his back and he gave it readily. “I have learned that if you pass the sentence, you should swing the sword. I gave the order.” The weapon was heavy in her grip as she remembered Ned’s words. She’d just been a girl when he had said them and his eyes were sad. But she knew the words to be true and just. “Bring me Lord Walder Frey.”

Two Northmen darted into the group of Freys and pulled a snarling man, still in his sleeping clothes, up and then dropped him to his knees at Y/N’s feet.

“Little Lady Tully,” Walder sneered with rotted teeth. “If your cousin had been half the bitch you are, she might still be breathin’.”

“The gods gave you a chance to be true when they sent Lady Catelyn to your door. They gave you another when your men found my father. You and your wretched family betrayed mine. Now you must reckon with me.”

Walder’s face contorted and splotches of red dotted his grey cheeks. “You-”

Y/N swung the ax and buried it into his neck but it caught on this spine. His eyes grew wide as blood spurted and oozed from the wound. Walder’s mouth opened and closed with silent curses and stained his brown teeth red. She yanked the ax back and watched the Frey crumple down onto the stump before finally cleaving the man’s head from his shoulders. “Bring me the next,” she called out over her shoulder. “I should like to finish this before nightfall.”

She needed a new ax after the third Frey. And a damp cloth to wipe the blood from her face and hands.

“Bring me the next!”

A tall man was then shoved to his knees in front of her, brown hair thin and greasy as it stuck to his sweaty face. He snarled up at her, as a handful of others did before.

“Name?”

“Raymund Frey.”

And that gave Y/N pause. “Arya!” Arya came running, a stranger’s blood streaked across her cheek but still bright-eyed. Y/N handed over the ax. She took it with a frown and glanced at the Frey. “This is Raymund Frey.”

Realization dawned on the young Stark’s face and her grip tightened. If the Freys had not been so fond of bragging, perhaps they would not have known he had been the one to slit Catelyn’s throat at the Red Wedding. But they knew. And so, Y/N watched Arya bury the ax into the man’s neck.

And when all of them were gone, bodies left out to be pecked by hungry carrions, Y/N walked out into the river and washed the blood from her hands. It was finished. The blood in the rivers had washed her clean.

**

Riverrun had managed to survive a handful of sieges and a brief Frey occupation without losing its integrity. Jon and Arya accompanied her to her family’s seat and she invited the Northmen to rest in its halls for a fortnight before continuing North.

Houses from the Riverlands descended upon Riverrun when they heard of her return and Edmure’s release from the bowels of Casterly Rock. And Y/N was not sure if they had heard of her campaign at the Twins or in the Westerlands but a handful of them stuttered and avoided eye contact when they once again swore fealty to House Tully and bumbled through lathing compliments for King Robb as if he were standing beside her. It amused Arya endlessly who poorly concealed her giggles behind her hand until Jon nudged at her shoulder.

But Edmure had been much changed since his time in Casterly Rock’s dungeons. He walked with a limp and was in need of a cane. The fingers on his left hand were crooked, healed broken and at strange angles. And his vigor had left, his pride, too. Whenever anyone asked for an edict or command, his blue eyes flickered to Y/N and she found herself answering.

Settling feuds, giving instruction on how to rebuild, granting clemency, and doling out justice when needed. Through all of it he seemed to look to Y/N for guidance, to answer for him. She had only planned to stay long enough to make sure the Riverlands were at peace but Edmure gave her pause.

It was exhausting and confusing and Y/N, more often than not, found herself in the familiar kitchens late at night in search of wine. While she had anticipated that being within Riverrun’s familiar halls would finally grant her some peace, all she found was longing for the warmth of the Dornish sun and the gentle touch of Ellaria and Oberyn. The sound of the little ones laughing in the Water Gardens while Obara hollered out formations at the training field. Riverrun was so…quiet. Had it always been so quiet and cold? A small comfort was taking her father’s childhood rooms as her home. It was a way to feel close to him but the ache that had settled in her heart grew a little easier to bear with each passing day. And receiving a raven from Winterfell made her smile, too. It was from Sansa, stating that she had sailed North from Sunspear and had settled back into Winterfell without issue, a small band of loyal Northmen at her call. She had been named Warden of the North by her brother Robb and Y/N remembered how the broken throne room had been filled with cheers at the news, even if Sansa had not been present to hear it. But her own troubles persisted.

Jon found her the night before he, Arya, and the Northmen were to depart for their homes. She poured him a large glass of wine and ushered him into a seat in the dark room and finally pried his story from him. He spoke of betrayal and death and love and loyalty until the sun rose with the next morning.

“Out of all the Starks, you were the most prone to finding trouble.” She reached out to grasp his hand and squeezed, matching tired smiles on their faces. “But you survived. That is all that matters to me.”

He laughed and rubbed at his eyes as she smiled. “If you ever tire of the snow, come to Dorne. I will always have a place for you.”

And then she led him out into the sun to join the rest of the Northmen and bid him goodbye with a tight hug and a kiss against his head and she turned to Arya who begrudgingly gave back the Sand Steed she had stolen before hugging Y/N with a ferocity only she was capable of.

“Find your joy, little wolf,” Y/N whispered into her hair as she held Arya tight. “You deserve it. Now, stay safe.”

Arya nodded and sniffled once before clearing her throat as she pulled back. They both whispered soft goodbyes to each other as the morning light continued to grow. And then Y/N watched them disappear on the horizon with a heavy heart, knowing she was strangely alone now in the place she had called home. As she stepped inside, she nearly bowled over Roslin. Apologies tumbled from Roslin’s mouth as she cradled her son to her chest, almost shaking.

Y/N bit back a sigh and plastered a smile on her face. In truth, Roslin was a genial and gentle woman. Pretty. Loyal. So unlike the rest of her family. Y/N saw how she constantly looked to Edmure with love in her eyes and was met with a broken smile in return. And when the news had come of what had been become of her family, Roslin almost seemed relieved. It made Y/N wonder what she had endured while under her father’s thumb. “It is nothing, my lady. My fault. You are Lady Tully now. Apologize for only what is necessary.”

Roslin froze for a moment, as she always seemed to do whenever Y/N spoke with her, but then nodded with a small smile of her own. “Of course, my lady. Thank you.”

The pair spoke for a little longer, Y/N asking after the health of her babe, a boy nearing his first nameday and named after Edmure’s childhood idol and pride of their house, Kermit Tully, who had led House Tully to the height of their power during the Dance of Dragons. Yes, Y/N supposed, Roslin would grow to be a fine Lady Tully.

If only she could ensure Edmure would become the man she needed him to be.

Y/N eventually found herself slipping away after bidding Roslin a good day and walking up toward the rookery, she wanted to send a raven to Sansa to ask how she was faring. The ravens cawed in greeting as she stepped inside. They always recognized her, the intelligent little beasts. But it was the open window that drew her attention. A white raven cawed as it turned to watch her approach. The noise came again as she brushed a finger against the bird’s back and it fluttered its wings, showing the slip of parchment tied to its leg.

Y/N already knew what the missive would say – white ravens only appeared with the changing of the seasons.

The raven cawed against and nuzzled against her finger as she untied the parchment before flying away. And she was right – “winter has come” was all the Citadel had written, probably in haste to finish the hundreds more needing to be sent.

When she asked Edmure what should be done, finding him sequestered away in Hoster’s old rooms, he gave her another tired smile and asked her to make sure the other Riverlands houses were informed and cared for. Yet another obstacle. Dorne had never seemed so far away.

Y/N ordered the overfilled storehouses of the Twins be emptied to make sure the houses beleaguered by the long war would not starve and wrote to Willas and Olenna in Highgarden to secure a few hundred bushels of grain and barley as well. Even with the war, the Reach had enough to spare. And so, more weeks slipped through her hands. Lords and ladies from across the Riverlands came to Riverrun to receive what House Tully could give them and continue to ask for guidance from their liege lords.

An envoy from House Vance was the latest to arrive and it was then that Edmure seemed to finally show some of his former self. He smiled and greeted them, welcomed them, and helped them settle for the handful of nights they would be housed at Riverrun. And a breath Y/N did not realize she was holding finally pushed its way out of her tired lungs. He would be fine, she told herself. He just needed time.

Even Roslin seemed to settle more into her role at Edmure’s side. It was comforting to know that House Tully was secure once again. She sent a raven to Dorne, telling Oberyn and Ellaria she hoped to leave within a fortnight and arrive before the first snow of the new season. It put a certain spring in her step to think that soon she would be back in Dorne. She would be married and-

“Y/N!” Edmure called her name and snapped her from her pleasant reverie before the evening meal. She walked to his side in the hall and offered a small smile. “I have a gift for you, cousin.”

