#KINGDOM OF IRE DEMANDS IT

[kingdom-of-ire]

hmmm- should an dreoilín be the official outro to eire (agus an chuid eile)?

it's in irish and it's the exact type of song Ireland would unironically listen to

if you haven't listened to it. just listen to an dreoilín by Sean monaghan

I promise its a bop

#LISTEN TO AN DREOILÍN #KINGDOM OF IRE DEMANDS IT #AND KNEECAP LISTEN TO KNEECAP #SUPPORT MODERN IRISH MUSIC RAGGHHHHHH #eiré (agus an chuid eile) #ire's personal thoughts #Ire's got opinions again

[darlingofvalyria]

❝I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage. I will not be swept aside.❞

[ The Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should have known his wife better— or at least, her ire, for when his trysts with the bastard Snow reached the Spiders and soon, the ears of his Princess Consort, rage and war drummed for Winterfell, demanding heads.

—Maestre Kevan, Volume IV of The Bastard Eater, passage chapter under 'The Flame that Sung for the North'. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 10,062 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt!reader (aegon's twin sister), one-sided aegon ii x reader, jace x sara snow

contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader, targcest, smut, angst - post-vizzy t death, rhaenyra is queen - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - allusions to infidelity & character death(s) - targaryen madness, revenge, domestic violence (not jace), unhinge behaviour, intense use of 'bastard', profanity, gaslighting, guilt-tripping - this is basically gone girl, you gone girl jace - dark fic - mentions of depression (aegon ii), allusions to suicide (not reader) - nsfw: oral (f receiving), breeding kink, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— i didn't think i was going to do the sara snow thing, but herewe are. also i just wanted an excuse to go absolutely ape shit. reader gets very intense, like thoroughly unhinged. this is literally me supporting women's wrongs. it is also quite insane that this reached 10k and it's still just the first part lmaooo + comment, reblog & like at will!

"THAT FUCKING BASTARD! THAT GODSDAMNED, WHORE-FUCKING STRONG HALF BREED!"

Your shrieks echo stone and shadow, interrupted only by the things you pick up and hurl. Anything your hands grab, you throw and spit obscenities against, rage and tears ruin your pretty visage. The fury swept past your cherub features, a dragon breaking through the Hightower seams, upending fire and roar from the pits of your being.

"HOW DARE HE?! I GAVE HIM AN HEIR! I BROUGHT HIM PEACE! I BETRAYED—" you roar, pulling your pearl dagger— a gift from your Strong Bastard of a Husband — and throwing it to your vanity mirror, glass shards exploding. "— MY KIN!"

"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"

Arms wound across your torso—hardened and chain-mail — as you fight against your bounds before a pain flashes to your cheek. Your rage quiets, hard breaths from your lungs. You turn your tear-stained anger to your mother and her palm, fright and terror on her regale visage.

Death of a spouse becomes the Queen Dowager in her pale blue robe and unbound spirals of auburn hair. Peace had begotten a realm that is balanced on the lineage you had produced for the Queen, her heir, and your own, as the new Princess of Dragonstone. With Otto Hightower for evermore banished to Oldtown, Kings Landing had been brought to a flowering kindness.

Queen Rhaenyra's ascension had been a wondrous affair, fit the for the first crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not a Queen Consort, not a Queen Regent. An heir who rose for the crown always meant to be hers.

But the calamity that brewed in her ascension... no. You paved the peace. T'was you who wrangled the Great Houses that proved allyship to your twin brother's banner, you who blessed her with tranquility of a rule that will be known for ages that will precede you all.

And now her son... her son dared to destroy everything.

A conversation floats above your head, by your Queen Mother and her sworn shield, the Ser Cole, but you barely hear anything past the ringing in your head.

The Targaryen Madness the sheep so call it, an idle voice, faint and familiar, whispers in the niches of your brain. It has infected you so. It breathes, fuelled by the air wrought by your husband's betrayal. It sings, sweet love. It sings.

"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"

"—she is my daughter, Ser Cole, I am not in danger. Release her."

Justice, the voice shrieks? Screams? But it is so soft in your head, a wail of a memory, a woman or a man? must be had. No dragon falls in such disgrace.

The tight wound over your torso is unleashed but the knight is not far, tensed to cage you, when your mother grasps your elbows as you grab hers, nails digging into the thick fabric of her hem that she still winces, your grip steel-tight.

