#wall of alms houses

[poppyflo2]

#my photo #herb robert #wall of alms houses #bristol

[lauraneedstochill]

Confess the longing you are dreaming of

summary: Aemond thinks the woman he has to marry is the most impudent and unsufferable he’s ever met. He’s also never wanted anyone so badly. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Martell!reader (third person, no mention of Y/N) warnings: bantering and teasing, mentions of unpleasant sexual experience, praise kink (guess who’s got it), a dollop of softness, mild smut (... for starters ;) author’s note: couldn’t get the idea out of my head and spent a few sleepless nights writing this. I imagine her brothers as Pedro Pascal and Oscar Isaac ✨ words: ~8000 song inspo: Hozier — Better love

>>> Aemond isn’t present when the idea is voiced the first time — he has a hunch that his grandsire is to blame for that. No doubt, Otto was the one to plan it out, come up with arguments served with his persuasive tone. He’s always loved to make arrangements and strike deals, each one of them to play into his hands, and Aemond hates the thought of being just another pawn of his.

He is blindsided at the breakfast but it’s made sound carelessly mundane — as Otto puts down his cup, he throws him the proposal, the way one would leniently throw alms to the poor. And Aemond thinks he must’ve heard him wrong.

“Marry me to... Who?” the prince asks, hardly covering his surprise.

His grandsire directs his gaze at him, the old man’s mouth twitching into a condescending smile. Since Otto isn’t keen on idle talk, he tells him plainly:

“You’ve long been of age, Aemond, you know that,” his knife scratches the plate as he cuts the meat, his eyes not moving from the prince. “House Martell holds power, and we’ll be fortunate to have such allies. Besides,” he pauses to take a bite, and Aemond gets annoyed at waiting; Otto chews, then adds, “I’ve only heard good things about your bride-to-be. Wouldn’t you confirm, Ser Criston?”

The mention of the knight is unexpected to them both — Aemond turns his head to meet Ser Criston’s puzzled look. But the brunet effortlessly copes with his emotions:

“We met when she was just a kid. But I knew she’d grow into a fine lady,” he easily agrees. Mayhaps, too easily for Aemond’s liking so he makes a note to talk about it later on.

His grandsire only lets out a pleased hum. “Well, I’m under the impression she will make a good match for our prince,” and Aemond feels that Otto carefully picks each word, “She’s said to be both beautiful and smart, and known for being quite independent,” he’s usually so stingy with his praise, it’s worth its weight in gold.

But that is not what Aemond hears. The choice was made for him, and his rejection of it makes him paint a portrait less alluring — a pompous wayward woman raised in the traditions that are starkly different from his; and yet, it is expected of him to accept it freely. His wounded ego simmers at the thought.

“I’d add another word to that,” Aegon chimes in, half-drunk already, “Everyone knows the Martells to also be promisc—”

“Look who’s talking,” Otto glares at him, and Aegon shuts his mouth.

The word is left unsaid, only the meaning of it isn’t hard to guess, and Aemond feels embarrassment creeping up his cheeks and weighting down his chest. He deems himself an educated man, well-read and eager to put his knowledge to the test, but he has yet to learn of carnal pleasures. A memory is clawing out: him, ten-and-three and plied with wine, laid on a bed that smelled of sweat, a naked woman next to him. Despite her tireless attempts, he wanted none of it, and the repulsion made him sick — and then it made him hate the act itself.

He did go to the brothel through the years, tried watching, touching, looked at bodies of all sorts, only it felt like putting paint over a rotten wall. He felt constrained, and lacking in some way (perhaps, in many), and more so awfully incomplete. Not once he sensed a spark, a pleasure he would crave, and no amount of effort could help him fill the emptiness inside.

He quells the feeling, pushes in indifference instead, and glances briefly at his mother. She meets his eye but only grants him a faint smile, her own gaze lacking any protest.

“Her brothers wrote that they would visit in a fortnight,” Alicent peacefully explains. “It is our duty to ensure a royal welcome.”

“Brothers?” Helaena blithely chirps. “How many does she have?”

“Four but only two of them are coming,” Otto tells her softly, then looks at Aemond, adding in a voice more wily. “I am convinced they really want to see whom their dear sister is about to marry.”

He doesn’t spell it out but the implication can’t be clearer — Aemond must play the part and make a good impression. As if impressing just one stranger wasn’t tedious enough.

As if he isn’t vexed already by how unsuitable he finds her.

>>> Frustration grows in Aemond with each day, takes roots, and clogs up all his thoughts. Some other man would’ve been glad — he often heard that the Martells are quite the lovers. He can’t admit it to himself how much he’s bothered by his own misfortunes on the love field.

He bottles his emotions up and doesn’t utter any word of discontent, nor does he ever speak of the awaited visit. Although he makes just one exception.

“My grandsire mentioned that you knew her,” he reminds Ser Criston one day after training.

The knight nods. “I crossed paths with Quentyn, he’s the oldest. She used to come to watch us train.”

“What was she like?” Aemond carefully wonders.

Ser Criston ponders for a minute, polishing his sword. “She was a quiet little girl, kept to herself. A lot of boys were always chasing after her, and she paid them all no mind,” he smiles at the memory. “But I remember one of them who was... particularly pesky. His charms didn’t work on her so he got offended, rude, followed her around. She tolerated him for over a month. One morning, he was hassling her in the training yard, and she just took a spear laying nearby — and smacked him with no warning,” he shakes his head but it’s apparent that he isn’t judging. “She didn’t use the pointy end but she got him good. And then she told him that next time he would think twice about his actions. She was impressive for a ten-year-old,” he muses and puts the sword away, then turns to Aemond, giving him a wistful stare. “Frankly, I think that you will like her.”

He does, for just a second, as his mind rushes to paint the image of a fearless little girl; and then he mercilessly wipes that image off. Maybe in other circumstances, he could’ve found amusement in that story, but Aemond only huffs and thinks back to the list of all her traits he prematurely made up. He adds “rebellious” to that list, and his self-doubt is a venom that clouds his judgment. He’s in no rush to find a cure.

>>> Their ship arrives a few hours earlier than planned — and after the dock watchers break the news, the bustle begins. Maids, servants, guards all run and faff about the castle, the dining hall gets filled with smells and noises, plates and dishes clanking.

Aemond is not excited in the slightest.

He dresses up reluctantly, each piece of clothes only dampening his mood that’s been already sour for the past two weeks. He all but drags his feet into the dining hall and by the time he reaches it, he looks so grim that one may think the prince’s preparing for his death, no less.

The minutes fly too quickly for his liking — they barely have time to sit, his mother nervously toying with the tablecloth already, and then the guards rush to announce the guests. Surprisingly, she’s not among them. The prince thinks he should be relieved; deep down, there is a splash of worry fizzling in him.

Her brothers walk in calmly in a cloud of servants bearing gifts. Their kinship is immediately clear — both tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired, self-confidence subsisting in their every step. The oldest is distinguished by a touch of gray in his short beard, his gaze more focused, a slight smile plastered on his face. The other one shamelessly stares at every maid his eyes can catch.

“Your grace, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Quentyn reaches their table first, and Alicent walks down to greet them. He keeps his distance and his smile, his tone is measured. “We were so sad to learn that the King has fallen sick. But I can tell the Kingdom is in great hands. And —”

“Women’s hands do have a healing touch,” Oberyn smoothly interrupts, his accent a bit thicker, his voice honeyed. “I will prefer a Queen over a King at any given day. Unless, of course, your husband can compete with you in beauty... I somehow doubt that.”

A shade of disapproval grazes Quentyn’s face but Alicent is too amazed to notice. The compliment may come off as blunt but she still takes it well, her smile embarrassed yet sincere.

“I hope you will enjoy your stay,” she tells them humbly, then looks over the crowd. “But may I ask where is the lady we’ve been waiting for?”

“She made a stop on our way to catch up with an old friend,” Quentyn answers, ready to explain, “It’s been years since we’ve met Ser —”

“Still can’t believe he is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Oberyn chuckles. “I think it’s all the armor that makes it look like he poses a threat. But you may reconsider if you see him in the nude.”

This time, the older brother glares at him with warning, and there’s a lull in their conversation, while Aemond’s struggling to hear what made his mother’s cheeks so red, his mind nervously preoccupied with someone else —

her laughter enters first.

It’s bright and joyful, a sound so lovely it might be enough to crack up his restraint. But then he spots her, and it feels like his whole body flares up at the sight.

She’s walking with her hand under Ser Criston’s arm, and Aemond’s never seen a dress that covers so much but hides so little. It’s muted orange, floor-length, made of sumptuous silk, with two long slits along the sides, curves of her thighs beguilingly seen through. Her neck and arms aren’t covered, and the material is intricately stitched around her waist to show a few more glimpses of her sun-kissed skin. The waves of her long hair fall on her shoulders and frame her face, each feature of it striking but her lips stand out the most — full, plump, and reddish. Not once before Aemond found the thought of being kissed so tempting.

She doesn’t even turn her head to look at him. She’s talking to Ser Criston quietly, and he’s engaged in conversation, unusually relaxed. Their difference in age is obvious, and the knight seems like just another relative of hers, but an uneasy feeling still leaves a bite on Aemond’s chest. He can’t imagine her so carefree — so beaming and compliant — by his side. His jealousy tastes bitter like a stale wine.

He hears his brother let out a short laugh. “It’s not like they were fucking,” Aegon carelessly notes. “Please ease your outrage before she runs away.”

“I don’t remember asking for advice,” Aemond snarls.

“You do look like you need it,” the blond comments, then goes back to drinking.

She gracefully approaches them, her voice melodic like a murmur of a river. “Forgive me, your grace, for being late, I haven’t seen Ser Criston in some time,” she tells his mother. “He was once a dear friend of mine.”

“I only helped to shush away a few of your admirers,” the knight cackles, earning a smile from her.

“I hope you are making use of all his talents,” she says to the Queen, making her face flush right away.

She delicately moves on to another topic. “It is a pleasure to have you here, you must be tired from taking such a long trip.”

“We found it quite enjoyable,” Quentyn remarks politely. “The beautiful sights along the way are worth the journey, and your city has some great views too.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard great things about your food,” Oberyn grins. “Hence why we took the liberty to bring some of our own,” he signals to the nearest servant, who runs to open one of the trunks they carried. “The dornish fruits are also my sister’s weak spot.”

“As if you don’t gorge yourself on them!” she jests, letting go of Ser Criston’s arm at last. “My brother is a glutton, your grace, please excuse his manners in advance.”

“You can call me Alicent,” his mother corrects her warmly. “Only seems fair to continue this discussion at the table,” she slightly moves away to let the girl go first.

Aemond unintentionally stiffens and only when he stands up from his chair to greet her, she finally does look at him. In contrast to her countenance, her gaze is dark and piercing, and the prince is staggered by how unreadable it is. Her brothers glance at Aemond briefly — Quentyn is pensive, while Oberyn looks like he wants to bite his head off; neither says a word.

She’s seated to his right, and she leaves behind a trail of scent — apples and plums, and he can’t help but catch the movement of her hips under the flowing dress. The words all mash and fall apart, and he can’t pick a single one to strike up a conversation.

Aegon is sitting next to her, and his patience only lasts a minute. “Never knew Ser Criston was such a ladies' man.”

“I’m sure he succeeded on that front but we are merely good friends,” she answers calmly, keeping her eyes on servants bringing fruits — blood oranges and pomegranates, robust grapes, and ripened cherries.

“You two seemed more than friendly,” Aegon presses, his tone evidently taunting.

She picks a golden apricot and runs her thumb over its fragrant surface. “Maybe it’s the wine that makes you see things,” she rebuts and takes a bite out of the fruit, a drop of juice risking to escape her mouth but she wipes it swiftly with her finger. She catches Aemond looking, and his cheeks heat up.

“We’ve never seen him in the company of a woman,” the older prince points out, filling up his cup once more.

She takes out the kernel and eats up the fruit, her mouth glistens. “Aren’t the knights of the Kingsguard forbidden to marry?”

“Never stopped them from bedding whoever they like,” Aegon remarks crudely, and Aemond is thankful that their mother is too preoccupied with Oberyn’s tireless chatting.

“Maybe some men have the decency to follow orders,” she responds, unbothered, taking a cherry and clasping it with her lips. Aegon doesn’t seem to notice and only gulps the wine and rolls his eyes. Aemond can’t look away.

“Aren’t you Martells known for not following the rules? I thought unruly was in your house’s motto,” Aegon argues, a corner of his mouth curled in a smirk.

She takes another cherry, the third in a row, her lips already stained with juice. “I think you keep getting your facts wrong,” she brushes him off, and Aegon goes to object some more but spills the wine right on his shirt. The displeased cry brings Aemond out of his trance.

“He tends to do that when he’s drunk,” the one-eyed prince coolly interjects.

Her eyes flicker to him, then she fully turns her head. “So you can actually talk,” her teasing comes off soft but her gaze still burns. “It’s good to know.”

“You seemed preoccupied with someone else,” he musters an excuse.

“Do you expect your wife to never speak to other men?” her voice almost betrays her disenchantment.

“No,” Aemond quickly answers, caught unawares by how strained his thinking process is. “She— you are free to choose your friends, of course.”

“I’m flattered,” her tone suggesting otherwise, “Not that I would ask for anyone’s approval,” she reaches for a plum; he closes his eye with a sigh.

Aegon comes to stand in between them on the pretext of needing another carafe of wine: “I didn’t mean to interrupt your friendly bickering, please continue.”

“It seems like Aemond isn’t in the mood for talking,” she doesn’t look at him, the tip of her tongue darting to lick her finger. “And I am never in the mood for begging.”

“My brother’s hospitality leaves much to be desired,” Aegon takes a sip. “So I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer,” his hand falls on her chair. “But if you ever wish to be... well satisfied, all you have to do is ask me”.

It’s hard to tell if Aegon’s actually that drunk or merely provoking (or if he’s got a death wish, Aemond wonders).

She replies without much thought. “Well, if I ever find myself in need of...,” she trails off with a smile but her gaze gets harsh — her words then follow, “My choice won’t fall on you,” the smirk falls off Aegon’s face, and she glances straight at Aemond, adding, “I like them taller.”

But her straightforwardness is met with his resistance, with the deep-rooted unacceptance of his lurking needs. He adds “indecent” to the list, and they speak no more.

>>> Her boldness doesn’t pose a problem to anyone but him. To his surprise (or more so to his shock), his mother gives in first.

The morning can’t come fast enough for Aemond after he spends the night tossing and turning. A few hours later he rushes to the garden for a walk, overwhelmed by restlessness his training didn’t help him cope with. That’s when he sees it — a spot of yellow shining through the trees. He somehow knows it’s her without further confirmation but still, his feet carry him on.

Her dress is vivid like a field of marigolds, her hair plaited, wrists adorned with golden bracelets. He slackens pace and peers into her — and he wants nothing more than to drink her up, her whole appearance is the sweetest nectar... Until he hears another sound and realizes she is not alone, and it’s his mother sitting by her side, wrapped in her favorite green and, unexpectedly, in glee. He can’t remember when he saw her laugh like this — out loud, giggling, tears at the corners of her eyes are not from sadness but from joy.

“My dear, that is so improper! Did he apologize at least?” Alicent inquires with a smile.