Before she could ask what the gift was, they were ushered into the hall for the meal. Edmure then pointed out Lord Vance’s third son and prattled on for a majority of the meal. Kirth Vance was handsome, she supposed, and he spoke kindly to servants and squires alike and tended to his horses and hunting dogs with care and doted on his nieces and nephews—if Edmure could be trusted. But every word nearly turned her stomach and she resorted to pushing her food around her place in a poor attempt to look like she was eating.

Ser Kirth was almost bashful as he met her gaze and quickly ducked his head with pink cheeks. “He thinks you are the most beautiful woman he has ever seen,” Edmure continued to whisper. “Kirth is not one to overstep—he would listen to your commands and see them through as a faithful consort to you here at Riverrun.”

And then she saw what this was.

“I would have the room,” Y/N said, rising from her seat. While most everyone quickly scurried away, including Roslin and her babe, Edmure signaled for Kirth to come closer. “No, no, Ser Kirth. My dear cousin has misread my intentions. I would speak to him alone.” Another ruddy blush took over his cheeks and he tipped his head before all but running from the hall. When the door firmly shut, she rounded on Edmure. “How dare you.”

Edmure stood, cane clacking against the floor. “Y/N-”

“If you think for a moment that you have the ability to coerce me into staying by offering me a man like that, you do not know me at all.”

“You led the Riverlands to victory. Not me. Not little Robb. You, dear cousin. You raised the banners and called on their loyalty and oaths. You bled alongside them.” Edmure pulled in a shaking breath and pressed harder onto his cane. “Riverrun should be yours.”

“I do not want it.” Y/N turned away from him, trying to hide her disgust. “Is this why you have shunned your duties? You believe you cannot serve your people.”

“I know I cannot.” And he sounded so defeated that she almost turned to comfort him. But rage kept her still.

“Then the Lannisters have won. They sought to strip you of your will and pride and make you a soulless creature of their making.” And Edmure was quiet and that was what had her turning. Her once near-boastful and handsome cousin had all but curled in on himself, face warped and scrunched like he was near tears. “Don’t let them win, Edmure. They are gone. You are still here. You are the man who led men into battle without flinching. You are the man who sheltered smallfolk here, in your home, because you knew they were scared.” Her voice cracked, broken in her throat. “You are the man who read me stories when I was a child. You are a good man. True, brave, and honest.”

Edmure shook his head and a single tear escaped his eye. “I cannot be that man again. I am tied to the family that imprisoned me, killed my sister-”

Y/N reached out to place her hand over Edmure’s on the head of his cane. “The Freys are dead and at my hand. I would gladly do it again. But that woman loves you—loves your son—despite your best attempts to spurn them. The gods have given you a fine wife, Edmure. Do not squander it.”

“She-”

“Is your wife. The mother to your heir. You were once a man of honor. Be so again. No one shall claim the Twins. Let it rot if you wish. Roslin loves you, chose you over her family. There is no ill will in that woman’s soul toward anyone. Just love.” Y/N sighed. “We know love in any form is rare, Edmure. You have found it in Roslin. I have found it-”

“In Dorne,” Edmure grumbled. “Yes, I have heard of your betrothal to Prince Oberyn and your dalliances with his paramour.”

Y/N pulled back her hand and crossed her arms over her chest, a sad shield against the wound he had cut. “I am happy. They love me. I love them. Why can you not see-”

“He has daughters older than you, Y/N. All of them bastards. Do you not believe you could find someone more suitable to call husband?”

“And you think Kirth Vance would be suitable?” She bit out, anger replacing the hurt. “I would give Oberyn eight more bastards if the gods allowed!” She bellowed as something protective struck at her stomach, even if the targets of her cousin’s ire were thousands of leagues away. “He loves me and I love him and Ellaria. He fought beside me, for me—for the gods-forsaken pile of brick and mortar because he knew I once called it home.”

“It is your home!” Edmure yelled in return. “You are a Tully-”

“I am Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell’s wife in all but name and I am going home!” Her chest heaved and she wiped a hand across her face, trying to calm herself before said anything else. “You are the Lord of Riverrun. Lord Paramount of the Trident. You are not a child. Your life has led to this moment. Do not forsake Hoster’s teachings for your learned meekness. He named you as his heir—be the man he knew you to be. Because I cannot and will not be.” And then she left, leaving Edmure alone.

**

Y/N pulled her fur-lined cloak a little tighter about her shoulders as she strode out to the stables. Qelōs was being tended to by the stable hand and her tack was waiting to be placed on her gleaming back. Full saddlebags were ready for one last journey South. Y/N had spent the last night in Riverrun’s Sept, praying for guidance and for her father’s soul one more time—another quiet goodbye. She thought it would be fitting to do it here, in his former home. And as the sun rose the following morning, it was the most at ease she had felt in almost a year.

“I am never coming this far North again,” Obara said, moving closer to her to try to get a bit of body heat. The large fur cloak and gloves were not enough, it seemed. Obara and Oberyn had led an envoy to the Riverlands to collect Y/N and ensure she was safely delivered back to Sunspear. Frost had started to stick to the grass around Riverrun, thin sheets of ice collected over patches of the rivers and Obara had been distraught about the temperature since she arrived with her father two days ago. Ellaria and the rest of the Sand Snakes had stayed in Dorne. Loreza and Dorea had apparently caught a bit of a fever with their first Winter and Oberyn and Ellaria both wanted to keep the rest of their daughters healthy. The little ones would be fine, but Ellaria and Oberyn always wanted to be sure.

Y/N chuckled at Obara’s plight and pulled a thick wool stole from one of her bags and wrapped it around Obara’s shoulders, making sure to tuck it high around her neck. “What of your plans to see Seagard? Hm? Lord Patrek will be devastated.”

Obara sniffed and looked away. “He must wait for Winter to end if he wishes to have me at his home. I am of Dorne. He-”

“Is in love with you, Obara. And Lord Mallister is amiable to the match if you wish it.” Y/N assumed tales of Obara saving his heir’s life and fighting beside the Riverlanders may have something to with Lord Mallister easing his views on who could be a possible match for his son. That, and Oberyn Martell being her father, a Prince of Dorne and the man who took Tywin Lannister’s head from his shoulders was a definite bargaining point. Y/N finished tucking the stole around her frigid companion. “But I am happy to simply see your face again.”

“Sap,” Obara said with a small smirk. “If I have to hear Father wax poetic about your eyes the entire ride to Dorne, I will be forced to murder you both.”

“Oh, I expect nothing less.”

They spoke a little longer, watching their horses be readied for the ride before one of the stable hands said, “Oh, Lord Tully! Good morrow!”

Y/N turned to see Edmure at the mouth of the stables. Roslin was at his side, a small smile on her delicate lips. Something was bundled in his left arm, his right still holding his cane. It had been a tumultuous two weeks within Riverrun’s halls. Edmure had stumbled when regaining his duties but fulfilled them with more confidence with each day. He had kept his conversations with Y/N at a minimum and had steadfastly refused to speak to Oberyn more than necessary when he first arrived. But Edmure softened. At almost an alarming rate. But perhaps that was simply Oberyn’s charm. His pervasive magnetism that could draw nearly everyone to his side if he wanted them. Edmure was no exception. And that gave Y/N a little comfort, to know that Edmure did not hate her betrothed as he had tried. Knowing her two families, no matter how different, were coming together was a solace. Riverrun would survive under Edmure’s lordship.

The pair stepped closer and Roslin helped Edmure press the bundle into Y/N’s arms. “It is a gift for you. A reminder of… of Riverrun.” Not of home. Not anymore.

Y/N looked down at the bundle and watched it move, the tip of the fabric peeling away to reveal a fluffy snout. Y/N quickly unwrapped the dog with a huff of a laugh as it wiggled in her hold. The pup fit comfortably in her arms and had the most beautiful black fur with a tuft of white on his chest.

“He is of the Riverlands, hearty and loyal. Even if Riverrun is no longer your home, I’d like… I’d like if you still had a piece of us with you.”

The pup squirmed in her grasp and raised up on unsteady legs to lick at her chin with a happy yip. A fortuitous distraction for both Edmure and Y/N as they tried to clear the tears from their eyes. Y/N nodded and pressed a kiss to the dog’s head before leaning up to kiss Edmure’s cheek. “He’s wonderful. Thank you, Edmure. A treasure to be sure.”

It was not an apology, not an outright one anyway. But Y/N accepted it just the same. It was a soft ending to a hard chapter.

But she was ready to start a new one.

And as Oberyn walked into the stables, a soft smile on his face, she knew it would be a good one.

**

The distance between Riverrun and Sunspear seemed so long and so short at the same time. Each night was spent in Oberyn’s arms, trying to reclaim the time she had lost. They would whisper about their plans for the future, of how they both wished Ellaria in their arms when the nights grew colder and colder.

But it was good. It was soft and gentle and eased the ache she had held against her heart like a shield since she had left his arms. It was good.

