#she was meant to take her place among the stars ;-;

[chmerical]

kate schmidt is 5'1" with 6'5" energy and i just :')

#i just rewatched the movies #& the brainrot is real #justice for kate schmidt #she was meant to take her place among the stars ;-; #brb just gonna rewrite canon so she can <3 #anyway i been writing her on discord and T___T #she's bae #i wanna write her more tbh #fighting the urge to make her a solo blog #even tho i saved a url #ksdfkd #— ❛❛ // OOC ¦ the gremlin speaks ・ 「 general ! 」

[littlejuicebox]

A different kind.

Written for a prompt given to me by @coyote-mint! Thank you!

Also, peep this Dadstarion drawing by @supplementalfigures which I adore and is the inspiration for Astarion wearing baby Gale.

Summary: The Ancunins take their first outing as a family of three. They aren’t quite prepared for the new experience.

Tags/Warnings: all fluff, family, parenthood, babies, Astarion being Astarion

*

Astarion protectively wraps his hands beneath the small infant in his arms. Gale is just under two months old and sleeping curled against his father, lulled by the steady thrum of the older man’s heart.

The little one is held snugly against Astarion’s chest with a wrap made of gauzy blue cotton, intricately embroidered one night by the previously-expectant father. Gold-threaded stars and planets dapple the inky night sky of the fabric, keeping the infant sleeping peacefully among the celestial bodies.

The stars certainly shine for Gale. At least in the Ancunin household.

The first outing as a family of three is to the newest shop in town, Rivington Raiments, the first fine clothier in the outer city. Both Astarion and you hoped this newest addition meant journeys into the city for every new garment would be a thing of the past.

Over the years, trips would have been even more frequent had your husband not been a fair clothing alterer himself. In the past nine months, he’d had to let out your favorite dresses more than once as your stomach grew to encompass the life that had been growing within.

But now, you’ve lost majority of the baby bump, and a few new pieces are in order to replace some of the well-worn garments currently in your closet.

The tailor fusses around you, placing pins in a winter-ready dress you’ve decided to try on. Astarion is watching with rapt interest as the middle-aged human woman adjusts the hem. He thinks that, in another life, that might have been him.

“How do I look?” You ask after you turn to face Astarion once the seamstress has finished pinning her proposed alterations.

“I think you’d look gorgeous in anything, darling,” Your husband remarks with a soft smile, his hand sliding from its resting spot under the bundle in his arms to lightly pat the infant’s back. He’s swaying gently as he speaks; the constant soothing movement while holding Gale has quickly become a habit for you both.

It’s a compliment, but he means it’s a no.

You nod your head in understanding and then turn to look at yourself in the mirror, feigning thought, before sighing and saying, “I believe I would like to think about this further before I make a purchase. But thank you for your time. Perhaps you could direct me to the children’s clothing once I change?”

As the seamstress busily works to unpin you, Astarion catches your eye and flashes you the briefest crinkled nose behind the woman’s back.

Ah, so he’d meant the dress was a hell no.

*

“Don’t you think you went a little overboard on your purchases, my love?” Astarion inquires as the two of you enter the local tavern for lunch.

“We go through so many diapers and burp cloths a day, it’s hard for the poor maid to keep up with the wash,” You respond, narrowing your gaze at your husband, “Just because you don’t have to wash them doesn’t mean we have enough.”

“Very well,” Your silver-haired spouse responds, choosing to avoid the argument though he cannot avoid rolling his eyes slightly as the two of you sit down.

Gale begins to stir against his father. The movements are followed by tiny grunts of disapproval coming from layers of cloth. Your husband manages to calm the infant, at least for a moment longer, with a few gentle caresses along the baby’s back.

A quick glance to the wall clock and the older elf warns, “Ah, I’m afraid it will be feeding time soon and my charms will no longer work, dear.”

The two of you place an order with the barmaid. She returns moments later with a pitcher of water and focuses her attention on the flash of silver hair peaking out from swaths of navy.

“I see the new addition is here,” She remarks, her hand moving to touch the all too tempting, downy soft patch of curls upon the baby’s head.

Astarion instantly intercepts the well-meaning gesture with his own hand, his mouth forming a thin line of irritation as he releases the woman’s wrist from his grip.

“I would thank you to not touch me or my children without consent, Beatrice. And certainly not without washing your hands first.” The male elf says, the normal gentility of his tone lost in favor of a much sharper one.

“O-oh, of course. I apologize, Lord Ancunin,” The barmaid responds, splotches of rose appearing across her face as she quickly takes a step back to increase her breadth from the infant.

Your husband gained a reputation for being highly litigious years ago. Though he slayed his enemies with contracts and court appearances rather than daggers nowadays, he was still seen as quite dangerous. No one has yet forgotten the dispute the Ancunins had with their neighbors over property lines shortly after the manor was purchased.

Perhaps Astarion had lied to get his way in that one. But what did your neighbors truly need with a single colonnade of fruit-bearing trees when you two held rights the rest of the orchard?

Beatrice quickly dismisses herself and heads to assist another table of customers. When Astarion turns his attention back to you, he spots your arms folded across your chest in signature displeasure and groans, readying himself for the chastisement.

“She’s going to spit in our food now, Astarion.” You remark with a soft, slightly annoyed sigh.

“She can spit in my food thrice if it means she doesn’t touch my vulnerable child,” Your husband retorts, his pale hand once again finding its habitual resting place along the infant’s back.

You shrug and give a vague wave your hand in a sign of truce. Because really, how can you argue against a protective father?

As if on cue, Gale begins to cry just as the barmaid places your orders on the table. It’s a loud, shrill, hungry wail, earning the two of you several bothered glares from other patrons scattered across the tavern.

“Oh, please, as if none of you have heard a crying baby before,” Astarion snaps, just loud enough for the nearby tables to hear as he begins to pull Gale from the carrier. The elf tries in vain to soothe the babe, but as predicted, the little prince is demanding satiation.

You sneak one bite of mashed potato in your mouth and then sigh before gesturing for your husband to pass you the infant. Astarion gives you an apologetic look as he places the little one in your arms.

Unfortunately, daddy just doesn’t have the correct anatomy for this part of parenting.

Gale quickly finds a proper latch and stops crying as he searches for nutrients with happy hums. Astarion eats a few bites of his own meal and soon sets his sights on feeding you.

At first you refuse, already bothered by the prying eyes staring at your partially exposed breast — typical — and not wanting to attract further attention. Your husband throws the wrap over your chest and then stares as you expectantly.

The intensity of his eyes and the set of his jaw say you’re not getting out of this one. He’s going to feed you like a child since he cannot feed his own child in this moment.

It’s both embarrassing and adorable.

You watch the fork approach your face, keeping your lips firmly sealed in a final protest. But then both a narrowed glare and irritated huff from Astarion cause you to instantly open your mouth, where he places a few green beans upon your tongue.

“How do you expect Gale to have proper nourishment if you keep leaving your meals half finished, little love?” Your husband lectures before placing a bit of mashed potatoes in your mouth and planting an affectionate kiss upon the apple of your cheek.

The child in your arms coos in assent.

“See, the little prince even agrees with me,” Astarion remarks with a cheeky wink, taking a moment to steal a bite of food from his own plate.

This was the first time these two silver-haired little loves of yours formed a coup. It wouldn’t be the last.

You roll your eyes at your husband and then peer down at the baby nestled in your arms, suckling without a care in the world.

“Traitor,” You whisper, the word laced with more than enough affection to negate the connotation before placing a loving kiss on the crown of Gale’s head.

*

Your little family is almost all the way home when Astarion stops dead in his tracks with a look of horror plastered upon his face. He peers down at the small bundle of blue and baby with wide-eyed surprise.

“What— what is it?!” You practically shriek, motherly instincts jumping into anxious overdrive as you reach for the child tucked safely against his father.

Astarion quickly grabs your hand, much like he grabbed Beatrice’s earlier, though with a decidedly more gentle clasp. You can tell by his lack of panic that Gale is safe, and your initial reaction begins to wane as the elf lowers your hand away from your son.

“He pooped, dear,” Your husband sighs, a sudden wave of weary exhaustion slapping the still-new father in his face, “And if you stick your hand in the wrap, it’s going to be all over you… because it’s all over Gale… and me.”

The look upon Astarion’s face is hilarious. And you can’t help it, you simply have to laugh at the new father clinging to what little patience he has.

“Not. Funny.” The retired rogue hisses, narrowing his eyes at you before walking briskly in the direction of the house.

There was roughly a half mile left to the front of the property and he seemed intent on crossing that distance at rapid speed, “From now on we are always taking the carriage into town. With extra clothes and supplies for all of us. I don’t care how much you abhor it, Tav. Walking this far with a needy infant and scant supplies is simply impractical and we are not arguing about this further.”

As if to prove a point, Gale begins to shriek like he is suddenly aware he’s covered in his own filth. The sound causes Astarion to practically break into a sprint, both arms coming to hold the infant fast against his chest. You run after the two, trying to keep up, but your husband is moving so quickly you’d think he’s still a vampire if you didn’t know better.

*

The little prince is now clean and perfectly pink as you rock him in the nursery. The early afternoon sun is shining through the window, casting the two of you in an ethereal backlight. Gale has forgotten all about the poop incident; his father, on the other hand, will never be able to let go of this particular memory.

Astarion sits in the nursery with you two, sipping a cup of tea. His wet curls hang around his ears, still occasionally dripping water onto his house clothes. He admires you, and the sunlight dancing in your hair, watching as you hum an Elvish lullaby to the sleepy infant in your arms.

His memories quickly flash at the sight.

The day you told him you loved him.

The day you two won the battle.

The day you accepted his proposal.

The day he saw you walking down the aisle.

The day you told him you were pregnant.

He thought you were the most beautiful in every one of those moments, each one always outdoing the previous.

But this vision of you, right now, happy and calm, rocking the little prince you two created?

This certainly outdid all those prior memories.

After two hundred years of pure shit, Astarion is beyond thankful to now have over a decade of better memories.

Though, he’s beginning to see the next decade will also be full of shit.

Just a different, and somehow better, kind.

#astarion fanfic #astarion fic #astarion x reader #astarion x you #dadstarion

[skyof-atlas]

Oh, to be blessed

Minors dni

[Summary] To be in a God’s presence is something that can never be forgettable, that’s something to boast about, but to personally be in a room with an Archon? What a rare moment to cherish. You really did cherish that moment.

Content Warnings: Fingering, oral, "pet names", nsfw :D, whining, Overstim, pussydrunk!Furina.

a/n: I love Furina and the thought of her being pussydrunk. not proofread

Paring(s) : Furina x gn!reader (afab)

You've been sitting here for about an hour, talking about an upcoming opera with Lady Furina and what ideas she thinks would be good to add in. “Le Comte de Monte-Cristo” they called it. Anyway, this isn't your first time speaking to Furina.

You work as a director for plays and operas and often times you help smaller troupes with their scripts. You gain quite a popular reputation among the opera community. 

Furina, who loves watching operas and plays, has taken an interest. It started off as short meetings with her about upcoming plays, then it gradually started becoming hour-long sessions sometimes even more, where you both talked about plays you both enjoyed and common interest. It’s become this routine that you and her developed.

Even Neuvillette sometimes joins in for a bit and shares his thoughts. Usually you’re so busy with plays but Furina has taken your interest.  

You've taken notice of how Furina would act around others like she herself is performing a play. Only other actors are capable of distinguishing acting and real life, but with Furina, the lines blurred. You never minded it, but it was a thought in your head. She always acted high and mighty but you wondered how she'll look like when--

"Y/N? Are you even listening to me? How rude to be ignoring your archon! Especially if she's trying to bless you with her magnificent ideas!" She said, pretending to be insulted and pouted. How cute…

"Apologizes Lady Furina. I was just thinking." You ran your hands through your hair and picked up the script off the table and tried to focus, but the thoughts of Furina were clouding your head-space. Furina took the paper and placed it down. You looked up confused.

"ngh! w-wait!" when Furina said that we should take a break, you didn't think this is what she meant. She bit your thigh close to your wet pussy, making it a nice purple. She left a couple more. 

Papers scattered across the table, all forgotten. Your beloved archon in between your thighs, eating you out like it's her last meal. 

"L-lady Furina..." Your hands snaked into her hair, pushing her closer, trying to reach that high you wanted.

Her small hm, sent vibrations through your body and made you moan loudly. You whined when she detached from your puffy clit.

"My my, truly you're severing your archon to the fullest." Your eyes were glossed and breathing was uneven. Your slick dripping down from her chin. You blushed and looked away. How embarrassing.

"Pretty girl, look at me" Furina grabs your face to make you look at her. You would’ve cummed at that. 

"Good girl" You bucked your hips trying to find some friction. You loved how she called you her good girl. 

"Patience pretty girl, I'm not done with you." She kissed your neck and bit it. You whined.

She brought her fingers back down to your puffy clit and stroked it. She played around with your entrance, her fingers barely entering. You were getting desperate and decided to take matters into your own hands. You grabbed her wrist and plunged her fingers in. You quickly straddled her and began riding on her fingers.

"A-ah Y/N?" From her perspective you looked gorgeous. Eyes half lidded, your sweet moans and whines from trying to reach your high.

"mm-ha...ha"

Furina moved with the rhythm of your hips. Her fingers hitting that one spot that you love so much. At this point, you're seeing stars and drooling. You began moving at a faster speed. Her fingers deep and hitting that spot repeatedly.

“ You’re so tight darling~ You sure do love my fingers hm?” She said teasing you as she pumped her fingers in and out, cum sliding down her fingers. 

"fuu--mm...cummin'--" Incoherent sentences were coming out of your mouth as you felt the knot tighten up and close to bursting.

A loud moan escaped your throat and cum covered your beloved archon's fingers. Furina slipped out her fingers and licked off your cum. She laid you down and stared at you, admiring her work. You were breathing heavily from your recent high.

Your eyes stared back at her. Legs spread apart with cum spilling and staining the couch and bite marks on your neck and on your thighs. Her eyes were trained on your puffy clit. She gave a quick kiss on your clit and began sucking on it.

"W-wait! I just cam--AHhh" you protested but she kept going. She wasn't planning on stopping anytime soon.

"Darling~ give me another one. I wanna taste you again. Please? Please cum again. Be a good girl for your archon.” who are you to deny her request? By all means, she can chain you up and fuck you dumb…that’s not a bad idea. 

You were nearing another high. Fuck she's good with her mouth. She sucked on your clit as she plunged her fingers back in you again. She was moving fast and hitting hard. Your legs had her head in a lock and you whined as you came all over her mouth for a second time. Your legs were shaking and your clit overstimulated from cumming back to back.  

"Fu-Furina~" Her name came out as a small whine. She could only give you a sweet smile but her eyes told a different story. 

"I love the way you taste. One more time?~" oh sweet archon. you certainly are blessed by her wonderful ideas...

#genshin impact #furina x reader #furina x y/n #furina genshin #genshin impact smut #genshin smut #focalors #smut #genshin x reader

[throneofsmut]

Kinktober Day Twenty-Three : Hate Fucking

Eris Vanserra x Female Reader

You don’t know why Rhys chose you to go meet with Eris. He told you it was because he trusted you, which meant a lot to you, but maybe it was because your fire rivaled Eris’s.

The Cauldron gave - more like you took from it - your fire, among other types of magic but you always favored the flames.

You were Feyre’s younger sister and you went to the Spring Court with her. Well to be honest you kind of forced Tamlin into letting you stay if Feyre was going to stay.

Nesta and Elain had each other. Feyre and you had each other, so if she was going so were you.

A month before Tamlin and Lucien had been forced to go under the mountain, Lucien told you about the curse but Feyre had already given too much. So had you, the both of you were the main providers for your family but she was your sister, so you’d give it all up for her.

One night Amarantha had send the attor to Spring and it had smelled Tamlin’s scent on you, from hugging Feyre before setting out for a ride with Lucien. It was too late but by the time he had tried to help you. The attor had knocked you unconscious and was flying you back under the mountain.

Months passed and you completed every trial set for you, which is where you met Rhys. Immediately seeing through the mask he wore, the mask of the dark prince, because it was the same one you wore to protect your family. To protect Feyre.

He tried to protect you when he could and help you when he could. Rhys was like the big brother you never had but always wanted. To him you were the little sister he had needed, he vowed to himself that he wouldn’t - could not - fail you like he failed his sister all those years ago.

When Amarantha’s last trial for you was to survive the Cauldron he fought back, but it wasn’t enough, you were shoved in. The water was so cold, it burned hotter than any fire. Lungs burning as you thrashed in its darkness. Your rage was all consuming, like its water, you were forced into the cauldron with nothing else to give. So you took from it.

You blazed brighter than any star, glowing, fire made flesh. So lost in a primal rage that you hadn’t even noticed your pointed ears and elongated limbs. The cauldron had made you High Fae. But when you saw your sister. Dead. You killed her. You killed Amarantha.

Rhys took you in after everything, he was your family. When the both of you got back to Velaris, his family had accepted you and took you in as well, making you part of the inner circle. Yet Rhys and you had a bond that they could never understand, under the mountain all you had was each other. In a way you were his closest, most trusted friend, his confidant.

Which made sense as to why he trusted you to meet with Eris Vanserra, even if you couldn’t stand the male, nor he, you.

He was glaring at you, as soon as you had winnowed into the agreed meeting place in the forest.

“Stop glaring, sweet cheeks. I know you’re obsessed with me.” You teased, a smirk on your lips.