“Oberyn rarely does,” she tells her serenely. “His lover looked way more ashamed. I hope each of your rooms has locks, gods know I don’t want to walk in on him again.”

Unlike his mother who is covered by the shade of trees, she’s bathing in the sun, the soft light caressing her skin, and Aemond’s eye greedily follows every ray. In barely a minute he feels warm all over.

“I hope that Aemond’s chambers got locks too,” she adds all of a sudden, a bit louder, and his chest is splashed with cold.

His eye moves to her face, and she’s already looking at him, direct and daring. He knows he’s hidden by the trees but there’s no hiding from her gaze.

Aemond turns away and steps back in haste, his abashment mixed with grievance at her implication. He believes someone like her would never lust for him, and her jokes at his expense not only hurt but prompt his resentment to grow stronger. He adds “deceptive” to the portrait of her he is so adamantly set on painting.

>>> She wins Helaena’s heart with ease. His sister fondly compliments her brooch — a little poppy made out of gold — and she gifts it to Helaena the same day. The silver-haired princess grabs at chance to show her own collection, and they spend the day looking through the jewels spread over the floor, sitting right there and equally amused.

And that’s how Aemond finds them. He only planned to see his nephews but hearing her voice coming from Helaena’s chambers makes him slow his step.

“... And this one he gave me for my latest name day,” Helaena babbles cheerfully.

“Aemond clearly spoils you,” she laughs without a shade of envy. “As he should!”

“He is very kind at heart,” Helaena eagerly assures her. “You will be happy with him, I am certain of it.”

There is a pause that makes him feel uneasy, makes him sneak up closer to the room.

“I do believe he’s not an evil man,” she finally says, “Maybe he just wasn’t made for marriage.”

Surely she can’t see him through the door but he can swear that he feels her gaze, like a silent challenge, a hidden mocking. He barges in without a knock.

Helaena beams. “We were just talking about you!”

His sister’s dress is milky blue, modestly pretty, and loosely fitted. It’s also treacherously pale compared to the liquid gold the Martell girl is dressed in. She’s sitting with her feet under her thighs, the bending of her back is bare and in plain sight. He should’ve walked away the second he heard the sound of her voice because not looking at her seems impossible.

“Oh, you came to see the twins? They are with Aegon but I can call— No, I will bring them back myself,” Helaena springs to her feet, rosy-cheeked and smiley, and leaves the room before Aemond can protest. And then it’s just the two of them.

He takes a breath and makes an effort, with his jaw tense and his blood rising, to drag his eye away from her. It feels as pointless as ignoring sunlight in an open field on a summer day. Only her beauty is more brazen — and so is her wit.

“I take it, gold isn’t your favorite color,” she speaks up with an impish tone. “Would be a bad idea to wear it on our wedding then.”

She never comes too close, always just a little out of reach, and yet he feels as if her presence grips him, weakening his will. He doesn’t want to be with her until he is — and then he has no wish to leave.

It scares Aemond as much as it spikes his anger.

“Why did you agree to come?” he bristles.

“You are not asking about your sister’s chambers, are you?” she clarifies, and he hears her smiling.

He tells himself he only needs to cast a glance to check.

He does — he meets her gaze — her earrings catch the sunlight and cast a trail of glares — the scattering of specks play on her skin, her neck and collarbones, sneak to her upper chest — his own is heaving. His struggle only lasts a moment but it leaves him short of breath. He isn’t looking anymore, his eye trying to discern the pattern on the drapes behind her.

“Our marriage, how do you benefit from it?” he hates how hard it is to control his voice.

And how she watches him intently without giving him a clue of what’s on her mind.

“I plan on visiting my family a couple of times a year. It will be easier to do on dragon back,” she doesn’t sound spiteful when she says it but her words still sting.

He can’t stop an image flashing through his mind: her on top of Vhagar, lungs full of air, pressed to him. It’s tempting — to have her in his hands, and yet the vision is too intangible to cling to. Instead, he thinks that in just three days she learned to play him like a harp, his years' worth of self-control is merely a sand castle against the tide of her sharp tongue.

He only snickers dryly at her reply, then they both hear the sound of running footsteps. Jaehaera and Jaehaerys rush to greet him — but almost instantly abandon, the kids' attention drawn to the shining golden dress.

He thinks “unruly” suits her better than does “pompous”. He comes up with a fake excuse to leave; the image of her stays with him.

>>> He picks more adjectives as the week goes on — she’s audacious, disobedient, wanton. She moves around the castle as if she owns every room she’s in. She wears less, and even on rare occasions when she doesn’t, her defiance more than compensates for it. She never shies away from a deep neckline, nor does she feel the need to hold back her resounding laughs. Her jewelry clinks, each of her dresses is brighter than the other, but it’s her wicked mouth his eye always falls on first.

More times than not, Aemond can’t tear his gaze away, each meal for him now both a torture and a feast.

He watches as she parts her lips, puts them around a luscious grape, a cherry, or a peach, she swipes her tongue to lick up every running drop, savoring its tang — and keeps eye contact with him. He barely can taste the food he’s eating, and no wine can quench his thirst, his body flooding with a feeling he can’t define, his heart adrift.

He tries to fight it off with all our strength. He scratches off “unruly” to write down “unabashed” instead.

But then the dinner comes, and even though he’s never had a taste for sweets, he thinks he’d eat them from her lips (deep down, he wants to). The lies he tells himself are brittle like the flesh of fruits under her teeth.

>>> He comes to think “insufferable” fits her the best. That thought rings in his head while he is standing in the stable, his eye on anything but her. He was informed she wished to pick a horse, and he begrudgingly agreed to come, only to keep up the pretense.

What turns out to be much harder is for him to keep restraint. The dress she’s wearing might as well be a chemise — it’s just as light and white, and much to his discomfort, it also tirelessly risks hiking up to expose more of her legs.

Discomfort, mayhaps, isn’t the right word for it.

He stays out of her way but, unsurprisingly, he ends up looking — at how she walks, spring in her step, swinging her hips. She gives each horse a piece of apple and feeds them by hand, strokes their muzzles, and then she mounts and rides them, one by one. She grabs the reins, her foot easily finds the stirrup, and as she swings her leg over the saddle, her dress slips up, showing a few inches of her skin.

He swallows thickly, glances more intently — over her dainty ankles, bending of her knees, he notes how smooth her skin is, soaking up the sun. Her dress then billows slightly, and his eye glides higher, hungry, follows up the contour of her thighs that bounce a little as the horse gallops.

He feels it blooming — a sensation with no name that travels from the lower chest down to his very navel, then spreads and tightens all that’s underneath.

He is so deep in his enthrallment, he doesn’t hear the steps approaching until there’s someone standing next to him. Quentyn stays silent for a minute, throwing him a sideways glance.

“My sister’s always been terribly picky,” the man says out of the blue, “And usually it’s hard to meet all of her demands,” — it doesn’t seem like it’s the horses he is talking of. The vagueness of it makes Aemond focus as he takes his eye off her but Quentyn doesn’t elaborate, giving him a smile instead. “I do admit, your patience is commendable. Some other man would’ve already interfered just to wrap the process up.”

“I was under the impression she doesn’t need anyone’s help,” Aemond replies evasively.

“You guessed it right,” Quentyn titters, his tone veiled with the same unclear meaning when he adds, “The only thing left for us all is to accept it,” and with that, he goes to join his sister.

When Aemond — tamely, almost yielding — takes a peek at her, his gaze collides with Oberyn’s who clearly watched them talk. Unlike his older brother, he prefers to stay away, but the mischief in him pairs really well with danger. He grants Aemond a nod, switching attention back to her, his threats unspoken for the meantime.

For just a second, it gives Aemond pause as he finds it odd that no one brings up their wedding, and no announcements have been made ever since she came. He doesn’t mull over it for long because her laughter interrupts his thoughts (or maybe he just yearns for any chance to look at her). She rides around the yard, her hair floating in the wind, a little breathless but breathtaking, her lips enticing and her curves making his throat dry.

He tries to ground himself, to look for explanations, for some reprieve from the entrancing spell he’s under — he’s never been so close to losing reason —

out of the corner of his eye, he sees a couple of guards dropping their gaze in poor attempts to stop themselves from gawking; it reins his passion, bringing back his jealousy instead. He’s way too used to seeing himself unworthy to even entertain the thought of having her, and his denial prickles. He wants to burn his feelings out, and anger helps with that — it breaks out and engulfs him fast, hardening both his heart and gaze.

“Quentyn is the friendliest of the two, and you couldn’t hold a conversation?” Aegon appears out of nowhere, seemingly displeased despite the bottle in his hand. “Must you always be so gruff? I stayed behind in hopes you’d make it work!” he waves at Oberyn then glares at Aemond, waiting for a reply. “Are you pretending to be deaf or...?”

“Must she test my patience?” Aemond mutters, his tone not jealous but exasperated, his eye boring into her, “Putting herself out like that for all the men to see.”

Aegon being speechless is a rare sight. He cannot fathom it at first, looking from Aemond back to her, confusion sobering him up. And then he grins, realization creeping up on him; there are some things he’s always quick to notice.

“It’s funny that you say that,” he leans in to tell him and catches Aemond’s gaze, “Since it’s just you who’s staring,” Aegon pats him on the back and leaves to greet her brothers.

Aemond tries to choke it down — his irritation and his shame combined, but it’s too much for him to handle, his head and heart clearly in conflict. He doesn’t wait for her to make a choice, retiring without sparing her a glance (a fear nibs at him that if he looks at her once more, he will stay rooted to the ground).

He doesn’t leave his chambers for the remainder of the day, dining all alone and fuming all the same. He’s usually good at curbing his emotions but he is having trouble understanding them, wanting nothing more than to erase all memories of her. But even in his solitude, he catches himself thinking — about her cunning smile and swaying hips, her eyes on him, his hands wanting to roam and touch and —

Aemond shoves unwanted thoughts away and goes to bed earlier than usual. He remains steadfast in his resolve to find some peace, he makes a conscious effort to shift his focus to all the boring, random things his mind can come up with until he is too tired to care.

But then he falls asleep, and his subconscious welcomes her. He sees her right before his eye in that obscenely short white dress, there are no people in the yard, her tantalizing moves all meant for him. She hops off her black horse and walks to him without a single word — anticipation makes him drop his guard and hold his breath — and then he feels her lips on his, her body pressing into him, his hunger for her ruining his self-control, the kiss is searing, suffocating, driving him insane, his fingers pulling up her dress —

he wakes up painfully aroused.

He lays in bed, his heartbeat rushing, his breathing ragged, and vision blurred. While he’s still grasping for the remnants of his dream, he sneaks his hand into his breeches, wishing he could rip her dress off and sheath himself inside her, spread her on his bed, and drink every salacious sound she makes... It only takes him a few strokes to spill over his fingers; he can’t remember if he’s ever reached his peak so fast.

And only then, as he comes down from his high, it hits him, like lightning in the dark — in spite of her remarks, her audacity, her dresses, and every cruel adjective he’s found for her, he’s never wanted anyone so badly. Aemond sits up abruptly, his sleep gone, giving way to stubbornness that comes hand in hand with reticence. He persuades himself that he’ll suppress this — the spark, the pleasure that he craves, and he won’t be a slave to his desires.

He’ll rid himself of feelings, of this lust. Inevitably it will wane.

>>> It doesn’t.

Desire is a guest that never leaves, unwanted but demanding space, attention, time. It slips into his thoughts the moment he wakes up, it whispers in his ears, never giving up, it’s layered in between his clothes and his skin. He hides it well from everyone; it lodges deeper into him.

Desire is a cherry in her mouth, each fruit she bites in, savors, drinks the juice from. He doesn’t want to watch — he can’t take his eye off her, caught in his fervor like in undertow, the flavor of her lips the only one he truly yearns for.

Desire bruises more than does a hit, cuts deeper than a blade, and there’s no weapon he can fight it off with. His training brings him no relief, and he can’t sweat it out or wash it off him, and even while he soaking in a bath, it feels like longing only rises back with steam.

Desire waits for him at night, stands by his bed, slides right under the covers with him. He dreams of her, and in those dreams, her body sings under his every touch, trembles from his praise, his hands and mouth paint her with marks and kisses. He wakes up with his chest aflame and out of breath, and then it takes all of his willpower not to crawl to her.

It staggering how much he really wants her, and he hates himself for it.

>>> It’s been three weeks and they have barely shared a word. He does his best to cut down their encounters and avoid her, he doesn’t argue and takes no offense, he hopes that if he pulls back just enough she will give up and let him be.

Aemond spends his evenings in the study, his table piled with books, and for a couple of hours, it does help to take his mind off things. The night already steals in while he’s searching through the shelves for scrolls, too caught up in the process to pick up the creaking of his door.

Her gaze nearly scalds him. He only looks up out of surprise — and then he freezes at the spot, his heart a stone that plummets to his stomach.

Out of everything she’s worn, this dress might be the one to bring him to his knees — the cutting out the front so low, his eye falls in the hollow between her breasts; he envies fervently the golden chain that rests there. He takes in her whole body, bare arms, and flaunting forms, all clad in deep dark green. He’s never seen her pick that color (and he can’t help but think she put it on for him).

He’s brought back from his stupor when their eyes meet — and startled by the determination in her gaze.

“Ser Criston told me that you missed your training,” she stately starts walking toward him, “Quite a few times this week.”

“I found myself preoccupied with other things,” he clears his throat and clasps his hands behind his back, the scrolls forgotten.

“With reading, I assume?” she almost sounds aggrieved (he wants to ask what else she’d rather have him do) but then her tone gets jaunty. “Would you mind if I join?”

“Actually, I would,” Aemond takes his eye off her, his coldness feigned. “I’d like to avoid distractions.”

And more than anything, he would like for her to leave; she’s not the one to give up so easily. “Maybe we can learn some things together?” she nonchalantly insists, and that ambiguity — deliberate or not — leaves his face suffused with pink.

“I highly doubt you take interest in the things I study,” he manages, his crudeness biting his own tongue.

She only sneers, already nearing his table. “You surely rush to judgment.”

“And I am never wrong.” (Although he’s been wrong once before.)

“That’s very humble of you.” (And she’s tenacious with her intent to prove him wrong again.)

“I am surprised you know that word,” he replies too hastily — and instantly regrets his outburst.

And his attempts to get away from her could’ve been valiant, but only left him feeling like a coward.

She’s got enough courage to spare. “Oh, my apologies, did I strike a nerve?” her hip grazes a stack of books. “You sound so displeased with my behavior,” she puts her hands right on his table, her cleavage in full view.

“You interrupted my studies,” he’s looking only at her face.

“Just this one time,” she clears up, her sly smile is a dare, “Sounds like you have quite a few complaints.”

Damned be her dress and the day he laid his eye on her. “It’s clear as day that we have nothing in common,” he hisses, her persistence molding his anger. “From your bawdy humor to your reckless behavior and your...,” he struggles to push the word through his mouth, “vulgar dresses — everything suggests that we will never make a good couple.”

He catches a gleam in her gaze but it’s not threatening nor hurt — and when the corners of her mouth curl up, her face expression actually looks amused. “I didn’t realize my presence tormented you that much,” she crosses arms over her chest, her hands under her breasts; he looks away that very instant. “So will it please you if I take my vulgar dresses and go back home and leave you be?”