"My darling, please. I cannot help you if you do not speak what ails you." She brushes her hand desperately across your face, smearing your tears, trying to find the daughter she bore past the savagery and madness that beholds you now. "What has happened?"

You draw a tightened, harsh breath to your lungs, rattling your bones that you quiver in your attempt for sanity.

"I am being shamed, mother," you whisper. Stark, violet eyes meeting the worried round, brown of hers. "The Strong bastard is whoring himself to another, a Northern bastard."

A cackle falls your lips as alarmed gazes are exchanged above your head.

"Y-You cannot say such things aloud, sweet girl," your mother hushes your madness, pulling you close to her chest as she shoots a glance at the door.

Criston checks outside, but only your maids linger. Dyanna presses a finger against her lips, catching the knight's eye, and the rest scatter, surely to make sure that no one that need not know of their mistress' words is within reach. A shiver still runs his spine. He will never get used to the quiet, almost non-verbal way your connection worked and reached. Your Spiders weave webs all around, even as their mistress sunders with rage.

"Mayhaps you are mistaken, for sure the prince is loyal, and he adores you—"

You pull back against her, teeth bared. She flinches and Ser Cole steps forward, wary. "It is the third missive now that I have received. Did you think I would not have confirmed twice— thrice? I didn't believe it the first time! But three people have now confirmed that all this time, in the guise of rallying his mother's cause in the North, he is spending ample time with the Lord Stark's bastard sister. His bastard fucking sister!"

Your mother's horror catches that of Ser Criston's, but your fury is your own, you are a dragon trapped in the ruin of your own making, of the webs you had spun so cleverly to get to this point, and you cannot stop.

"I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage, my blood spilled the birthing bed for it." A cry leaves your lips as your grief and rage pools like ichor from your chest to the floor. Alicent is torn away from you— your nails had gone through her robe and she had cried in pain, a mimick of your own, a mother to a daughter to a mother to a daughter, a cycle, an Ouroboros — and you fall to the floor, grasping at your chest.

"I will not be swept aside. I will not be ignored."

A gasp falls from your lips as your mind moves to a quiet, still place. The tremble fades, your rage and grief whirls, collects, as you push it all back inside your chest.

Your madness must be sharpened for it be used as a sword.

And you cannot let him be happy in another's arms.

If you cannot drag them to the Hells, sweet dragon, the idle voice hums, hisses? Screeches. Your ancestors— all of those who have succumbed to dreamy madness — appears in the corners of your vision like soldiers. Awaiting for you to join them. Awaiting the blood that you will spill.

Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.

"...my daughter?" Alicent calls, hesitant. Cole hovers but does not approach, standing guard in protection of the Dowager. It breaks her heart to see you this way, a young woman still, much older than she was when she married but only because you had always sought your future. You had always had a hardened scale, far stronger than she.

Even when you made your entrance to the world— the unmeasurable pain of bringing not one, but two heirs into the world, her firstborns, all at once — you had never cried. The maestres, maids, they worried for you, as your twin brother had not stopped crying, so alive and red, raw from the wound of being fresh.

But you... you had not made a sound.

The entire weight of your being— your mind, your emotions — even then, you wrangled them close to your very centre, never letting them stray too far from the edges of your fingertips. As if any release must be made with a perused thought. An incentive of reason.

Even then, you plotted every step you took.

Now, Alicent watches as her firstborn daughter suctions all her emotions— that Targaryen madness that plagued the blood of her husband, his ancestors — and made her ploy.

Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.

The silence beckons nightmare. Old fear flickers inside the Queen Dowager.

"Where are my daughters?"

"What?"

"My daughters," you repeat, a hair's breadth louder than the first time you spoke. Your eyes flutter upward. The deadened gaze curled Alicent's heart in fear. "Where are they?"

"In the nursery, with the twins and Maelor. Helaena and Aegon are watching them."

You offer your hand up mutely, and Cole exchanges one last, lingering look with the Dowager, before offering his own. You stand up, thank him softly, and brush and clean up your face to the best of your ability. An utter calmness over your visage.

"Tell no one of what I had told you," you say, fixing your hair and rubbing the red from your cheeks. One minute there is madness, the next there is nothing. There is only a girl. A woman. A princess. "No one knows apart the three of us, and if you ever decide, Ser Criston, that nigh is the glorious time for you to betray my mother or I, know that the last thing thing oyu will fear is the Stranger's hand when I am through with you."