Within a blink of an eye, his flames were wrapped around your neck. Tight enough to frighten and warm enough that you knew they would burn if he willed it so, but you had nothing left to lose. “Watch. It.” He snarled.

“Is that really all you got ?”

You felt the flames around your neck heat slightly, before your magic was reacting to them. Wrapping around his neck so tight and warm enough to make his skin red, making his flames wink out completely. After a couple heartbeats and him glaring at you, you rein in your flames.

“I’m gonna kill you.” Eris growled, soothing the skin around his neck with his large hand.

“Is that a promise ?” You taunted, mouth curving into a smile.

“I can’t stand you.”

Giving him a wicked grin, “Then kneel.”

Something flickered in his gaze at your words. Then he spoke, his voice dangerously sensual, “I can’t tell whether I want to make you bleed or moan.”

You raised a brow at his confession. Tilting your head slightly, “Take your pick, lordling.”

Keeping his eyes on yours as he stalked forward. Gaze falling to your lips before claiming them in a bruising kiss. Eris’s hands fist into your hair, roughly, his tongue swiping at your bottom lip for entry. You met him stroke for stroke. Both of you fighting for dominance, then he's pulling away winnowing the both of you somewhere else.

Chest still heaving as you take in your surroundings, “Where are we ?”

You can feel his burning gaze on the back of your head as he rasps out, “My home away from home.” Then he’s pressing his body against yours, growling into your ear, “I still fucking hate you.”

“Shut up and fuck me Eris.” You retort, to which Eris wraps one of his hands around your neck, choking you slightly. The other roughly squeezes your breast, eliciting a moan out of you.

Then he’s bending you over the kitchen counter. And fuck you, he does.

Eris buries himself in your soaked cunt in one thrust. You cry out at the stretch, he doesn’t give you the time to adjust to his size before he pulls almost all the way out and slamming back into you.

All you can hear is skin slapping skin as he fucks you hard and rough. Your hips slam against the counter again and again, hard enough to bruise. His hands dig into your hips harshly, holding onto them and thrusting faster. “F-fuck Er-ris !” You cry out.

“Fuck- Fucking knew,” he growls in your ear, “that your tight little cunt would squeeze like this. Milking me.” Then he’s moving his hands to clasp both of your arms, pulling them behind you to use as leverage to fuck you even harder. He leans back slightly and the sound that leaves you doesn’t even sound like you.

You can feel every single inch of him at this angle, every time he shoves into you he hits that sweet spot inside you. Tears escape your eyes at the pleasure, staining the counter, as your voice cracks “Oh Eris!”

“You like that, little flame ?” He chuckles darkly, biting into your shoulder, drawing blood. You scream, a mistake that has him still his hips, “I need words, little flame.”

“Fuck you.” You snarl in between pants as he rolls his hips into yours, making you feel all of him. Every fucking inch. Then he’s drawing back and slamming back into you, you can hear the smirk in his voice as he sneers, “You already are.”

The ways he’s gripping your arms while he drives his hips into yours, fast and rough has the both of you feeling the coil within you tightening. Eris is taking you the way you want him to and the way that he wants to. He’s all grunts, snarls and moans as does.

The heat in your belly coils even tighter and it spurs you on. Bucking your hips against his, meeting him thrust for thrust as his hips begin to stutter. Then the both of you are crying out in pleasure as he cums inside of you and you on his cock.

#a court of thorns and roses #acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar smut #eris vanserra #eris vanserra acotar #eris vanserra smut #eris vanserra x reader #eris acotar #eris smut #eris x reader

[kittyball23]

Visitor (a Trolls fanfic)

Summary: A month after his imprisonment, Veneer is paid a visit from someone he didn’t think he’d ever see again

__________________________________________

“Aw, no…”

Veneer moaned to himself, slumping down on his cot and facepalming in dismay. He was so not in the mood for this. He never was. And today it was hitting especially hard. Maybe because it had been exactly a month since his incarceration. Maybe because his attempt to speak to his sister had resulted in the throbbing pain that plagued his left cheek. Or maybe because of the haranguing speech that he knew awaited him once he left his cell.

He peeked a glance at the guard awaiting him, arms crossed and eyebrow raised as if to say “Well? Are you coming or not? You may have all day, but not everybody else does!” They were usually stoic, poker-faced, and unsympathetic towards inmates’ desires. Rightly so. Much of the prisoners were delinquents who, if shown even an ounce of freedom, would take it to the extreme. His own sister had learned the hard way when her request to have the ankle chain removed from her leg was surprisingly granted.  The teen was quick to make a run for it, but even quicker to have been thwarted by the security. Veneer hadn't really seen Velvet around since, but from what he heard, she was taken into solitary confinement.

That was why he had made it his mission to be on his very best behavior. He'd speak when spoken to, eat the entire tray of slop that they called “food,” and hit the hay as soon as lights out was called. He never looked for fights or started any, and mostly kept to himself. So maybe, just maaaybe, if he asked really nicely, he could get out of this.

“Say, you know what? I'm not really sure if I can do this. You think maybe we could pick some other time?” Veneer grinned, hoping he looked and sounded polite.

But the guard was unmoved. "NO.”

“But… I'm really not feeling well!” It was a little true. Veneer's stomach was churning at the thought of leaving his cell for what was intended for him. In a desperate attempt, he clasped his hands together, stuck his bottom lip out in a pout and made his eyes big. “Pretty pleeeease?”

The guard had an unreadable expression for a moment, before he raised his walkie talkie up to his mouth to speak. “Increase the prison sentence for inmate number 8231978.”

Veneer dropped and act and gasped. “What? No! Okay, alright, I'll come!”

The guard humphed, unlocking the cell door so the teen could exit. With cuffs secured to his hands and an ankle chain to his left leg, the guard guided Veneer down the hallway.

The former Pop-star suppressed a groan and kept his eyes fixed to the ground. This was one of the parts he hated about this. The ‘Walk of Shame.’ The glares he'd receive. The jeers sent his way. Veneer wished he could burrow himself in the ground if it meant he didn't have to see the dirty looks being cast at him. And if looks could kill… Veneer shuddered to think that he'd probably be dead many times over.

Among other treacherous felonies, it seemed Mount Rageons truly despised frauds. Veneer supposed he understood why. It broke a golden value that was very challenging to win back - trust. He needn't look any further for an example of that, not only with what he and his sister had done, but also for his own sentiments towards her now. The resentment over Velvet’s manipulation… and the painful sorrow he felt in his heart at her stubbornness in refusing to ever speak to him again.

He focused on the sound of the clinking chain rather than the colorful words of the other inmates, and felt only a fraction of relief once he was out of that hallway and brought into the next room over. Veneer stared at the familiar tile flooring beneath his feet. It was perhaps slightly more welcoming in sight than the cell units, for its brighter lights and fresher smell. But that's where the welcome wore out. So far, this room hadn't been a place of positivity for him.

Veneer lifted his head slightly to assess the scene today. The booths were not as busy as it could be, which he was silently grateful for. The less folks to see him, the better. Inmates, all donning the same shabby orange jumpsuit he had on, were seated at them and already engaged in their own conversations with the recipients on the other end of the glass that separated them. He heard snippets of the chatting as he passed by.

“Six more months in the brig, can you believe it? Six months! I'll be old and wrinkled by then - “

“ - and you can't even tell the difference between the chicken and the broccoli sometimes. Ugh, it's awful! How can that even be allowed? That should be a crime!”

“Friends? In prison? Pfft, come on, dude! This isn't gradeschool - “

Veneer attempted to swallow down the lump in his throat, and thought about who his visitor would be this time around. Maybe it was a Mount Rageon, reminding him of how they used to be a fan of his music until he turned out to be a phony, while he sat, quietly mumbling an “I'm sorry” that fell deaf upon their ears. Or, they could whisper about how they still liked him, and believed that the whole Troll-talent thing was an elaborate hoax to spice up the drama. Veneer hated that scenario more than the first, and he would get frustrated in explaining that his jail-time was deserved. Or maybe still, it could be his parents, there to chew him out and express their disappointment in him and his sister. The first time they'd come, Veneer had easily taken the verbal beating, but Velvet only had her anger spiked. He shuddered remembering the way she'd spewed a string of obscenities so foul, even a sailor would be put to shame.

Veneer didn’t dare look up to see who it was at the booth when the guard told him to be seated. He just picked up the phone, and tried to sound somewhat alive as he mumbled into it.

“Hello?”

“It isn't as hip as your old pad, but at least it's something, huh?”

Veneer gasped, recognizing the serene voice at once, and whipped his head up. “Floyd?”

Sure enough, it was the teal Troll speaking into the phone’s receiver. When Floyd offered a gentle smile, Veneer couldn’t help grinning back. Floyd had that effect on folks, it seemed, one of shining positivity even in the darkest times. But that grin disappeared when he caught sight of the Troll’s hair, a rich sweep of magenta… save for the significant white streaks that ran through it. Ones that had been caused by Veneer’s own doing. The guilt bit at him, and the teen suddenly didn’t feel comfort in his unexpected presence. “Floyd, what are you doing here?”

“What do you mean? I came to see you,” he answered simply.

“Why?” Veneer asked, flailing his arms in a baffled manner. “If I were you, I’d be the last person I’d wanna see!” It was only when the guard standing at the far end of the room had shot him a warning look that Veneer realized his outburst had been too loud, and he toned it down.

“That’s not true, Veneer,” Floyd said, and then he smirked. “I’d say your sister wins in that category, wouldn’t you?”

Veneer had to chuckle at that. “Yeah, you are so not wrong there.”

Floyd laughed a little, too, and then spoke again. “But even then, I’m still gonna try to talk to her at some point, too.”

“Good luck with that,” the former Pop-star scoffed. “Anytime I’ve tried to talk to her, it just ends like this.” He turned his face to the side a little so Floyd could see the ugly purplish bruise that was his left cheek.

The Troll winced. “Ouch.”

“Ouch is right,” Veneer whimpered, gently touching the injury in hopes that perhaps it didn’t throb as much. Nope. Still did. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gave an exasperated groan, unable to contain it in him anymore. “So much for my sister not treating me like garbage. This has literally been the worst month of my life! Vel’s never gonna talk to me again. This uniform stinks! And you can only chop so many rocks before it starts to get to your head…” He huffed and heaved a sigh. “You’re SO lucky you don’t ever have to go through something like this. You’ve probably never done one bad thing in your life!”

Veneer expected him to agree right away, but became curious at Floyd’s silence, and the shamed look accompanying it. “Don’t be so sure.”

The teen cocked his head. “Wha?”

The Troll nodded. “I did something twenty years ago that I regret to this very day.”

“Geez,” Veneer said, considering the amount of time. He was hardly twenty years of age himself! “What happened?”

“I abandoned my baby brother. I promised I’d come back, but I never did…” Floyd’s voice got quieter as he continued to explain. “Turned out he wasn’t as well off as I thought he’d be. Our Grandma died, and there wasn’t anybody else to take care of him.”

Veneer winced. “Oof. Sounds rough.”

“Believe me, he let me know,” Floyd confirmed. “He was pretty upset. But then do you know what happened?”

“What?”

“He forgave me. Sure, it’s gonna take some time to heal the hurt of the past, but we know we can do it. And I'm confident that you and Velvet can do it, too.”

But Veneer disagreed. “How can you say that?” he blurted. “You’ve seen Vel. You’ll have better luck talking to a brick wall! It’s hopeless!”

Floyd paused for a moment, considering his next words. “You know, I felt pretty hopeless inside that diamond. You seemed pretty in love with all that fame and money, and whatever other ‘bling-a-ding’ you had…”

“Don’t remind me,” the teen whimpered, embarrassed for the selfish behavior he’d exhibited.

“And yet, you listened to me… didn’t you?”

“Yeah…” he replied warily.

“Then I trust Velvet can with you.”

“But you don’t understand!” Veneer cried. “Vel and I aren’t the same! Well… not entirely,” he amended, recalling how he and she hadn't been so different when it came to their desires for fame and fortune. “Just because I listened doesn’t mean Velvet will. That part of her that would listen has been long gone.”

Floyd cocked his head. “What part?” he pressed.

“Oh, you know,” Veneer went on, “the part that liked to make up bad dances, and didn’t care if we sang off key, as long as we were having fun.”

“Ohh,” The Troll said, nodding in understanding. “But you never know. That part of her could still exist.”

Veneer gave a dry laugh. “Yeah right.”

“I’m serious,” Floyd said. “She’s still there. You just gotta help her find it again.”

The teen eyed the Troll. “You really, truly think that’s possible?”

“Cross my heart, hope to die.”

“Let’s hope not,” Veneer said, feeling a shudder go down his spine as he remembered the way the Troll had gone transparent and nearly succumbed to death. But then he thought about what the magenta Troll said. Velvet being that sister she once was? It would be wonderful. “I guess she's been a diva for so long, I never thought it'd be possible for her to change…”

“It is,” Floyd assured with a smile. “It really is.”

Suddenly, a ping resounded, and he looked down at the bracelet on his wrist and gasped. “Oh! I promised my brothers I’d be only fifteen minutes. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have even let me come. They’re outside waiting for me. I’m sorry.”

Veneer nodded. “It’s all right, I understand. You don’t have to apologize.”

“Thanks. It was nice talking to you,” Floyd said sincerely. “Ooo, and make sure you check the mail! The letter I sent should have arrived today.”

Veneer nodded again. “Oh! Okay, I will. And it was nice talking to you, too!”

Floyd smiled, and was about to head off, when Veneer stopped him. “Wait! I, um… do you have a quick second? I've been working on something… I was kinda hoping you might wanna hear it?”

As Floyd glanced at him expectantly, Veneer cleared his throat, suddenly second-guessing himself. What if he sounded awful? What if Floyd laughed at him? Regardless, he’d already stopped him, so he had to follow through. The song flowed out of him softly at first, his voice cracking a couple of times and making him inwardly cringe. But soon his voice became stronger, the notes rich and beautiful. When Veneer was done, he was met not only by applause from Floyd, but from the other inmates and recipients at the booths as well! He blushed as Floyd offered his compliments.

“That was great!”

“And I swear it was all me,” Veneer hurriedly explained. “No talent-stealing here!”

Floyd chuckled. “That’s good. You really do have some real talent.”

Veneer shrugged. “Guess I just had to work hard at it.”

Floyd gave him a thumbs up. “Right.” Then he turned to go. “I’ll see you around, Veneer.”

The Troll waved, and he waved back. A sense of uplifting filled Veneer. He was in slightly better spirits than he had anticipated himself to feel, and was glad for it. On his way back to the cell, he questioned the guard on any mail delivery for him, and true to Floyd’s word, one letter, sealed with the BroZone lightning emblem, was awaiting him.

Veneer didn’t waste a minute as he tore open the envelope and began to read:

Veneer,

It’s amazing how time passes by so quickly. I can hardly believe it’s already been a month’s time since the incident, of which I don’t believe you need me to mention for you to know what I’m talking about. But, I AM going to mention it anyhow, as it was an experience which has produced great effect. I also see this as an opportunity to debunk or confirm any assumptions you may have regarding me on the matter.

Spending two months encased within a small, and rather uncomfortable diamond imprisonment was, to put it bluntly, an awful experience for me to have undergone, as I’m sure you can imagine. I can’t lie there, or try to sugarcoat anything. Matters were not helped when you were under the impression that this was a necessary thing to do. But shortcuts can sometimes be more ‘cut’ than ‘short,’ as came to be you and your sister’s case. But this is not to say that cuts can’t heal. With time and learning they can, and from there, things are bound to get better.

In the same manner that everyone deserves to be treated kindly, everyone also deserves a second chance. I can’t say that the first impression you left of me was a good one, but have an inkling that my sentiments will change in the near future. Know that you are forgiven for your actions, so long as you understand where your mistakes were, and so long as you have learned from it. I know I can’t make you heed to any advice that I or anybody else may give you, though I strongly recommend taking it, for your own benefit.

I have been on my way to recovery from everything, and am living with my brothers. If you are interested, I can speak to the prison management team and see if we could get you work release at my older brother’s cantina. It’s on a beautiful little island that I think you will find quite becoming (plus, it has a karaoke stage!)

By this point, I would imagine that we would have already spoken to each other, and, should the conversation have gone the way I envisioned, I believe that we can likely look forward to speaking again.

Your friend,

Floyd

P.S. If you choose to respond to this letter, send it out attached with the postcard in the envelope. Trust me, it will get there :)

Veneer wondered what he meant by that last part, and soon understood when he pulled out the said postcard - with no return address or sender information. But, he shrugged it off. If Floyd had said it would get there, then surely it would get there! And so, Veneer got to work composing a return letter, finishing it with just a few seconds to spare before lights out. The letter looked something like this:

Floyd,

It was unexpected seeing you today. If I was in your place, I would have just moved on with my life and not looked back - especially at the guys who captured me. I want you to know that I am very, VERY sorry for what I did to you and regret it very much. You can take my word that I will never do something like that again to anybody. I was too afraid to say anything about it to my sister before, but now she knows where I stand on this. I hope you’re right and that she will come around one day…

I’m glad to hear that you are recovering and hope that you continue to regain your health. I think that work release idea sounds great! (Although, I’ve never been to an island before… do you mind telling me a little bit about what it’s like?)

I was afraid to talk to you at first, but I actually did like the turnout of it and, if you have any time to spare in the future, I really would like for us to talk again!