He wants to say it will — he’s thought of it for days — but now he isn’t sure. The dreams he has of her will hardly be enough as every image he collected has got nothing on the real form.

“Is there anything that does?” she asks him suddenly and takes a step in his direction, and then another one.

Belatedly, he realizes that he’s backed against the wall. The air in the room heats up, and Aemond moves back to his table, fingers holding to its edge to find some balance. “...Does what?”

“Please you,” she swiftly clarifies, now standing at arm’s length.

“That isn’t any of your concern,” he wants to glance away and yet, his eye is drawn to her.

“I am inclined to disagree,” her lips stretch into a smile. “Shouldn’t a wife know how to make her husband feel good?”

“We are not married yet,” he tries to argue weakly.

“I’d like to learn beforehand,” but her assertiveness works quicker than his doubts.

The time is still, and seconds drag like hours. His heart leaps at the thought of being all alone with her, his concentration crumbling, his self-restraint already hanging by a thread.

“The way you look at me suggests you aren’t averse to the idea,” she tells him in a low voice, her eyes two glowing embers. Aemond gulps, she deftly rounds the table. “You act so cold and so collected,” she muses, coming closer, and he helplessly steps back. “But I am yet to meet a man who would deny himself the pleasure of laying with a woman,” her voice is warm and warming; his legs bump into the chair, prompting him to sit.

He hesitates for barely a moment but his quick reaction fails him because the next thing he knows, she’s standing next to him, her golden chain casting a blinding glint — he blinks — and then she’s straddling him, her thighs on either side of his.

Aemond’s mouth falls slack as he becomes aware: to lift her he will have to touch her. He glances down at her legs that sneaked out through the long slits of her dress, all bare to the very hips before him.

“I wonder if you are too spoiled by the attention of the ladies? Mayhaps you’ve got so satiated, the intimacy doesn’t bring you any joy,” she runs her fingers up his chest.

He only finds it in himself to shake his head. She isn’t satisfied with that reaction. “Or do you simply find it boring and have a taste for something else?”

Objection bubbles in his throat but he gets no chance to voice it — he barely registers a clinking sound before he feels cold steel pressed under his chin, her fingers wrapped around the hilt of his own dagger. He meant to leave it at the training yard but it completely slipped his mind.

“Does this work better? I’ve heard that you Targaryens have peculiar tastes,” her other hand lands on his shoulder, his chest is stirring with emotions he can’t read.

“That’s not— No,” he mumbles, his voice raw, the weight and feeling of her body overwhelming.

She cocks her brow at him in disbelief. “No? So it’s just plain old satiation then?” she makes no attempt to press the blade but her questions do get pushy. “Must be so hard when women throw themselves at you ever since you were... What was it, ten? Twelve years of age?”

He would expect her to sound teasing — instead, he hears disappointment. That’s the reaction he is used to getting.

“My brother took me to a pleasure house when I was ten-and-three. He said it’s time to get it wet,” he forces out, “And it was...,” awful and humiliating, something he wishes to forget, “...Not what you are describing.”

Her face expression changes — first surprised, then splashed with sadness, and her every feature softens. Aemond sees her opening her mouth to speak but he averts his gaze, abasement scrabbling at him. His eye falls closed, and he keeps thinking that now she will get up and leave, and there won’t be any wedding, and he’s got no reason to get so overly upset already, and —

she sheathes his dagger without a word, the unexpected movement making him breathe out.

And then she dips her head down, and her lips fall on his jaw. Aemond inhales sharply. Her mouth feels softer than it was in all his dreams, and she plants kisses down his throat, moving to the part of it the blade was pressed to. He doesn’t know where to put his hands while hers lock nimbly around his neck.

She pulls back slowly, and he dares to look at her again, trying to catch the merest shadow of pretense but there is none.

“I am truly sorry that you had to go through that,” she tells him quietly. “Have you tried some more since then?”

“I did,” his answer comes off hurried, blank, “I... I am aware of how the act is done.”

“How the act is done? Aemond, that doesn’t sound enjoyable at all,” she pouts, then gently caresses his face, her voice a tender whisper when she adds, “But it should be.”

He stiffens, waiting for the discomfort to wake up, for the aversion to coil his guts, to trigger the jarring need to move away. None of that happens. Instead, he feels her fingers running through his hair, a calming motion bringing only comfort, her every touch relieving tightness in his chest.

“You seem too tense... We have to work on that,” she joyfully murmurs. “Unless, of course, my worry causes you distress,” her fingers stop, “Do you want me to leave, my prince?”

“No,” he rasps, he almost pleads, “D-don’t.”

She hums with satisfaction, bringing her hands down to unclasp his leather doublet, knowing she won’t meet any resistance. He should resent her for this but he doesn’t (he didn’t and he won’t). The air lays cold over his shirt, and Aemond shivers; she moves her fingers down his firm chest with an unspoken admiration.

“Tell me how it usually goes,” she inquires, one of her hands finding its way back to his silver locks. “Do you find pleasure in undressing them?”

Her warmth envelopes him, scented with cinnamon and peaches. “They come without much clothes,” Aemond blurts out, earning another hum from her.

“And what about you?” she glances curiously at him.

“I don’t... I don’t like them touching me,” he timidly avows, and saying it to her does bring somewhat of a relief.

With both of her hands, she cradles his face, thumbs gently contouring his cheeks — he all but melts into her palms. “And yet you are so responsive to the touch,” her voice praises, “So pretty.”

She leans in again, leaving a kiss at the hollow of his throat — and then her mouth travels up, ardent and steady, and he squirms in place. Not out of discomfort.

“You are not supposed to rush it if you want it to feel good,” she whispers in his ear and moves back to catch his gaze. “You never rush into fighting so why love making should be any different?”

Astonishment brightens his face, and she chuckles lightly. “I must confess, I did enjoy watching you train, even though you never noticed. The way you move and twirl your sword,” she’s recollecting breathy, “You are so lithe and fast and so resistant... An infatuating sight.”

She holds his gaze and lifts her hand — he follows it, unblinking, until it finds one of the straps — she hooks it with her fingers. “Fairly soon it made me wonder how would your hands feel... on me,” his heart jolts at her words.

Slowly, she moves the strap aside, baring her breast for him; Aemond’s breathing hitches. She takes his hand in hers, planting a kiss over his knuckles — and then lets his fingers graze her naked skin.

“It was so cruel of you to rob me of my pleasure,” she laments, but he can barely hear a thing, his eye wide as he fixes on the soft swell of her breast, on how her nipple peaks so eagerly under his touch.

She guides his hand over her chest, down to her ribs and waist, letting him brush her every curve, placing his fingers firmly on her hip. And then she reaches for his other hand and lowers the other strap; his body trembles. The layers of his reticence are all peeled at once, leaving his desire raw and undisguised, unshackled. He’s drawn to fondle, clutch at her plump breasts but her grip is tight and taunting, not letting his fingers roam free.

Still, when both his hands sink into her hips, he realizes that he’s getting harder by the second.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by her. With a controlled, torturously slow move she drags her clothed core over his straining cock. His mouth stays closed but there’s a sound — a muffled moan caught in his throat.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” she teases, lightly tugging on his hair, her lips reaching the column of his neck. “With how much you read, I hoped you’d be more generous with words,” each of her kisses weightless like a drop of rain but then her mouth finds a spot below his ear and suckles at it, pulling a whimper from his chest.

He thinks he should... his mind goes blank after another movement of her hips, and she picks up the pace, merciless and sensuous. He tries biting down his moans but only hurts his mouth. She notices, her rapt eyes on him, and puts her finger on his lower lip:

“Please, don’t be shy with me,” she coos, her gentle touch soothing his bitten flesh, “Our desires coincide,” she earnestly affirms him — and the spark erupts and drags him into pure bliss.

He feels that his arousal leaks, his breeches way too tight to hide it, his fingers dig into her supple skin, but she gives no complaints. He watches breathlessly through his hooded eyelid as she grinds against him, then looks over her bouncing breasts, her nipples pebbled, and the pressure curls somewhere down his spine. She peppers him with kisses — the angles of his face, neck, everything that she can reach, except for his desirous mouth. And yet the softness of her lips and hands, her skin that’s draped with the redolent scent, the rhythm of her hips all bring him closer to the edge.

Her forehead is pressed to his, their lips an inch away but never fully touching. “Let go for me,” she says against his mouth, “My handsome, fierce dragon.”

That does it for him. He harshly presses her to him, then shudders with a strangled moan and comes undone, his eye squeezed shut as her name quivers in his mouth. The pleasure whirls him in and leaves him drained and stunned, a little bit light-headed.

It takes Aemond a minute to recover before he finds her gaze again — and in another minute he discerns her shallow breaths, her parted lips, brows slightly furrowed. He wants to ask her if she reached her peak, if he can help her with it —

but she pulls back.

She stands up and only briefly grabs his shoulder, steadying herself, then promptly puts the straps back on, fixing her dress. He wants to lend a hand but she moves it away, leaning in to lightly caress his face. “No, you don’t get to have me yet. I want you to admit it first, to say that you want me,” her words are laced with dignity but cooling to his mind.

She steps back, cruelly fast, the only consolation is her naughty tone. “Until then, I have to satisfy myself some other way. But I will think of you while doing it, my dear prince,” she promises, a ghost of a smile on her lips, and then walks out without looking back.

The silence feels unwelcome in the room and hangs over the ceiling like a cloud, but Aemond he is too dazed to move, spent and perplexed to wrap his head around it.

Desire, it seems, has come to stay.

But it’s not the only thing he’s feeling.

✧... YES, there will be a second part, it’s already in the works! ✧ and yes, I didn’t bother to rename Pedro’s character 'cause I adore Oberyn sue me

✧ just to clarify, I usually age Aemond up to 20 (or however old Ewan looks to you ;) ✧ I got inspired after watching the video for ROSALÍA’s “La Fama” (give it a watch, she is soooo 🥵) but I only found it because of this gorgeous gifset so shout-out to OP for giving me inspiration

✧ my recent fic (couples who kill together, stay together 🔥) ✧ my masterlist

thank you @amiraisgoingthruit for letting me tag you in every silly story of mine, hope you’ll like this one (if anyone else wants to be tagged, don’t be shy)

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

#aemond targaryen #I was supposed to post this LAST friday but chickened out for whatever reason idk pls give me a chill pill ((( #my stuff #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fic #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #hotd fic #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #aemond the kinslayer #aemond one eye #aemond one eye x you #aemond one eye x y/n

[catsgut]

Torturous//bully!weasley twins x afab!reader

CW: mentions past bullying, reader is a hufflepuff and goes through puberty summer before 7th year. Later on, this story will contain dark content such as nonconsensual sex, abuse, and manipulation. Read at your own risk!

word count: 1k

Never in your life did you think you would turn into the young woman you were today. Sure, you weren’t as beautiful as your mother (although she would say differently), but you were impressed with how you filled out the summer before your last year at Hogwarts. It wasn’t unknown that you were a late bloomer, but better late than never, right?

Maybe you would even find yourself a boyfriend, you thought as you finished packing your suitcase. It was the night before you left home for school. You never got over the excitement of getting to finally see your friends again and your favorite professors.

With a squeal, you rolled into bed and coved the majority of your face. Staring up at your ceiling, a feeling of dread washed over you. The twins. How could you forget? The thought of your peaceful summer coming to an end made you sigh. They were your worst nightmare. That’s the one thing you were worried about and it was enough to even make you reconsider going this year. But alas, it was your last year. Just one more and you would be free from the tortures they put you through… forever.

You giggled softly as one of your friends pointed as Charlie, a cute boy in your house passed by your cart. He smiled at you and continued to make his way down the train. “You look good!” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. “I see your chest finally grew in,” her comment made you blush as you rolled your eyes. “Not as much as moms…. but I’m glad I finally look a little more my age,” you agreed, thoughts drifting back to Charlie. Maybe he would notice? You hoped.. he might even think you were cute and ask you on a date! I mean, you were both Hufflepuffs. The thought was enough to boost your confidence a little. A date with the cutest boy in your house, a girl could dream!

Your day dream was cut short by a hand snapping in front of your dazed face. “Wake up, love,” the deep voice spoke in your ear. You turned your head in horror to see the red head smirk. “Pleasure seeing you again, ay?” Fred teased and you scooted back towards the window. “Go away,” was all you managed to squeak out before he laughed. Winking at you, he followed his brother down the aisle. You grimaced.

“You have got to stand up for yourself this year! It’s bad enough you let them torment you, but this year will be different. You can’t let the bullying happen anymore, y/n….” but you weren’t listening to her, only thinking about how uncomfortable you felt with his face next to your head. It wasn't the first time Fred had gotten in your face, usually to spew nasty words at you, but it was the first time you felt a burn in your lower stomach. You weren’t sure what it was, maybe how much taller and muscular he was now or the fact that he finally got a much needed haircut, but the feeling slowly pooled up inside your underwear. “This year will be different for sure,” you mumbled as the train's horn shot through the air.

Later that night as you ate dinner after the sorting hat ceremony, your eyes drifted back over to where Fred and George were sitting. The both of them were laughing with some sixth-year Gryffindor; she was twirling her hair and giggling in between them. You almost felt jealous of her, but chalked it up to you never really catching the eye of any boy your age. Actually, the twins were the only ones who ever gave you any kind of attention. 'Just the shitty kind,' you grumbled to yourself. Deciding it would be smart to have an early night, so you left the Hufflepuff table and made your way to your common room.

The empty walls were cold and the air almost felt damp from the pouring rain outside. You shivered and hugged your arms around your freezing body, feeling the goosebumps littering your arms. It almost hurt; it felt like your body was in fight or flight by the way your heart was racing. You were actuall starting to get nervous as the feeli-

"Hello there,' a voice said in your left ear, making you quickly turn your head. Nothing. "Over here," it said again to your right. There they stood leaning against each other. "i'll say, y/n... you've grown," George chuckled and made a point to look at your chest. Fred snickered and walked forward taking a handful of your hair. "We missed you, love," he said using the nickname he's always called you. You rolled your eyes, "I'm sure you did, Fred, but now isn't the time." you tried to sound unintimidated, but you were sure they saw right past that.

Your hand came up to grab Fred's wrist, but George caught it before you could. "Watch yourself, we just wanted to say hello," he spoke sternly with amusement in his eyes. Fred tugged your hair a bit to the side before letting go. "George and I were bored all summer without little y/n to keep us company. I'm excited for all the fun the three of us will be having... especially now that you've finally grown into a young woman," he winked and the two of them made their way towards their common room, leaving you sweating despite the air's temperature.

Laying in bed that night you wondered what the twins had meant. Sure they messed with you every year, but something about their tone scared you even more than usual. What had you going through puberty have anything to do with it. You had a feeling they had something sinister planned, and with a gulp you rolled over and tucked the blanket up over your head. 'This year will be different. This year will be different,' you chanted over and over till you fell asleep while down in the Gryffindor common rooms, the twins smiled knowingly at each other. They finally had their toy back in their grasp, only they were going to end this year with a bang.

Thank you for reading! I'm excited to continue this story!! i’m having fun with it:)

#fred weasley smut #george weasley smut #weasley twins x reader #harry potter smut #harry potter fanfic #weasley twins smut

[undead-supernova]

make me thaw / Masterlist

pairing: Steve Harrington x gn!reader

plot: Steve has to house sit for his parents and has to resist the urge to call you to come over

warnings: not just having mommy or daddy issues (it's that secret third option!), intimacy issues, angst/comfort, pronouns never mentioned

wc: 1.8k

song inspo: I Wouldn't Ask You by Clairo

note: this isn't like any big thing, but I thought the little concept was interesting. anyways, have some angsty Steve

It wasn’t like he didn’t want to call.