Your mother shouts your name, horrified. "What are you thinking? What are you plotting?"

You cup Alicent's face, smiling ever sweet. "Your innocence will keep you safe, mother. All I ask, for the heart you keep for your children, that you keep this between sealed lips and tilted chin. You know nothing, yes?"

"... Yes. Nothing."

You place a tender kiss on your mother's head. "Keep Daenera and Aemma safe for me. Aegon and I are flying to Dragonstone promptly. Sweet Helaena does ever so get overwhelmed by watching all of the children by herself."

"D-Dragonstone?"

Your sweet smile touched with poison, stretches. "It is high time I take a dragon for myself, don't you think so?"

While an insecure obsession had fraught your younger brother about claiming a dragon, you had met it with indifference.

For how can you not mourn the loss of Aemond's sight, staring in quiet horror the entire time as the maestre did his best to salvage the muck mess of blood and nerve endings, before the old man had shaken his head, and you turned to the small bowl that contained your brother's eye, unable to look at anything else.

Not even when your mother's rage was met with apathy and anger, her demands for justice nothing more than a woman's insanity, a mother's grief that must be swept away, tucked under a chin and a sadness she will never get rid of.

"Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."

Your soft-hearted, darling, baby brother. None of his words had thawed the freezing of your heart, the grief under the swell of your breastbone.

Your own mourning was kept between teeth and tongue, as you had slept with your siblings that night. The four of you, tucked under the wing of the other, Aemond close to your chest as possible, as quiet, hot tears ran down your face. Every moan of pain or whimper he made in his sleep tore at each new vein inside of you.

"Dragons are the symbol of our House's power," Aegon had once said, windswept hair you tried to tame with your fingers, smelling fresh of Sunfyre and winds.

"And yet, there were no eggs in our child beds." He stiffened while you smiled sadly, curling your twin's hair away form his face, making him presentable and dusting the bout of sand that managed to find his leathers. You had been scolded long before by your grandsire of how you coddle Aegon, how you defend him, mother him more than your mother ever could, but you cannot stop. You were meant to care for him, tethered you once were inside your mother's womb together, you hold him steady now.

Whenever he was lost, whenever his sadness overtook him, wrung your brother dry of life, you bat the Stranger's hand and bring him back.

"But we have proved them wrong," he insisted. "All of us, even Aemond with Vhagar— the war queen, Visenya's dragon — we have claimed ours. Daeron all the way Oldtown has Tessarion, even Helaena has Dreamfyre. And yet you insist..."

You wound your arms over his torso, keeping him close in a silly hug where you sway and dance him around. A laugh escaped him while you inhaled the scent of smoke, soot, and that grime stench of beast.

Aegon on his good days lacked the bottle-edge of wine, of cheap salts from the waft of the soiled, Silk Streets.

This was your brother. No one else.

"I fare better without one," you whispered in his ear. "I appear innocent, sweet almost, without a beast in my command. They look at me with nothing but pity and the urge to protect me. Our father likes me like this, his poor, lovely daughter without a dragon of her own, listening so intently to his histories of Old Valyria. Our sister is eased, as one daughter is plagued by dreams and struggles with the real world, while the other cannot even claim a dragon of her own. Poor princess, Hightower blood must have thickened in her veins. She too, is no threat."

You pulled back, smiling at him. "They like me better like this. Pitiful, compliant, nothing but a sweet and pretty flower that sways in the Spring breeze. A beautiful decoration but no more."

He rubbed a thumb on your arm, a worry knot on his forehead. Aegon adored you but he struggled to piece together where your plot lies. You are a web-spinner, forever dancing out of reach, catching prey and lengthening your intricacies. "Is that why you hide your training with Aemond alone? Ser Criston is mother's sworn shield, he would not mind—"

"I will not place my secrecies to a knight with a soiled cloaked," you snorted. "No matter how tall he stands beside our mother. I trust no one but my kin. And I know that no matter how heavy you drink, sweet Aeg of mine, my secrets are your own."

He took your hand, kissing the back of it, stare impregnable. "As your blood is my own, our fire is one flame. I go where you tell me to."