Sincerely,

Veneer

P.S. Gonna try and have the full version of that song ready by the time you come back :)

__________________________________________ A/N: I like the idea of Floyd and Veneer becoming friends after the whole ordeal

#trolls #trolls 3 #trolls band together #floyd trolls #veneer trolls #velvet trolls #velvet and veneer #branch trolls #dreamworks #fanfiction #kittyball writes #brodacious fanfiction #100+

[oh-stars]

The Wall

Polaroid

a Stobin Month 2024 prompt | 1167 words | CW: N/A | Rating: G

--

“I can’t part with it,” Robin says. 

Steve stands beside her, hands on his hips. “Me either.” 

“We can’t leave it though.” 

“But we don’t have space for it at the new place.” 

“We’re not living together in the new place,” Robin points out with a sigh. 

Steve’s shoulders fall. He keeps forgetting that part. “How do we split it then?” 

“I say we don’t and just stay here,” Robin decides. She nods her head once, then claps. “Yup, that’s settled. We’re living here forever.” 

“Rob,” Steve sighs, “you know we can’t.” 

“Says who? We love this house. It’s our house. Why do we have to leave it?” Robin takes a seat on the floor and stares up at The Wall. Steve doesn’t hesitate to follow, even when his knees pop and protest at the movement. He looks up at The Wall in all its glory, eyes flickering around from one spot to another. It’s their most important wall in the house, their collective prized possession. It’s the most beautiful thing they’ve ever made. 

The Wall is the north wall of their living room that connects with the stairs. It’s a boring beige color, but that’s not the important part, it’s what’s on the wall that matters. The very first day Steve and Robin moved into the house, they commemorated the day with a picture using Robin’s brand new Polaroid camera. And since their walls were all bare, they decided to put the picture on this wall that would one day be covered. 

He doesn’t remember why they decided to take a picture every day, doesn’t know what possessed them to keep it up for over eight years, but here they are. The wall is covered with almost three thousand polaroids, some better than others, with little dates written on the bottom. The ones celebrating big milestones are the highlights, like special birthdays and graduations or the start of a new job or anniversary, with special attention taken to the doodles along the borders. They even alter the space around them so they sit in little pockets, standing out among the silly and blurred daily shots. 

No one else understood why they kept it up, but they’ve never missed a day. Even when traveling, alone or together, they make sure someone took a picture. 

And now that they’re moving out of their first home, moving in with their respective partners, the time has come to take it down. 

Steve’s more sad to see The Wall go than he is to leave this house and he loves this house. It’s just not big enough for Steve, Eddie, Chrissy, Robin, the cats, and the incoming baby that Chrissy’s carrying for Steve and Eddie. He almost wishes Robin and Chrissy would just stay here, keep the wall up even if they stop taking pictures every day, but Robin didn’t think that was fair. “There’s no way I’m living in this house without you, dingus,” she said, “who would fight the ghost on my behalf?” 

The ghost is actually their neighbor’s outdoor cat, Sally, who likes to sneak into their home to play with their cat, Tassel. At first, they thought it was some territory dispute, but it turns out the cats are just star-crossed lovers. So much so that their neighbor’s trying to figure out how Sally can still see Tassel. Steve didn’t peg the old man to be supportive of two lesbian cats, but then again he’s never had a problem with the big rainbow flag hanging in their living room or the fact he’s had to ask Steve and Eddie to keep the noise down a time or two. 

Damn, he’s going to miss Nathaniel, too. 

“We have to take it down,” Steve says. 

“No.” 

“Rob.” 

“Steve.” 

“Would you rather someone else does it?” Steve raises an eyebrow at her. 

She rolls her eyes and huffs. “No.” 

“Then we have to.” 

“Why’d you have to go and make your family bigger, dingus,” Robin whines, leaning into him. “I’m happy to be Aunt Robin and all, and like I know this is what you were meant to do, but it’s really throwing a wrench in our growing old together plan.” 

Steve kisses her forehead then rests his cheek against the top of her head. “You’re the one who introduced Eddie and I.” 

“And I regret it everyday for him stealing you away from me.” 

“Chrissy stole you first.” 

“She’s perfect, she can do no wrong,” Robin says. “Eddie’s a gremlin man and took you from me.” 

“I resent that,” Eddie says as he and Jonathan walk into the room. The house is pretty bare, minus the big furniture that still needs to be moved tomorrow, but the whole point of today was to take boxes out, yet they’re bringing boxes in. Eddie sets down a box in front of them and opens it to reveal several photo albums. 

Jonathan does the same, but he takes out a machine that he plugs into the wall and starts fiddling with. 

“What are you doing?” Steve asks. 

“We’re here to rescue The Wall,” Eddie says.” 

“This is a scanner,” Jonathan explains, “I borrowed it from work. We can take each picture and scan it to make another one and then you both have a copy.” 

“And you two can decide who gets the originals but this way neither of you have to cry over losing it anymore.” Eddie holds out identical albums to each of them. “They’re prepped and ready for you to do your thing. But we need to finish this before we call it a day if we want to stay on schedule,” he says. 

Steve looks down at the hefty photo album. They’re ornate with little doodles engraved in the leather of ice cream and anchors and VHS tapes and music notes and every other little icon Eddie could come up with to represent the last decade of his and Robin’s friendship. In the center, in what he’s sure is Chrissy’s script, it says “The Wonder Twins Years, Vol. 1” with a blank section to write what dates they can fit into the album. 

“Eds,” he whispers. 

Eddie darts forward to kiss his cheek. “No more tears, baby.” 

Robin sniffles beside him. “Fine,” she huffs, “I guess he can stick around.” 

“Was that up for debate?” 

“It always was,” Robin says as she heaves herself up. “Dingus, go get the ladder out of the office.” 

“On it,” Steve says. He gets up and sets the album on the coffee table. As he passes Jonathan, he squeezes his shoulder. “Thank you.” 

Jonathan nods and smiles. “It’s too impressive to destroy,” he says. 

Steve’s not sure why he’s surprised that Jonathan, their resident photographer, understands The Wall like he and Robin do, but it still fills him with so much warmth. He excuses himself before he can cry some more. Better to save those tears for when Robin’s decided to go down memory lane with every other picture. 

He can’t wait.  

--

Thank you @lady-lostmind for beta reading!

Ao3 Link

#ohstars fic #steve harrington #stranger things #robin buckley #stobin month 2024 #ohstars posting challenge #platonic soulmates stobin #platonic stobin #stobin

[prythianpages]

ACOSM | The Night her Powers Came

azriel x rhy's sis (oc)

*disclaimer bc this takes place before Windhaven, therefore Azriel is not in this.

warnings: fluff/mild angst

A/N: this is an imagine among my collection of imagines that follow Rhysand's sister, Valeria. while I'm still working on it, you can find the masterlist for it here. Also, I don't remember when Cerridwen and Nuala first came into Rhys's life so for the sake of this imagine, let's pretend they've been with him for a long time. I think they were a gift to his mom by his dad? or maybe that was just something I read in another imagine.

**

“Rhys?”

Rhysand turned his head in alarm. He had left his door open but he hadn’t heard the footsteps approaching. He relaxed as he found his little sister peeking her head through the doorway, her favorite doll clutched in her free arm. Her eyes were tired and lips curved into a slight pout. She was never a fan of storms, always seeking comfort in her older brother during times like these so it was no surprise when she asked if she could stay with him.

“Come here.” Rhysand beckoned with a tired smile. He pushed his luggage aside and laid on his bed, patting the empty spot next to him. He had been packing for his move to Windhaven. He was now eight and it was time to begin his training to become an Illyrian warrior. Although he was the heir to the Night Court, his father had also agreed on this move. Both of his parents deemed that it was important to train so that he wouldn’t become reliant on his developing powers alone.

Valeria wasted no time in diving under the warmth of his covers, eliciting a chuckle from him. She made sure to tuck her doll in too, claiming that her doll–or Darla as she often corrected him– was also scared of storms and in need of cuddles. She turned her body to face her older brother. 

“I don’t want you to go.” She said quietly with a frown.

Rhysand’s heart dropped at her words. “I don’t want to leave you either.”

As there was no need for Valeria to train, the move to Windhaven had not included her. Of course, this didn’t mean her mother was going to abandon her. Her mother had reassured her that she would be constantly going back and forth between their house in Windhaven and the Moonstone palace as well as her father would remain to watch over her. However, the latter did not bring her any comfort. She knew this meant she’d spend most of her time with Cerridwen and Nuala and there was also their cousin, Mor. So it wasn’t like she would be completely alone but it would not compare to the same comfort as her mother or Rhysand.

“Who else is going to keep me and Darla company during–” She flinched, cowering away under the blankets as the crashing thunder roared furiously. When the sound ended, she lifted her head and peered over his shoulder to look out the window with glossy eyes. “It’s so dark.”

Rhysand shifted in his bed so that he could be facing Valeria. He resisted the urge to tease the irony in his sister being afraid of the dark when she herself was a daughter of the Night. But he knew what Valeria meant. Tonight’s sky was full of clouds so dense that not even the luminous glow of the moon or stars could cut through the darkness.

“The stars and moon are still here watching over us.” Rhysand assured her.

Valeria raised an eyebrow.

Rhysand smiled, extending his hand out as an idea popped into his head.

 “See, they’re right here,” he said as his hand began to glow, glittering stars rising from the palm of his hand and illuminating the room further. “They just needed a little break for the night. They’re sorry that their snoring scares you.”

“That sound is the stars snoring?” Valeria asked, her wide eyes tracking each and every star that rose from Rhysand’s palm as they found their place in the room.

Another crack of thunder sounded. This time, Valeria did not flinch. Her heart still couldn’t help but race at the sound but she found herself giggling this time. “They snore weird.”

“They do.” Rhysand agreed,joining her in her laughter and glad that his plan had worked. He gestured for her to also extend out her hand. “Here, you try it.” 

Rhysand had meant to transfer the floating stars above his hand over to hers but she did not reach for his hands. Instead, she lifted her own palm up, her eyebrows knitting together. He meant to correct his unclear instructions, opening his mouth to avoid the disappointment he feared coming.

As soon as he began sounding out his first syllable, his mouth shut. 

There, in the palm of her hand was the tiniest flicker of light. It took only a couple of seconds for the flicker of light to turn into a beam of star light coming straight from her palm and as she concentrated further on the light, Rhysand couldn’t help but snort to himself at the sight of her tongue sticking out.

“Look, Rhys!” Valeria cried out in excitement as the beam of light morphed into a sphere, swirls of silver rotating around it. “It’s the moon!”

The moon glowed brightly at the palm of her hand. Floating further and further up, both Valeria and Rhysand watched in awe as her moon joined his stars. 

“You have a gift,” Rhysand said with a smile.

“A gift?” Valeria gasped, turning to her brother. The moon she had conjured was quick to disappear as her attention diverted from it. “Where?”

Rhysand couldn’t help but laugh again.

**

Valeria hadn’t realized how dependent she was on her brother for company and entertainment or her mother for comfort and constant reassurance. It was no secret that Valeria was not her father’s favorite and it came as no surprise to her that his current work schedule allotted little time for her. It had been a week since Rhysand and her mother moved to Windhaven. They promised to visit once they were fully settled into their new home there, which would be a couple of days more and just in time for their monthly court meeting. 

Rhysand had just gotten fitted for his Illyrian leathers, per his notes of excitement. Before they had left, they gifted her an enchanted scroll and the three–or should she say four as she often sought out Mor’s help since she couldn’t read or write herself yet–exchanged notes every day. On days Mor wasn’t there to help, Valeria would opt to scribble hearts and doodles of them. Her doodles consisted of her family as stick figures and she always drew Rhysand’s stick figure with the biggest head to which Rhysand would respond with his own stick figure version of their family with Valeria’s stick figure having a wild bird nest as hair. Their father was never included in their family’s stick figure drawings. However, sometimes Mor would make a casual appearance in them.

A hard smack sounded throughout the room as the sound of wood against wood met, causing Valeria to flinch. “A lady does not get distracted in her own thoughts while being spoken to!”

“Well a lady can’t help it if the topic is such a bore.” Mor huffed beside Valeria in her defense. She laid her down on the table and blew her blonde bangs from her face.

“Morrigan!” Their instructor, Silvia, reprimanded as she struck her wooden stick against the table next to where Mor’s head rested. Mor did not flinch as Valeria did and instead glowered.

“Miss Silvia,” Valeria gasped with wide eyes, a devious glint flashing amongst her violet orbs. “A lady does not raise her voice.”

Valeria and Mor exchanged a look before bursting into giggles. She did not know how she would survive this etiquette class if it were not for her cousin. Mor was two years older than her so unfortunately, this was the only class they shared. But it had given Valeria something to look forward to every week day.

 Silvia slumped into a seat, across the table from the young girls with a sigh. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “You two ladies have yet to learn. Count your blessings on your high statuses as it ensures you will marry. As far as keeping your future husbands happy, who knows...”

“Can we go now?” Mor asked.

“Yes, you may go.” Silvia dismissed with a wave of her hand, muttering how the two girls would give her premature gray hairs with all the stress from their lack of progress in her etiquette class.

Mor and Val squealed in excitement at their dismissal, grabbing each other’s hands as they ran out of the room and headed for the gardens of the Moonstone Palace. They loved spending time in the gardens as the flowers were always in bloom and the soft splashing of the grand water fountain always brought comfort. Not to mention the light bugs that would appear as the sun began to set, twinkling around them as if they were tiny stars themselves. Mor and Val enjoyed chasing after them until the moon took the sun’s place and they were forced to part ways.

That’s how most of her weeknights ended. On days where they’d be bored of running around the gardens or the weather was not ideal for them to be out in, they’d find comfort in the palace’s library. Mor would pick a book, usually one related to Valkyries, and read outloud to her best ability. 

That’s where the two girls found themselves after their last lessons of the week.

“One valkyrie tek-neek was mind-stilling. They used it to calm their minds and emo-tions.” Mor read, struggling to enunciate some of the words. “It is the act of sitting and quiet-ing their mind. It is used to stay calm in the face of fears..Hmm, interesting should we give it a try?”

Val nodded her head eagerly.

Mor shifted so that she sat across Val, placing the book in between them so she can walk them through the steps. Val mirrored Mor, resting her hands over her knees. “Now, we take three deep breaths. In through our nose for a count of six and out through the mouth for a count of six. Don’t overthink it, just close your eyes and breath.”

“Now let your breathing steady and focus on the sounds around you. Acknowledge them, then let them fade away.”

Val continued to take deep breaths as she continued to follow Mor’s instructions. She focused on the sound of their breathing, the light crackling of the fireplace nearby and willed them to fade away. She surveyed her body next, starting from her head and slowly working down from her wings to her toes when she felt it. A strange weightless, almost numbing feeling. The air around her grew cold and still. And before she knew it, she felt as if she were floating. It felt different from flying. When she would fly, she’d feel the weight of her wings and while her wings were out–as she was unable to glamor them as Rhysand often did–, she could no longer feel their comforting weight.

Let go, child. A chilling voice whispered. Come to us.

“Val!”

At Mor’s sharp cry, Val’s breathing faltered. She found herself all of a sudden feeling heavy and she was falling. The familiar weight of her wings came back to her and she willed them to spread wide and keep her from the horrifying feeling of falling.

She felt warm hands grasp hers, shaking them and it was only then that Val willed her eyes to open to find herself back in the palace’s library, a worried Mor right in front of her. Val blinked, feeling light headed and dizzy as the books that lined the shelves seemed to spin around them. That voice…

“Are you okay??”

“Yeah.” Val replied, eyebrows knitting in concern over the panic in Mor’s voice. “Did you hear that voice too?”

“Voice?” Mor repeated in a confused manner. She let go of Val’s hands, placing them against her forehead. Val grimaced at her warm touch. “Val, you’re freezing! Are you sure you’re okay? You were glowing!”

“Glowing?”

“So bright like the moon! I could feel it behind my closed eyes. I thought you were messing around but when I opened my eyes, you were hunched over and your breathing was all weird–”

Val drowned out the rest of Mor’s retelling as she tried to recollect herself. She hadn’t felt her breathing slow while meditating. She only felt as if she were floating and free, no longer confined to her body. And then the voice called out to her. It lured her and if it hadn’t been for Mor waking her, she feared she would’ve followed it to who knows where. 

The two promised not to speak of this to anyone and Val begrudgingly agreed not to try mind-stilling. At least not when alone. After assuring Mor that she was alright for the hundredth time, Mor said her goodbyes.

**

The next morning was a joyous one for Valeria. She could not contain her excitement at breakfast as she filled her mouth with eggs and ham, swinging her legs. The High Lord, her father, sat at the head of the table. Valeria sat at the seat to his right, choosing to take her mother’s seat as she found her seat to be too far from her father. Not that it mattered as he barely shared any words with her. However, she was just content for what little time he chose to spend with her.

“I learned what tek-nik means, father!”

“Technique.” The High Lord was quick to correct, shooting her a glare when one of her excited leg swings hit one of his own.

“Sorry!” Val apologized with a sheepish smile, the huge mouthful of food she had hastily shoved into her mouth daring to seep out.

The High Lord sighed deeply, as he always did when annoyed by his youngest. He set his fork down and rose from his seat. He didn’t bother to spare her another glance as he left the dining room.

 “Be good tonight and don’t cause trouble.”