There are just certain things that one must experience alone, things that are just too complicated for someone else to truly understand. Things that someone can’t articulate, so why even bother trying at all?

Or, at least, that’s what Steve had thought his whole life.

Because Steve hated his parents. No, it was something that extended past hate. Steve loathed them. He loathed the way they waved their hands around in dismissal. Loathed the way they came in and out at their leisure, only asking how he was when they felt rather obligated. Loathed his mother’s negligence, his father’s absence.

The thing he loathed the most was how much he truly loved them.

But they weren’t even here.

No, they were in Sicily. Another one of their infamous arguments ensued when his mother found love letters from another woman in his nightstand. And instead of trying to deny it this time, his father decided to take his mother on a nice vacation. Some sightseeing, fancy dining. 

Nothing said “I’m sorry for cheating on you for the sixth time” like a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine next to the Mediterranean Sea.  

So he was called to house sit for a few days, making sure their cat was fed—the one obtained after the fourth "mistake".

Steve wanted to tell them to fuck off and that they could call literally anyone else. But his father offered him a good amount of cash, way more than Family Video was giving him and he just…caved. Couldn’t look his father in the eye when he was told that part of the deal was to never tell anyone about his infidelity. Keep his mouth shut, especially to that little plaything of his.

He looked around his childhood bedroom, feeling a weight beginning to push him further into the mattress. Frames that once held his awards now hugged paintings of Mr. Harrington's favorite vacation spots. Carpet now ripped out in exchange for hardwood flooring. Walls coated in a new shade of off-white. Potpourri sitting on a new dresser to mask his scent. Boxes of his stuff sitting idle in the attic.

And maybe it was a byproduct of hunting monsters and evil spies, but Steve thought the house was haunted. If not haunted, then haunting.

And he could’ve fooled himself into believing he heard echoes of his parents arguing downstairs. Even in the dead quiet. Even in the midnight hour when the rest of Hawkins was lulling in and out of slumber.

It was freezing cold in here, colder than it’d been before—even in the dead of winter. A sweatshirt, thick sweatpants, and fuzzy socks weren’t even enough. Nothing was enough.

Steve didn’t know why, but he thought of you. Thought about how you’d never actually been in this house. You were a more recent friend, a more recent something or other. A friend that he appreciated, a friend that he was too terrified to entertain as anything more than just a friend.

And, sure, you were a friend that he’d tried to introduce to his parents. For whatever reason. But when you walked into the foyer and introduced yourself to Mr. Harrington, he took one look at you, snorted, and walked away. You’d turned back, resigning to sitting by the pool, wondering out loud what made you so laughable. 

Steve had tried to comfort you, tried to explain that his dad was just a prick. He hated everyone that didn’t look or act or dress just like him. His dad called it weakness.

And Steve was the weakest of them all. 

His knees had brushed yours and his lips trembled as you nearly made what he told himself was a mistake. In that moment, he almost let everything go, had almost let himself wake up to the idea of something new. 

But instead, he shook his head and stood up. Walked away. Stood by the car and waited for you to get the hint and follow him. Blamed the rudeness on wanting to get to your shared shift on time. Let the car fill with The Psychedelic Furs and deprived it of conversation.

Because, just like this house, Steve was cold.

After everything with the Upside Down, something he swore he’d never think of again, Steve retreated into himself. Sure, he was still running around with Robin, Dustin, Mike, Lucas, Max, and Erica. But those were just things now. Low stakes. 

He didn’t have to let himself find new ways to break his heart. He didn’t have to put you in any compromising position when he could just stay silent.

And that’s why he didn’t call.

Clink.

Steve’s attention diverted towards the window.

Clink.

Clink.

Without so much as a flinch, Steve sighed and made his way over. He half expected a new monster to appear, an added cherry on top of his loathing.

But as he peered out, he spotted you with your arm pulled back, ready to launch another acorn. The reflection of the pool lights shone off of your smile that only widened as you noticed him.

Eyebrows furrowing, he quickly lifted the windowsill.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked, leaning out.

“Came to hang.”

“Could you not use the front door?”

Tilting your head in confusion, you said, “I’ve been knocking for the last five minutes.”

“Oh.”

“Are you gonna let me in or what?”

Steve watched you unzip your beat up backpack, bottom lip tucked between your teeth. He felt bad that he hadn’t spoken much since he let you in, but you didn’t seem to mind.

He sat up against his headboard, arms crossed as he stretched his legs. You were on the other side of him, cross-legged. Not close enough to accidentally touch, but not so far away that you couldn’t be there if he needed you.

But he didn’t need anyone.

You pulled out a large thermos, gesturing towards it as if you were presenting him with an award.

“I give you…ginger tea,” you said, imitating an announcer. 

“You could’ve just brought the bags. We have a kettle.”

“That’s no fun.”

Despite his comment, he took the thermos from you. Warm, was his first thought followed by, Thank you.

But he said nothing, opting instead to drink the tea. 

What was there for him to say? Steve was elsewhere, lost in his head in ways that he couldn’t decipher.

“Robin and I missed you at closing tonight.”

And you were here, offering him some relief that he didn’t want to feel. He didn’t need it.

“Is that why you came?” he asked.

You shook your head, going back to rummaging around your bag. “I was thinking about how shitty your parents have been and how uncomfortable it must be to just sit in an empty house.”

Here you were, caring. And for whatever reason, he couldn’t stand it.

“It’s not like I haven’t been doing that my whole life.”

“That’s true,” you agreed. “but that doesn’t make it any easier when you find a real family and then have to come back and sit with what used to be your reality.”

“You don’t need to take care of me.”

“Sure I do,” you said simply. 

Like it was a no brainer.

Steve shook his head, wanting the thought of an us to leave his head.

“Life isn’t fair,” he stated, watching as your face began to fall. “And…and this is just the life I was given, you know? And everything that came after that—all the pain, all the bullshit—it’s just…”

Steve trailed off, unsure where to go from there. Unsure where the words were supposed to fall.

Until it came.

“My parents suck. They have no real relationship. I don’t even know why they stay together. And they think that what they have with me is family. Maybe that’s what they were brought up with. I don’t know. But that’s…that’s not it.”

“And knowing that gets frustrating,” you stated, fingers reaching out toward him.

Your hand rested on his knee, the warmth matching that of the thermos. Trying to diffuse his anger, trying to unveil what was hidden.

“Love doesn’t last,” he whispered.

“I don’t think you really believe that.”

Your fingers ran against his knuckles, seemingly soothing him. But there was that hardness in his chest, the kind of protection that couldn’t be torn down so easily.

Even if you were getting good at it.

“What are we, then?” Steve asked suddenly, nearly sounding defensive.

He thought you’d pause. Thought you’d pull your hand away. Anything. But you didn’t flinch, didn’t miss a beat while continuing your absentminded pattern.

“We’re best friends,” you said with a shrug. “Mixed with a hint of something extra.”

“Doesn’t that just complicate things?”

You glanced up. “Not for me.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you like me back.”

Steve paused, unsure of what to say to you. Unsure of what to think about this conversation. It was supposed to be awkward, right? This wasn’t supposed to feel comfortable.

But it did.

“I don’t understand.”

“The things you’ve been through the last however many years. Your parents,” you explained. “Of course you don’t want to risk falling for someone else or give your heart away. How could you when your own parents can’t even recognize that they have hearts?”

Steve watched you, nearly begging you to be anything besides understanding. Anything besides caring.

“You don’t have to tell me,” you continued. “I just know. I mean, I suspected for a while. But we almost kissed that day. You know, after your dad laughed at me?” He nodded. “I just knew it was a matter of time and…I decided not to push it unless you said something.”

“I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to switch it on anytime soon,” he explained, solemn as he looked back over at the empty thermos. “If I could just kiss you and, I don’t know, make everything magically reappear, I would. But…” he trailed, sighing before his eyes met yours again. “I just can’t.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” you replied, eyes trained on your hands. “I’m willing to wait until you’re ready.”

“But I’m just like my shitty parents,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m like ice.”

You shrugged. “Well, ice thaws.”

Steve watched you, watched the way your eyes stayed put on his hand. Watched as you stayed like that, all hopeful and at peace in his room. Perfectly content with the idea of waiting. Not rushing, not arguing.

He thought of his parents, how he’d never seen them engage in physical affection; intimacy. How they could never just have a civil conversation about their emotions. How they could never admit the truth without having to pay a toll.

There was nothing between them that mirrored this.

And maybe Steve was starting to understand what you meant.

#steve harrington x reader #Steve Harrington x gn!reader #Steve x gn!reader #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington angst #Steve Harrington x you #steve harrington imagines #I just kinda came up with this and I know it's not like the best thing ever #but I like how simple it is

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This is a pretty nice home in St. Joseph, Missouri for $595K. Built in 1910, it's called "The Chateau," and has 8bds, 4ba. Maybe it needs a little work, like the front stairs, but the interior seems good. Take a look.

Aside from being beige, my least favorite color, the entrance hall is grand, and has a big, fancy fireplace that they don't show much of.

The sitting room is large and has very nice molding on the walls. What is with these people and not showing the fireplaces?

Very nice dining room looks like it has an original chandelier and medallion.

2 room kitchen. Looks very vintage. The 2nd room must've been a pantry.

Nice laundry room.

Pretty primary bedroom. Love the fireplace.

The bedrooms are good sizes.

Love the bead board and original looking sink.

This little sunroom w/a built-in bench is great.

Nice yard. You can see the sunroom from here.

Beautiful gardens on a lot size of .5 acre. I think it's a bargain for this size house and it's move-in ready.

#old house dreams #bargain old house #historic mansions #houses #house tours #home tour

[sparkypantaloons]

A New Day

Freshly resurrected, Jason comes back to Gotham with a plan for vengeance and zero interest in reconciling with his family.

Things don't quite work out how he anticipated.

Or;

A different take on Jason coming back to the family.

Jason wakes up from the Lazarus Pit on a Tuesday. The sun hangs low in the sky, but the heat of twilight in Nanda Parbat is just as suffocating as the heat of the day in Ethiopia. For a minute Jason thinks he’s still in the warehouse, flames licking up the walls, pulling at his skin, tearing out his hair. Then Talia appears and the world turns upside down.

He gets to Gotham on a Friday. It’s spring. But the smell in the air isn’t of fresh grass or new blooms or sweet fruit. It’s of car exhaust and blocked drains and the stench of decay that Gotham is known for. Gotham is home, and this part of it had been his once. But it doesn’t smell like home. Doesn’t smell like the house on the hill beyond the river…

He pushes the thought from his mind, begins to set things into motion.

The first time Jason sees Bruce it’s a Thursday. It’s raining, and the older man is wearing that ridiculous yellow rain jacket he has. The one he thinks makes him look a man of the people. Jason is surprised he still has it. Bruce climbs out of the chauffeur driven Tesla outside of Wayne Tower and is just a fraction too slow to plaster on that stupid Brucie smile that he does in public. Too slow for Jason to miss the tightness of his jaw, or the strain in his eyes, or the weight on his shoulders. Then he strolls into the office block as though he hasn’t a care in the world, and Jason loses sight of him amidst the corporate umbrellas.

A feeling of unease settles in Jason’s stomach, and it’s nothing to do with being back in Gotham or his plans to murder twelve crime lords next month, or even his scheme for revenge. But everything to do with a sad billionaire in a ridiculous coat.

That night, for the first time in a long time, he dreams of The Joker.

It doesn’t happen often. He’s endured worse since the warehouse in Ethiopia. Had endured beatings before, gruesome though it was, and the explosion was all but immediate. No time for suffering. But clawing his way out of his grave? That was the stuff of nightmares. Enduring League training and the wrath of Ra’s? Even more so. In the rolodex of terrors his mind could choose from, The Joker was a wildcard that rarely appeared.

Still, that first night, that first time he sees Bruce, The Joker comes back. A shrill laugh in his ears, and the scrape of steel on stone. Except it isn’t Robin he's beating bloody this time, it isn’t even Jason. But Bruce. Bruce in that stupid yellow jacket. Arms bound and mouth gagged and red, red blood pouring into eyes that are searching desperately for someone to save him. Except then it’s Jason in the purple suit, Jason wielding the crow bar, and Bruce lying horribly still beneath him. The tick, tick, tick, of a clock in the background.

Jason wakes on Friday in a cold sweat, the shadows of dawn creeping up his walls, and a whisper of doubt creeping into his mind.

~

Jason’s a lot of things, but he’s not a quitter. So even when the nightmares of Bruce in Robin’s red and yellow continue, he forges on putting his plan into motion. Pushes memories of that stupid jacket from his mind, forces himself to forget muddy walks on misty mornings. Forget chasing Ace across the Manor grounds, jumping in puddles and Bruce’s hand in his.

~

The first time he sees Dick it’s a Sunday. He’s not even trying to find the guy. It’s been a busy week of choosing targets and planning murders and he’s earned the day off, so he’s in a little deli picking up a sandwich and Dick is there. Just there, like it’s nothing. In a pair of jeans and one of Bruce’s old hoodies and sunglasses on his head even though it’s cloudy.

Jason nearly drops the three cans of soda he’s collecting from the fridge when he sees him, has to exaggerate the fumble so he can hide behind the chips and peer at his once-almost-brother from between the Pringles and the Doritos. Heart yammering in his chest like he’s been caught out past curfew.

Dick looks wrecked. Bags under his eyes and a slump in his shoulders, but he offers the cashier a small smile when he pays all the same. He’s ordered a meatball sub with salad cream because Dick’s always been an animal when it comes to food. And then he takes it to the local park, where he sits on a bench to eat and stays there long after he’s done.

Jason knows because he follows him. Follows him so he can find out what Dick’s doing in this part of Gotham. Find out why Dick has travelled so far from the Manor and his own apartment for a sandwich. Because Dick had only been to this part of town once before Jason died and Jason knows, because he was the one that brought him.

The thought wedges itself in the back of Jason’s mind, feels like a word on the tip of his tongue he can’t quite find and he doesn’t know why.

When he dreams of The Joker that night he wonders if the word is help. Because it’s Dick this time beneath the crowbar. But he’s not tied or gagged like Bruce, just sad and tired. Taking the beating like it’s owed, until his face is nothing but a bloodied mess. His eyes boring into Jason’s, asking why he’s just stood by and watched.

It’s still Sunday when Jason jerks himself awake. Short of breath and pulse quick. Dick’s lifeless body still hiding behind his eyes when he blinks.

~

Jason is used to nightmares. Has always had them. Was used to them that first Christmas Eve at the Manor when he’d woken up hyperventilating. Memories of Willis in a rage and tearing down the tree coming back to haunt him all those years later. He’d been used to that waking-panic, even as Dick had pushed his hair back from his face, wiped tears form his eyes and helped him get his breathing under control. He was used to it. Hadn’t needed the older boys help… not really…

~

Jason is pretty sure he’s never not had nightmares. But his Christmas present that year was the first in what were now well practised grounding techniques, and breathing was still the most important one. You don’t breathe when you’re dead and he always dies in his nightmares. It was Willis before Joker, Joker before Ra’s and a host of nameless monsters in between. Jason always dead at their feet, one way or another. So he wakes up, and he breathes. Because breathing means you’re not dead. Even if it feels like you really were.