You kissed his cheek, a reward, laughing. He smiles proudly at the sound. At this time, you dangled yourself to your brother as bait as the pressure from your grandsire to make him King started rising. You had been given notice that he had been talking to House Lannister, Wylde, even some Riverland lords.

You did not mind becoming Aegon's second wife. Just as his namesake, he will have his Rhaenys and Visenya. Unlike the Conqueror however, he would adore his Visenya more than a true flower. Helaena would enjoy that far better.

"And if I tell you to jump?" you half-purred.

"I will ask you how high."

Memories and choices break and tide as you scramble for hold on the rocky cliff face. Dragonmont in the dark is a behemoth beast, a screech or two breaking like lightning crackles, or the familiar drum beat of wings before the silence consumes once more. The stench of fire, of beasts and carcasses helps cloak the darkened night.

"Udligon ñuha brōzagon, Answer my call," you hiss into fraudulent emptiness, hands gripping rocky edges until your blood beads, "you fucking lizards."

"Have you gone mad!?"Aegon shouted, trying to pace with your run to the dragonpit.

A rocky laugh broke out from your being, not deigning that with a reply. Aegon huffed angrily.

"Alright, tell me this then. How are you so sure I'm not just about to put you on a bleeding volcano to die? We claim your dragon in the morn, sister. First thing before we break our fast. I'm sure by then, Vermithor or—"

You whipped your head around, pulling halt. "I leave tonight to claim my dragon. Whether it is you and Sunfyre who gets me there, or Aemond and Vhagar, is no matter to me. I will claim one tonight. It is up to you to decide now if we tell Aemond or not."

Aemond, whose anger is wounded tight, the barest excuse for war always at the edge of his hum. The misstep at Storm's End had cost him everything. Had cost your mother everything. Queen still, Alicent Hightower had bent the knee and offered her life in exchange for mercy. Before Rhaenyra passed judgement, Viserys I had passed.

It didn't matter that you had ensured a higher dosage from the Harrenhal witch in his usual milk of the poppy. Your spiders moving with ease through the silent channels you had established long before your own flowering.

The Red Keep had scrambled, the Heir with it. It was enough time for Lucerys to have come out of the red, confirmed to live through the worst of it without as much as a broken bone. Arrax however, had been badly maimed, and would no longer take flight. But he and his rider would live. Aemond would live. Alicent would have her son. Rhaenyea will have hers, and the crown.

Kevan had done his duty unto you while you settled the storms in Dragonstone. You rewarded him handsomely.

Aegon sighed. He too, would like your honour avenged, but not for the sake of war. "As you wish, sister. I hope you know what you're doing and I am not about to send you to your death."

Just like what you did to your mother, you reached forward and cupped his face. If before, your touch stills his heart and floods his cavities with warmth, a flash of fear strikes the twin son at the eerie smile on your face.

"Skoros morghot vestri? What do we say to the god of death?"

Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."

You smiled. "Trust me, sweet Aeg. It is not my death the Stranger will take. Not until the fjords of the North are at my mercy."

"Iksan kesīr sir naejot māzigon ñuha sikagon pakto! I am here now to claim my birth right!" Your scream echoes and falls, repeating back to you. There is a hum, like an electric current that sizzles and pops inside your blood and marrow, and you scramble higher and higher on the rock. Your blood does not sing for the dragon lairs, but above. Up and up, jagged edges cut your skin and dress, the wind whipping with sea mist, but nothing, no one, can clamour you as you reach the peak.

At first you see nothing but darkness and hollow sounds. But you let your eyes adjust, a hiss breaking out of your dry lips as you stumble. You look down. What you first thought were rocks and wayward bones of cattle is bigger.

Whale? No.

Dragon. Dragon bone.

You look and will every sense that your eyes do not. The smell that is drowned— iron. Bones bigger than a person. Than cows and whales. Bones of fearsome beasts. Darkness moves, taking form, more than shadow. Scales hewn rough and jagged, as if stone themselves. Midnight black moving with the gentlest of sighs.

As soon as you realise what— or who — is in front of you, the eyes open with an intelligent gleam. Your heart jolts at the emerald irises that gaze back at you, slitting at the appearance of a human.

'The stench of death follows him', the voice of an old keeper hums into your ear. You no longer remember who told this to you, but the words ring true in your memory. 'Scales of midnight, as if hewn from darkness and death. A harbinger, your grace, an omen of the darkest nightmares.'