Valeria’s eyes lit up at the invitation. She was not allowed to join the previous Night Court’s monthly meetings. It was always attributed to her age–she was only six afterall. However, she remembered hearing from the maids that Rhysand first attended when he was two. Of course, their attendance wasn’t of much importance as they were kids and they were not allowed to join in on the actual meeting between the High Lord and his overseers.These meetings were in private and meant to update each other of their respective locations as well as any growing threats nearby. After these meetings was where the fun began. There was music by the Night Court’s finest orchestra that often led to dancing and not to mention the vast amount and variety of food prepared by the best cooks in the city. That is what Valeria looked forward to the most. As she finished up her breakfast, she couldn’t help but wonder if lemon cakes were among the dessert menu for tonight.

**

“Where is my little star?”

“Mama!” Valeria cried with joy as she ran to her mother. Her wings stretched wide open as she jumped and then soared into her mother’s awaiting arms.

“Oh my, how strong you’ve gotten!” Lady Yvaine laughed as she regained her balance from the impact. She held her daughter close and tight, rejoicing in her familiar scent as Val buried her head into her neck. She hated having to be apart from one of her children and the image of Valeria’s teary eyes and pout from when they had to part ways was all Yvaine thought about the past couple of days. While it brought her joy to see Rhysand taking part of their Illyrian culture, she worried over Valeria’s wellbeing too.

As Valeria pulled away to smile up at her mother, Yvaine promised to herself she would do her best to appeal to her husband to allow her to take Valeria back to Windhaven with her. “Mor taught me how to write some words, mama!”

“Yeah? Well, tell her she’s a terrible teacher.” Another voice joined them.

Val’s head whipped around to find her brother entering her room with a sly grin. He held up a piece of parchment paper in his hands and Val had to squint to identify the contents of it. She giggled as she recognized her own handwriting. Val had learned about letters this week in her lessons and how they were used for many reasons. She had begged Mor to help her send one to Rhysand, claiming that the act of sending a letter was much more exciting than using the enchanted scroll.

“You got my letter!” Val exclaimed happily as her mother set her down, allowing her to run and hug her brother.

“To Rhys, the best big bruder.” Rhysand continued to laugh as he returned his little sister’s hug. Aside from his sister’s barely legible handwriting, the letter was filled with many different paint colors and pressed flowers she glued on to the page with the infamous stick figure drawing of Rhysand.

“I’m so glad you loved it.” Val said as she pulled away, her violet eyes twinkling in delight.

“I didn’t say I lov–” Rhysand’s mother shot him a sharp look. “What I mean to say is that I missed you too, Val.”

“Come on, you two. It’s time to get ready for tonight.”

**

“So handsome, my sweet boy.” Yvaine praised her oldest as she straightened his coat’s collar, admiring the intricate silver beading that ran along the front upper collar that she had done herself.

“And of course, my beautiful sweet girl.” She continued to praise as she then turned to her youngest, who was wearing a black dress with silver beading that matched Rhysand’s. The dress was long and tailored well so that Val would not trip over the hem. The sleeves were long and made of mesh with an overlay of silver stars running down the arms. There was a small slit among the arm sleeves to allow for a wispy ethereal look. To top off all of their looks, they all wore silver crowns adorned with stars and moonstone.

The Lady of the Night Court wanted to make sure that her children were dressed to part and shining as the stars they are for tonight’s event so she took it to herself to design and create their attire herself. She was dressed in a design of her own as well–a silver and black long gown that suited her curvy silhouette perfectly. Even her husband was dressed in all black and wearing a coat similar to Rhysand’s. The High Lord and his son had never looked more alike.

It was an important night as it would be the first meeting that the High Lord of the Night Court brought along his whole family. The last time they had made a family appearance was before Valeria’s birth. 

It had been planned to make an appearance shortly after Valeria’s birth to present her as the Daughter of the Night. But Valeria had fallen ill and was on the brink of death one month after birth while Lady Yvaine continued to struggle to heal from the strenuous birth. Rumors had immediately surfaced that the Night Court was on the verge of falling apart. If the High Lord couldn’t keep his newborn daughter alive and struggled to help his wife heal, then how could he keep the Night Court afloat? Even Rhysand had fallen victim to rumors as they began to question his legitimacy as heir as well as the powers the High Lord claimed he was developing.

But tonight was the night that all rumors would be disproved.

Valeria was a healthy six year old girl, despite her tendencies to fall to a mysterious sickness every month. The disease that had plagued her as a one month old never truly went away, choosing to linger and resurface in a milder form every new moon. The High Lord kept her isolated during those times to keep further rumors from surfacing, not wanting Valeria’s reputation to continue to taint his legacy as High Lord of the Night Court.

The Lady of the Night Court had returned to her duties shortly after her full recovery from giving birth. She radiated beauty and warmth, bringing back solace to the court. The people often wondered when there’d be another arrival of a child of the Night. It almost felt like a race of who would announce the coming of another child amongst the Spring, Autumn and Night court as they each had two children. But only the Lady and High Lord and their most trusted healer, Madja, were aware that there would be no more children of the Night. Madja feared that if Lady Yvaine became pregnant with child again, she would not survive it and the High Lord did not take this lightly. Meanwhile, the third son of the Spring Court was born a year after Valeria and the Autumn court now had four sons. This only fueled his frustration and distaste with his youngest further. She had already caused so much trouble within her six years of living. He suspected if his daughter was meant to be a curse–bestowed upon him by the Cauldron or Mother herself.

While the appearance of Valeria at the meeting would be the first, she was not the highlight of the night’s event. Rhysand was.

Tonight would be the night the High Lord of the Night Court would officially name Rhysand as his heir. Everyone could feel the strong power within the young boy. His powers had developed at a much faster and alarming rate than anticipated. With the announcement of Rhysand learning to train and fight as an Illyrian warrior, the High Lord hoped that this would quell all negative gossip of the Night Court being weak. Some even suspected that Rhysand would grow to become the most powerful High Lord of Prythian. The Night Court was strong and filled with great prospects and prosperity– a force to be reckoned with.

Lady Yvaine walked forward with her head high, a cool mask over her features as she walked behind her husband. Her High Lord. One hand held Rhysand’s hand and the other held Valeria’s as they walked into the Court of Nightmares. Together. As a family. For the first time in years.

Valeria found herself extremely overwhelmed. There were so many eyes on her and the majority did not appear friendly. She had wondered why they called her home the Court of Nightmares but now it all made sense. She found comfort in the lively and alluring music of the orchestra–Prythian’s finest, she had heard some call them.

She watched in awe as the orchestra played perfectly in tune, following along with the conductor.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Val’s gaze shifted to the person who had come to stand beside her. She was surprised to find an older blonde woman with rich brown eyes–Mor’s mother–but the surprise morphed into disappointment when she noticed that Mor was not in attendance. 

“Your grandmother used to play the violin, you know. She learned at a young age and when she was an adult, she traveled all over Prythian. They said she was among the best. She met your grandfather when performing here and well, the rest is history.”

“Did she continue to play?” Valeria asked, her curiosity piqued at the mention of her grandparents. Apart from the knowledge that they were dead, Val knew nothing else of them. She was never brave enough to ask her father either.

“For the Court of Nightmares only.” Mor’s mother replied as she nursed a glass of wine as dark as blood in her hands. “Allegedly, her music was the only thing that could bring your father–the High Lord–comfort when he was young.”

Val’s features contorted into a grimace at the thought. She could not imagine her father finding delight in anything. In fact, she couldn’t even recall a time where her father wasn’t scowling or frowning and she allowed her gaze to travel to the throne to confirm. But she couldn’t help but wonder when was the last time her father smiled–if he had even done so at all. Was it when he met her mother? Married her? Or Perhaps, the last time was when his mother last played the violin for him. She made a quick mental note to bring up the violin to her mother before bed.

The High Lord’s gaze shifted to find violet eyes that matched his own staring back at him. With a raise of his hand, he beckoned Val and Mor’s mother forward. They approached the High Lord, who still sat upon his throne. Lord Keir–Mor’s father–, Lady Yvaine, and two other Lords, ones Val had yet to meet, stood in front of the throne in conversation.

Val shifted toward her mother, her nerves unsettling as the men stared at her. Her fingers latched onto her mother’s gown and her violet eyes were wary of the uncomfortable and unwanted attention.

“This is my daughter. Valeria.” The High Lord announced.

“I was not aware you had such a lovely daughter, my Lord.” One of the older lords commented. “I have a son around her age. I would love to introduce him to you one day. Perhaps, they’d make good friends.”

Friends, Val’s eyes widened at the thought. She didn’t have many friends. Her only friends were her family, Rhys and Mor.

Lord Keir scoffed. “And what greater benefit could an alliance between your son and Daughter of the Night provide than one with my son? I could offer my Darkbringers at his High Lord’s disposal.”

Mor’s Mother turned to Val with a smile, always quick to back up her husband. “Wouldn’t you like to get to know my oldest better? Perhaps, if you and Mathis get along well, you could marry and live tog–”

“My daughter is much too young to understand, much less be involved in marriage politics. Especially to a cousin."

"Distant cousin." Mor's mother was quick to add.

Lady Yvaine placed a protective hand over Val’s shoulders. She forced a polite smile onto her face, her dark eyes tense. The whitening of Val’s knuckles as she clutched onto her mother’s dress did not go unnoticed by her.

Val was young but old enough to understand the implications of marriage. She had asked her mother about it one night, when she was braiding her hair. Her mother told her that marriage was something special, something beautiful as it was a union between two people who sometimes loved each other. But she also knew that marriage meant separating from your family to join another and it was usually the woman who had to leave her family.

And she refused to leave her family to be tied to Mor’s older brother, Mathis. She’d already met her cruel older brother multiple times before. His presence always brought her unease. He made a habit of pulling Mor’s long blonde hair and making her cry. Val wanted nothing to do with him.

“My wife is correct.” The High Lord finally chimed in. “The girl is only six. We’ll discuss potential alliances through marriage when the time is apropriate.”

The High Lord looked toward his daughter, who still clutched onto her mother. He motioned for her to leave with a nod of his head and with an encouraging push from her mother, Val hurried away from them in search of her brother with an uneasy feeling in her stomach.

 As the High Lord watched his daughter walk away, he realized that perhaps, Valeria was not entirely useless. She was the first daughter to be born to a High Lord in years–centuries even, perhaps. Pyrthian was full of sons at the moment and there were two unwed High Lords in Pyrthian. The prospects were many…

**

Valeria found Rhysand at the dessert table–the latter stuffing his face with chocolate cake. Much to her disappointment, there was no sight of lemon cakes anywhere. Her bottom lip quivered.

“What’s wrong with you?” Rhysand asked in between mouthfuls as he noticed Valeria was on the verge of tears. He swallowed and then frowned. “Are you feeling unwell? The next new moon is in two weeks–”

“I don’t want to marry Mathis.” She whispered, bile rising in her throat. Her hands were fists at her side and trembling.

“Why would you have to marry that brute? He's our cousin.”

“I don’t know.” Val replied with a shrug of her shoulders. “But I don’t like him. He smells.”

A couple of tears escaped Valeria as her shoulders began to tremble. Her fists uncurled and Rhysand’s gaze fell down to her hands as he noticed a flicker of light. It was faint and small–like the lighting of a candle at first– and he watched at a loss for words as the light began to grow bigger and bigger. It trailed up her hands and then, to her arms, casting a silver glow to her skin. It was the same light he had witnessed a week earlier, the manifestation of Valeria’s developing powers and just as he had been when his powers first developed, Valeria was losing control.

Rhysand was quick to drop his chocolate cake onto the table and grab a hold of Valeria’s hands. He was still learning to control his own powers so he hoped he knew enough to help his sister. He called upon the darkness that lingered within him, urging it to engulf Valeria’s light and dampen her glow to avoid any unwanted attention.

“Listen to me, Val. You are not going to marry Mathis.”

“You promise?”

There was such desperation in Valeria’s eyes that it made Rhysand’s own violet eyes water. Her light began to flicker and dwindled.

“I promise.” Rhysand said as he squeezed both of her hands, relief flooded through him as her light diminished, dampened by his darkness as water dampens fire. “I promise that you will marry someone that makes you happy. Someone who makes you laugh. Someone who loves you just as much as you love them.”

“Someone who smells good?” Val questioned, her eyebrows knitted in concern.

 “Someone who smells good.” Rhysand added.

Valeria felt herself calm down, soothed by her brother’s words, as she stared down at their joined hands. She watched as a crescent moon in the form of black ink appeared on the fourth finger of her left hand. A dark fine line joined on either side of the moon as it wrapped completely around her finger. Two dotted lines appear, one on top and one on bottom to the fine line along with little stars. Her gaze drifted up Rhysand’s arm as she noticed a similar crescent moon form one his left hand with similar lines and stars wrapping around his wrist. 

They both looked at each other filled with astonishment as their bodies were now marked with a permanent reminder of the promise Rhysand had just made.

Rhysand hoped that no one had seen or noticed them. 

But someone did notice.

Their mother.

Lady Yvaine’s eyes widened, her heart racing with unease and anxiety as she clutched the side of her gown. The same area Valeria had been holding onto. The same area that now had a hole, revealing the black silk that had originally been covered by black glittery mesh–the mesh that now had rough edges and appeared as if it had been burned off.

Valeria was gifted. Just like Rhysand. And she feared what would happen to her daughter if anyone else found out. Unfortunately for Valeria, she was a girl and this world did not take kindly to females with power. The lords of the Night Court already had their hungry, vulture eyes on her. If they discovered she was gifted as well–

Lady Yvaine shuddered at the thought.

She had to keep Valeria close. She had to keep her away from the hungry eyes and vultures among the Court of Nightmares. There was no way she was returning to Windhaven without Valeria.

#rhysand #rhysand's sister #rhysand imagine #acotar imagine #rhysand's sister x azriel #azriel x reader #azriel x oc

[author-morgan]

Title: Dragonknight  Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!Reader Rating: T Summary: Even darkness seeks the light, or in which Daemon considers you his northern star —his guiding light.  Warnings: Typically Westerosi shenanigans.

HE LOWERS THE blunted training sword and frowns as you bolt down the steps of the tower and around Ser Ryam the Dragon —not wishing to be the fair maiden in need of saving again. Instead, you take up another sword, too big and heavy, and stand stalwart in your choice. Prince Daemon Targaryen nigh pouts. He’s meant to be brave and valiant and save his lady from danger. “How am I to be your dragonknight if you won’t let me save you?” He laments.

“Two swords are better than one against this fearsome foe,” you tell him, but the game is already over then.  

Ser Ryam Redwyne laughs and rises from his haunches, feeling the ache in his aging joints —Clement Crabb told him it was his turn to entertain the prince and his coconspirator. At least then it would keep the pair out of too much trouble. “She is not wrong, my prince,” he remarks. Even a knight of the Kingsguard has brothers-in-arms, seeking and accepting help does not make one less of a man or less of a prince.

“You make a fine dragon, ser,” you note, remembering your courtesies.

Ser Ryam Redwyne smiles at your compliment. “Thank you, my lady,” the Kingsguard knight says, giving a half-bow to you and Prince Daemon before taking his leave to rejoin the king.

Florence Fossoway enters the courtyard, passing Ser Ryam, with her hands clasped in front of her golden-rose belt. “Prince Daemon,” she greets, lowering her head in veneration before turning her attention to you —a rowdy girl who’d rather frolic about the Red Keep and the streets of King’s Landing with Daemon Targaryen instead of practicing her stitches and letters. Your mother’s lips purse into the slightest of frowns, recalling the conversation the prior eve with her lord husband and your father, Martyn Tyrell. Soon you’ll be too old to partake in such churlish activities. The prince may be able to do as he pleases, but you will not. “It’s time for your lessons,” she reminds you. Sewing, reading, writing, and learning the harp, among other things —all of which are considered comely talents in a good wife.

THE SUN’S WARMTH shines through the canopy of summer foliage to the forest floor of the Kingswood, painting a halo of light around where you and Daemon lay, looking skyward at the passing clouds. It’s a rare thing of late, being able to spend time with him. Too often, duties and lessons keep you and Daemon separated now that you’ve grown older —not quite children any longer, but not yet adults in the eyes of the lords and ladies of the court.

Still, you’ve heard the whispers about what the small council speaks of, and so has Daemon. He sees how you worry in silence, though —always twisting your hair or picking at the skin of your palms, always trying to be a good and dutiful daughter for House Tyrell. But now, more than ever, the whispers are no longer uncertain truths or mere rumors, and in the past weeks, a heavy weight has settled on your chest and shoulders.

You’ve grown quieter as time passes, and the midmorning fades into the afternoon. Daemon looks at you and frowns when he sees unshed tears budding in your eyes. He reaches for your hand, twining his fingers with yours, and squeezes. He’s always been your dearest friend, your dragonknight. "We’ll always be together.” You want to believe him —he sounds so certain of it. “I won’t let anyone take you.” That makes you smile, but Daemon still sees your doubt. “I’m a prince, remember?” And soon to be a dragonrider, he thinks. No one would be able to stop him then. He would be able to whisk you away to the far reaches of the land —places you’ve only ever imagined in stories. 

“Promise?” It’s a trembling whisper. 

“On the Old Gods of Valyria,” he swears, then looks back to the sky and the creeping storm clouds. “One day we can go there,” he says, voicing his thoughts aloud, “on dragon back.” He’s told you about Caraxes —the Blood Wyrm— and Aemon’s former mount. A wild, unpredictable beast with a will strong as any Targaryen’s, but Daemon’s always had an eye for Caraxes. The dragonkeepers oft let the prince into the great dome to see him and the others, though he’s yet to take the Blood Wyrm for his own mount. But soon he will and you’ll both be able to fly high and far and free.