Except breathing doesn’t help anymore, because all of his nightmares are of Bruce and Dick now. One or the other or both. Sometimes it’s Jason beating them bloody and sometimes he just watches. Watches as blow after blow after blow lands and nobody comes to help.

And when Jason wakes, sick with terror that the Joker has claimed yet another victim, the relentless tick of the clock still ringing in his ears, all the breathing exercises in the world can’t help. Can’t help because they won’t tell him if Bruce is still alive, can’t tell him if Dick survived the night. Can’t reassure him that the only family he has left still lives. And can’t remind him why it is he’s meant to be so angry with them.

~

It’s a Monday when Jason realises all of his plans have gone to shit. Between doing recon on how to establish his criminal empire and the endless nightmares of the Joker murdering Bruce and Dick, he’s averaging about twelve hours sleep a week. He’d back himself as a better shot with a gun than Green Arrow with bow even on a bad day, but he’s in no fit state to pull a trigger like this. Besides, its hard to put a revenge campaign into action, when you spend most of your hours paranoid your target is already dead.

Because even though he knows, logically, that they’re just nightmares. Even though, rationally, he can tell himself over and over again that they’re not real and dreams are just dreams and nothing more, he’d still feel a lot better if he just… knew. For a fact. If he could just check and put his mind at ease that Dick and Bruce are okay.

Which is why it’s a Monday when he first sees Alfred.

Jason wakes early, veins aching with adrenaline, as visions of Bruce crying out his name fade into the ether. His nerves are shot, his hands shaking as he reaches for the water on his night stand and he can’t do this. Not anymore.

It’s 4am and not quite dawn. If he leaves now he can be at the Manor before sunrise. And if he drives fast enough the wind should keep him sharp.

He’s across the river before the first light of dawn reaches its claws above the horizon, and he’s over the boundary before the birds start to sing. But as he climbs through the window of the guest suite, beside his once-own-bedroom, the sun is just beginning to rise. No problem in a house full of bats, they’ll be sleeping til noon and Jason will be gone long before then.

Except there’s a boy asleep in the guest room. Covers pulled up round his ears and a shock of black hair stuck to his head. Jason stares. Is sure this must be another nightmare, because why is there a kid in Bruce’s house and—

“Jason?” A voice breaks, and there’s a crash of crockery and cutlery hitting the floor as Alfred drops a tray.

Jason’s eyes meet his for a moment, aching veins flooding again with panic, and then he’s out the window before the kid in the bed can so much as mutter “Wossgoinon?” and Alfred can let out a desperate “Wait!”

~

Jason doesn’t sleep again until Wednesday. Can’t stand still for most of that time either. Alfred saw him, Alfred saw him which means they know. The Bats know, Bruce knows and none of this was part of the plan. None of it. He came here to— to— take revenge and to— to—

He doesn’t even know anymore. He’s so tired and so exhausted and so wired with anxiety and he still didn’t see if Bruce and Dick were okay and who was that kid?

And Alfred. God, Alfred. He can’t sleep now, he just can’t because he knows what’s coming. He knows and it’s bad enough to lose Bruce to the Joker every night, bad enough to see Dick taken by the crow bar again and again and again, but Alfred? It will kill Jason. Surer than any bomb ever did.

So he doesn’t sleep. Keeps moving. Falls back into one of his old routes. The ones he did as a kid when he was homeless and sleep was too dangerous, and not because of the nightmares. Does a circuit of Crime Alley before crossing into the Bowery, does a loop round Memorial Park before heading over to the Narrows. Keeps moving. Stays awake.

By Tuesday night he’s almost delirious with fatigue. But he swore to himself a long time ago he’d never sleep on the streets again, so he takes himself back to his apartment even as the thought fills him with dread. And when he lays his head on his pillow, he’s near enough in tears at the thought of what the night will bring.

~

Bruce has been sat outside of the crumbling old apartment block for nearly two days now. Has ignored Alfred’s repeated calls for him to come home, to rest. Has refused Dick’s demands that they take shifts. Has avoided Tim’s quiet offers for help.

He’ll sit here all week if he has to. The rest of the month, even. With his heart in his throat and his fingers gripped too tightly around the steering wheel, because his boy, Jason, his darling darling boy… could it really be?

“Perhaps I was mistaken.” Alfred had said, for the fifteenth time in so many hours. But they both knew it as a lie. Alfred was never wrong.

“I can’t be sure of anything.” Tim had said, but he had been sick with fever. The only reason Alfred was there that time, at all.

“You know it’s not possible, Bruce.” Dick had said, but even as he spoke he was hoping he was wrong.

It’s the first time Bruce hasn’t patrolled since Jason died. It’ll be the second time too, because he’s not leaving this car until the man in apartment 512 returns. Until he knows for sure whether the man they’ve tracked from the Manor, back to Crime Alley, is or isn’t his son.

Bruce wonders what he looks like now. If he’s as tall as Bruce is, or maybe taller. He wonders if Jason is broad like he is, or slender like Dick. If he still has freckles across his nose, or curls in his hair. If he still laughs with his eyes screwed up and head thrown back. Still sticks his tongue out when he concentrates or twists his fingers when he’s nervous.

Bruce wonders if Jason still loves him. Can ever forgive him. Thinks maybe he can accept it if he doesn’t, if at least he knows his boy is alive, is safe.

~

It’s nearly Wednesday, when the man matching the Manor security feed approaches the apartment block. 11.37pm and he’s staggering. Looks exhausted and wretched and desperate. Bruce is sure he’d recognise Jason anywhere, but he’s hunched in on himself and the street light is too dim for Bruce to be sure.

It takes Bruce a moment to pry his fingers from the steering wheel. To get enough air in his lungs to breathe. Then he’s away, and beginning to wish he’d come as Batman because it’d be so much easier to just go through the window than knock on the door. But Jason wasn’t Batman’s son…

The elevator in the block is broken, so Bruce takes the stairs and his the blood is pounding in his ears by the time he reaches the fifth floor. So much so that for a minute he doesn’t recognise Dick, standing there, waiting for him.

“It wasn’t just you who lost him.” Dick says, and his voice is thick with emotion. As though he expects a reprimand.

Bruce grips his shoulder. “Did you see him? Is it— is he—?”

Dick shakes his head. “He was too quick.”

Bruce takes another breath, and then another. His arm is locked, fingers gripping into Dick’s flesh because this is all he has ever wanted for every moment of every day since that day and what if it’s not... What if he’s not…

~

Jason wakes on Wednesday morning to the sharp rap-rap-rap of steel on stone. Sucks in a breath, like a drowned man risen to the surface. Visions of Bruce and Dick and Alfred fading into the darkness.

It takes him a moment to realise his face is wet. Tears still falling as he blinks away the horrors he knew would come. Takes him another moment to realise the rapping isn’t steel on stone at all, but someone knocking on his front door.

He stumbles from the bed, wiping his face as he goes. Tries to shake the chill of fear that still lingers, the sickening sound of crowbar on flesh and bone and brow. He pauses, swallows down the rage and despair that haven’t quite dissipated yet, then pulls open the front door.

“Jason.” Bruce’s voice is little more than a whisper, too small to come from a man so large. But there he is. Stood in Jason’s door way. Alive and whole and Jason hasn’t seen him since that day with the yellow jacket. Hasn’t seen him except in nightmares, beaten bloody and broken.

He opens his mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. Jason had plans. Had so many plans for Gotham and Batman and all of it but now Bruce is here. Bruce is here and he’s alive and instead Jason just cries.

And then Bruce’s arms are around him, his hand is in Jason’s hair and he’s holding him like he’s never going to let go, and Jason wonders just what the fuck he’s been doing all these weeks avoiding this.

“Jay?”

Dick is here too? For a moment Jason wonders if they’re all dead. He still can’t speak. Is still wrapped tight in Bruce’s arms, and he can’t answer, but then he feels Bruce pull Dick towards them and the three of them are a tangle of limbs and a mess of tears and Bruce is saying “My boys, my boys, my boys” over and over again.

~

It’s Wednesday and Bruce is sat at Jason’s bedside. He watches the younger man sleep as though he’s witnessing a miracle. Every breath in and out, every gentle snore, a gift from every God there ever was or ever might be.

Every so often he pushes Jason’s hair back from his head, presses a kiss to the younger man’s hand. Bruce counts the freckles across his nose or thinks about how tall and broad and strong he had felt in his arms. So different from the last time he had held him.

At some point Tim sticks his head round the door. Bruce looks up and grins, gestures the teenager over.

“Is he okay?” Tim asks, not quite hiding his surprise when Bruce pulls him into a side hug.

“He will be.” Bruce says. “I can’t wait for you to meet him.” And Tim gives him one of those goofy, shy grins he does when Bruce praises him.

Alfred stops by every hour or so. Squeezes Bruce’s shoulder but can’t quite bring himself to speak yet. His throat a little too tight for the words he wants to say.

Dick comes by in the afternoon, settles himself in a chair the other side of the bed to Bruce. “Is this real, B?” He asks. Even though he’s spent the morning doing the tests himself. “Since when do we get this lucky?”

Bruce doesn’t know, isn’t sure he cares to know. Content to watch his boy sleep in ignorant bliss for as long as the world will allow.

~

Jason wakes slowly. Only gradually becoming aware of the world around him. The crispness of the sheets, the softness of the bed, the smell of home. His heart doesn’t race, his veins don’t ache, he breathes in slow, nice and easy. Then he blinks his eyes open.

Bruce is sat by his bedside. Reaches out a hand to push the hair from Jason’s head. “Morning, son.” He says.

Jason grins sleepily. “Morning,” He mumbles. “What day is it?”

#spbfic #batfam #batfam fic #batfic #batfamily #jason todd #bruce wayne #dick grayson #batdad #batfamily fanfic #happy ending

[nyxrev]

Details

Just some stuff I noticed, from small to serious.

旦那 (dan'na)

K so I found it funny Black Sperm calls Saitama “dan'na” bc the term can mean different by its context, eg. an honorific for husband, patron, or master, etc. I believe it's translated to English as “Boss” which is most fit but when I first read it I automatically associated it with “master” of the more softer nuances and not the rougher casual “hey boss” sort of vibe, so I was surprised like, huh BS is unusually deferential to Saitama, esp. bc the rest of his speech pattern is fairly casual. But, makes sense bc he's seen enough to know. Also makes sense bc on one hand, rn he has to pretend to be a benign, goofy “monkey” …idk how ppl see a black teletubby n just believe it's monkey but s'ok, story logic… to get by heroes, hence the casual goofy monkey speech, but on the other, he absolutely does not want to cross Saitama, so he chooses to refer to him politely.

master (of a house, shop, etc.)​

husband​: can be used to refer to your own, or smb else's husband (add honorifics). Some other ways of address: 夫 otto, 主人 shujin,

sir; boss; master; governor​: used to address a male patron, customer, or person of high status

patron of a mistress, geisha, bar or nightclub hostess; sugar daddy ​(パトロン)

alms; almsgiver:​ Buddhism, usually written as 檀那 for Buddhist context

As you can see, a non-exhaustive list of what it can mean. With automatic association to house -hold and patronage nuances, my mental image got mildly confused for a moment. Like can you really see an obeisant, nice little BS who humbly serves Saitama with utmost formality??

I feel myself make an uneasy face I cannot quite describe.

Also it was good to see him ask about Manako, but I do want to know if she's alive and safe.

Homewrecker? No it's (unlicensed) Demolition. Opennenoorn Get Out

^after the scene when Forte got hit, Fubuki told Saitama to go with her and said:

あなたの住処を破壊した張本人に会わせてあげる

Basically the reason she gave for their excursion was, “I'll let you meet the person responsible for the destruction of your residence.”

Whom I thought was Psykos bc at the moment, we saw parallel scenes of Tsukuyomi guy at her cell and Tatsumaki had not arrived, but Saitama doesn't know Psykos yet, so when Fubuki made her speech, Saitama confused without so much as context to who all the ppl on scene are, then Tatsumaki arrives most destructively, he must have thought it could be absolutely no other than the “chibi” who threw Genos on a wall.

Which is why Saitama went “I see, the one who destroyed my home was…(Tatsumaki) ಠ ◡ ಠ##”

But I had to wonder who did Fubuki really mean to refer to with “the person who destroyed your place”? If Fubuki meant Psykos how would Saitama react?

Fortress Haven or Death Maze?

Hige Coffee: lit. Beard Coffee (lol)

Well it's good to see Max and Shadow on break, but an emergency call cuts it short, and amidst the commotion, one of them (I assume it's Max) laments the place is so big it's easy to get lost.

What can I say, it's almost like the new HQ, with its concentrated yet puzzled pyramid structure, complete with a moat of self-isolation, remotely omniscient surveillance, a manufactured façade of paradise with luxury security atop seven hells of hidden disasters eager to be released, and so on…almost like it's a direct visual representation of HA's operation hierarchy: centralized system of power and economic monopoly, yet rife with office politics, factions at tension, dysfunctional management, corrupt unstable foundation, and unsavoury secrets to hide.

Cohesively staffed, an impregnable fortress. Yet improperly managed, an exit-less death maze.

And I say it bc the place is not only complicated and spacious but also uniform. Its grand Jenga-Lego stack of cluster structures look so similar, if not literally the same, from every angle, if you rotated it on a turntable, I couldn't tell the sides from each other nor which faced NESW at first.

Of course, part of why they got lost is, it's newly built, heroes just moved to residency, obviously, it's not out of expectation for heroes, or anyone who's never step foot there for the matter, to be unfamiliar with exact floor plan details of such a vast, complex structure, its design sleek at best and dystopian at worst.

But I must wonder, for I feel like it will become a problem later, HQ's isolated vast complexity… If it doesn't fall apart from its core first, what with overpowered resident, destructive visitors, and let's not forget the basement full of a nasty little monstrosity of pets the corrupt executives keep for cash flow they don't use to pay heroes.

Air and Blue Fire: Cyborg Surgery?

On a scale of beneficial to suspicious, question.

Notice the text right next to Air? It's an SFX.

キュイーン kyui—n (onomatopoeia): like a whirr sound effect, low sounds of machinery at work, usually small technical ones which contract or spin. For example, camera lens… how ominous, don't you think?

While Forte is eager to get out of bed and make a quick work of the noisy monsters who disturb his already bad day, blow off convenient steam, it looks like Air can't even emote natural, human facial expressions, and it unsettles me so!

If you look long enough it almost looks like he is controlled like a puppet Σ(-᷅_-᷄⁉︎)

As for BlueFire, I can't tell if it's an empty sleeve or a prosthetic arm but hopefully he got an arm with extra spicy flamethrower fingers so he can be extra terribly efficient. He'd probably max his specs to roast evildoers out of spite. I sense one step to Genos. Same age, similar personality.