The pup had grown astonishingly fast. He often squirmed out of her grasp in the saddle to trot alongside their horses. If there were ever a body of water near the road, he quickly jumped into it to wet his fur and then happily scampered back into line, proud of himself.

“He is a little bear,” Oberyn once griped as the pup’s sharp teeth nipped at his leg when Oberyn had moved to help Y/N down from her horse. The pup seemed a little insistent on having Y/N’s attention at all hours and he only grew bolder as the distance from Sunspear grew shorter. Obara found her father’s frustration with the pup endlessly entertaining and would also lathe attention on the pup at any moment. She followed her father’s lead in calling him a little bear, much more affectionate in tone. And Y/N supposed the name just stuck. She called him her little river bear in High Valyrian, but settled on just calling him Gryves for short.

As they crossed under the stone arches of Sunspear and the crowds cheered, little Gryves happily pranced next to Qelōs and snapped his jaws, catching the flower petals the people of Sunspear had thrown into the air in celebration of their return. Ellaria and the Sand Snakes were waiting on the steps of the fortress and Y/N dismounted before Qelōs even stopped and raced up the stairs. Tears were in Ellaria’s eyes as Y/N wrapped her in her arms and she could taste them as she pressed her lips to hers again in again in a fevered frenzy as an incandescent warmth bloomed in her chest at just the simple touch of Ellaria’s skin. And it took Ellaria holding her still, gentle hands on the side of her face, to realize she was crying, too. “No more tears, my Tully,” Ellaria whispered. “You are home.”

A happy shriek had them pulling apart to see Dorea and Loreza bowled over on the steps being licked by Gryves whose entire fluffy body was shaking with how quickly he was wagging his tail.

Oberyn stepped to their side and kissed Ellaria soft and slow before pressing a kiss to Y/N’s smiling mouth.

Yes. She was home.

**

Gryves huffed for the third time, disturbing her attempt at sleep. Or maybe the dog knew she couldn’t sleep and was sharing in her plight. Y/N gave up after she heard him huff again and slipped out from under her blankets and padded over to her balcony, letting the cool breeze wash over her as she pulled the doors open. Gryves’ nails tapped against the stone beside her and they both walked to the railing, looking out over the still-bustling fortress.

Her wedding was tomorrow. Her dress was carefully hung and her maiden’s cloak alongside it. Daisy had been bouncing in each step in the last week, happy to have her friend back safely and to “finally see you married to your prince, my lady!” Daisy and Daemon’s own ceremony would be held the following day. People were buzzing about down below, readying for the festivities. While the ceremony would be small, Doran insisted on letting them have every finery they wanted. Y/N did not care if she had to marry in a threadbare sack and in bare feet and they only had blood oranges for their wedding dinner—she simply wanted to be married.

Gryves placed his front paws on the railing and looked out over the small crowd, too. He let out a soft ‘boof’ as he watched. He was still growing, his head now coming to her waist but he was still as playful as ever—and patient. Loreza had fashioned him a hat that looked peculiarly like an otter and he let the girl set it on his head and sat still long enough for the girls to coo over him before getting distracted by a gull he promptly chased into the sea. He was doted on by almost everyone who resided in or worked around Sunspear. (Oberyn was still trying to find a way to get the dog to like him and stop nipping at his leg whenever he tried to kiss Y/N.) Sarella was home (“For only a moment!” she insisted.) from the Citadel and the Sand Snakes were all together again and Y/N found them all to be wondrous company. Daisy and Daemon were still steadfastly in love, perhaps even more so that Daemon had returned unharmed. All of it was so idyllic. So perfect. And for a moment, Y/N once again wondered if the world was about to crash around her—but she quickly dismissed the thought and she thought of Ellaria telling her that happiness does not have limits and that she had the ability to choose every joy and happiness that was placed at her feet. And Y/N wanted to seize every last opportunity.

A knock at her door had her turning and Gryves kept to her side as she walked back into her rooms to open the door. Ellaria was on the other side with a soft smile and Gryves darted around her and into the darkened halls, probably in search of Loreza or Dorea. Y/N stepped back to let Ellaria in and softly shut the door behind her. Before Y/N could ask what she was doing, Ellaria had grasped at her face and pushed her lips to hers, easily delving into Y/N’s surprised mouth to lick and explore. Y/N faltered for a moment before letting her hands slide around Ellaria’s waist, bunching the silky fabric of her dressing robe between her fingers. Ellaria pulled away for a moment to press soft, wet kisses against Y/N’s cheek and down her neck, humming as she felt the thrumming pulse beneath the skin.

“I knew you would not be sleeping, my Tully.” Another kiss to Y/N’s panting mouth. “And I will have to call you something else after tomorrow, won’t I?” Ellaria’s laugh was light and her fingers started to trail up and down Y/N’s arms, raising goosebumps in their wake.

“You can call me whatever you desire,” Y/N said, tone breathy.

“And if I simply wanted to call you mine?”

“I am already yours.” Y/N leaned forward to press her forehead against Ellaria’s as her hands gently grasped Ellaria’s hands in hers, wrapping her fingers around her wrist. “I am yours and you are mine,” she whispered the vow against Ellaria’s lips. It was no Sept. There was not a Septon in sight nor any other trappings of the ceremony. But Y/N meant the vow as seriously as she would tomorrow with Oberyn.

And then Ellaria was kissing her again, tightening her grip on her wrists like she wanted to brand her touch to Y/N’s skin. “I am yours and you are mine.” Ellaria then dragged Y/N forward and spun her around before pressing a hand to her chest and pushing. Y/N didn’t even realize they had come so close to the bed until she fell onto it with a laugh, greedily grabbing at Ellaria’s legs as she climbed over her and stole another kiss against her smiling mouth. “You need to sleep, yes? I have two options for you.”

“Oh?”

Ellaria nodded and trailed her lips across Y/N’s chin, nipping at her jaw, before sliding down her neck again and letting her tongue dip into the notch between Y/N’s collarbones. “I can have you brought tea. Or…”

“Or…” Y/N played along, letting her hands slide up from Ellaria’s legs to her hips but her grip stuttered when Ellaria’s mouth suddenly pressed over her chest, tongue finding her nipple even through the cloth and teasing it to a hardened peak. When she was satisfied with one, she quickly did the same to the other.

“Or I can tire you out myself,” Ellaria said, situating herself with ease so she could lay her cheek against Y/N’s chest, undoubtedly listening to her fluttering heart. “Which would you prefer, my Tully?”

“You. Always you.”

Ellaria’s smile was bright even in the dark of the room as she sat straight and shuffled down the bed while signaling for Y/N to center herself in the blankets. She gracefully stretched out beside her slowly pushed the edge of Y/N’s chemise up, up, up until it exposed her lace-edged small clothes. “You’re always so pretty for me,” Ellaria mused before her fingers trailed over the front of them, already coaxing a moan from Y/N’s lips. “It has been too long since I’ve been able to touch you like this. You are never to leave us like that again.” She leaned down to kiss Y/N’s lips again, licking into her mouth. “Swear to me.”

“I swear it,” Y/N said, last word a breathless gasp as Ellaria’s talented fingers slipped beneath her small clothes and found her heat, ready and wet for her. Y/N had not even realized she had become so wet, only able to focus on Ellaria.

“Good.” Ellaria dragged the damp small clothes and dropped them to the floor. “So pretty,” Ellaria whispered as her fingers started to push through Y/N’s folds, gathering her slick before trailing up to her clit and circling it with just the right amount of pressure to have Y/N’s hips lifting from the featherbed. Again and again, Ellaria would push through Y/N’s folds, barely dipping into where she needed her most, as she pressed lazy, open-mouthed kisses against Y/N’s panting lips.

“Please,” Y/N near-pleaded. “Please.”

“And always so polite.” And then finally—finally—Ellaria curled her fingers into Y/N’s pussy in one single motion and delighted in Y/N’s high pitched whine and how the younger woman fisted her hands in the silk sheets at her sides. Ellaria leaned up just enough to seal her mouth over Y/N’s, all teeth and tongue and heavy, warm breaths as her fingers started to move, dragging in and out even as Y/N’s fluttering walls tried to pull them tight.

The familiar coil was starting to grow and unravel at an embarrassing rate and Y/N heard herself nearly wailing as it snapped and that delicious wave of pleasure washed over her. But Ellaria did not stop. Her fingers continued to curl inside her, Ellaria’s other hand pressed down against Y/N’s belly and pinned her to the bed. Y/N cried out at the burst of pressure she felt bloom and the coil started to wind itself again, now with an unfamiliar bite and sting that sang with each movement of Ellaria’s fingers.

“Oh please,” she said, words choked in her throat. She reached out to grasp at Ellaria’s wrist, pushing her further, letting her fingers brush against the spot only she and Oberyn could reach.