THE HOUR IS late when he knocks on your chamber door, and it rouses you from an ill-fated attempt to sleep. “Daemon?” His silver-white hair is mused from flying, his tunic and pants ruffled too —as though he’s run from Rhaenys's Hill. You pull him from the hall and into your chambers by his sleeve. You’re both too old now for him to come to you in the night —people at court will talk if anyone sees, and the walls of the Red Keep have both eyes and ears.

“I leave in the morn to help Lord Dondarrion stamp out these rumors of an unruly brotherhood in the Dornish Marches,” Daemon tells you. You’ve heard your father speak of those rumors in the prior weeks, even if he doubted the claims —King Jaehaerys’s reign is marked by peace and prosperity. Lord Baelon says he’ll be granted knighthood and the Valyrian steel sword, Dark Sister, for quelling the disturbance. “Though, before I leave–” he opens his fist to reveal a glittering white stone strung on a finely crafted rope of silver. “It was meant for your nameday celebration,” Daemon explains, the feast is to be held in a week’s time, and he knows he will not return from the Stormlands so quickly.

He holds up his gift so you can see the finer details —how the dragon’s claw curls around the stone, stamped with a hundred tiny scales. It lifts his heart to see you smile and even more so when you turn away from him, gathering your hair to the side so he may drape the necklace over your head and fasten the clasp.

The firelight catches the gem, and it twinkles around your neck as a star pulled from the heavens. It’s what you are to him, what you’ve always been —a star. A guiding light to pull him from the darkness. Daemon steps toward you, nigh closing what little distance remains, and he reaches for you, the backs of his fingertips brushing along your neck and jaw. “Iksā ñuha qēlos,” he breathes, tender as any caress. The weight of the world lifts from your chest, and Daemon can still see the gleam of childhood memories in your eyes.

“Se iksā ñuha zaldrīzes azantys,” you tell him, slowly, enunciating each word, still uncertain you are speaking the old Valyrian tongue correctly. Daemon smiles for you, his exhale a breathy laugh before he rests his forehead against yours —you’d do almost anything to live in this moment for eternity. But time does not stop for a fool’s desire. His lips, thin and wind burnt, ghost over your forehead, then linger there before he steps back to take his leave.

You stop him before he can go, hand loosely curled around his forearm. Daemon turns back and finds your lips on his —hesitant, but soft and sweet. But it’s over too quickly. “For luck, my prince,” you explain, not wishing to meet his gaze as you feel warmth rush to your cheeks in the aftermath of such a reckless action. The prince’s fingers curl beneath your chin and he surges forward at the same time. His kiss tugs at the corners of your heart, leaving you to shatter when his hands, now splayed across your back, draw you closer. And when your arms twine around his shoulders, Daemon’s certain he won’t ever be able to let you go.

LEANOR FLIES TO the Driftmark astride Seasmoke and beckons you to accompany him back to the Stepstones —for Prince Daemon has won the war, but he has not done so unscathed and there is only one person he wishes to see. They call him a madman and they hail him as a hero as you move through the victorious war camp. There are tales of how he slew twenty men, how it was only the three arrows that slowed him, but even still he cleaved the Crabfeeder in two. A maester exits the tent, his pale robes stained with blood. “How is he?” You ask.

But the voice that answers in the maester’s place is familiar, albeit rougher than usual and still laced with pain —the last dose of milk of the poppy has yet to take its numbing hold. “Come ask him yourself,” Daemon groans, recognizing your voice and shadow.

One of Corlys’s men draws back the flaps of the patched tent for you to enter. He lies on the cot, torso bound in linen strips speckled with blood, and his hair still a knotted mess of dried filth from the battle. Daemon means to sit up, but you stop him with a firm hand pressed to his shoulder and kneel at his bedside instead. “Issa sȳz naejot ūndegon ao.” It’s been many long months since you’ve last seen him —and even then, it is only fleeting moments on Dragonstone or at Driftmark before he returns to war and uncertainty.

Daemon reaches for you, his rough fingertips trailing across your cheek and jaw, then down to your neck and the silver chain resting there. You’ve scarcely parted from his gift since receiving it —letting it serve as a reminder for all those at court that your heart already belonged to another. The stone pendant still shines like a star even after the years, just as you do, always guiding him home. You take his hand and kiss his bruised and cut knuckles. “Ñuha qēlos,” Daemon whispers, and it sets your heart aflutter all over again.

It’s instinctive to lean into him when he pushes himself from the cot. Then he kisses you until the cold sea breeze falls away and your body sings with warmth —kisses you until he feels something melt inside him that nigh hurts in some strange, exquisite way. It’s all his longing and dreams and sweet anguish, and it all transforms into something enchanting, and when Daemon parts, everything makes sense once more —feels right once more. He lays back, grimacing. The Crabfeeder’s arrows struck deep. Daemon takes a long, slow breath, his eyes burning into you. “Avy jorrāelan,” he says, and he’s a fool for not saying it sooner. You kiss the corner of his lips in response, for you’ve already spake your love for your dragonknight.

“I mean to take the Stepstones as mine own,” he tells you. They will call him King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, and he will make his own mark on Westeros and the world beyond. But the stone seat and his bed will be cold without someone to share it with —he needs a queen to share the title and burden with. Daemon holds onto your hand and holds it close to his heart. “We can be together.” Together, you smile at the thought and rest your head on his chest. Together is all you’ve ever wanted. 

High Valyrian translations: Iksā ñuha qēlos. - You are my star. Se iksā ñuha zaldrīzes azantys. - And you are my dragon knight. Issa sȳz naejot ūndegon ao. - It is good to see you. Ñuha qēlos. - My star. Avy jorrāelan. - I love you.

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#Daemon Targaryen #Daemon Targaryen x Reader #Daemon x Reader #Daemon Targaryen Fanfic #House of the Dragon #Matt Smith #my writing #fic setting: pre HotD and up to the start of the War for the Stepstones #if you notice something wrong with my high valyrian translations plz let me know

[rewildling]

Reading the Blackwater Scene as a Symbolic Wedding

Because that’s what it is.

Il bacio by Francesco Hayez

Let’s start by establishing the common features of wedding ceremonies in Westeros.

Cloaks feature prominently in the wedding rituals of the Faith of the Seven, the old gods, and the Lord of Light. In all three cases, the maiden’s cloak represents the protection of the bride’s father, while the bride’s cloak represents the protection of her new husband. During the ceremony, the maiden’s cloak is exchanged for the bride’s cloak.

Though the words differ, each faith’s marriage ceremony involves an exchange of vows that are sealed with a kiss. After the ceremony and feast, the marriage is consummated with a bedding.

Sansa’s farce of a wedding to Tyrion provides a good example:

As father of the realm, Joffrey took the place of Lord Eddard Stark. ... Joff swept her maiden’s cloak away with a kingly flourish and a grin. ... And so it was that her lord husband cloaked her in the colors of House Lannister whilst standing on the back of a fool. … She smoothed her skirts and knelt in front of him, so their heads were on the same level. “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.” “With this kiss I pledge my love,” the dwarf replied hoarsely, “and take you for my lady and wife.” He leaned forward, and their lips touched briefly. … For after the feast would come the bedding. Sansa III, ASOS

Meanwhile, marriage among the free folk involves the custom of wife stealing. This tradition prevents inbreeding and allows a man to prove to his bride that he is worthy of her:

"He'd have t' be quick and cunning and brave t' steal me. So his sons would be strong and smart as well. Why would I hate such a man as that?" Ygritte, Jon V, ASOS

"Amongst the free folk, when a man desires a woman, he steals her, and thus proves his strength, his cunning, and his courage. The suitor risks a savage beating if he is caught by the woman's kin, and worse than that if she herself finds him unworthy." Jon Snow, Jon XIII, ADWD

To sum up: wedding ceremonies in Westeros involve cloaks, vows, kisses, beddings, and, in the case of the free folk, wife stealing. Now, let’s put it all together in the context of the Blackwater, starting with Sandor’s Kingsguard cloak:

Sansa heard cloth ripping, followed by the softer sound of retreating footsteps. When she crawled out of bed, long moments later, she was alone. She found his cloak on the floor, twisted up tight, the white wool stained by blood and fire. The sky outside was darker by then, with only a few pale green ghosts dancing against the stars. A chill wind was blowing, banging the shutters. Sansa was cold. She shook out the torn cloak and huddled beneath it on the floor, shivering. Sansa VII, ACOK

And this isn’t the first time she’s worn his cloak:

Sandor Clegane unfastened his cloak and tossed it at her. Sansa clutched it against her chest, fists bunched hard in the white wool. The coarse weave was scratchy against her skin, but no velvet had ever felt so fine. Sansa III, ACOK

The imagery of Sansa wearing Sandor’s cloak in these two scenes evokes the tradition of the groom cloaking the bride during a wedding ceremony. But there’s another aspect of the cloak’s marriage symbolism at play in the Blackwater scene: it’s an allusion to a bloody sheet.

Women sometimes bleed when they have penetrative sex for the first time. In the medieval period, white sheets stained with blood were sometimes used as proof that a marriage was consummated and that the bride was a virgin on her wedding night. This custom also appears in ASOIAF:

“Did you chance to see the marriage bed the morning after?” Cersei asked. “Did she bleed?” “No sheet was shown, Your Grace.” A pity. Still, the absence of a bloody sheet meant little, by itself. Cersei VI, AFFC

As they climbed, Damon Dance-for-Me whistled, whilst Skinner boasted that Lord Ramsay had promised him a piece of the bloody sheet as a mark of special favor. The bedchamber had been well prepared for the consummation. The Prince of Winterfell, ADWD

With this in mind, let’s examine sexual subtext in the Blackwater scene:

He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. "I'll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said." His dagger was out, poised at her throat. "Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life." … She had forgotten the other verses. When her voice trailed off, she feared he might kill her, but after a moment the Hound took the blade from her throat, never speaking. Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. “Little bird,” he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. Then he rose from the bed. Sansa heard cloth ripping, followed by the softer sound of retreating footsteps. When she crawled out of bed, long moments later, she was alone. She found his cloak on the floor, twisted up tight, the white wool stained by blood and fire. Sansa VII, ACOK

The eroticism in this scene is fairly obvious. Sandor pushes Sansa onto a bed and lies on top of her. The phrase “his dagger was out” is phallic imagery. She "sings" for him — a common euphemism for feminine sexual pleasure. The phrase “she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood” is evocative of bodily fluids. He leaves her with white fabric stained with blood. GRRM even separates the cloak from the fabric in the last line: “She found his cloak on the floor… the white wool stained by blood.” Essentially, this part of the Blackwater is an allusion to a bedding and a bloody sheet.

The custom of wife stealing is also evoked in this scene. Consider Ygritte's explanation of the act:

“A true man steals a woman from afar, t' strengthen the clan. Women who bed brothers or fathers or clan kin offend the gods, and are cursed with weak and sickly children. Even monsters." Ygritte, Jon III, ASOS

“I'd sooner be stolen by a strong man than be given t' some weakling by my father." Ygritte, Jon V, ASOS

Sansa is betrothed by her father to Joffrey Baratheon — a product of incest and a monster.

We can also draw a comparison between Sandor’s threatening Sansa during the Blackwater and the element of coercion involved in wife stealing:

“I’ll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said.” His dagger was out, poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.” Sansa VII, ACOK

“Like the night you stole me. The Thief was bright that night.” “I never meant to steal you,” he said. “I never knew you were a girl until my knife was at your throat.” Jon III, ASOS

During the Blackwater, Sandor offers to steal Sansa away from King’s Landing and take her home:

“Where will you go?” “Away from here. Away from the fires. Go out the Iron Gate, I suppose. North somewhere, anywhere.” Sandor Clegane, Sansa VII, ACOK

This offer is integrated with Sandor’s vow to protect her, which is immediately followed by a near kiss.

“I could keep you safe,” he rasped. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.” He yanked her closer, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. Sansa VII, ACOK

So, in the Blackwater scene we have a cloak, a vow of protection followed by a near kiss (which Sansa later misremembers as having actually happened), a symbolic bedding/bloody sheet, and an attempt at wife stealing. All the features of a Westerosi wedding are present — Southron, Northern, and free folk.

The wedding imagery in Sansa and Sandor’s relationship arc is most obvious in this scene, but it appears in other places throughout ASOIAF. Think back to their very first interaction of the entire series:

Strong hands grasped her by the shoulders, and for a moment Sansa thought it was her father, but when she turned, it was the burned face of Sandor Clegane looking down at her. Sansa I, AGOT

In Westerosi wedding ceremonies, the role of the bride’s protector is transferred from her father to her new husband. The imagery in this scene is absolutely evocative of that tradition, which makes sense because it’s Sandor who takes up the role of Sansa’s protector in King’s Landing after her father’s murder. Consider the following in the context of the previous passage:

She had dreamed of her wedding a thousand times, and always she had pictured how her betrothed would stand behind her tall and strong, sweep the cloak of his protection over her shoulders. Sansa III, ASOS

The parallels are obvious — but it doesn’t end there. Sansa keeps Sandor’s Kingsguard cloak in what is essentially a hope chest, which is meant to store clothing for future married life:

I wish the Hound were here. The night of the battle, Sandor Clegane had come to her chambers to take her from the city, but Sansa had refused. Sometimes she lay awake at night, wondering if she'd been wise. She had his stained white cloak hidden in a cedar chest beneath her summer silks. She could not say why she'd kept it. Sansa I, ASOS

When the Tyrells are planning to wed Sansa to Willas, she imagines what it would be like to be married to him:

What did it matter about his leg? Willas would be Lord of Highgarden and she would be his lady. Sansa II, ASOS

Sansa very quickly accepts the idea of a husband with a bad leg. Who else has this disability?

On the upper slopes they saw three boys driving sheep, and higher still they passed a lichyard where a brother bigger than Brienne was struggling to dig a grave. From the way he moved, it was plain to see that he was lame. Brienne VI, AFFC

There’s also her dream about Sandor the night of Petyr and Lysa’s wedding:

It was Lothor Brune's voice, she realized. Not the Hound's, no, how could it be? Of course it had to be Lothor... That night Sansa scarcely slept at all, but tossed and turned just as she had aboard the Merling King. She dreamt of Joffrey dying, but as he clawed at his throat and the blood ran down across his fingers she saw with horror that it was her brother Robb. And she dreamed of her wedding night too, of Tyrion's eyes devouring her as she undressed. Only then he was bigger than Tyrion had any right to be, and when he climbed into the bed his face was scarred only on one side. "I'll have a song from you," he rasped, and Sansa woke and found the old blind dog beside her once again. Sansa VI, ASOS

Then there’s Sansa’s response when she’s asked if she knows what happens in a marriage bed:

She thought of Tyrion, and of the Hound and how he’d kissed her, and gave a nod. Alayne II, AFFC

It makes sense for Sansa to think of Tyrion here, but why is she thinking about Sandor in the context of a marriage bed? Unlike Sandor, Littlefinger has actually kissed her, and before Tyrion, she was betrothed to Joffrey. Of the handful of men Sansa has been romantically linked to, Sandor is the only one she actually wants to share a marriage bed with. This line is an echo of her dream the night of Petyr and Lysa’s wedding. Whenever Sansa thinks about wedding nights or marriage beds, Tyrion is the first man she thinks of, but her thoughts always quickly turn to Sandor.

The marriage motif in Sansa and Sandor’s relationship arc is most palpable during the Blackwater, but it’s subtly woven into the entire series — both before and after. It's also significant that the symbolic wedding in the Blackwater scene is incomplete. Sandor doesn’t actually kiss Sansa, and he leaves King’s Landing without her. His attempt at wife stealing fails because she isn’t ready, and he isn’t worthy of her — yet. Both characters have undergone a great deal of growth since the Blackwater, so will Sandor get a second chance?

He took a song and a kiss, and left me nothing but a bloody cloak. It made no matter. That day was done, and so was Sansa. Alayne II, AFFC

By Sansa’s own (inadvertent) admission, the day of the Blackwater isn’t finished. Sandor might get another shot at wife stealing in TWOW — and maybe their symbolic union will someday become a literal one.

#sansan saturdays #get her a dog #sansan meta #sansan #asoiaf meta #asoiaf #sansa stark #sandor clegane

[magicfootballstuff]

Gym Buddies (alexia putellas x reader)

Summary: When you rupture a ligament shortly after joining Barcelona, your new captain is there to help you through the long recovery process.

———

You don’t actually see much of Alexia in your first few weeks at Barcelona.

You had been in camp with your national team when the news broke that Alexia would be missing the Euros because of a knee injury, and though you paid attention to the story, knowing that this was an injury affecting a soon-to-be teammate, you had been so caught up in your own Euro preparations that it didn’t actually register what it meant until you actually find yourself in the Barcelona training facility for pre-season.

You meet Alexia on your first day with the team. She welcomes you in accented English and pulls you in for a hug - the kind of polite but awkward hug you get from a vague acquaintance - and then moves away to chat to some of the Spanish girls, leaving you slightly starstruck. You try not to let it show though. She may have a Ballon D’Or and another potentially on the way soon, but you’re a European champion, a very good footballer in your own right, but it’s Alexia bloody Putellas and she has this aura of magic around her, even without a ball at her feet.

And then, when the team start their warmup drills for your first ever training session at Barcelona, Alexia disappears off the pitch for her rehab session in the gym, and you realise it might be a little while longer before you actually get to play with her.