Bonus: List of Every Hero Present

aka. faces you see the last moments of your life, if you happen to be a mischievous monster at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Top panel: Golden Ball, Spring Mustachio, Red Muffler, Funeral Suspenders, D-pad, bottom L hat prolly Gun Gun, Shooter, Smile Man, Skunk-Boy Gasmask, top L corner Eyelashes, Mohawk Hacker, Brass Knuckles guy, Great Philosopher, Magic Trick Man, Darkness Blade, Bones, prolly Blue Fire's back (front of Bones), All Back Man? (didn't he quit?), Butterfly DX, Kusari-Gama, Mushroom, Horse-Bone, Twin Tails, can't tell who the mop of dark hair next to her is but prolly Blizzard member, Tank-Top Al-Dente, Tank-Top Rockabilly, another two Blizzards by the suit,

Bottom: Eyelashes, Brass Knuckle, Spiked Club Blizzard, L- Max, Genji, Stinger, Tank-Top Mask, Tank-Top Racer, Crescent Eyebroll, Green, Wild Horn, Skunk Boy Gasmask, Tank-Top Al-Dente, Tank-Top Rockabilly, a sliver of Darkness Blade, Heavy Kong.

Fubuki Group? More like Mafia?

Look at how they stand. Look at how they walk. Look at their formation. If each of them were as strong as Needle Star got, fought as well as the support team cooperated, if equally valued and given opportunity to contribute their expertise, they truly would be formidable, fearsome foes, and reliable allies Fubuki can trust to hold their own and not constantly worry about. Of course part of the problem is Fubuki's own insecurities but we know she has the potential to be a great leader if she put her focus on the right path and used her power to maximum beneficial strategy

Counted around 33 members without Fubuki or Saitama. Rowdy Suit Gang. Mountain Ape n Lily stand out and you can see them from far away.

Extra Bonus: Spot the Spy 6-6

Nah cuz I really need to talk about the cursed Tsukuyomi guys. I brewed some praises n some toasty roasty jokes. I need to cook some wacky, juicy conspiracy about them. Just a little gentle speculation.

#opm #one punch man #opm manga #hero association #thoughts #saitama #overgrown rover #black sperm #tatsumaki #fubuki #forte #air #cyborg #body modification #organization #suspicious #blizzard group #traitors #among us

[princesssarisa]

Yesterday I saw Il Barbiere di Siviglia at Opera San José. It was a very fun performance, and excellently performed. Here are the details that stood out.

*The production was colorful and basically traditional, but quirky in some ways, which is exactly how I like to see this opera staged. The director was Stephen Lawless, who staged the 2000 Met Don Giovanni (Terfel, Furlanetto, Fleming, et al), so I could predict that it would be lively and clever, if slightly gimmicky at times, which it was.

*The outer walls of the buildings moved back and fourth to take us from the street to Bartolo's house and back. Sometimes, as a gag, the characters would seem aware of the walls' movements, or they would push them back themselves. The Act I finale had the walls literally closing in around the protagonists to reflect the feelings of overwhelm they sang about.

*I was glad to see that the Count was played not as just a stock young lover, but as an obviously silly, melodramatic boy, at least as much in love with his own persona of "gallant lover" as he was with Rosina. Not only did this save him from being bland compared to the other leads, but it was easier to believe that he would eventually become the Marriage of Figaro Count.

*I'm glad to inform @leporellian that Fiorello had a nice prominent role. He stood out visually in a maroon top hat and cloak, with a mustache and glasses, and he stood out as a comic presence, nervously creeping around the buildings and trying to keep the musicians quiet, then passionately conducting "Ecco, ridente" and getting annoyed when the Count embellished the score. He also stayed onstage longer than usual and was actually present through most of the Count and Figaro's conversation. He and Figaro even got into a little fight over the Count at one point, each pulling him in a different direction to hide from Bartolo. And while his final recitative was cut, he still got emphasis at the end of Scene I as the Count delivered his outpouring of romantic excitement to him, while he was forced to listen in helpless annoyance.

*Berta had a nice prominent role too. This production cut the role of Ambrogio, so she was Bartolo's only servant, and obviously a caregiver and confidante to him, but an unappreciated, exhausted one who wasn't treated very well by anyone. She was funny, but it was easy to feel sorry for her too, and her feelings for Bartolo were established in the first scene, as she eavesdropped on his scheming to marry Rosina and then sobbed as soon as he left.

*When the characters sang asides, they often sang them to other characters instead of to themselves. As mentioned above, at the end of the fist scene, the Count sang his rhapsodies of love to Fiorello, while Figaro sang his own rhapsodies about money to his shop customers as he styled their hair. Later, in the "Pace e gioia" duet, the Count sang his asides to Figaro, who was secretly waiting outside the door, and Bartolo sang his to Berta.

*The production included four silent recurring characters: four flamenco-dancing ladies in orange dresses, who served as assistants to Figaro, rallied around Berta to comfort her at the end of her aria, and generally added liveliness and Spanish local color.

*Don Basilio made a silent entrance in Act I, disguised as a blind beggar in tinted glasses and with a white cane and an alms cup. After a passer-by gave him a coin, he privately stood up straight, looked at the coin, and put it in his pocket. This is the second Barber I've seen that had Basilio pretend to be disabled – in a production I saw in Saint Paul years ago, he walked with a cane in Act I and a walker in Act II, neither of which he actually needed.

*Bartolo kept a silver decanter of wine and several glasses on his desk, and various characters helped themselves to it throughout. The Count gulped plenty of that wine as part of his "drunk soldier" masquerade, eventually making him genuinely tipsy, which probably explained why he got too into the role and attacked Bartolo. Berta also drank throughout her aria. When Figaro, the Count, and Rosina were finally preparing to run away, Figaro stole the decanter and cups to take with them.

*There was a bit of a recurring theme of comic gunplay. When the police arrived in the Act I finale, they held everyone at musket-point, and the ever-feisty Rosina grabbed one man's musket and tried to wrest it away from him, but in doing so, she accidentally fired it. One of the flamenco ladies, who was watching from a window overhead, collapsed, and for a few moments everyone stared at her in horror, thinking she was shot. But it turned out she had only been scared and fainted. Later, in Act II, Bartolo threatened the Count and Figaro with a pistol, and actually fired it at Figaro – fortunately it turned out not to be loaded. It was this same pistol that the Count later used to threaten Basilio.

*During the "Buona sera" quintet, everyone slipped bribes to Basilio to leave, not just the Count, with Rosina even giving him her earrings. But Figaro finally had to chase him away by spraying him with a crude insecticide sprayer.

*During the "Temporale," Rosina cried herself to sleep on the harpsichord bench and dreamed of "Lindoro" and Figaro drinking together and laughing at her.

*During the "Zitti zitti" trio, the in-universe reason why they didn't hurry down the ladder when they should have was that Rosina kept bringing out suitcases and other belongings she wanted to take with her, even a pet canary in a cage.

*During the finale, Berta finally got a reward for all her troubles: Figaro and the fandango ladies took her behind a screen and gave her a makeover, replacing her dowdy clothes with a bright yellow flamenco dress and styling her hair into flowing curls. So in the end she danced happily and confidently (though still a little clumsily), and finally flirted openly with Bartolo. Unexpectedly yet pleasantly, Fiorello also showed up at the end to join in the final chorus of well-wishes to the lovers.

I'm so glad I went. :)

@leporellian, @tuttocenere, @supercantaloupe

#opera #il barbiere di siviglia #the barber of seville #opera san jose #2023

[dcbbw]

Commoners Wife. Commoners Wife. Commoners Wife. Commoners Wife. Commoners Wife. Commoners Wife. Commoners Wife. 😘

Sorry (not really), I was thinking about it this morning and now I can’t stop lol

#My Meredith! Thank you so much for this ask!

I was going to throwback (it IS Thursday), but figured my readers have read through this incomplete series at least once.

I was going to snippet some of the WIP (Drake and Riley's wedding) I need to finish, but decided, naw.

So below is what the hell I pulled out of my ass while I should've been working at the job I get paid to do.

It's lemony, so giving it a blanket NSFW tag (but my smut is so rusty at this point, the story is probs safe for Bible study)

And here we go ....

The pads of his long fingers burn into her bare skin as he palms her full breasts; his lips whisper dry kisses along the side of her neck before drifting down the column of her throat. His hardened manhood, throbbing with need, presses insistently against a shapely thigh.

“I hear Lady Hana is staying at the Palace,” Duchess Riley Brooks-Walker states accusingly as she pours herself a cup of green tea.

King Liam looks over, his expression neutral but for the flash of annoyance in his eyes. “The Palace is home to many, Your Grace.”

The monarch has traveled to Valtoria for the duchy’s mid-year budget review, an appointment that has been on both their calendars since the beginning of the fiscal year. His eyes travel over the Duchess’ form, clad in a jewel-toned jumpsuit, before resuming his breakfast.

His large palms are splayed against her hips, his tongue blazing a southward trail along her midriff. Riley’s breath hitches as her legs spread open further. The faint aroma of her arousal reaches his nostrils and his ministrations become quicker, faster. Normally he is a leisurely lover, ensuring she reaches every peak and high she can consume before allowing himself release. But now is different; he feels the need to mark her as territory, claim her as property.

She allows it. They both need to be reminded to whom they belong.

“It’s not a good look, Liam. She needs to be housed in a duchy.”

The King laughs, though it is without mirth. “Currently, she resides in the ultimate duchy. And I see nothing wrong with her spending time in the Capital.”

His eyes narrow shrewdly at the Duchess who is using her fork to stab at her eggs. “You’re jealous,” he correctly deduces.

Her eyes lift and hold his gaze. “A single woman sharing the same roof as a single King who is searching for a wife? Tongues will wag, and rumors will fly.”

“Yet, you were fine with her at Ramsford.”

His shaft slides slowly into her entrance; he hisses at tight pink walls wrapping around his erection. Her legs are tossed over his shoulder and he turns his head to kiss her calf. Their dance, one older than time itself, begins slowly as he pushes into, then pulls his entire length out of her. Her hips undulate slowly against his groin, her nails scratching against random patches of skin. His scent fills her nostrils, causing her center to wetten even more.

“In case you have forgotten, Lady Riley, you are married. I am not. And as valuable as your contributions are to both Court and country … no one is looking to you to lead Cordonia. You could have been leading by my side, but again, that’s a choice you made.”

“I know both my status and my station, Your Majesty!” Riley responds snappishly. “I realize you need a wife and the country needs a Queen. All I am suggesting is that your search for one be conducted a bit more … discreetly.”

The King arches a brow. “Any potential courtships will be conducted as I see fit. I have to live with your choices, quite sure you can live with mine.”

The Duchess tosses her cloth napkin angrily, yet harmlessly against the table. “If you insist on keeping Hana at the Palace, whatever we are … whatever we have, it’s over!”

“The conversation perhaps,” the King partially agrees as he sips coffee.

The couple’s movements are frantic, almost frenzied. Slick skin slaps against slick skin as his cock sloppily slides within her slippery folds. Their breaths are gasps as they both feel their orgasms rising. His chest and back are marked and scratched, her neck and breasts are passionately marked. His fingertips dig into her buttocks as her legs slide down his body to lock around his waist. The heels of her feet dig into his lower back, spurring him on.

Muscles tighten, yells pierce the air, and stars explode behind closed eyes as they climax simultaneously. His seed splashes her walls, her juices coat his shaft; he collapses atop her, his breath ragged and hot against her cheek.

“God, I love you Brooks. The next two days in Lythikos will be the longest of my life,” Drake Walker murmurs against his wife’s shoulder before kissing her deeply.

Riley is grateful for the kiss; it swallows the answer she doesn’t have to give.

The Duchess leads the way to the formal library where the Cordornian Comptroller and the Duchy of Valtoria’s Financial Director await her and the King. Her strides are long and sure in her Louboutin stilettos; the King meanders behind her, his eyes trained on her ass as she walks.

“There is nothing between Lady Hana and myself,” he offers as both explanation and apology.

Riley stops, looking over her shoulder suspiciously at her monarch, her lover.

“I know I have no right to dictate who you see, but I’m still so in love with you,” she says softly. “I feel … I feel as if I’m losing you.”

Liam steps forward quickly, pulling Riley into a heated embrace, followed by a passionate kiss to swallow the answer he doesn’t need to give.

Tagging: @jared2612 @ao719 @marietrinmimi @queenjilian @indiacater @kingliam2019 @bebepac @liamxs-world @mom2000aggie @liamrhysstalker2020 @neotericthemis @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @superharriet @busywoman @gabesmommie1130 @tessa-liam @beezm @gardeningourmet @lovingchoices14 @mainstreetreader @angelasscribbless @lady-calypso @emkay512 @princessleac1 @charlotteg234 @queenrileyrose @alj4890 @yourfavaquarius111 @motorcitymademadame @queenmiary

#dcbbw answers #commoner's wife ask #trr/trh fanfiction #riley x drake #riley x liam #adulteress

[aheathen-conceivably]

Tomorrow morning Virginia’s life changed forever. She had spent months painting walls, mending furniture, cleaning floors, and hiring staff. Tomorrow it all became real; tomorrow the alms house opened once again.

It was midnight and Virginia knew that she needed to sleep, but she couldn’t stop walking from room to room, making sure that each bed was made and every corner was clean. She had spared no expense in the renovation, retrofitting the whole building with modern plumbing, heating, and lighting; there was even a telephone in the reading room. Despite the luxuries, the walls were decorated with embroideries done by her mother and the toy chests filled with wooden horses carved by her father.

Part of her was nervous, but a bigger part of her was exhilarated. She knew that most people would want someone to share this moment with, to talk to and hug, or just to sit in silence, sharing their successes. But Virginia reveled in the solitude of the newly renovated alms house. Something about being alone on the precipice of the rest of her life was sublime.

Besides, tomorrow this house would be full of running feet and happy faces; smiling mothers and playing children who were comfortable and at home, even if only for a little while. Virginia would never truly be alone again, so tonight she walked from room to room with no one other than her own happy thoughts.

When she finally grew tired, Virginia climbed the ladder to her attic bedroom and opened a book, more optimistic about the future than she had ever been in her life.

#1919 #ts4 decades challenge #sims 4 decades challenge #sims 4 historical #ts4 historical #sims 4 legacy #ts4 legacy #sims 4 story #ts4 story #the darlingtons #1910s #wwi era #virginia darlington

[sweetroyalberry]

ooc; TOA Anniversary Munday!

Celebrating TOA and the people who contribute to make our group what it is.

Repost, don't reblog. Only fill in what you feel comfortable sharing!

Happy anniversary, TOA! Here's to many more years spent together.

tagging: you know

---

Name: Neku

Pronouns: he/him/his [starting to consider they/them]

Birthday (no year): February 24

Where are you from? What is your time zone? Northeastern USA; EST

Roleplay experience: ~1.5 years, starting with Puyo Puyo Tumblr RP (yes I am serious) that led to friends recommending me to try FE indie RP. I went on hiatus for a few years but am back in closed RP form.

Got any pets? I only had some short-lived goldfish when I was veeery young

Favorite time of year: Winter

Some interests and things you like: Math (ew), gaming, music, golf

Some funfacts & trivia about you: Okay how did I miss this my first time uhh I try to do competitive gaming in Smash and Splatoon! Also I had a very brief time of playing drums when I was younger but now I just keep the rhythm to myself.

What non-Fire Emblem games do you play? Smash Bros, Splatoon, TWEWY, Touhou Project, and (most current delusion) Kiseki/Trails

Favorite Pokemon type & Pokemon: Fighting, Empoleon (this one is too hard)

How did you get into Fire Emblem? Older brother has exposed me to many franchises I liked, with this time being him showing me a bit of FE7 on his totally legal GBA. From there I eventually played it myself but first got to complete Awakening later on and it snowballed from there.