"Rytsas. Hello." You smile, ever sweet, ever charming.

This is a thread you had never felt before. Not one of your own making, but something older. A golden thread that led the eyes of Daenys the Dreamer. That spun the ties of Aegon the Conqueror. The voices that herded your madness had gone quiet in the mad rush to get here, but now their presence thickens. Words you cannot hear, nor understand, flood the silence as dragon met rider for the first time.

Keepers and historians have called him he, but every bone in your body tells you that the being before you is a she.

And wouldn't that make sense? A cannibalistic being is a woman?

She opens her maw, only ever slightly, smoke and fire crackling out of it. Molten lava in the belly of her insides tease the cool, night air and warms you.

Her version of a smile. Hello, she seem to say.

"Māzīs. Come," you say, giggling. "Dohaerās. Serve."

That night, you took your first flight.

That night, the Cannibal took her first flight with her first— and only — rider as well.

❝ . . . It is said that the formerly named "The Cannibal" had been entranced by the hunger of his new— first and evermore — rider. Prince Aegon the Elder who had escorted his twin sister that very night with Sunfyre, had looked up in alarm and fright to a maddened screech. Excitement and laughter pouring out from the newly bonded Dragon and Rider had soon turned fear into awe.

Gaelithox, she had been named as they had ridden until dawn broke by the rider who loved her 'till the end of their days, was said to have seen a mirror in Her Grace. The fathomless hunger for blood and organ from the same bodies of their kin. For Gaelithox ever hungers and satisfies for the same meat as her, at the height of her grief and ire that fuelled the Queen Consort to climb Dragonmont by hand, she too hungered for the throats of her traitorous blood.

Gaelithox will only have one rider in her whole life, as she found no same twin soul as akin in the Bastard Eater Queen. Their bond moved as if two bodies beheld one soul.

She shied from humans, and oft found too rough with other dragons. Vhagar was an exception, oft seen acting as an elder sister to the Queen's dragon when neither royal rode them and played in the skies. Smaller dragons were forbidden to approach her however, nor was she allowed in the dragonpit after almost devouring the flightless Arrax.

She died two moons after the Queen's death, delivering her final flames for her rider and would never more breathe her infamous green flames akin to Wildfire, ordered by the Crowned Heir, Princess Daenera Velaryon. It is said that the princess attempted to bond with the cannibalistic dragon but it refused.

The dragon spent her last moons in heartbreak, oft seen in Dragonstone and the Red Keep, circling her rider's most favourite places. Her final resting place is at the very top of Dragonmont from whence the Queen claimed her. It is said that the Queen's crown, the one the King Jacaerys had gifted her after the birth of their first sons, the Princes Laenor and Gaemon, is said to be placed there, as well as a portion of her ashes.

It is said that the King and the Queen's twin brother, the Prince Aegon, personally made the trek in remembrance.

It is widely suspected that Aelyx, Princess Daella's dragon, the youngest child of the King and Queen, may have been Gaelithox's only existing hatchling for he too is made of rough, midnight scales. The dragon that bred with her remains to be unknown. ❞

—Maestre Kevan Noratz, Volume X of The Life and Lies of the Emerald Flame, passage chapter under 'The Time of Hunger: Gaelithox'.

You leave Gaelithox to a mournful goodbye on Dragonstone, pressing your forehead against her hard, scaly head, promising to come back, of exchanging her diet for fat, juicy whales, for more wind-whipped rides, before riding back on Sunfyre with Aegon. The younger dragon would not rise from the beaches in fear of the cannibalistic elder, but you made ensuring promises to teach Gaelithox not to chew your dearest brother's dragon.

You had gone most of your life without the feeling of a bond beneath you, warm and alive and wild, and the roar and stench that though new, felt so familiar in your ribcage— you will fly again. And with your brothers beside you. With Helaena and her lovely Dreamfyre.

To think they had taken this from you too, to placate them. To play into their hands like a mewling kitten.

No more.

It is paces before fast is about to break when you both touch back down to Kings Landing. The Keep busying with its occupants, servants and maids bolstering with quickened feet to ensure the lords and royals are awakened with full, poached meals, dresses and coats readied for their lords and ladies, a new, glorious day under the Reign of the Black Queen.