She remains a bit of a mystery, showing her face here and there, though she mostly seems to spend time with the girls who have been at Barcelona with her for years, and she shows up dutifully to every match to cheer from the sidelines, but Alexia is focused on the rehab that keeps her away from the training pitch.

But then, three weeks into the season, just when you’re starting to feel settled and have found your place in a star-studded Barcelona team, an awkward challenge in a match sees you falling badly and being helped off the pitch by the team physios with tears in your eyes. You hope it’s just a sprained ankle, something you can recover from quickly and find yourself back on the pitch in just a few weeks, but the scan the morning after the game confirms the worst - you’ve torn a ligament and will be out for several months.

Having not really spent much time with Alexia so far, it’s a bit of a surprise when you turn up to the training ground for your first session post-surgery, foot strapped up in a plastic boot, and are greeted straight away with a hug from your injured captain.

“We’ve got this,” she murmurs into your ear, her arms still wrapped around you as she holds you close. “Anything you need, I’m here to help.”

“Thank you,” you tell her, squeezing her just that little bit tighter in response.

———

Later, when most of the girls are out on the pitch and you find yourself in the gym with Alexia and a couple of others who are sidelined with minor injuries, she reiterates her support for you.

“Are you okay?” she asks, while one of the physios is writing up your programmes for the day on a whiteboard in the gym - you’ve got an upper body circuit while Alexia will be doing a mix of strength training and low impact cardio.

“Yeah,” you reply. “I’m fine.”

“No, I mean are you okay? Like mentally?” Alexia taps her fingers against her temple to emphasise her question. “An injury can be tough to take.”

“Oh. Well, I’m disappointed, obviously. I just want to play. But this is part of football.”

“Somebody paid attention to their media training,” Alexia jokes, shooting you a little smirk. “A very professional answer. But you can open up to me if you’re struggling. I get it.” She gestures down at her knee. “Some days I’m really not okay. I love supporting the girls but it’s so hard to watch them and not join in. So if you need someone to talk to, remember I’m here. As your captain and as your friend.”

You realise now why she’s so popular among the team, why everybody who knows her speaks so highly about her as a person off the pitch as well as her obvious talent on it.

“Thanks, Alexia.”

“We’ll get through this. We’re injury partners now.”

“How about we say gym buddies instead of injury partners?” you suggest, gesturing around at the gym that will be your home for the foreseeable future until you get the all clear to go back out onto the training pitch. “Less depressing.”

Alexia grins at you.

“Deal.”

———

“Hola, gym buddy,” says Alexia, hurrying to catch up with you and draping an arm around your shoulders as you hobble into the gym on crutches two weeks into your rehab.

It’s been the hardest two weeks of your career, but you wouldn’t have been able to make it through without Alexia’s constant presence and support. You haven’t known her for long but she seems to know you better than anybody else on the team, she knows exactly what to say, when you need support and when you need space, and is rapidly becoming the sole reason you’re able to get out of bed each morning and motivate yourself to work through the slow progress of your rehab.

“Hey, Alexia,” you greet your captain.

“Ready for another day of hard work?” she asks you.

“I am now,” you joke.

Rehab is hard. And boring, too. You don’t yet feel like you’re actually making any progress, still unable to do any exercises that put unnecessary weight on your injured foot, you’re really just playing a waiting game until the boot can come off and the real work can begin.

“I’m hoping they let me use the bike today for the first time,” Alexia tells you, excitement barely contained in her voice.

“Ale, that’s huge!” you congratulate her. “I’m so happy for you.”

———

Recovery isn’t all good news. You learn that the hard way when your plastic boot comes off. What you thought would be a huge step forward in your recovery actually ends up just highlighting the mountain you have ahead of you. Perhaps naively you thought you’d be able to start ramping up the exercises pretty quickly, but the trainers are cautious and your rehab programme consists of the same old upper body workouts with only a handful of conditioning exercises for your ankle thrown in. Actually kicking a football again seems like it’s an eternity away.

But you’re not the only one who finds it difficult. Alexia presents such a strong exterior, full of motivation on your darkest days and always the one working hardest in the gym to get back to her best, but not even she is made entirely of stone.

You learn that when you go to the bathroom in the middle of a gym session and hear somebody crying in a locked cubicle.

Most of the team are outside on the training pitch, and of those of you doing recovery sessions indoors, all except one were accounted for when you left the gym a moment ago. There’s only one person this can be.

“Alexia?”

The sniffling stops and the subsequent silence that shrouds the bathroom is enough to confirm your hunch that your captain is the one crying in the locked cubicle.

“Alexia, it’s me.”

“I’m fine!” she calls back.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask.

Silence. You want to support her but you’re not going to push it if she’s not comfortable.

“Okay, I’m going to go now but if you change your mind…”

You hear the bolt being slid across and the hinges creak as Alexia steps out. Her eyes are red and puffy and her cheeks glisten with tear tracks.

“I can’t do this,” she confesses, her voice cracking mid-sentence as she tries to stifle a fresh flood of tears.

You don’t know what to say. Alexia, the stoic captain, your rock since you picked up your own injury, standing before you more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen her before, and all you want to do is make sure that it’s all going to be okay. But telling her that doesn’t feel right - you know from your struggles with your own injury that those kinds of empty assurances are sometimes the exact opposite of what you need.

Alexia doesn’t need telling that, she needs to know that somebody understands her pain.

“I’m not going to tell you that you can do this,” you start, “but there have been so many times over the last couple of months that I’ve thought that I can’t do this. I’ve wanted to give up, to quit football. Some days I haven’t even wanted to get out of bed. Do you know the only reason why I did get up on those days?”

You pause for effect and Alexia says nothing, waiting for you to answer your own question. You place your hands on her arms as you look into her shimmering eyes.

“Because I know that when I get to the training ground, my gym buddy is going to be there to help me through the day.”

Alexia’s mouth twitches at the mention of the affection nickname you’ve been using for each other throughout your recovery.

You continue, “I’m working towards the day that I get to step out onto the grass and kick a ball around with the person who has saved me from my own worst demons. I want to play football with you. And just like you’ve been there for me, I’m here for you to make sure we get to that day together.”

“I can’t be strong every day.”

“You don’t have to be. But I think the strongest thing you’ve done since I met you is admitting that you’re not okay. I’m here for you today, so let it all out. Tomorrow we fight again together. Okay?”

Alexia throws her arms around you and pulls your body against hers for a tight hug.

“Okay,” she murmurs into your hair.

———

Something shifts after that moment. Before Alexia’s little breakdown, you had thought that it was her who was supporting you through your injury, but now you realise that you’re helping her just as much. You both have difficult moments - setbacks, or days where your return to the pitch seems an impossibly long way in the future - but you learn to read each other. Alexia can tell when you’re having a down day and gives you extra encouragement, hugs and humour, and you do the same when you can tell that she needs it too.

The months pass and the recovery intensifies. Somehow, despite your differing injuries, the timelines start to match up. You’re back running on the grass not long after Alexia, you rejoin the rest of the team for parts of the normal training within a week of each other, and when the time finally comes for you to return to the matchday squad, you and Alexia are both given approval to play again by the physios on the same weekend.

You even get subbed onto the pitch at the same time, when Barcelona are four goals up with twenty minutes left on the clock.

As the official gets the substitute board ready, Alexia’s hand finds yours and she squeezes your fingers. Your turn your head to look at her, to find her grinning at you.

“We did it,” she tells you.

“Yeah, we did.”

There’s so much more you want to say, so much you need to thank her for, because you wouldn’t have made it to this point without her by your side, but this isn’t the moment.

The teammates you’re replacing high five you as they come off and just like that, you’re back on a football pitch for an actual competitive game for the first time in forever.

The stadium erupts into monumental applause, and while you know that the Barcelona fans are mostly cheering the return of La Reina after ten months off the pitch, Alexia makes sure to direct her own applause to you as you both jog onto the pitch, and that’s all that matters to you.

Alexia ends up scoring Barcelona’s fifth and final goal, a free kick from just outside the box, because how else does a double Ballon D’Or winner announce their return to competitive football? As the back of the net ripples and the crowd roars, she runs straight over to you and wraps you in an embrace so tight that she physically lifts you off the ground, and your feet only touch the grass again when the rest of your teammates join the huddle to congratulate their captain.

The match ends not too long after and Alexia once again seeks you out straight away. She puts a hand on either side of your head and looks you straight in the eye, her face cracking open into a grin.

“We’re back,” Alexia says.

“We are,” you agree. “And you scored.”

“That goal was for you.”

You don’t get to respond because the rest of the team bundles into you and you can only watch as they work together to lift Alexia up and start throwing her into the air. Then before you know it they’ve gone for you too, and you find yourself lifted off the ground in celebration of your return to the matchday squad.

You have a brief moment of worry that they’re going to drop you and inflict another injury on you, but then you hear Alexia’s laughter rippling through the air and you feel at ease again.

She always has a way of settling your anxieties, whether she’s trying or not.

———

Some time later, when you’ve showered and changed and the dressing room is almost empty, you look around for Alexia but can’t see her anywhere.

Lucy, who is supposed to be giving you a lift home after the match, nudges you and says, “She went back onto the pitch.”

You turn to look at her quizzically, because she can’t possibly know who you’re looking for.

“What?”

“Alexia. Go on, I’ll wait in the car. Tell her how you feel.”

Your cheeks burn.

“It’s not … I don’t …”

“If there’s anything I’ve learned from my own past injuries,” Lucy interrupts your stammering, “it’s that life is too short to live with any regrets. Go and talk to her. I think you’ll be surprised.”

You don’t say anything but nod your thanks to Lucy, hoisting your boot bag onto your shoulder and exiting the dressing room. You wander back down the tunnel and out to the edge of the pitch. Alexia is nowhere to be seen, but when you turn around, you spot a lone figure sitting up in the stands, surveying the empty pitch in front of her.

You climb the steps two at a time and walk between the rows of seats, before sitting down next to Alexia.

“I’ve been playing on this pitch in a Barcelona jersey for longer than I can remember,” Alexia tells you, keeping her eyes straight ahead. “Every time it’s special. I can’t tell you how many times in the last few months I thought I’d never get that honour ever again.”

You laugh, ready to tell Alexia that she’s insane, because while you had similar moments of worry in your own rehab journey, you never for once doubted that Alexia wouldn’t make it back, but she turns to you and continues speaking.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have got here without you,” she tells you.

“I definitely wouldn’t have done it without you,” you admit. “My gym buddy.”

Lucy’s words ring in your ears. Now is the moment to tell Alexia how you feel, but you clam up at the prospect, unable to find the words to tell Alexia how much she means to you.

Luckily, Alexia seems to be stronger than you, and finds the words you can’t.

“You’re so much more than my gym buddy,” Alexia tells you, reaching across and taking your hand. “You entered my life at exactly the right moment and I’m so lucky to have you.”

You let your fingers tangle with Alexia’s, you heart hammering in your chest as you steel yourself for a moment that seems harder than any you went through during your recovery.

“I’m the lucky one,” you confess. “I wouldn’t have wanted to do this with anybody else by my side. You’re more than my teammate, more than my friend. I think I’m falling for you.”

There. It’s out. You finally admitted it. Your heart is out there for Alexia to bruise in a way that will be much harder to heal from than a stupid ankle injury.

But Alexia lets out a deep breath and her mouth curls up into a smile, a look of adoration in her eyes as she squeezes your fingers.

“Me too. I’m so glad you feel the same. I thought I was being stupid.”

“Can I kiss you?” you blurt out.

“Please,” Alexia nods.

You lean in and the moment that your lips touch Alexia’s is even more euphoric than kicking a football again after months of rehab. A memorable day becomes even more special as Alexia reciprocates your kiss, lips moving slowly against each other, a reward and a thank you for months of helping each other through the tough times to get to today.

You pull apart when you’re getting breathless, and though you’d happily spend the rest of the night here, kissing Alexia in the stands at the Estadi Johan Cruyff until long after the sun has gone down, you know you should probably head home.

“I really don’t want to go, but Lucy’s waiting in the car to drive me home,” you tell Alexia, still holding onto her hand as you start your goodbyes. “But thank you again for everything.”

“I don’t think I’m going to forget today for a long time,” Alexia says. “For more than one reason.”

“Me neither,” you agree. You lean in for one more kiss, unable to get enough of Alexia’s lips, before you pull away and reluctantly let go of her hand as you stand up. “See you in training?”

“Or sooner,” suggests Alexia, with a smile that causes your heart to do a little flip. “I’ll text you.”

“I can’t wait.”

#woso imagine #woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas

[ssnowflowers]

"Does anything matter to you? Like what do hold close to yourself? Just yourself? Just your life?" "Is the idea that pirates don't hold themselves accountable to any sort of structure...news to you?"

This moment. This moment is messing me up. And I think it's such a perfect window into P!Acho and P!Owen as characters.

Owen is, at a core level, someone who does not build things. Owen has spent her whole life on the run. Always fleeing problems. Taking things he wants and leaving them when they get boring.

Sure, Owen mentions structure. But that doesn't mean rules specifically. It's expectation, it's any kind of social normalcy. Owen became a pirate because it is freedom from rules and structure put in place. But there's still structure, a way you're meant to be a pirate. You're supposed to find something that drives you and find a crew to trust.

Owen has none of that.

In fact, she spends a large amount of time complaining about the Herons faction. How traditional and rules based they are. He literally gets attacked by Eret, and still complains about the rules of the faction isles.

It's why he gravitates towards Acho. Because she is an outsider among outsiders. Someone who doesn't care for the faction system, someone who has left behind responsibility and expectation like she did.

Owen loves being a pirate, because no one can tell him how to act.

Meanwhile, Acho is someone who is constantly creating things. Connections, rare items, important structures and even a large bank account. Acho is always, in some form or another, creating.

Which is why Acho feels so strongly about staying and fighting. A part of star has always lived in the isles. The Nightingales has become their home, they've made friends. He's reconnected with their brother. Being a pirate has given them a chance to explore, to find, to enjoy life.

They've built things here, and they cannot lose that.

Acho talks about not being a true Nightingale. But when he and Will are the first ships there during the rescue mission, Acho tells Will he will go in with or without the other pirates, because he needs to save their friends. He comforts Graecie, he ensures Scott is safe, he wants to keep Apo around in the faction isles.

Because they always want to build things. And their connections are their most important construction.

It's why they are so angry at Owen leaving. They've built a connection with Owen. She was someone to talk to, he was someone star could be honest with. They had a connection and Owen decided that didn't matter. That none of it mattered.

Owen left, because she was never making a home of the isles. It was just a stop off point. Acho was just another person among the many Owen had charmed.

Acho stayed, because star made the isles into a home. And Owen was not dime a dozen.

#pirates smp #snow speaks #scurvyblr #owengejuicetv #acho

[linka-from-captain-planet]

Rating BG3 Ladies Stroke Game

My brain won't let me write my fics so have this shit instead.

Ratings based on vibes and also facts opinions (controversial: not everyone can be a sex god)

all the main and supporting women + my background babes: Florrick, Talli, Alfira, Lakrissa, Araj, Nocturne, Skoona, Adrielle, Z'rell, (ETA:) Nine-Fingers, and special guest star Philomeen

*Anyone can be trans and straps are for everyone regardless, so take your pic on homegrown vs store-bought and/or magical strap*

*Also sex is like pizza, so average results are in fact still pretty good. Only 2, 1, and 0/10 are truly trash dick. So a 5 or 6 is still a compliment!*

Lae'zel: 10/10. She pulls hair, she spanks ass. She has the experience, the athleticism, the drive, the romantic heart. Also the greatest switch to ever live as a simultaneous 10/10 bottom.

Shadowheart: 5/10. Her experience is mostly hand/mouth activities due to lack of privacy/places to hide supplies or apparati in the cloister. She has better ways of making a lover fall apart, but her stroke game is perfectly serviceable.

Karlach: 6/10. LISTEN. I see the vision as a tongue god, but she needs some work to hone her stroke game (too eager = painful, and a possible classic Bigger Is Always Better fallacy waiting to happen), and like SH, she's also not very experienced. She can and will ascend the ranks, but give her a minute to get there!!

Minthara: 10/10. We all know this. She has like 200 years of experience as well as the drive, focus, precision, athleticism, and heart. She gets RESULTS, but also is surprisingly emotionally available, so she covers all the physical, emotional, and psychological bases.

Jaheira: 4/10. Not her favorite, or her forte. CAN she strap? Yes, and it's satisfying, but nothing to write home about. A queen of the accessibility strap (thigh/hand harness GOATed... iykyk) due to her knees/lumbar hurting.

Isobel: 5/10. Perfectly serviceable, likes to tease, knows the technique and executes it well. However, being 5'2" with lung issues holds her back when it comes to higher intensity activities. Also an accessibility harness queen.

Aylin: 12/10. Has been at it since before anyone else on this list was even born. Once she connects emotionally to her partner, there's no going back to anyone else. Perfect balance of brutality and gentleness; she knows how to use her weight, and her aftercare is literal god tier.

Mizora: 0/10. Would probably be pretty good if she deigned to do it, but let's be so for real, pup!

Orin: ??/10. Either a 0 or a 10, no inbetween. A freak bitch for the daring sort who are willing to gamble on what she meant when she said she wanted to 'get all up in your guts'.

Florrick: 3/10. A perfect example of how a dominant personality doesn't always translate to an ability to top. Will do it, but focuses too much on technique and zones out and starts thinking about work. Definitely would rather be on the bottom being ridden VS putting the stroke effort in herself.