What Fire Emblem games have you played? All of them barring FE1, 3, 5, and Three Hopes. FE4 is also technically there but I have attempted to start it many times; oh and FE12 as well.

First Fire Emblem game: Blazing Blade

Favorite Fire Emblem game: Echoes: Shadows of Valentia

Any Fire Emblem crushes? I think Lyn was my first due to FE7 being my first game (very creative I know), and now currently Ayra is probably within my walls

If you’ve played the following games, who was your first S support? - Awakening: Tiki - Fates: Kagero - Three Houses: I literally cannot remember and am too lazy to check but let's just say Shamir - Engage: Ivy

Favorite Fire Emblem class: Promoted mages, specifically Sage

If you were a Fire Emblem character, what would be your class? Probably General because I'm too big.

If you were a Three Houses character, what would be your affiliation? Blue Lions

If you were an Engage character, which Emblem would you Engage with? Sigurd would be my pure gameplay pick, but Ike would be really fun to vibe with [he's probably my favorite lord behind Alm!]

How did you find TOA? Short story: N. Longer-ish story: I started to desire trying to RP again, especially with my rekindled interest in FE thanks to Engage's reception, and then I begun hanging out with N more and he told me more about this place. Yeah, said it was only longer-ish.

Current TOA muses: Mae, Sonya

Who was your first TOA muse? If you don’t have them anymore, could you see yourself picking them up again? Mae is someone I saw (not too highly) placed on 2022-2023's Most Wanted list and I knew I wanted to do an Echoes muse to start. I don't know if they mesh with my own personality/style well, but they are definitely fun to play around with still. :>

Have you had any other TOA muses? Shamir was a short project that got smashed up due to a busy summer/nerves, but I do want to visit her again someday. Her voice and personality is very strong, but might not be for me.

Do you think you have a type of character you gravitate towards? Magic cool. Pegasus knights cool. Sword people cool! Personality-wise, I think I try to veer more toward social muses, which like I said w/ Mae doesn't really fit me in real life but...hehe.

What do you believe you enjoy writing the most? I'm still trying to find a general vibe, but I really do like writing scenarios that deep-dive into muses' thoughts, like...not 100% angst, but still not light?

Favorite TOA-related memory: I'm still young but running in right as everyone started kissing each other and being able to join was...very good.

Got any delusions that didn’t see the light of day in TOA that you’d like to share? I somewhat shown off my more out-there delusions via tier lists (highlights being Yglr from a very brief attempt to bandwagon from FEH Book II hype before reminding myself why I hate bandwagoning) and I made my interest in Citrinne pretty public, but currently (when I am NOT getting absorbed into Alm-route side material oh god spare me please) I am desiring Anna Fire Emblem. No specification on which one, because that's part of the fun for me too :)

#ooc ~ see you in shibuya #Munday #// fun to talk about gaming and more writing delusions

[xplrvibes]

part two. Ive decided to make comments as i watch big bulks so i don’t forget what i’m thinking.

1. the more sam and colby talk abt cody and satori… the more i believe them. like maybe im just a chameleon to opinion but they genuinely seem to believe in c&s and i wasn’t there, i haven’t experienced any of this so i think i’m back to ‘hey maybe it wasn’t all bs and this might be real’. I also firmly do not believe cody was cracking joints bc how? they felt it in the floor, heard it in the walls.. doesn’t make sense. also if the house ever goes up again they need to put an offer down. i get what sam was saying and it not being practical (properly value 300k but asking for 1.4m? that’s steep). it’d be a great investment tho.

2. with sam and colbys luck, one of them would get the most undeniable evidence of the paranormal (someone levitating, thrown a distance, possessed…) and people would still be like ‘fake!’ Lol Also gram (?) just mentioned a similar experiment to what we were discussing the other day! except he said take random people and not tell them which is haunted, we were saying put snc in a place and not tell them its haunted and then see what happens. they liked that idea so who knows… they might lol

3. i will always be so fascinated and proud of colby for how he handled and continues to be so transparent about his cancer journey. i say journey bc it will continue to be apart of his life for years to come, whether through medical appointments, anniversary anxieties, or just talking about it. mad props to him, mad props.

4. i just got a series of flashes in my mind of black and white photos of snc respectively announcing engagements to their partners and births of their children and it made me smile. one day, boys. one day that’ll be your future, your “purpose”.

done.

- aussie anon

always nice to listen to podcasts where everyone knows each other well, its less interviewy and more just a convo with friends caught on camera.

Also I hope their merch is still in stores next time i’m in the usa bc i would definitely grab a hoodie. just don’t wanna pay the insane conversion rate and shipping costs. i priced it, a hoodie + shipping works out to be $149aud. sorry boys… can’t do it 😂

1, I believe that they believe in Cody and Satori. I've never called snc's credibility into question with that whole mess, and it kind of annoys me that others do - not cause I think they are above reproach or something, but because people love to say "oh snc never bothered to even try to debunk these guys, so they must be in on it." Like, WHAT? They literally flew back across the country weeks later to try and debunk it cause they knew full well that there were a lot of ways out and around this. When the controversy started, they reached out to C&S and asked if they could run more tests and C&S said no. SNC, having done all of that, came out still believing them while also fully acknowledging that they could be faking - not much else they can do besides that right there, so why they are still coming under fire about it when C&S are the "frauds" is beyond me.

Literally, do y'all want them to kidnap these two people, tie them up, remove their shoes, and force them to do this barefoot? Do you want them to release this additional footage they have that C&S did not give them permission to release that they could probably get sued over (since releasing it would be done without consent) and possibly blacklisted from the entire paranormal community, just so reddit can have their fucking jollies? Like...?? Go after C&S and let snc continue to have their beliefs on the whole thing, since they did everything they felt they could to disprove this before making their decision on where they stood on the issue.

Sorry for the rant, that whole situation just annoys me.

As far as them almost buying the house - that made me laugh, cause we joked about the possibility of them doing that on here back when the house went up for sale. So knowing it almost happened is not only funny, but also explains some vague shit they said back in the day about possibly owning a haunted house lol.

2, You know, Sam's exuberant insistence that he wants to have some horrible thing happen to him so that he could have the experience and finally know for 100% that the paranormal is real is exactly the problem with Sam, and I've been calling that out for years. The fact that he can so casually say it out loud made me both feel vindicated and perturbed by him and his hubris (here's a good example of his hubris again lol).

But yea, I hope they take the idea and run with it!

3, I thought it was interesting to hear him be honest about the fact that this whole situation with the cancer is hitting him harder now than it did while he was in the thick of it. That is trauma. That is shock and adrenaline wearing off, and hindsight creeping in. I think it's important to be able to come out and say, "Yea, not all of this is a positive, and some of this will stick with you for years." Colby tries his damndest (to a fault sometimes) to always come across as a glass all the way full and overflowing kind of guy, or a stoic soldier who doesn't complain and keeps his head up, but then he's also very open about his emotional state, and vaguely alludes to his deep mental health struggles from time to time and I just think there's a well of really dark emotion buried deep, deep inside of him that would be healthier for him and everyone to let out every once in a while.

Anyway, that was a side tangent to the main point, which is that it is very impressive that he continues to put himself out there and speak so candidly about such a stigmatized topic.

Although, I don't think he grasps what the word "celibate" means, but he tried and that's what counts lol

4, I think it's high comedy that these two act like they've never given thought to their kids growing up together when they literally were just joking about this on xplrclub a few months ago. These two have brains like sieves lol.

Also, the looks on their faces when the host said "you should have girlfriends that are friends with each other" like yea, they are working on that right now, as a matter of fact.

And I think they'll be in Zumiez for a long time, so you should be good!!

#asks #aussie anon #snc video review

[fanartfic]

My head cannon for Tavya is that she has a rather involved backstory with two of our playable NPCs. Her connection to Jaheira is that she was one of the servants that snuck her out of her family house in Tethyr when the civil war broke out. She then raised her in the druids circle that was in the forests nearby

And then there is Halsin. Their connection is their presence when the Shadow Curse fell due to Ketheric Thorm. Tavya kept a close eye on Jaheira, at least as close as she could. Jaheira being her one time ward, and long time friend. She even joined the Harpers to stay near her. The following blurb is how she first met the druid Halsin.

Wake and Remember.

Tav wakes up after dreaming about her time fighting Ketheric's Sharrans, and remembers meeting a large druid, who healed her of her wounds.

TW: blood, talks about death and moving on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~}{~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tavya squirmed in her spot on the floor. Blood was beginning to pool underneath her from a jagged wound in her leg, and the pain from the poison that had been on the blade shot up into her gut and lower back. The makeshift hospital set up in the Last Light Inn was becoming more crowded by the minute, and Tavya's hope of being helped, or even seen, was dwindling fast.

A group of Sharrans had appeared out of nowhere and had descended on her and her scouting party. Half of her Harpers had been killed, the other half wasn't much better. Tav had used all of her magic to keep them alive until they had reached the Inn, where a makeshift healing house had been set up. She hadn't even noticed the gash in her thigh until there was nothing else left to notice. She had collapsed against the wall nearby, and a passing flaming fist had assured her that help was coming to her soon.

That felt like ages ago. The pool of blood around her leg was beginning to flow past her foot into the hallway in front of her. She felt her vision darkening.

She was bleeding out, despite her best efforts to staunch the flow of life blood, she just didn't have enough resources to do it on her own.

She heard heavy footfalls approaching, then a sickening wet slap as a foot landed in her blood. A hulking figure paused to regard her, then swore quietly.

"Oak Father preserve us, has no one helped you?"

Tav weakly looked up at him as he knelt next to her, quickly checking her over. She shook her head, or at least tried to.

"Come here to me."

Strong arms hooked under her knees and behind her shoulders. Tav felt herself being lifted into the air. She was too weak to hold her head up, and she rested against the big man's chest, breathing in the earthy scent of herbs and leather mixed with a metallic tang that came from his already blood-stained shirt.

"My men?" She managed to ask.

"We're here, captain. We're alright," one of the men from a nearby bunk called out, holding a hand straight into the air.

Tav barely managed to acknowledge him before finding herself on a bunk herself. Deft hands had her armor off and in a pile on the floor and then a light, warm and golden, hovered over her. The light switched to blue, and the pain in her leg and gut eased.

Tav let out a sigh of relief as she slowly gained more awareness of her surroundings. She looked up at the man who had finally come to aid her. The biggest wood elf she had ever seen sat on the edge of the bed as he bandaged up her remaining wounds. A red tattoo swirled on the side of his face and trailed down his neck. She reached up a hand and rested it on his arm. She felt the muscles under the skin flinch before he turned towards her, a warm smile on his face, his eyes kind.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Heh--Not dead." Tavya reached up and rubbed her eyes, thankful that the pain was slowly ebbing away.

He chuckled and helped her sit up. "You'll be weak for a while. You lost a fair bit of blood."

"How long was I out?"

"As far as I know, you never lost consciousness. You'll have to forgive me for not finding you sooner. You almost bled out."

"Well, you did find me, and I'm not dead. I don't want to think about what ifs right now."

A commotion broke out from around the corner

'Please! High Harper, the injured are resting!"

Tav looked up and saw her one time ward and friend Jaheira as she burst into the room.

"Tav! You're alive!" She cried, running in and crashing into her, hugging her tightly. "I thought I lost you, old wolf,"

"Ow!" Tav winced, but nevertheless returned the hug warmly. "I'm alright, cub, don't you fret. I'm still here."

"When I heard your company was attacked I feared the worst,"

Tav patted her friend on the back reassuringly.

"It'll take more than Sharrans to kill me, Jaheira." She said, kissing her cheek. "You know me, I'm tough to kill."

She turned to look up at the druid who healed her, but he was already gone, disappearing through the door to treat a new wave of wounded that were coming in. She would have to find him later to thank him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~}{~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tav’s vision faded as she found herself lying on a cot in one of the side rooms of Moonrise Towers. Jaheira sat in a chair next to her, reading a book as she watched over her.

"Little cub?" Tav reached towards her.

"Hey, you're awake, old wolf," Jaheira closed the book and set it aside, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "How do you feel?"

Tavya let out a chuckle, then winced as the partially healed wound on her shoulder protested. "Heh---ow---" she reached up and touched the bandage, blood showing through as it was still seeping, despite the best efforts of the ones who bandaged her up. "Not dead." She looked up.at Jaheira and smiled wearily. "We really need to stop meeting like this."

Jaheira chuckled and took Tav's hand holding it in her own.

"The others? Are they alright?" Tav asked, worry edging her voice.

"They're alright," Jaheira assured her, her thumb rubbing the top of her friend's hand. "Worried sick about you. They would not leave you until I forced them to rest. Especially the Archdruid."

"Oh, thank the Oak Father," Tav sighed in relief, her head relaxing into the makeshift pillow behind her head. "How long have I been out?'

"All night, and most of the morning. I sent your companions away at dawn to rest up."

Tav rubbed her eyes with her good hand. "Gods, my throat is parched." She grumbled. "Help me up."

Jaheira stood up and slid an arm behind Tav, getting her into a sitting position. Tav winced as the rest of her body protested, but she didn't want to lay in bed any longer. Jaheira walked to a nearby table and poured her a glass of water.

"Here you go," she said, handing Tav the glass.

Tav gratefully gulped down half of the water, then held the glass in her lap, her thumb rubbing the rim.

"I had a dream while I was out," she said quietly. "A memory from a century ago that I haven't looked back on in a long time."

"What was that?" Jaheira asked, sitting back down in her chair.

"It was when I was injured during that Sharran attack." Tav took a sip of water. "I remembered certain details, and it explains a few things."

"What things are those?" Jaheira asked, her curiosity piqued.

Tav looked down at the glass in her hand. "Like why I felt so drawn to the Archdruid, why he seemed so familiar to me." She took another sip. "I couldn't place it until now. I thought it was because we were both here when the curse fell, but he was the one who found me bleeding on the floor at Last Light that day."

Jaheira thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement. "Now that I think about it, you're right. He was next to you when I found you." She picked up her book and stood up. "He cares about you, you know." She said, "That look in his eyes, it is the same way that Khalid used to look at me."

Tav felt her cheeks flush with warmth. "I--" she paused, remembering something from the battle, when Myrkul's avatar rose from the depths.

"You can rely on me, Tavya. . .My Heart."

The words he spoke to her, that steeled her resolve to keep fighting and calmed the fear in her heart.

"I--know." Tavya said slowly. "I had ignored it before, thinking it just my imagination. . . But ever since we arrived in the Shadowlands, he has shown me more kindness than most. Even more so after helping him find and heal Thaniel and Oliver."

Jaheira sat down on the bed again and pulled Tav into a gentle hug, being mindful of her injuries. "Sometimes, we forget what it's like to watch someone fall in love with us," she said quietly. "I'm not sure I would realize it myself anymore either."

Tav let out a short chuckle. "When did you get so wise, cub?" She held Jaheira close with her good arm, her forehead resting on her friend's shoulder.

"Wisdom is a learned trait. . . And I learned from the best." Jaheira said, kissing Tav's cheek. She pulled away cupping Tav's face in her palm. "I am truly glad you are alright. . . I don't know what I would have done had you died."