“That’s my good girl. Take what you need.”

Even through her hazed mind, Y/N keened at the praise. She wanted to be a good girl.

Ellaria licked across her panting mouth and bit at Y/N’s spit-slicked lips, smirking the entire time. Y/N’s walls fluttered around her fingers and she pressed her thumb against her clit with enough pressure to have Y/N cry against her mouth. Slick soaked her hand but she did not cease her movements, pushing her fingers into her until her hips pressed up against her grip and Y/N’s fingers clawed at her shoulders.

“El-Ellaria I-”

But she pressed her down to the dampened blankets and smiled. “So beautiful,” she said. “Give me another. My good girl.”

Her thighs shook, nearly clamping down over Ellaria’s arm as wave after wave of terrible pleasure wracked her body. The room blurred as her arms slid down Ellaria’s back to pull her close as if she were not the one inflicting this delicious torture. The sounds that came from Y/N as her fingers continued to move could only be described as lewd. Wet and frenzied.

“Give it to me,” Ellaria said, steady and low against her heated skin.

Y/N cried out as another jolt of blinding pleasure shot through her, hips finally lifting from the featherbed as her vision went white. Her heart continued to roar in her ears. Ellaria’s fingers slowed their assault before pulling out, leaving Y/N feeling empty and spent even as her body shivered with residual tremors. Ellaria’s glistening fingers dipped between her kiss-bitten lips and her tongue twisted and slid to gather everything she could. When she was finished, she shuffled down Y/N’s body to press a kiss against her wet cunt and Y/N let out a broken moan. Her dark eyes sparkled when she looked up at her. “One more.” She licked a broad stripe up from her hole to her clit and Y/N keened, nerves alight and near painful. But the long strokes of Ellaria’s tongue continued, broken up by little kitten licks against her clit or dipping inside. Every flick of Ellaria’s glorious tongue brought Y/N closer to the precipice but it came sooner than either of them anticipated, dribbling out of her with a broken sort of cry and a new puddle between her thighs. With a final kiss, Ellaria rose and walked to the vanity near the open balcony and pulled a golden cloth from its pile before dipping it into the small basin of water Daisy had left for Y/N to wash her face earlier. She slid onto the bed again and wiped between Y/N’s still shaking thighs with a gentle touch, delighting when she shivered. “Are you all right?” Ellaria asked as her tongue peeked from between her lips out to clean the shining mess from around mouth.

Y/N sighed with a tired smile. “I am perfect.” She reached out toward Ellaria’s soft skirts and felt the silk slide between her fingers. “But I would like to please you, too.”

Ellaria smiled and dropped the damp fabric to the floor. “Are you sure?”

“I am. But I hope you do not mind guiding me.”

Ellaria slipped back onto the bed and her knees bracketed Y/N’s thighs as the younger woman gently pulled the skirt up to reveal Ellaria’s uncovered mound, shining in the candlelight. Y/N’s hands slid from her waist to the backs of her thighs, urging Ellaria up toward her face. Ellaria had taught her many things, one of them being how to give her pleasure with just her fingers and Y/N had delighted in the taste of her love. But, in truth, Y/N had been fascinated by watching Oberyn make Ellaria cum with his wicked tongue. She wanted a taste from the source, too.

“By the gods, you are perfect,” Ellaria murmured holding her skirts higher so she could look to see Y/N’s face between her legs. She reached down to curl her hand around the back of Y/N’s head, pulling her up to meet the crux of her thighs.

Y/N quickly licked a short but firm stripe from Ellaria’s hole to her clit, earning a soft sigh in return. The bitterly sweet taste of Ellaria was heavenly and Y/N quickly, selfishly, licked again and then wiggled her tongue against Ellaria’s hole, trying to collect as much as she could.

“That’s it.” Ellaria’s grip tightened on her head and Y/N licked again and again before taking a chance and pulling her clit into her mouth and sucking. They both sunk into the pillows.

Y/N reached up and around to grasp at Ellaria’s hips as her licks grew bolder, encouraged by Ellaria’s moans. They grew louder as her tongue started to delve and lick and press. Ellaria would sometimes murmur instructions, “to the left” “right there” “a little harder, my darling” and Y/N followed each with wild abandon and squealed when Ellaria pressed down onto her mouth and moved her hips, grinding against her tongue.

“So good,” She panted. “So good.”

Y/N ate her out in earnest, sloppy and spit sliding out of the corner of her lips between covetous licks. Ellaria could suffocate her like this easily—and Y/N would die happy.

Exploring fingers slid down and Y/N simply pressed against the bundle of nerves and smiled when Ellaria wailed in response, head tilted back to press the sound into the sticky night air. Her hips moved faster. Y/N did all she could to keep up, to give Ellaria as much as she had given her. The hold on her head tightened and Ellaria suddenly stilled above her with a groan. The thighs on either side of Y/N’s head shook and the taste of Ellaria flooded her mouth. Y/N pulled her fingers away from her clit but gave a few final licks before Ellaria pushed off and then sat beside her on the pillows.

Ellaria caught her breath with a laugh and then leaned down to press a kiss to Y/N’s lips. “I cannot wait to teach you everything I know.”

Ellaria kissed her again before Y/N rose and wet her own bit of cloth to wipe between Ellaria’s thighs. She lathed a kiss against each of Ellaria’s legs before pulling her skirts down again as she lounged on the featherbed. “I will be a dutiful student.”

The laugh Ellaria let out was tired but joyful. And they spoke for a few more stolen moments, Ellaria constantly checking to make sure Y/N was not overworked or feeling strange as they shared slow kisses in the moonlight. “Will you be able to rest now?” Ellaria asked as Y/N yawned.

“You have thoroughly exhausted me.”

Ellaria’s smile grew and she kissed Y/N one more time before she slipped off the bed again. “Then I shall see you in the morning, Princess.”

Y/N smiled at the sound of the title. “In the morning, my love.”

A/N: Please let me know what you guys think! I really appreciate it. :)

Beautiful people who asked to be tagged: @roxypeanut​ @lostinwonderland314​ @fandomreblogsnoshame @arianawills​ @nyrnerosmartell​ @5hundreddaysofsummer​ @honestlystop @huliabitch​ @youhavemyfantasticbeasts​ @karmezii​ @thesadvampire​ @sarcasmisakindofmagic @alexa4040​ @paintballkid711 @huliabitch​ @stitchers-in-stitches​ @iellaren-uodo-rian​

#oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell imagine #oberyn martell x ellaria sand x reader #game of thrones imagine #oberyn martell #game of thrones #asoiaf

[dwellordream]

“…The common work of American pioneer children has become an essential story of frontier life. Less well known or acknowledged is that gender boundaries were often disregarded in the course of this experience. Daniel worked not only at tasks with his father but also at those normally seen as women’s work. To help his mother, he dyed cloth, carried water from the spring, helped to nurse the younger children, and cooked. His work was indeed diverse as he did what was needed with little complaint—or so he remembered years later when writing his memoir. Then at fifteen, he was separated from all of it—from his physical labor and from his pious parents (his mother’s favorite word was “wicked”). She was hardly indulgent of him, either in the work he was required to do or in the virtues he was expected to display while doing them.

Many boys did female work. Henry Clarke Wright, who became an outspoken educator and a radical abolitionist, spent his childhood helping his stepmother by babysitting, and much more. “He cleaned, he cooked, he washed.” In upstate New York, where his family lived in the early nineteenth century, he also did more masculine work “riding the horses, yoking and driving the oxen, bringing in the cows, harnessing and all the rest of the hard labor of the frontier farmer.” After his farming experience, Wright was left to become an apprentice in April 1814. Lonely, “home-sick” and with a “feeling of wretched- ness,” Wright learned to grow up fast. He also learned his own mind and how later to defend his extremely independent and unpopular views.

The American boys of the early republic grew early into independence. They were neither indulged nor coddled. They were given some say in the objects of their labor and, when possible, free time to play. But the children were also seen as “little citizens”—persons with capacity as well as potential. Some visitors were shocked by the results, but others were impressed. One Englishwoman observed, “You will see a little being that has not seen the sun make one circle of seasons, lay hold on a toy, not to cram it in his mouth and look stupidly at it, but to turn it curiously over, open it if he can, and peep in with a look as wise as that of a raven peeping into a marrow bone. One mark of early observation and comprehension never failed to excite my wonder. Little creatures feed themselves very early, and are trusted with cups of glass and china, which they grasp firmly, and carry about the rooms carefully, and deposit unbroken.”

There is, perhaps, a degree of exaggeration in such observations, finding the precocious engineer within the child not yet a year old. But in light of current findings by cognitive psychologists about the “scientist in the crib,” perhaps it is less a matter of exaggeration than a willingness to see even young children as more fully capable of independent thought and action than most Americans are accustomed to today. Americans at this time assumed that children needed less supervision and direction. This was true for girls as well as boys. By the time she was six years of age, Caroline Stickney (later Creevey), who grew up to be a nature writer, was expected to go to the doctor alone after she had fallen and severely injured her arm. It turned out to be broken.