Talli: 7/10. A humble, ego-free, service top for all who enjoy a gentler lover. Hesitant to get too rough or nasty with it; she's got that +3 STR and she knows how to use it, but she doesn't want to hurt or disrespect her sweetie!

Alfira: 1/10. Sweet Alfie has many good and sexy qualities but she is never taking anyone to pound town ever. She will do it, and it might be fun and playful, but never "good" by any objective measure. Absolute demon on a slower, more sensual grind, but anything approaching "stroke game"? You're barking up the wrong tree.

Lakrissa: 10/10. Technically an 8 but gets 2 bonus points for being a random girl off the streets and not an alien, centuries-old elf, or demigod. Great dick does walk among us mortals!! She's athletic, she's flirty, she's fun, she's a known giver. She will work extra shifts at her bitch ass job to buy you a house, she will smash you through the floor of said house, she will fix the floor. The total package!

Araj: 4/10. Wears some kind of weird strap regardless of her own equipment because she loves the flair and drama of it, but isn't particularly skilled. Gets distracted. Bad top etiquette. Never shuts up. Still, she gets the job done.

Nocturne: 6/10. Like Shadowheart, her experience is limited by the lack of opportunity in the cloister; but as quartermaster, she would have a greater ability to obtain and hide supplies/equipment, so potentially more experience. Also, maybe as an officer, she was involved in more prestigious orgies?

Skoona: 7/10. Would rather be on the bottom getting pampered, but is an above average top due to always being expected to top. Also a very tender lover (not necessarily "stroke game").

Adrielle: 8/10. She has no choice but to break backs because otherwise, the weight of expectations she places on her own shoulders would break hers. Meticulous. Thorough. Is she enjoying herself? She doesn't know the meaning of the word, but being of service makes her feel whole, and that's what matters, RIGHT?

Z'rell: You Can't Handle It/10. Don't worry about it, maggot. It's not for YOU.

Nine-Fingers: 10/10. Your fingers will quake such that you sign over the deed to your house in her name and you won't even be mad about it. She knows how to work People- what makes them tick. What makes them BOOM. An unforgettable experience.

Philomeen: 20/10. It's the toxicity, I fear. If she can and will blow you up, she can and will blow your back out. It's science. It doesn't matter if she's 1/3 your size, she is FUCKING. You WILL hate yourself after.

#nsft

[mcverse]

ꨄ︎ Paring: Rotxo x Adopted! Sully! GN Reader

ꨄ︎ Requested: Yes/No

ꨄ︎ Type: One Shot

ꨄ︎ Word count: 4.8K

ꨄ︎ Warnings: angst, fluff, unrequited love, requited love, mention of you. Not really mentions of reader being female so I changed it to gn. Safe for 17+ to read. Not proof read, possible spelling mistakes.

please keep in mind that all characters in my stories are always 18+

How can one miss someone who was never theirs to begin with?

Perhaps you played yourself, allowing a delusional desire to take root, hoping against all odds that he could be yours. Lost in a dense fog of denial, you knew deep down that this kind of love was never meant for you—that it wasn't directed your way.

Ever since you and your adoptive family arrived in Awa'atlu for uturu, you have all been in the spotlight, but some receive more attention than others. Sadly, the attention you crave the most is effortlessly bestowed upon your sister. His oceanic eyes gaze at her with the intensity you wish he would reserve for you, overflowing with adoration and admiration. It feels almost criminal to witness someone being worshipped so deeply, while she remains completely oblivious to his love.

How can you ever find the words to tell him that every night, as you lay beneath the sky's embrace, peering through the cracks in the mauri, your thoughts are consumed by him? With each star you count, you offer silent prayers, hoping that a shooting star from the tales of old tawtute will streak across the heavens, allowing you to make a wish, fully aware that it will revolve around him.

He was the sun that illuminated your days when they felt impossibly dim just by a smile sent your way, and you were the moon, forever drawn to his orbit, seeking a place in his world. The farther he seemed, the closer you yearned to be, until the yearning became insatiable. You craved his warmth, his light, wanting nothing more than to bask in his radiance. Your existence revolved around him, and with every passing day, the desire to bridge the gap grew stronger. Closer and closer you wanted to get, until the closeness became enough, until only your love for him was enough.

You're unsure how you came to love him so deeply, and it pains you to part ways even briefly. Eywa herself knows the internal struggle you endure when you watch him fade into the distance, vanishing without another word, with your concealed emotions left unspoken.

He was kind, supportive, and courageous—a formidable warrior among the people, a remarkable friend within your youthful circle, and a well-suited potential partner. You wish you could rid yourself of your feelings for him, much like the way he yearns for your sister, but his qualities are impossible to overlook.

Your heart tightens each time you witness him trailing behind her, wearing the most beautiful and genuine smile, calling out her name in gleeful laughter, "Kiri! Where are you headed?" as he dutifully follows her, unaware of the effect it has on you. He would likely follow her to the ends of the earth, and you’ll understand because you’ll do the same.

You often found yourself lost in a tumultuous sea of thoughts, seeking solace by the ocean's edge, far removed from prying eyes. The weight of your emotions became overwhelming, making it agonizingly difficult to confide in someone, fearing their judgment and the damning label of selfishness.

Yet, can it truly be branded as selfish when it's painfully evident that Rotxo yearns to court her, while she remains oblivious or so it seems? What if she truly knows and deliberately keeps him dangling on a string?

Great Mother, your love for your sister burns with an intensity that knows no bounds, but does she truly grasp the power she holds—the power to choose between two hearts held tenderly within her hands? The weight of that choice is immense, leaving you in a state of anguished uncertainty and bittersweet longing.

Then, whether through a twist of destiny or the compassion of Eywa, Rotxo mustered the courage one day to reveal his feelings to Kiri. To your surprise, she was completely unaware of his intentions, blissfully ignorant of his affection towards her. It seemed her attention was focused on another, a fellow female Na'vi within the village. How Rotxo missed that detail remained a mystery, but he wasn't the only one caught off guard. The news reached your ears when Kiri returned home, her expression filled with solemnity.

At first, you struggle to contain your bubbling excitement. It felt like Rotxo was finally free, and a glimmer of hope sparked within you. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something between you two. However, as Kiri proceeded to explain his reaction, a wave of guilt crashed over you. You realized that you had unwittingly taken his pain and transformed it into your own joy, and the weight of that realization bore down heavily upon your conscience.

That night, sleep escapes you, and you found yourself restlessly shifting in bed, tormented by thoughts of Rotxo. His once charming smile was replaced with a frown in your mind's eye. It unsettled you to the core, knowing that he was burdened with sorrow while you held onto a glimmer of hope.

Reality struck hard—you understood deep down that there was no possibility for you and him. He had just experienced rejection, and pursuing another romantic endeavor would be the least of his concerns. The gravity of this truth kept you awake, lost in contemplation throughout the night. Eventually, you abandon the pursuit of sleep and ventured to the shoreline, where you wandered along the edge of the ocean, sinking your feet into the soft sand as you sought solace in the rhythm of the waves.

Eventually you reach your usual spot, a quiet place for reflection, you freeze in your tracks. Your expectation of finding it deserted is shattered by the sound of gentle sniffles. Someone else seeks refuge there, their emotions overwhelming them too. A bittersweet warmth fills your heart, realizing that this place offers comfort and solace to others who grapple with their own feelings. Though your initial instinct is to respect their privacy and leave, your intention wavers when you hear his voice—his familiar voice that stops you in your tracks.

His voice trembles with vulnerability, as he opens up about his pain and heartache. The rawness in his words sends a surge of emotions coursing through you. You stand there, hidden from view, listening intently as he pours out his feelings. Every word he utters resonates with your own hidden desires, with the longing you've kept locked away.

An uneasy feeling begins to wash over you, as if you are trespassing on his intimate moment. You recognize that these words were never meant for your ears, that he did not willingly choose to confide in you. Caught in this dilemma, you find yourself torn between respecting his boundaries and offering a comforting presence. Yet, you cannot bear to leave him in such a vulnerable state. So, with cautious steps, you retreat to the entrance and clear your throat, hoping to make your presence known.

His glossy eyes shift in your direction, and the sight tugs at your heartstrings. It stirs within you an overwhelming urge to rush to his side, to wrap him in a warm embrace and assure him that everything will be alright. But you hold yourself back, restraining the impulse. Instead, you offer him a gentle smile, your voice soft and tentative as you speak up, "I'm sorry... I don't mean to intrude, but... are you okay, Rotxo?"

His gaze lingers on you, caught off guard by your sudden presence. He takes a moment to collect himself, his voice trembling as he responds, "Not really." He lowers his gaze to the ground, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

Frowning, you move closer, squatting down beside him on the ground. From this vantage point, you peer at him under your lowered lashes, your heart betraying you by racing at the proximity. You curse the timing of these feelings, fully aware that now is not the moment to indulge in personal desires. Your sole focus remains on providing comfort and support.

"Why are you crying?" you ask, although the reason is painfully obvious. You choose not to spell it out, allowing him the space to share what he wishes.

He presses his lips together, taking a slow, steadying breath before he responds, his voice barely above a whisper, his voice barely above a whisper, his body slumped with sadness.

"Kiri didn't tell you?" he murmurs, his words heavy with a mixture of pain and confusion.

Naturally, she did. She was your sister, bonded by a deep connection whether by blood or not. It was evident that the weight of her own struggles had become too much to bear alone, leading her to confide in you, and for that, you were grateful. But now is not the time to reveal that knowledge.

“No,” you furrow your brows, gulping as you consider you answer, “She didn’t. Should she have?”

Your question hangs in the air, masking the truth that you hold. You tread carefully, protecting your sister's trust while trying to offer him the support he seeks. You wait, holding your breath, aware that his answer will shape the course of this vulnerable moment between the two of you.

Finally, he breaks the stillness, his words faltering as he reveals, "I... I like Kiri..." His eyes shift away, avoiding direct contact.

You offer a subtle nod, acknowledging his admission. "I know," you respond softly, holding more understanding than he realizes.

His ears flick up before lying flat against his head, sinking his face into his hands as he groans in exasperation, "So it was obvious to everyone except her?" His eyes welling up with tears once more.

Your willpower to respect his boundaries crumbles in an instant, overridden by your overwhelming urge to provide comfort. Acting on instinct, you step into his personal space and wrap your arms around him, seeking to offer solace and support. You understand that apologies can come later; right now, all that matters is being there for him, as he has been for others in their moments of sadness.

He tenses at the unexpected contact, momentarily pausing in his sniffling. But then he returns the embrace, holding onto you tightly and burying his head in your shoulder. The wetness of his tears dampens your skin, a physical manifestation of the depth of his need for comfort, perhaps more than he even realizes.

"I'm sorry she didn't see you the way you saw her..." you murmur softly, your hand rubbing his back in a soothing motion, akin to a mother comforting her child. It feels fitting, given the sense of family that he most-likely come to associate with you.

"I feel so stupid," he whines, his eyes tightly shut as he shuffles closer, seeking more solace in your warmth. It's as if he has been deprived of it for so long, though you know that cannot be true. His parents were present. His self-blame stems solely from the rejection he has faced. "I... I should have noticed the signs... I should have."

Shaking your head softly, you offer reassurance, "She didn't give any signs. You weren't the only one who didn't know,” you pause to ponder you next words, it’ll be a risky statement given the circumstances but maybe you were selfish if you did, “Maybe if you did, you could have found someone who’d reciprocates your feelings.”

"Nobody would want me after this. It's humiliating," he practically whispers so low you’ll miss it if he wasn’t this close to you. His sniffling has long subsided as he rests his head on your shoulder. His arms loosen their grip, hanging loosely around you, "I wouldn't want me."

Your heart aches at the sight of his self-deprecating words, the pain and insecurity etched on his face. Without a second thought, you gently push him back, your hands resting on his chest, a small act of resistance against his negative thoughts. His swollen, confused eyes meet yours as you lean closer.

Placing a hand on his thigh for comfort, you let your voice carry the weight of your words, "Never say that about yourself," you say firmly, your frown reflecting your deep concern, "Rotxo, you are so much more than this moment of rejection. You deserve love just like anyone else. Don't let this define your worth."

Your fingertips caress his cheeks, radiating warmth and tenderness as they glide along his skin. A softness lingers in your touch, an unspoken reassurance that you offer with every stroke. Despite the tremor that quivers through your own hands, a testament to the emotions swirling within you, you remain steadfast in your mission to uplift his spirits and kindle a flicker of hope within his wounded heart.

Truly, it was right there before him, concealed in plain sight, much like it was with Kiri. You can't help but marvel at the irony of it all, how easily the heart can be blind to what lies just beyond its reach. Yet, a tender fondness washes over you, an understanding of his innocence and his unwitting ignorance of the precious connection that beckoned him.

Perhaps, you think, it's for the best that he remained oblivious for now, as the pain is still fresh and tender.

"Do you really think so?" he asks, his eyes filled with wonder and a glimmer of hope, desperately seeking validation in your response. As you nod and offer a soft smile, his face lights up with a genuine smile, the first of the day. Excitedly, he pulls you into a heartfelt hug, his pure nature shining through. This man is truly a gem.

You find yourself grappling with a myriad of emotions as you reflect on the situation. It perplexes you why he seemed oblivious to the impact he had on your heart. Taking a deep breath to steady your racing thoughts, you decide it's time to bring this poignant exchange to a close.

Clearing your throat, you slowly rise from your seated position, your gaze momentarily avoiding his captivating eyes that shimmer in the gentle moonlight. The silence between you stretches, filled with unspoken words and lingering emotions.

"I think it's best if we both make our way back," you say, your voice carrying a tinge of melancholy and unrequited longing.

He reciprocates with a gentle smile, its genuineness captivating you, even in the midst of this tender farewell. A subtle nod of understanding passes between you, both acknowledging the intricate complexities of the moment.

His voice resonates with heartfelt gratitude, softly punctuating the stillness that envelops you both, "Thank you."

With those words lingering in the air like a whispered promise, you reluctantly part ways, each step carrying the weight of unspoken emotions. The night embraces you, wrapping you in its embrace as you find comfort in the knowledge that you were there for one another, if only for a fleeting moment.

Little did you know, it was far from being the last encounter.

The following morning arrives, and you attempt to steal a few extra moments of slumber, seeking refuge from the complexities of the previous night. However, your peaceful interlude is shattered by the persistent calls of your mother, who reminds you of the responsibilities and obligations that come with being a member of the Metkayina. The demands of productivity override any personal desires, and you resign yourself to the tasks that lie ahead.

You decide to embark on a fishing expedition, a familiar ritual that brings level headedness and nourishment. Equipped with your trusty net, you make your way to one of the favored fishing spots, immersing yourself in the tranquil waters. The cool embrace of the water fails to deter you as you wade deeper, determined to fulfill your task and provide a bountiful catch for your family.

After a while of not catching anything in your chosen fishing spot, you decide to relocate. Fortunately, the change of location proves fruitful, and you're grateful for the decision as you witness a group of male Na'vi engaging in animated conversation, their attention fixated on Rotxo and his fishing prowess.

A sense of amusement washes over you as you realize his popularity. Who would have thought?

Without a second thought, you find yourself wading through the water towards him, unintentionally interrupting the tranquility he sought. "Looks like you've got some admirers," you playfully tease, you playfully tease, coming to a halt a few feet away. He turns to you, confusion evident in his eyes.

"What do you mean, (Name)?" he asks, genuinely puzzled. But his confusion quickly fades as you gesture towards the group of Na'vi, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. He takes a step back, shrugging his shoulders, a slight frown forming on his face. "They've been there all morning. Just gossiping, I suppose."

A surge of annoyance wells up within you, no longer able to tolerate his self-doubt. "Enough of that," you assert, your voice carrying a deep resonance. "Anyone would be lucky to have you... including myself." The words slip out in a mumble, almost lost amidst the sounds of nature. Whether he catches your confession or not, he remains silent, stealing a quick glance in your direction before returning his focus to the task at hand.

A comfortable silence envelops you both, accompanied by the gentle lapping of waves and the occasional splash. Surprisingly, the absence of words doesn't create any awkwardness. It's a stark contrast to the usual giddy and somewhat nauseating feeling you experience in his presence. Perhaps the brief but meaningful connection you shared the previous night has brought a newfound ease and comfort when it comes to being around him.

You feel a gentle yet firm grip on your forearm, halting your motion of throwing the net once again. Turning your gaze to the source, you find Rotxo standing beside you, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he observes your fishing technique. His eyes sparkle with amusement as he takes hold of your hands, his touch sending a tingle of warmth through your skin.

Curiosity dances in his eyes as he asks, "Who taught you how to fish?"

You can't help but feel a touch of self-consciousness, looking down for a moment before meeting his gaze. "I actually taught myself," you admit, your voice carrying a hint of bashfulness.

A knowing smile graces his face as he replies, "That explains your stance. You won't catch many fish like that." He moves closer to you, his body language open and inviting. His question hangs in the air, and you find yourself captivated by his presence, eagerly granting him permission to guide you.

"I don't mind," you respond, your voice filled with anticipation and curiosity. With your consent, he takes the lead, positioning your hands and adjusting your body to align with his preferred fishing method. Every touch, every gentle adjustment, sends a jolt of electricity through your being.