"Well, good thing we don't have to think about that just yet." Tav smiled.

Jaheira nodded and got to her feet. "Take it easy. Isobel asked me to let her know when you woke. She hoped her own magic would be replenished by now."

Tav shook her head. "No need. Let her rest. Her healing will be needed for the rest of the Harpers and Fists that are here."

"Very well." Jaheira turned to leave, then paused briefly, looking out the door. "You got another visitor anyway. . . . Archdruid." She nodded as Halsin walked through the door.

"High Harper," Halsin nodded back, then turned his relieved gaze onto Tavya.

"I'll leave you two alone." Jaheira glanced back at Tav, a knowing smile on her lips as she disappeared through the door.

Halsin stood still for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Tav gave him a sympathetic smile and held out her hand to him.

It took Halsin less than two strides to reach her and grasp her hand in his. How small it seemed, he thought, as her fingers gently squeezed his own. It was so strange that such a small hand belonged to one of the strongest people he knew.

"I'm glad to see you awake." He said, sitting down on the cot. It creaked under his weight. "How do you feel?"

Tav's smile widened a little as she let out a small laugh. "Heh. . . Well, I'm not dead." She said quietly, looking up at him. "Thank you. I hear I owe you my life."

Halsin shook his head. "It was a group effort. It took all we had left to make sure you didn't slip away, but you seemed determined to hold on, despite how severe your wounds were."

Tav nodded her head. "Thank the Oak Father too then,' she said, as her eyes became misty at the memory of the vision she had. "It was he who wouldn't let me go."

Halsin's brow furrowed as he scooted closer to Tav and cupped her face in his rough palm. "What do you mean?" He asked.

"I saw him. He said he had need of me here." Tav explained, as a tear silently fell down her cheek. "I saw Terryn, and Japheth. Even they told me to stay. That my life here was far from over."

Halsin tried to take in what he was hearing. In all his years of devotion to the Oak Father, he had never had a vision of the god himself. Now here was Tav, telling him she had seen him as she balanced the line between life and death.

"Well then, Thank the Oak Father," he said, brushing a tear off her cheek.

Tav leaned into his palm, trying, and failing, to stifle a sob. Halsin scooted closer to her, offering a shoulder for her to cry on. Tav leaned into him, letting herself let go of the grief that had nawed at her heart since the Nautoloid crash. Halsin wrapped his arms around her, being mindful of her shoulder, and rested his chin on the top of her head.

It was a few moments before Halsin felt a familiar tap on his arm. He pulled away, but reached down and took her hand immediately. Tav sniffed a few times before regaining her composure. She looked up and met Halsin's gaze, his brow furrowed in concern.

"Thank you," she said. "That was, well, cathartic, to say the least."

"Hmm. Anytime." Halsin said quietly, brushing a strand of stray hair behind Tavya's ear. She looked up at him, her eyes seemed at peace. The first time Halsin had ever seen those grey depths without some sort of turmoil behind them.

"I--" She began.

"Mama T!" Karlach rushed in, nearly pushing Halsin over as she gave Tav a hug. "You're alive! Haha!"

"Ow! Karlach. Take it easy, I'm not fully healed yet."

"Oh gods, sorry! Karlach immediately let go, giving Tav a sheepish grin.

"Good thing I can remedy that," Shadowheart entered the room, the others filing in behind her. Her hands began to glow as she healed the remainder of Tav's wounds. "You had me worried there for a little, you know."

Halsin backed away towards the door as the others surrounded Tav's cot. He caught a glimpse of her as she smiled at and embraced every single one of her troupe, her face beaming as she saw that everyone was safe and sound.

She really does treat them like her family. Halsin thought, a smile stretching across his own face. Perhaps, one day, I can be a part of it as well.

"Halsin! Get in here!" Karlach motioned to him. "You're as much a part of this as the rest of us."

That was when he realized, that without him even noticing--

He already was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~}{~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#baldurs gate tav #fanfic #my tav #baldur’s gate fanfiction #bg3 halsin #halsin x tav #my Tav’s been around a while #survivors of the curse should recognize each other #Karlach is a big kid and i love her #tav and Jaheira

[lifeofresulullah]

The Life of The Prophet Muhammad(pbuh): Calling the Tribes to Islam, the Allegiances of Aqaba and Migration to Madinah

Ashab As-Suffa

It was when the Qiblah was not yet changed to the Kaaba.

A shade and a shelter were built from date branches next to the northern wall of the Masjid an-Nabawi. This was named “suffa”. Muslims staying there were therefore named “Ashab as-Suffa (Suffa Companions)”.

These companions who stayed at the suffa of the Masjid had neither a house, a tribe, relatives nor anything else in Medina. They had a life away from their family, free from worldly issues and troubles and totally self-sacrificing. They learned the Qur’an and listened to the Honorable Messenger’s preaches and lessons. They were fasting most of the time.

This blessed group of people, who spent their time at the presence of the Supreme Messenger, was always inspired by the Prophet. They were self-sacrificing, eager-to-learn students who devoted themselves to the Honorable Messenger’s school for the sake of Allah. Teachers appointed by the Prophet would teach them the Qur’an. Those who completed their studies were sent to Muslim tribes in order to teach them the Qur’an and the sunnah of the Messenger of Allah. In this sense, they were called “qurra (readers).” Therefore, suffa was called “Dar al-Qurra (House of the Qur’an Readers).”

These unique companions, whose number was about four hundred or five hundred and who had a moderate yet enlightened life, were an army of knowledge. Although they devoted all their time to learn the Qur’an and the sunnah of the Messenger of Allah, they took part in battles when necessary as well.

The ones who got married would leave the suffa but others would join to take their place.

These unique companions were occupied neither with trade nor craft. Their living was provided by the Supreme Messenger and wealthy companions. Hazrat Abu Huraira, who was one of the outstanding students at suffa, expressed this situation very well in response to those who found the fact that he narrated a lot of hadiths strange: “Do not find that I have narrated too many hadiths strange! As our immigrant brothers were occupied with trade in bazaar and Ansar brothers with agriculture in gardens and fields, Abu Huraira was memorizing the Prophet’s blessed advices. 

The Prophet’s Close Relationship with Ashab as-Suffa

The Supreme Messenger was closely interested in both education and needs of Ashab as-Suffa. He always sat with them, talking with them and listening to their needs. And sometimes he reminded them that their studies are important and blessed to the utmost degree, saying to them: “If you knew what is being prepared for you in the Hereafter, you would like your poverty and needs to increase!” 

The Honorable Messenger himself tried to meet their needs. When necessary, he would put his household’s needs on the back burner.

Once, when Hazrat Fatima asked for a maid, complaining about how dreadful it was to grind flour with hand-mill, the Prophet answered his dear daughter: “My daughter, what are you saying? I have not been able to prepare Ahl as-Suffa’s needs yet!” 

One day, he was with the Ashab as-Suffa to examine their situation. He saw their poverty, troubles they were going through and consoled them saying: “O Ashab as-Suffa! Good tidings to you! Whoever meets me as content with a situation and condition like yours s/he is in; s/he is one of my dear fellows!” 

The Supreme Messenger would ask: “Is it alms or gift?” when he was given something.

If they answered “it is alms”, he would give it to ashab as-suffa right away. If they answered “it is a gift”, he would accept it and give some of it to ashab as-suffa. The Prophet would never accept alms, but only gifts.

One day, a man brought a plate of dates. He asked the man: “Is it alms or gift?

The man said it was alms and therefore the Prophet sent it to the ashab as-suffa right away. The Prophet’s grandson Hazrat Hassan was in front of the Prophet at that time. When he took a date from the plate and put it in his mouth, the Prophet reacted right away and took it out from his mouth. And then he said: “We, Muhammad and his household, do not eat alms; alms is forbidden to us!” 

Moreover, it is said that the Quranic verse “(Charity is) for those in need, who, in God’s cause are restricted (from travel), and cannot move about in the land, seeking (for trade or work): the ignorant man thinks, because of their modesty, that they are free from want. Thou shall know them by their (unfailing) mark: They beg not importunately from the entire sundry. And whatever of good ye give, be assured God knoweth it well” was sent with reference to the ashab as-suffa. 

They would not Miss a Preach or Speech of the Prophet

These unique companions, who devoted themselves totally to the path of Allah, would not miss any of the Supreme Prophet’s advice and speeches. They were always present there and would narrate the speeches to other companions by memorizing them. In this sense, ashab as-suffa had a unique service and job in preservation and narration of Islamic judgments. This great group of knowledge had an important role in the Quran’s light reaching out to every corner of the world in a short time.

Abu Huraira Narrates

Abu Huraira, a good student of suffa, which was a foundation of knowledge, narrates an event about themselves:

“I was lying face down, because of starvation. And sometimes I tied a stone on my stomach.

“One day, I sat down on a path where people came and went. At that time, the Messenger of Allah was passing by. He understood my situation and called out to me: “O Abu Huraira!”

“‘Yes, o the Messenger of Allah!’ said I.

“‘Come on here!’ he said.

“We went together. He entered the house. I asked for permission to enter, too. They permitted and I entered. He found a jug full of milk.

“‘Where did this come from? Asked he.

“‘Such and such person gave it as a gift’ said they.

“Then, ‘O Abu Huraira! Go to Ashab as-Suffa, tell them to come here! Ordered he.

“Ashab as-Suffa were guests of Islam. They had no family, no money and no house. When the Messenger of Allah was given a gift, he would share it between himself and them. He would send all of the alms which was given to him to be given to the ashab as-suffa and would not take anything from it for himself.

“I was upset because the Messenger of Allah invited ashab as-suffa. I was hoping to drink the whole milk in the jug myself and I would live by it for some time. I said to myself: ‘I am a messenger. I will share the milk among the Suffa companions when they come.’ In this case, I knew no milk would be left for me. However, I had no other choice but follow the Messenger of Allah’s order.

“I went and called them. They came and sat after being permitted.

“The Prophet (pbuh) said: ‘Abu Huraira, take the jug and offer them milk’

“I took the jug and started to give them the milk. Each of them, one by one, took the jug and drank until he was full and then passed it to the next person.

“After the last Suffa companion drank, I gave the jug to the Messenger of Allah. He took it. There was only a little milk left inside. He raised his head and looked at me, smiling: ‘Abu Huraira! He said.

“‘Yes, the Messenger of Allah, I said.

“‘Only you and I did not drink milk! said he.

“‘Yes, the Messenger of Allah, I said.

“‘Sit down and drink, he said. I sat down and drank.

“‘Drink some more, he said. I did. He insisted that I should drink more. ‘More, more!’ he said. At last, I said: ‘I swear by Allah who has sent you with the true religion that I am too full to drink any more!

“‘Then give met he jug, he said. I did. He gave thanks to Allah. Then he said the “basmalah” and drank the rest.”

#allah #god #islam #muslim #quran #revert #convert #convert islam #revert islam #reverthelp #revert help #revert help team #help #islamhelp #converthelp #how to convert to islam #convert to islam #welcome to islam

[arkus-rhapsode]

Why I am looking forward to FE Engage Fell Xenologue (I want FE to do more alt universe stuff)

So by now I’m sure everyone has seen the trailer for FE Engage’s wave 4 dlc and the big hook is its a xenologue set in an alternate universe. In this world, Alear is dead, our allies are our enemies, the Four Hounds are good, and we have new Fell Dragons.

I love this.

It’s no secret to some but I am a huge mark for alternate universe stories. I love what ifs and I love inter universal versions of characters meeting.

Fire Emblem has always sorta been tickling me with the promise of that, but it just never quite got there.

Obviously you have games like Fates and Three Houses where you literally decide the course of the timeline with your choice on who to side with. But all these routes are self contained. You don’t ever get a “Hoshidan Corrin meets Nohr Corrin”. Games like Awakening do have plot points being time alteration and I do appreciate it had its own share of Xenologues set in the dark future.

Then you have games like the first FE warriors, a weird spin off seemed perfect for one mega dream crossover and exploring different versions of characters. But sadly it was more about just the crossover than say confronting alternate versions of characters. And even Heroes for being premised on being a bunch of variants of characters conversing, we don’t actually get that many out there scenarios or stories based around them (granted it’s a mobile game and I for one don’t really play narrative heavy or dense games on my phone). But like I said there are teases of those alt universes I’d like to see. Queen of Nohr Camilla, Ike touching Lahran’s Medallion, a Hardin who is still a good guy. There’s a lot of potential there. There’s a reason I really dug the Hel Book.

When Engage was announced and was going full balls to the wall in showing off characters from previous worlds, I was wondering if I’d finally get a big plot that is a big multi universe spanning adventure. Maybe meet a Marth who was a bad guy, the world where Celica and Alm never got together, Sigurd never got set on fire: there’s a lot of potential. I do appreciate we are getting something, I like the idea of this mirror universe Engage cast, but man… FE just keeps teasing me and teasing me and I’d love to see like an FE that was all about multiversal meeting in like a spin off or another anniversary title.

Oh man… could you imagine the Elibe universe where Champion’s Sword is canon? We could have Al in a game! Oh my god!

#fire emblem #rambling #fire emblem engage #fire emblem fates #fire emblem awakening #fire emblem heroes

[edrecovery-space]

this blog does not support the following:

thinspo content

weight goals

encouraging eating disorders

general trigger warnings on food (but we do support specific food warnings, ex. "tw jello")

mocking of triggers, pronouns, orientations or gender identities

demonization or villainizing of disorders, disabilities and neurodivergences'.

transphobia

antisemitism

racism

prejudice of any kind

j.k.r

harry potter content, including hogwarts legacy.

fake claiming

endogenic systems, "tulpamancers", demo-systems, mixed origin systems and otherwise non-traumagenic systems.

discourse

aphobia, mspec phobia, general queerphobia

narc abuse or those who believe it exists

reality shifting

triggering, unreality jokes

zoophilia

pedophilia

necrophilia

harassment or death threats

use of slurs and terms you cannot reclaim

sexualization and/or feticization of age or pet regression, minors, qlw or qlm relationships

fudanshi, fujoshi, "yuri/yoi", shotacon, lolicon and proship content of any kind.

the webtoons "lore olympus" or "killing stalking"

body shaming and fat phobia

policing pronouns and identities

anti-recovery

anti-healing

anti-vaxx

anti-masks

alm or blue lives matter

stalking

harm to oneself or others

hate speech

exploitation

ddlg/ddlb, mdlg/mdlb, cgl and variants (cglre is a term used by the agre community so it does not count here)

transrace (not the og definition for adoptees, you guys are fin, im sorry your term is being used in a horrible way /g)

transabled

transage

transx/transid

autism speaks

psych2go

talking trash behind someone's back

classism

peer pressure, gaslighting, guilt tripping, bullying or abuse of any kind

threats of any kind

paranoia inducing or unreality statements/jokes like "im in your walls", "im/look behind you" "im in your house" "im in your closet" "im under your bed" "im coming for you" "look out your window/i see you" etc

factkin

"kinning for fun"

shipping real people, dead or alive

art theft or tracing

yandev

check here for a list of things we do support!

both lists will be updated over time when we see things that need to be added

#pinned dni #proshitters dni #endos dni #dni proship #dni tulpa #dni if kink #dni kink #dni post #dni list #recovery blog #safe space for recover #eating disoder recovery #ed recovery #recovery