“Mother was too busy to accompany me and there was nobody else. Besides children were taught to stand upon their own feet in these days.” Caroline’s regular tasks included bringing the cow to pasture in the morning and retrieving her at night, and, like Ulysses Grant, she was able from an early age to roam freely in the woodland that this future botanical enthusiast loved to explore and whose trees she climbed regardless of risk. At ten, she was allowed to ride the family horse; when she asked her father for directions to find a certain path, he made clear to her that she could find her own way.

Anna Howard Shaw had a more extreme experience, as her father sent his young family from Lawrence, Massachusetts, to which the family had migrated from England after Thomas Shaw’s bankruptcy, to the north woods of Michigan. There the children and their mother were left alone to establish her father’s claim to the 360 acres he had acquired, while he remained East to settle his affairs. Shaw’s mother, overwhelmed by grief and disbelief at the raw and trying circumstances, collapsed emotionally and was “practically an invalid.” This left the enterprise entirely to the five children. Barely twenty years old, Shaw’s oldest brother, James, was in charge. Anna was recruited to lay floorboards on the earth and frame windows and doors.

When even James left because he needed an operation that took him back to Massachusetts, the young children were left to fend for themselves, through a variety of “nerve-wracking” conditions and winters that “offered few diversions and many hardships.” Anna eventually took advantage of opportunities for schooling that led to her unflinching grasp at independence as a professional woman. In later life, Shaw was a crusader for women’s suffrage, and managed to become both a medical doctor and a minister. This kind of brutal induction into resourcefulness and independence, while not representative, was also not uncommon.

Girls and boys matured early, and Tocqueville, for one, believed that American children did not have or need an adolescence. The very young child, given the right to handle glassware or crockery, is a child invested with the capacity to act responsibly. Dr. Spock would note more than a century later that such confidence acknowledged that a child is eager to do “grown up things,” like feeding herself in the same way as the adults around her. And early work laid the basis for later habits. Anna Shaw noted that work had “always been my favorite form of recreation.”

The English commentator who saw precocious infant explorers poking around their toys was observing a different model of child development, one that was becoming as alien to middle- and upper-class Europeans of the nineteenth century as it is to us today. While European children of the middle classes were being treated as precious objects of solicitude, needing careful protection, American children who later became presidents, doctors, writers, and reformers were exposed to adult work and responsibility. And they were far less supervised. It was not only that class was more fluid in the United States in this period but that the specific expectations about children remained more fluid than in Europe.

Later in the nineteenth century, middle-class Americans, too, would begin to separate children from adult activities and treat them, as we usually do today, as fragile beings who needed special toys and risk-proof furnishings. But during this initial period when American society was being formed and the culture was laying down historical tracks, children were much more integrated into adult activities and given both more responsibility and more freedom. Most Americans in the first half of the nineteenth century viewed their children’s early maturity as natural, an expression of both the helping qualities they required in the young and beliefs about children’s abilities to be useful from an early age. It was a widespread phe- nomenon in many parts of the new country and remained an active part of the culture up to the end of the century, while elsewhere in the Western world, children were sentimentalized.

It was true for girls as well as for boys, observed in the eastern United States as well as the West, common among rural folk especially but in cities as well. Rachel Buttz’s father, Tunis Quick, was raised in the Shenandoah Valley in the early nineteenth century. His father was a well-meaning “generous, kindhearted man,” but his decision to back a neighbor’s loan impoverished the family, and soon after his mother’s death young Tunis was “hired to a neighbor who required him to do almost as much work as a full-grown man.” Just past ten years of age, Tunis quickly became responsible in other ways as well. Tunis objected to the slavery that was a feature of the area in which they lived, so at fifteen he urged his father to move the family to the North.

They stopped first in Ohio “where [he] was variously employed in farming, hauling goods and keeping a ferry on the Scioto River.” Having worked hard and impressed his employer, young Tunis obtained the means to buy a home in Indiana where the family finally settled. Tunis Quick learned early to assist his family as they struggled, and his sense of responsibility also gave him the ability to think independently and to have his views heard and respected. By what we would consider his mid-adolescence, he had not only directed his family’s migration north, but he was buying property for them. Tunis’s desire to leave a section dominated by slavery is also noteworthy, since it was the South, where slave ownership defined the society, that was the major exception to the developing democracy within families.

To some extent, the independence given to children grew from the ideals and values expressed in the Revolution since Americans believed that future generations had to acquire the characteristics that would maintain the principles enunciated in that event. But more than ideology was involved. No simple commitment to an idea can completely explain the behaviors so widely observed and the general willingness to heed children’s independent judgment. Ideology will not necessarily loosen a father’s grip over his sons when he had always expected to be obeyed and to have his commands met, even when he is committed to republican ideals. In the Southern United States, of course, this loosening of paternal power never happened, since slavery reinforced its grip.

And even in other parts of the United States, some observed the loosening of parental reins with concern and attempted to inhibit the young through new institutions of supervision, such as schools, as they recognized how much mischief could be loosed in a world guided by revolutionary principles. Not all Americans took kindly to the idea of children acting on their own. But a widespread independence among the young continued nevertheless. American life in the first half of the nineteenth century was defined by conditions that made such views about children necessary while the restless temperament of Americans made them ready for change and improvement. Together, these conditions provided children with the leeway to become more independent as they became more useful. Utility as well as ideology needs to be taken into account if we are to understand the families that produced a Grant, Drake, Quick, Shaw, or Wright.

The changing circumstances of the early republic resulted from both material conditions and political institutions. Together, these were widely understood as fundamental to the difference between Americans and Europeans. A shrewd, early observer of the difference, the Reverend Enos Hitchcock, sought to sustain the new revolutionary ideology through appropriate childrearing and education. “The systems of education written in Europe, are too local to be transferred to America; they are generally designed for a style of life, different from that, which is necessary for the inhabitants of the United States to adopt: they do not reach our circumstances, and are not suited to the genius of our government.”

To understand the American regime of domestic relations, we need to grasp just how unsettled, raw, and unpredictable the American land and the developing economy were during the important first half of the nineteenth century, since the experiences of American children and their parents were an expression of that reality. This dynamic new economy revised expectations about youth and what it could achieve. So did the laws governing inheritance and generational relations. The changes in American domestic life also transformed power relations between men and women, husbands and wives, and this, too, affected generational relationships in important ways.”

- Paula S. Fass, “Childhood and Parenting in the New Republic Sowing the Seeds of Independence, 1800–1860.” in The End of American Childhood: A History of Parenting from Life on the Frontier to the Managed Child

#american #the end of american childhood #paula s. fass #history

[jadelotusflower]

Robin Hood Rewatch: 1x13 A Clue: No

“Previously on” recaps can be annoying, but there is an art to it and I love a good one. This is a very, very good one, summarising the last episode with ramping tension as the music builds, then cuts to a different take of the last scene as the theme song starts, and we’re into the opening credits.

This is a long one, so it’s going under the cut:

Guy estimates that the “inner circle” of Robin’s gang is “a dozen at the most” and I find it very funny that neither he nor Vaisey have twigged that it’s always the same five people around him. What’s more annoying than funny is that they don’t know how many are in the “outer circle” because that really should have been A Thing in the show (Forrest and Hanton should have come back to guest star! I will never let this go!) After all, we see Little John with more men in the first episode, there are other outlaws in the forest/across the shire that are either working with Robin, or pose a risk to them, and I wish this had been explored.

Djaq manhandling and holding her sword to Pitts’s throat - I love Djaq.

The first arrow Robin shoots is intended for Vaisey, but one of the guards inconveniently walks in front and gets it in the chest. The second arrow is intended for Vaisey as well but he ducks (”my tooth!”) so we can’t fault the writing for a credible attempt at Why Doesn’t Robin Just Kill The Sheriff, because in this scene at least, he tries.

Bye Pitts. You certainly were.

I actually really love this scene (which probably seemed odd given the high body count), but Robin drawing his sword and charging, with Much, Djaq, and John backing him up to avenge Marian’s apparent death/make a final stand, as the music shifts from the jaunty Rescue Theme to Marian’s Theme, just gets me every time.

Although thanks to the cast commentary, I can’t unsee Djaq flipping that guy over her head twice, but hey, it’s a badass move. Clearly they didn’t shoot enough coverage of this fight, because we get the same action from several different angles.

Other than the flashback in episode 8, I think this is the only time we see Robin in Crusader mode, and just how lethal he (and the gang) can be when unleashed and with nothing to lose. Even when the enemy retreats Robin remains kind of wild-eyed with rage unsated, and it takes a beat for him to snap out of it. It’s symbolism time - he sticks his sword in the ground and leaves it there, and we don’t see it again this episode (or much in season 2).