"I must say, I've caught plenty of fish on my own," you playfully interject as he pulls away, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

He nods, his gaze transitioning from your hands to your eyes, a silent understanding passing between you. "I have no doubt about that. But the way you were doing it would have taken much longer," he remarks, a hint of admiration evident in his voice.

With his guidance, you make several more attempts, each time incorporating the adjustments he has shown you. It's a delicate dance of coordination, a symphony of movement and shared intention. You feel a sense of connection and trust building with each throw, as if you are moving in perfect harmony with each other and the rhythm of the water.

Time seems to melt away as you continue fishing together. Conversations flow effortlessly, laughter echoes through the air, and a sense of peace envelops you both. The symphony of nature's sounds—the gentle lapping of water against your legs, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the occasional splash of a fish—accentuates the tranquility of the moment.

A bittersweet ache tugs at your heart. You wish you that this would be the last time similar actions would be like this, that it’ll be easier to let go than to hold on to a love that can never be fully realized. It's a torment, a constant battle between the longing in your heart and the rationality in your mind. Each passing day spent in his company, teaching and bonding, feels both like a gift and a cruel twist of fate.

You had made peace with your feelings long ago, even before he confessed his love for Kiri. You had resigned yourself to the fact that friendship was the only path you could walk together, no matter how much it pained you. It was a choice to preserve what you had, to savor the moments of joy and connection, even if it meant treading a delicate tightrope of unspoken desires.

"You're spacing out again," Rotxo's voice breaks the spell of your thoughts. You find yourselves back at the familiar spot, the place where platonic confessions were made, now a couple of months later. Time has slipped away swiftly in the company of the one you love.

You let out a soft hum, meeting his gaze with contemplation and unknown affection. "I've been doing a lot of thinking," you confess, your voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

Curiosity flickers in Rotxo's eyes as he tilts his head, genuinely interested in the thoughts that have consumed you for so long. He has always respected your privacy, refraining from prying into your inner world. Yet, an undeniable concern gnaws at him, a desire to understand and offer support. You both have become pillars for each other, leaning on each other in times of need.

"Is it something troubling?" he asks, his gaze unwavering as he waits for your response.

“I think that depends on how someone sees it…” you trail off, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. The conversation takes an unexpected turn, and a wave of apprehension washes over you, making you hesitate to continue. You can't quite put your finger on it, but something feels different about this discussion, and it makes you reluctant to delve deeper.

"Will you tell me?" he whispers softly, his voice filled with concern and a touch of vulnerability. The genuine care in his eyes urges you to open up, but you find yourself momentarily speechless, unsure of how to express the conflicted emotions swirling within you. You don't want to burden him or risk jeopardizing the friendship you hold dear.

For a moment, silence hangs in the air, and he senses your hesitation. Worried that he may be crossing a line, he considers dropping the subject altogether. But just as he's about to let it go, your voice finally breaks through.

"I don't think I can continue to be your friend... I feel guilty," you confess, the words escaping your lips, filled with sadness and regret.

He shifts in his seated position, giving you his undivided attention with a serious expression. What could you possible feel guilty about? You haven’t done anything to him, he was pretty sure of that. If anything, you have been becon since his rejection, guilt was the last thing he expects you to feel. Unless it’s something he doesn’t know about.

"Guilt?" he repeats, his voice gentle yet tinged with confusion. "What is it that makes you feel this way?"

A heavy sigh escapes your lips as you try to find the right words. "It's these... feelings I have," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Feelings for who?” he wasn’t aware you had sometime you liked. And knowing that made him uncomfortable in his chest. It was a familiar feeling—like his heart has dropped to his stomach. A gasp leave Shia lips as you continue, his heart beat picking up.

“For you,” you express, looking eyes with him, “I’ve always liked you and I was content watching from afar. Then we started getting closer and my feelings gotten stronger. It’s became harder for me to ignore it. I can't help but feel guilty for having these emotions while knowing they may complicate our friendship.”

A faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he reaches out, his hand gently holding yours, a comforting gesture that you hadn't even noticed was trembling, “I think—no, I feel the same way,” he reveals.

Your eyes widen, your face flushing with warmth as you process his words, "You what?"

"I like you too," he confesses, his voice growing a little louder, “It took a while for me to realize it but when I did, I was scared that—uh, that another situation like before would happen again.” he moves to interlock your hands, lower his head bashfully as you’ve done in numerous situations.

You stare at him, your mouth hanging open in astonishment. "Do you really?"

His eyes meet yours, filled with warmth and fondness reflected in their depths. "I first noticed it when we were going to gather some fruit," he begins, his voice laced with a sense of nostalgia, "My stomach felt funny, and I couldn't help but feel excited when I saw your own excitement.”

He scoots closer to you, his shoulder gently brushing against yours, sending a delightful shiver down your spine. Your heart skips a beat, captivated by his closeness and his words.

"The first time my heart raced, I was scared and confused," he continues, his voice soft and filled with vulnerability, "You weren't even around, but it was as if you were right there in my thoughts. It took me a while to understand what those feelings meant, but now I do. I like you, more than ever. "

His eyes never leave yours as he speaks, and you can see the depth of his sincerity. It's a moment of shared revelation and vulnerability, a connection that goes beyond words.

A smile spreads across your face, mirroring the joy that fills your heart. "Me too," you whisper, your voice filled with an undeniable certainty. The weight of unspoken feelings finally lifted, replaced by the exhilarating realization that your feelings are reciprocated.

"I thought I misheard you when you said you'd be lucky to be with me," he chuckles, leaning his forehead against yours. "Little did I know, it would actually be the other way around."

You close your eyes, giggling softly at his words, flattered by his belief in your worth. "I see you," you whisper, too shy to meet his gaze. It feels surreal to hear him express his feelings so openly.

He gently releases your hand, his finger lightly tapping your cheek to get your attention. "Look at me," he insists, his voice filled with tenderness. "Tell me when you look at me."

With a bit of reluctance, you open your eyes, feeling a flutter in your stomach as your gazes meet. The intensity of his gaze sends a shiver of excitement down your spine, and in that moment, you realize that this is not a dream—it's your reality. Before you can utter a word, Rotxo beats you to it, leaving you breathless.

"I see you, (Name)," he says, his words overflowing with sweetness and sincerity. It shocked you that it was directed at you. Nearly felt like a dream if he didn’t plant a wet kiss on your nose, forcing you to wrap your head around that this was real, that he was there with you—not with Kiri or any o the other Na’vi woman.

Just you.

"Would this make it awkward, liking you after..." he starts to ask, his voice trailing off, unable to find the right words without it sounding off.

You shake your head, dispelling his concerns with a reassuring smile. "She'll understand," you assure him, confident in your response.

Because even though Kiri may have been oblivious to Rotxo's feelings, she had an inkling of your affection for him. That fateful night of raw emotions and a little too much alcohol had led to a heartfelt confession, revealing the depths of your feelings for Rotxo. In that moment, Kiri had grasp the truth, and though unspoken, an understanding had silently formed between you.

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#rotxo #✮⋆˙ 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 — 𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐱𝐨 #rotxo x reader #rotxo awow #atwow rotxo #sully reader #rotxo x you #rotxo x y/n #lo'ak sully #Lo’ak #avatar rotxo #neteyam #neteyam sully #metkayina clan #ao'nung #atwow kiri #avatar kiri #kiri x sister!reader #jake sully #jake sully x daughter!reader #rotxo x sully reader #kiri x rotxo #kiri avatar #kiri sully

[flanaganfilm]

Hi Mike! Just wondering about the wonderful Katie Parker. Since she’s been a part of the Flanaverse for a pretty long time, I was wondering how she joined Absentia and which of her roles in your work is YOUR favourite? Personally I can’t get over how good she was as Poppy.

Also just want to quickly say I’m so excited to see T’Nia again in Usher. Thank you and have a lovely day!!

I first met Katie back in - I want to say 2008? Somewhere in there. She was friends with my girlfriend at the time and soon we were friends too. She was an actor struggling to find footing in LA and used to come over for movie nights and crash on our couch, and as time went by I started to think of her as a sister. I was working full-time as an editor on reality TV shows and trying to get something started. I wrote Absentia as a project for my friends to star in, so Katie's role was custom tailored just for her. Same with Courtney, Dave, Morgan and Justin. We were all living in LA and had similar dreams, but were all struggling to pay the rent and this was a chance to make something together that might get noticed.

(Above: The first table read of ABSENTIA, sometime in 2010)

We had a blast making that little movie, and it actually did what we all hoped it would do - it kicked open some doors, and led to Oculus being picked up by Trevor Macy at Intrepid Pictures (who has produced everything I've made since).

Katie had a small cameo in Oculus, playing the phone store clerk who sells Brenton Thwaites his first cell phone after being released from a lifetime in a mental institution. The scene was sweet and Katie was great, but it wasn't in the final cut of the film. I think it may be available on the blu-ray but I'm not sure to be honest. Katie remained a great friend, but there weren't really roles in the following movies that were a perfect fit. When I got my first shot at making TV, though, I really wanted her to be in The Haunting of Hill House. She auditioned to play Joey, the recovering addict who befriends Luke. The studio wanted to go another way with the part, and so I decided to write the new character of Poppy Hill for Katie instead, and she absolutely crushed it. It was meant to be.

(Katie as Poppy Hill on the set of The Haunting of Hill House)

After that, she was kind enough to take a smaller role in a much bigger film, portraying Silent Sarey in Doctor Sleep.

(Katie signs autographs at the premiere of Doctor Sleep)

When it came time to make The Haunting of Bly Manor, I had a fun idea for Katie and my wife Kate to play the doomed sisters in one of our coolest episodes. It was exciting for Hill House fans to see them together, but it was really terrific for me to have so much trust in two actors who could make such a huge impact in one episode.

After Bly, Katie joined us for The Midnight Club, and has a wonderful role (and does some of her absolute best work) in the upcoming The Fall of the House of Usher. Just before those, though, she joined us at the Saturn Awards in LA, where we had an impromptu Absentia reunion with my sibling Jamie Flanagan and my dear friend Doug Jones, both of whom acted in that little movie all those years ago. It was really neat to see everyone in the same place again, and think back about how far we've come since those days filming in that pee-covered tunnel.

Katie is a phenomenal actor, and I was lucky enough to work with her at the very beginning of my career, and now five more time since. She's unique among the family of actors that I've accumulated over the years, in that she was there from the very beginning. We sat in a tiny apartment in Glendale dreaming of making movies, worrying about paying our rent, and trying to figure out how the hell to get where we wanted to go. I'm proud to know her, proud to collaborate her, and proud to call her family. I expect you'll see her in many, many more Intrepid productions for years to come.

#Katie Parker #makemovieswithyourfriends

[ametrinearrows]

Family Heirlooms

The arena buzzed with excitement as the crowd roared in anticipation of another thrilling WWE event. Among the sea of fans, I stood backstage, nervously adjusting my gear. My heart raced not just because of the match ahead, but also due to the unexpected reunion I was about to experience.

"Calm down, YN," I whispered to myself, taking deep breaths.

"Cody Rhodes, YN Rhodes, you're up next!" a crew member called out.

I glanced at myself in the mirror one last time before making my way towards the curtain. As I stepped through, the crowd's cheers grew even louder. I felt a surge of energy as the familiar theme music of my brother Cody echoed through the arena. I followed him, my heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and nerves.

The match was intense, the crowd on their feet with every move we made. Working alongside Cody was an incredible experience; the connection we had as siblings seemed to translate seamlessly into our teamwork.

As the match reached its climax, a rival duo cornered Cody in the ring. Just as they prepared to launch their finishing move, I intervened, sending them sprawling with a perfectly timed dropkick. Cody and I shared a quick nod before turning the tables on our opponents.

After the match, we walked backstage, sweat-soaked and breathing heavily. Cody flashed me a grin, and I couldn't help but smile back.

"YN, that dropkick was amazing! You've really stepped up your game," Cody praised, clapping me on the back.

"Thanks, Cody. I've been practicing," I replied, trying to hide the genuine pride I felt from his compliment.

Later that evening, as the stars of WWE mingled backstage, I found myself standing near the catering area, lost in my own thoughts. A voice brought me back to reality.

"Hey there, YN."

I turned around to see Seth Rollins, a fellow superstar and old friend, approaching me.

"Hey, Seth. Long time no see," I greeted him with a smile.

"Yeah, it's been a while. I've been watching your matches lately, you're really shining out there."

"Thanks, that means a lot."

Seth's gaze drifted towards the pendant I wore around my neck – a delicate silver chain with a small, ornate key hanging from it.

"Who gave you this?" Seth asked, pointing to the pendant.

I instinctively touched the pendant, a wave of emotion washing over me. "It's a family heirloom. My mom gave it to me before she... passed away."

Seth's expression softened, and he nodded in understanding. "I'm sorry, YN. She must have been an incredible woman."

"Yeah, she was."

As the weeks passed, Cody and I continued to dominate in the ring. Our dynamic duo was becoming a fan favorite, and we reveled in the camaraderie we shared.

One day, as we were preparing for an upcoming tag team match, I found Cody studying a photograph backstage. It was a picture of our mother holding us as children, with the same key pendant hanging around her neck.

"Where did you find that?" I asked, surprised.

Cody looked up, a bittersweet smile on his face. "I've had it all along. After Mom passed, Dad gave it to me, saying it was meant for the for one of us to have."

Tears welled up in my eyes as I extended my hand, touching the pendant around my neck. "Cody... thank you."

He placed the photograph on the table and pulled me into a hug. "We might not have her physically with us, but she's still here, YN. And we have each other."

As the years rolled on, Cody and I continued to dominate the WWE universe, our bond stronger than ever. The pendant and the key it symbolized became a reminder of our unbreakable connection and the legacy our mother had left behind.

Through victories and challenges, our journey in WWE was a testament to the enduring power of family. And as we stood side by side, facing the arena's roaring crowd, I knew that our story, both in and out of the ring, was just beginning.

#ametrine arrows #ametrine arrows imagines #wwe #wwe x reader #wwe imagine #wwe imagines #Monday night raw #smackdown #Cody rhodes #Cody rhodes x reader #Cody rhodes imagine #Cody rhodes imagines #Cody rhodes fanfiction #wwe fanfiction

[elsfleur]

could i request headcanons of abby or ellie with a gf who is spiritual or a witch? really likes astrology, tarot readings and the like? thank u :)

this is so self indulgent of me because i literally work as a tarot reader and am an astrology girlie so this request absolutely warmed my little witchy heart, yes yes yes!

🔮 ʾ ⠀

✧˚ you had stumbled upon what was clearly a teenage girl’s room in patrol, bright pink walls and polaroids, decorative burnt out lights from christmas trees spread across the ceiling, but most importantly: a stack of gossip magazines that put literature to shame. ellie submitted to her curiosity, quickly scanning through the still vibrant pages until her eyes fell on something curious: horoscopes. studying the small font beneath the latin names filled with dates she finally spoke up: a gemini.

✧˚ you hummed in response, confused, before catching sight of the magazine in her hands: oh, yeah you’re a gemini sun. a scorpio moon too, based on my calculations.

✧˚ a what sun? there are moons too? in all her years of life with a burning passion towards astronomy and space, going as far as dreaming of being an astronaut, something so distant in the reality you lived in, never has she ever heard the words you were speaking, searching through her memory for something and being faced only with constellation names, were you calling her a star?

✧˚ ellie was absolutely enthralled by your astrology knowledge, tearing out the horoscope pages out of all the magazines and carrying them back to your campsite despite having heard you say those were not accurate. she would take the opportunity to bombard you in astronomy facts, eyes glowing as you took the time to explain that beyond being the second planet from the sun and earth’s closest planetary neighbour venus was also a representative of love. she wanted your explanation on all of them, she would suddenly be starting conversations with things such as dina you’re such a leo and you would laugh.

✧˚ the girl was a general skeptic of all things, but when she told you about the retrograde movement of planets and you explained the devastating effects of a mercury retrograde on people, you best believe she would blame every miscommunication to occur during that period on the planet.

✧˚ at one point she would even begin confusing astronomy and astrology among herself, not quite sure where she had gotten the information she was stating as fact to joel until he burst out laughing over the traits of the taurus constellation. she really didn’t see what was so funny.

✧˚ the crystals and tarot cards were a bit too much for her to believe though, rolling her eyes until she fully understood how much those meant to you, choking back laughter as you eagerly explained what some pretty rocks could do energetically and read her future. she was the only one allowed to make fun of you though, elbowing jesse in the ribs when he started to question your card interpretations.

✧˚ you best believe she used your interests to her advantage though, memorising just enough to know if you felt sick she should hand you the light green rock and the pink rock was a love declaration (you gave her a small tumble of rose quartz and she carried it around everywhere), would write you little fake horoscope notes about how it would be a good week for your zodiac sign and a smoking hot auburn haired girl would kiss you that week and placing it by your bed, even went as far as drawing you both as the lovers card, though she would not show you it.

🔮 ʾ ⠀

bonus!

✧˚ abby was the opposite, not caring much for astrology but taking your tarot readings with the utmost seriousness. you once pulled the death card before she was off to patrol and her eyes instantly glistened with tears before you started explaining that was not what that meant.

✧˚ would still ask if your zodiacs were compatible though and absolutely take it to heart if you said they weren’t, deeply offended and claiming there clearly wasn’t any proof to your beliefs. if they were though, she’d point it out with a smirk every single time you spoke of the stars.

#ellie williams x reader #abby anderson x reader #ellie williams headcanons #abby anderson headcanons #the last of us fanfiction #lesbian #astrology #elsfleur