There’s some nice acting going on from everyone in this scene - just utter exhaustion, Allan and Will oblivious to why the rest are so distraught, Much taking it upon himself to tell them but can’t say the words, and Robin with the finality of “she’s dead.” Their faces!

Djaq is still holding two swords as she enters the cave, which is a nice character beat - no doubt the fight also brought back unpleasant memories/triggers for her, and she remains on edge, for the moment unwilling to give up her defences even when the threat is gone.

I really love this scene too (the gang mourning Marian) and I think it’s quite deftly written - Djaq’s immediate reaction being the importance of a quick burial (as per Islamic tradition), Robin trying to keep it together, attempting to ask John/Will to build a coffin but unable to, so deflecting to ask Djaq to prepare Marian’s body, before trying twice again; John soothing him and taking charge. Will’s single tear and speaking of Marian’s goodness. Much responding with “Good? Oh, she was... She was...” looking to Robin because of course his thoughts are for Robin’s grief before his own, and also that his own relationship with Marian was complex. Allan: “She was alright...yeah” that says so much, and of course John’s “Her, we liked.” Again, some fine acting, kudos everyone.

“I loved her and I never told her” is ironic because Robin still won’t tell her until halfway through the next season, and if he had in the aftermath of her apparent death he could have spared himself a lot of the angst of the rest of the episode. But of course he doesn’t tell her, doesn’t learn from this moment, because emotions are hard, and sometimes we make the same mistakes over and over again.

I really love that it’s Allan that notices that Marian is alive, and his little “told ya” flourish.

Score note: while Marian is “dead” her Theme is strings, when she opens her eyes, it’s back to the guitar.

Guy’s guilt in finding out his impending marriage to Marian is based on false pretenses - would he still have forced the marriage if he’d known that from the start?

Djaq still has her two swords as they take Marian back to Knighton.

Guy, if your first instinct when told Marian is not at home is that she’s run away rather than marry you...maybe take a hint? “She cannot run from me” is a big yikes, and this confuses me as to Guy’s motivation in this scene. Did he intend to tell Marian the truth, but then convince himself otherwise (because “the excitement of the wedding” =/= “the wedding excites her”), but then why so angry when he thinks shes run? The difference between getting someone go/being left, I suppose.

Illness is a perfectly plausible explanation for delaying the wedding that no one seems to think of.

Edward is actually pretty bang on in this scene with Robin from a father’s perspective, telling him to let Marian go if he cannot stop it, and do the right thing. On the other hand...

“I am sick of doing the right thing” is why Robin is such a compelling character for me - because it is hard to always be good, to be held to that higher standard, and make the unselfish choice. I enjoy narratives that explore that, and this show is surprisingly unflinching about it, exemplified by:

The next scene, which is one of the most emotionally brutal/hard to watch of the entire show, in which Robin lashes out and does everything to drive Much away, including calling him “a pox”  and a “small man” until Much’s heart visibly breaks.

Now I don’t want to excuse Robin here, because he is objectively awful to someone who doesn’t deserve it, who is trying to give him support but also telling him some much needed hard truths (even if it is slightly self-serving, which is what what seems to set Robin off). But at the end of the day, if he loves Marian he needs to accept that it is her choice to marry Guy, to “do the right thing” to (she thinks) protect her father - and later of he does just that. For now Edward and Much are both right, it is more important for him to try and protect the king from Vaisey, because if he is ousted and Richard back on the throne so many lives would be improved, including the people of Locksley. But Robin has been pushed to breaking point all season, and has now snapped and can’t see reason, but is stuck in his own grief/rage.

But unlike previously, when Robin said regrettable things in the heat of the moment and then immediately took them back, this is a calculated attack designed to hurt Much the most, because he loves Robin so much that it takes A Lot to push him away. It’s a bold move to make your hero so unlikable in such a moment, because Robin really is unforgivably cruel here, and trust the audience to understand why. I mean, I don’t want to bang on about the PTSD, but it’s (partly) the PTSD, based on a triggering, precipitating event causing a self-destructive spiral. Robin needs some Ye Olde Therapy.  

For all the talk about Robin getting his title and lands back, nothing is said about what happens to Gisborne once he does, other than that they can’t prove he was the one who tried to assassinate Richard. Because really, Richard probably would believe Robin even though the tattoo was burned away, and Guy’s certainly committed other crimes that could be testified to just like they’re intending for Vaisey - and let’s be real, it’s not like a king needs evidence to order someone’s death (hello, season 2 finale). Boom - Guy executed, marriage to Marian annulled, problem solved!

So, the scene between Marian and Guy, in which Marian is more concerned with whether or not Guy tried to kill the king than the fact that he stabbed her. But its understandable, because Marian thinks there’s no way out that doesn’t risk her father’s life, and it’s easier to convince herself that maybe Guy didn’t do it to make the best of things. I think she does have some kind of feelings for him, or is at least moved by his feelings for her, and believes if nothing else she can influence him/continue working from the inside; giving up the mantle of the Nightwatchman but doing the same work (in a different way) as Lady Gisborne.

And then it’s Robin/Marian angst, round 3, and it’s a far cry from their interaction in the cave milliseconds away from “I love yous” - in both tone and body language they’re back in defensive positions talking past one another. The tension, it be thick.

Marian is making her best rationalisation with “deprived of love” and Robin not at all buying the Woobification 101. Once she tells him her decision to marry Guy, he accepts it, but it’s Marian’s reaction that’s telling, she’s surprised that he doesn’t argue, deep down she wants him to fight for her, to say that the real reason she shouldn’t marry Guy is because he loves her. It’s quite a contrast from the previous scene where Guy was very open about how he feels about her, while Robin deflects, but while she was conflicted about Guy trying to kiss her, she’s frustrated, disappointed, and angry when Robin leaves.

But really, this is rather unfair of Marian, because Robin did already declare himself in the cave (”we should be together”) without her reciprocation, so expecting him to take the first step again without any encouragement is a bit much.

Would a depressed person sit slumped against a tree all night?

“But by taking Marian in holy wedlock, I will wash away those crimes. Her pure heart will cleanse mine.” Yeah...not going to touch that one. I appreciate that there’s a lot going on with Guy and many, many people find it compelling, but I’m afraid it’s not really a narrative that interests me.

Speaking of pure hearts: Much. Faced with the same choice he was counseling Robin on, but with the additional wrinkle of knowing the king’s an imposter, he still decides to stop the wedding. “Her heart belongs to another” is A Moment and I don’t know exactly why but I find his very soft pleas following this and calling her “my lady” very affecting. 

She’s beauty and she’s grace, she punched Guy in the face.

“A trap. I knew it.” I haaaaate this line. NO YOU DIDN’T KNOW IT ROBIN YOU KNEW NOTHING OF THE KIND IF YOU HAD KNOWN YOU WOULD BE EVEN MORE OF A DICK FOR LEAVING UGGGHHHH.

“We can’t be seen together” Right in front of my salad two guards on front gate duty, who get front row tickets to the kiss. Look at them! They’re right there! This show drives me absolutely bonkers sometimes.

I do love this dress though.

“An audience with the king has been suspended!” Going out on one last pun.

Regardless, I really love this episode. Despite the lack of fallout from the emotional wringer they all went through, I can’t help but smile when the gang does their silly little jump for joy at the end.

#robin hood bbc #robin hood rewatch #1x13 a clue: no #long post

[rockislandadultreads]

LGBTQA+ Fiction You Should Read Right Now

reading lists in honor of PRIDE 

Love After Love by Ingrid Persaud

An electrifying novel of an unconventional family in Trinidad mended by their individual, and collective, quests for love After Betty Ramdin's husband dies, she invites a colleague, Mr. Chetan, to move in with her and her son, Solo. Over time, the three become a family, loving each other deeply and depending upon one another. Then, one fateful night, Solo overhears Betty confiding in Mr. Chetan and learns a secret that plunges him into torment. Solo flees Trinidad for New York to carve out a lonely existence as an undocumented immigrant, and Mr. Chetan remains the singular thread holding mother and son together. But soon, Mr. Chetan's own burdensome secret is revealed, with heartbreaking consequences. Love After Love interrogates love and family in all its myriad meanings and forms, asking how we might exchange an illusory love for one that is truly fulfilling.

The Knockout Queen by Rufi Thorpe

A dazzling and darkly comic novel of love, violence, and friendship in the California suburbs Bunny Lampert is the princess of North Shore⁠--beautiful, tall, blond, with a rich real-estate-developer father and a swimming pool in her backyard. Michael⁠⁠--with a ponytail down his back and a septum piercing⁠--lives with his aunt in the cramped stucco cottage next door. When Bunny catches Michael smoking in her yard, he discovers that her life is not as perfect as it seems. At six foot three, Bunny towers over their classmates. Even as she dreams of standing out and competing in the Olympics, she is desperate to fit in, to seem normal, and to get a boyfriend, all while hiding her father's escalating alcoholism. Michael has secrets of his own. At home and at school Michael pretends to be straight, but at night he tries to understand himself by meeting men online for anonymous encounters that both thrill and scare him. When Michael falls in love for the first time, a vicious strain of gossip circulates and a terrible, brutal act becomes the defining feature of both his and Bunny's futures⁠⁠--and of their friendship. With storytelling as intoxicating as it is intelligent, Rufi Thorpe has created a tragic and unflinching portrait of identity, a fascinating examination of our struggles to exist in our bodies, and an excruciatingly beautiful story of two humans aching for connection.

Let's Get Back to the Party by Zak Salih

What Does It Mean to Be a Gay Man Today? It’s just weeks after the historic Supreme Court marriage equality ruling, and all Sebastian Mote wants is to settle down. A high school art history teacher, newly single and desperately lonely, he envies his queer students their freedom to live openly the youth he lost to fear and shame.   So when he runs into his childhood friend Oscar Burnham at a wedding in Washington, D.C., he can’t help but see it as a second chance. Now thirty-five, the men haven’t seen each other in a decade. But Oscar has no interest in their shared history. Instead, he’s outraged by what he sees as the death of gay culture: bars overrun with bachelorette parties; friends getting married, having babies. While Oscar and Sebastian struggle to find their place in a rapidly changing world, each is drawn into a cross-generational friendship that treads the line between envy and obsession: Sebastian with one of his students and Oscar with an older icon of the AIDS era. And as they collide again and again, both men must come reckon not just with one another, but with themselves.

Boys of Alabama by Genevieve Hudson

In this bewitching debut novel, a sensitive teen, newly arrived in Alabama, falls in love, questions his faith, and navigates a strange power. While his German parents don’t know what to make of a South pining for the past, shy Max thrives in the thick heat. Taken in by the football team, he learns how to catch a spiraling ball, how to point a gun, and how to hide his innermost secrets. Max already expects some of the raucous behavior of his new, American friends—like their insatiable hunger for the fried and cheesy, and their locker room talk about girls. But he doesn’t expect the comradery—or how quickly he would be welcomed into their world of basement beer drinking. In his new canvas pants and thickening muscles, Max feels like he’s “playing dress-up.” That is until he meets Pan, the school “witch,” in Physics class: “Pan in his all black. Pan with his goth choker and the gel that made his hair go straight up.” Suddenly, Max feels seen, and the pair embarks on a consuming relationship: Max tells Pan about his supernatural powers, and Pan tells Max about the snake poison initiations of the local church. The boys, however, aren’t sure whose past is darker, and what is more frightening—their true selves, or staying true in Alabama.

#Fiction #romance #contemporary fiction #adult fiction #lgbtq books #lgbtq #lgbtq community #lgbtq fiction #pride month #pride #to read #reading recommendations #Book Recommendations #tbr #booklr #reading list

[littleghostlyrose]

Because I'm really proud of this fic, here read it if you want if though though you all probably have no idea who da fuq is Amaya unless your my friend Bri (@lesbunnian) and what the hell is going on here fully or what the hell Amaya's past isor anything just DEAL WITH IT PLS it's a long story about the explanation.

But anyways this takes place in me and Bri's AU of the Drakengard universe and NieR universe so yeah this is technically AU stuff even if things aren't THAT immensely different. Uh. Kinda. So yeah.

Warning to all, if you do not like Grimoire Weiss x [Brother] Nier, I suggest you do not read! Even if it's mainly Nier x Amaya (my OC) there's still a tiny bit of Weiss x Nier in there so yeah.

I'll probably come back and fix the formatting a bit on my computer later so ye

Word Count: 3,026

He felt unworthy of even looking her in the eyes. Those beautiful ice blue eyes of hers that shone so brightly so often with so much happiness and kindness which he admired so much he felt unworthy of looking into. He felt unworthy of even being near her.

Why was this, you may ask?

Because he had failed her. He couldn't protect her or Kainé for that matter. He promised to protect them and yet in the end he ended up injured and bleeding on the ground in front of them as they huddled up together in front of a door trying to keep a ballistic Shade from escaping the room they were keeping it trapped in and which they eventually began being unable to keep contained to which they asked Emil to petrify them both so that the damned Shade wouldn't be able to escape and which Emil reluctantly did. Leaving Nier with only Weiss; a motherfucking sentient talking book; to keep him company whilst he drowned in his regret and grief.

As much as Emil wished he could, he couldn't stay with Nier; he had a home to return to and he had to find a way where he could unpetrify Kainé and Amaya both. For five long years, Nier was practically all alone, blaming himself for not being strong enough to protect Yonah or Kainé or Amaya. And for those five years, he trained hard and rigorously so that he would be strong enough when Kainé and Amaya were unpetrified and he resumed his quest to defeat the Shadowlord.

He swore he would not fail them again. He could not and would not if he could help it.

Then finally, the day came where Amaya and Kainé could finally be unpetrified. It was the first day of Spring; What a good way to start off the season, right? To defeat a jackass Shade that was the reason the two women you loved were petrified in front of a door and to tightly hug said two women once their unpetrified because you're terrified you'd lose them again!

Except that's not what happened.

What happened was Nier brutally murdered the Shade- the Jack of Hearts or whatever it was called, Nier didn't give two fucks- and avoided touching Kainé or Amaya except when Amaya practically leaped into his embrace and Nier flinched an avoided hugging her back despite nuzzling and leaning into the hug. Which he could tell caused her to be slightly shocked and worried, as Nier used to always return her hugs five years ago after he got used to her hugging him out of the blue.

But he just...didn't feel deserving of her embrace. He failed to protect her. Why should he be allowed to even be touched by her? To receive even the smallest of physically affectionate gestures? This was why he wore clothes that covered every inch of him but his face; he was punishing himself, practically. And trying to convince everybody else to punish him by using his clothing as a boundary to keep everybody from actually touching him.

To add to that, besides believing he didn't deserve affection, he also believed that he'd taint anybody he touched. He believed he was dirty, disgusting- someone who only tarnished anybody he touched and made them disgusting too. And because Amaya was beautiful, kind, sweet, and who Nier was completely infatuated with, he believed he should try his damndest to not touch her lest he tainted her.

And Amaya wasn't having any of it. But she couldn't do much of anything about it, until the incident that prompted Kainé to act like she was angry and kiss him, Amaya, and Weiss...somehow, and say that they're all dating now in her own Kainé way occurred. Long story short, Nier and Kainé had ended up in an argument about how much Nier had changed over the last five years, it resulted in Amaya and Emil both breaking down crying from the stress of not being able to do anything about it, Nier leaving the house intending to not drag his friends into his own failings anymore because he thought he only hurt them, then he got into a battle with a giant ass Shade and got pretty badly injured until Kainé saved his ass, and then he and Kainé apologized to each other and then they all got together after Kainé's roundabout angry confession.

Nier is still in disbelief even two weeks after the four of them got together.

A knock on the door roused Nier from his thoughts.

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Amaya."

He wanted to tell her to leave, to not come in; not because he didn't want her coming in, quite the opposite, actually- he wanted her to come in and cuddle with him for as long as possible while running her hands gently through his hair and so much more- he just...he didn't feel worthy of being in her presence, still.

But after a moment of trying to figure out whether to tell her to leave or come in, Amaya came in on her own, startling Nier from his thoughts by so, so gently tapping his shoulder.

"You ok?"

"Y-yeah, I'm fine. Do you need something?"

Nier doubted there was anything Amaya could possibly need from him, but he had no idea what else he was meant to say; thank god Weiss was asleep at the moment, he'd probably expose Nier's tongue-tied-ness and scold him for screwing up when around their girlfriend.

Girlfriend...the word felt so foreign to him, especially in reference to Amaya.

"I just wanted to see my boyfriend, that's all." Amaya smiled so brightly as she said that and Nier swore he felt his heart skip a beat and his face begin to heat up already.

"R-right…" God damn it, Nier wanted to kick himself for stuttering like that so badly, but he couldn't.

Amaya seemingly gave him a very faint worried look before she gently grabbed his hand, or at least tried considering Nier immediately recoiled as soon as she did that, pulling his hand from hers.

"...Actually, I came to ask about that," Amaya confessed, pointing at his hand which she had just to grab which had recoiled from her grasp.

"A-about what?"

She gave him this unimpressed look. "The recoiling and the flinching and trying to escape from most acts of affection I do with you, that's what. If you just didn't want to be hugged or touched for now, then why-"

"T-That's not it!" Nier says immediately, before mentally slapping himself for it as soon as the words left his mouth.

Amaya tilts her head and looks up at him with this expression of only confusion and some hints of worry.

"Then what is it? Why do you recoil and flinch? Five years ago, after getting used to my hugs, you rarely flinched unless I took you by surprise, but now you do it at even the slightest contact. What happened, Nier? Is it perhaps you not being used to me being back?"

Nier wants to agree with that, he wants to say "yes, that's it", because confessing he was afraid of tainting her and felt unworthy of even being in her presence let alone touched by her he believed was a waste of time because it'd just make her worry about a dirty, tainted idiot like him, but lying to her felt so wrong. He tried to go along with what she had said about him just not being used to her being her, but the words didn't leave his mouth and he just gulped and looked at his feet, kicking himself internally for how pathetic he was.

"Nier?"

"...It's not that."

"It's not?"

"...I…" Nier inhales deeply, trying to decide whether he really wanted to tell her the truth. "I'm...afraid of tarnishing you."

"...What?"

"You're beautiful, sweet, nice...the kindest person I've ever met. I'm afraid that if I touch you...that I'll only taint you."

Amaya went silent, before giving him this serious look.

"I'm already tainted. Not because of you," she quickly clarified before he would begin worrying that he had already tainted her, "I'm tainted beyond repair. There's not much you can really do that can taint me more than I already am."

Her unflinching expression and clear telling of the truth made Nier look at her in shock. This woman, who had been nothing but nice, considerate, gentle, and every other synonym for kind in the book to him, was…'tainted'?

...he didn't want to believe it. He felt his stomach turn and whilst he had not even asked how she was tainted yet, he just...knew it was in the same way he was tainted.

The mere idea that Amaya had been hurt like that made Nier angry. Whoever the hell hurt her, Nier at this moment wanted to kill them so, so badly. If they weren't already dead. But even then he'd find some way to punish them for having done the unthinkable to Amaya.

After hearing Amaya say that, Nier shakily then took off his gauntlet and glove on one of his hands, and hesitantly grasped Amaya's right hand, then putting his other, still covered hand on top of her hand which he was gripping quite tightly now.

Nier took notice of the light green nail polish that was painted onto her medium-long nails; it was a very pretty color, and Amaya had even painted a few little lighter green dots onto them too. A classic Amaya move.

As Nier gripped Amaya's hand, it was only now that he truly realized how small her hand was compared to his. So fragile. Delicate...it was a bit hard to believe that with these hands she had fought off and killed tens to hundreds of Shades with her sword and had punched several people in the face to protect Kainé with them as well.

As Nier stared at their hands, Amaya looked at him with a slightly shocked expression before making a very hard-to-spot smile as she put her other hand on top of his gloved hand.

"...I'll protect you. I-I'll promise I'll protect you, and I-I promise that I won't fail you again…! I won't fail any of you again…!" Nier shakily says determinedly, to which Amaya sighs.

"You never failed me or anyone in the first place, Nier."

"I did! If I had been stronger, smarter, better, then...then you have had to-"

"Shut up. Shut up, please." Amaya cuts Nier off suddenly, rarely ever saying such words to anybody, let alone him. She never was one for swearing like her comrade and now girlfriend Kainé; in fact, the two women were fundamentally so different Nier was shocked they were even friends let alone now lovers. Though given how Amaya is, it's also somehow unsurprising too. But either way, Amaya saying shut up is a rare thing that certainly made Nier go quiet as soon as he heard her say that.

"You didn't fail me. Or Kainé. Or Yonah. Or anybody. Because for me and Kainé, we chose to allow Emil to petrify us to hold that Shade at bay. It was us or the village. And you were injured, nearly fatally, and you don't have future vision. You couldn't have predicted that any of this would happen. And you were a child. A barely 16-year-old child. Doesn't matter if you're the resident Shade slayer of this village, you were still a kid. You shouldn't even be having to go on this journey in the first place, though for that matter none of us should've been considering all of us were kids, even me, even if I was 18 and legally an adult. But...nonetheless, please, please don't blame yourself for not being omnipotent and being a child and because of that unable to predict the Shadowlord would attack the village so suddenly and that you got so heavily wounded and just...it's not your fault and it will never be, ok?"

Nier went silent at Amaya's words, just staring at their hands, shaking before he let the tears he had been trying to hold back as Amaya had spoken fall. Upon seeing a few tears fall from his face, Amaya immediately wrapped her arms around Nier, and for the first time in years, Nier hugged her back, gripping the back of her beautiful blueish-green sundress tightly as he cried into her shoulder and she tightened her grip on him, even shedding a few tears as well, which Nier realized when he felt some sort of liquid fall onto his shirt.

The two of them stood there crying and hugging each other for who knows how long, and eventually their tears dried up, but even when they did, the two didn't separate from the hug. They elongated the moment for as long as they could, relishing in it and their love for each other,

"My word, I did not expect to see this when I awoke from my slumber!"

Until inevitably a certain white book would rudely awaken and interrupt the moment.

"Weiss!" Amaya and Nier said in surprise when they suddenly heard the Grimoire's voice, immediately separating from the hug to look over at him, although holding hands still, their faces red from both crying and embarrassment.

"We didn't wake you up, right?" Amaya asks, worried that she had disturbed Weiss's slumber.

"Worry not, for I woke up on my own, dear." The use of a pet name, even one as simple as dear, made Amaya blush more than she already had been, causing her to look away.

"Well, that's good," Nier states, making a small smile at Weiss.

"...have you two been to sleep at all?" Weiss asks, and if he had an actual face, Nier swore he'd be making some sort of unimpressed suspicious expression at the two of them. Although Nier couldn't really imagine what Weiss's face would have looked like if he were human; maybe something like the face Weiss has on his cover?

"I...no," Nier admits sheepishly, looking away, and Amaya shook her head as well, confirming Weiss's suspicions. Weiss sighs in frustration before he floats off the bed he was sleeping on and summons two black hands and gently pushes Nier and Amaya towards the bed.

"Then hurry along! Come on! You two need sleep!"

"Weiss, we planned to go to sleep soon!"

"Uh-huh, I don't exactly believe that, knowing you, Nier. Maybe Amaya planned to, but you tend to stay up until unholy hours even when you're tired beyond comparison. To bed with you!" Nier sighed in defeat at that until a realization dawned on him.

"W-wait, do you intend for me and Amaya to sleep in the same bed?" Nier asks, he and Amaya having been pushed over to the foot of the bed when Weiss finally stopped pushing them and the black hands he had summoned had disappeared.

"Well, we are in a relationship now. Why not? Though if you two are not ready for that I won't force you." Weiss says, surprisingly without any hint of his prideful arrogant tone for once.

"...I'm fine with it if you're fine with it," Amaya says, although she was quite clearly blushing bright red at the prospect of sharing a bed with Nier.

"...A-Alright. L-Let's try it," Nier says quietly, but before he can utter another word, Weiss once again opens his large mouth...or rather, his lack of one.

"Not in those clothes, you will! Go get changed into your nightclothes!" Weiss declares, making Nier and Amaya giggle slightly. Weiss somehow managed to be hilarious without even trying, perhaps because of his tone? Who knows, but either way Nier and Amaya finally let go of each other's hands and looked away from each other as they went to get changed. Weiss also of course looked away, although he'd be lying if he said he wasn't embarrassed when he realized they were changing in the same room...but then again where else were they meant to change? Why go through the effort of going downstairs to do it?

It only took a few minutes for the two of them to change into their nightclothes, Amaya of course wearing a pretty pink nightdress that was ruffly and cute just as she liked it, and Nier just threw on some random shirt and pair of pants that were comfortable to sleep in rather than wear some designated for the specific purpose of being slept in.

"...so…uh...er…"

"...uhm…"

"...oh for the love of all that is holy…" Weiss sighs at his partners' hesitance before once again summoning the same black hands as before and gently pulling them onto the bed, surprising the two as they fall face forward onto the mattress. They stare at each other for a moment before quietly adjusting their positions so they're properly laying on the bed next to each other. They stare at each other, blushing red once again, before Amaya notices Weiss laying on the other side of the bed and goes to pick him up.

"What the- why are you picking me up?"

"Because you're our lover too and even while you may be a book you can still sleep here with us too?"

"...very well." Weiss says, though it wasn't like he was putting up a fight against Amaya anyways.

Amaya smiles before she gives Weiss a small hug and then lays him down in between her and Nier, laying her hand on top of him before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath as she tries to sleep. Nier does the same, laying his hand on top of Amaya's own hand, before he closes his eyes as well and begins drifting to sleep. Weiss just looks between the two of them and while he cannot physically smile, he still would be if he could.

All three of them slept well that night.

(And Weiss definitely did not just want this exact result to happen and that's why he suggested Nier and Amaya sleep in the same bed. Nuh-uh, no way)

Fin

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