"What now?" Aegon asks, trying to keep with your pace but he is fatigued, failing to stop his yawns. The excitement of last night had come upon him like a fog, and he is missing his bed. Hells, he is missing the bed he stays with his wife if it meant he would get a full night's sleep in the hours of the day.

"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."

He turns to you, frowning. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." You beam, nodding in favour of soldiers and maids who bow in reverence to the Crown Princess. You know you smell of dragon and night, and you need a bath. And to talk to Dyanna before you seek your daughters. "I will need time and people. The board must still be set for me to perfectly execute what I have in store."

"Alright." He yawns again. "I'll be in my quarters, passed out, if you need me. Please do not need me until sup."

You laugh breathlessly, grabbing his hand and giving it a wet kiss. "I will give you your rest, be assured. Kirimvose, dōna lēkia, Thank you, sweet brother."

The words are simple, said in a quiet murmur heavy with love and meaning. Aegon presses a loving kiss to your head, unable to stop himself winding an arm around you.

"Syt ao, va moriot, ñuha prūmia. For you, always, my heart."

As you break to each other's chambers— his, to sleep, you, already meeting Yna and requesting for a bath — you don't notice the lurker that watched the intimate moment between twins, humming in amusement before it moves to follow you.

Back in your quarters— your marriage quarters as Jacaerys had requested that you forgo having your own, not wishing to part with you — the maids are already busying themselves airing the room, moving to follow your usual routine. The only thing breaking it is the tub now in the centre.

"Thank you," you say to Yna as she picks out the pins from your hair, shrugging off your dress in the process as soon as the maids had untangled the lace behind you.

"Call for Dyanna," you tell them as they bow and leave, the door clicking softly behind them. Plans must be made. Bath for now.

With the world stifled for a second, left with only you and your thoughts, you plunge your body under too-hot water, sighing  against the aches and pains in your body. Dragon-riding is a new endeavour to your muscles, and though enjoyable, was still too new.

You sigh as tears fall from your eyes, blinking exhaustedly against soft, humming daylight. You had always known that love, as it is, is a maiden's folly. A foolish, hapless play meant to fool young girls into thinking the world is kind; a pretty place.

It was an even farther thought from you, a princess of the realm. At a young age, it has been drilled to you that your womb is a rare commodity. Your body has never been your own, a piece meant to be moved in a bigger game that you are used for, not play.

You weren't stupid.

If there's a few things Otto Hightower had ever granted you, apart from gifting you his keen prowess in moving power beneath your fingertips, in hungering for more, for better— it is understanding what each person is, who they can be, how you can move them. A flatter, a flair, a push. As a man, there is much to be desired about your grandsire; he used people, used family to pursue power, but you can't truly fault him for that as you were the same.

You just took better care of the people under your wing.

And for Jace, you had banished him.

The worst part, you knew there was a good, fat chance you would care for the princeling. He was a kind man, a sweet man, and with a guiding hand, you could forge yourself the best husband for yourself as much as you can mould a great king and a wonderful father. Women's hands are ever carved to mould and prod men. We stand behind, a presence or a hand, an echo of power.

But your Jace had surpassed it all, and in the moons leading up to your present day, to giving him his heirs, two beautiful daughters, the promised full Valyrian colouring in the silver hair in Daenera, your eldest, the wide, violet gaze in Aemma— the name of his mother's mother, a request of him that you had kindly, graciously fucking agreed to — of course there is a part of you, the girlish, tender heart that you long thought you had buried to get here, would fall for the brown-eyed, wondrous man.

You sink deeper into the tub, sighing as you let yourself unravel—

When you feel it. A presence in your room. It's soft. Silent. Not a lot would feel as such, but as paranoid as you are, as you keep your spiders clean and pretty with your dewy-eyed webs— you know better.

Your mind runs with ideas on who it might be, and come to a few people. No true name rises. The Red Keep is flooded with spies and traitors. You test your luck, sitting up on the tub, raising an arm over the lip of it and flicking water with your fingertips.

"If you are here to kill me, I'm afraid it will be a lost cause."

He laughs, sardonic and edged and familiar, jetting a tingle down your spine.

Well. There's getting a calm bath.

"Perceptive as always, niece," he says, heavy footfalls approaching now that he has been caught. "I'm just here to say hello."

You raise your eyes, mouth curled but unsmiling at the man who acts as the biggest thorn to your plots. Daemon Targaryen has never fallen through your webs, on guard against your flatter, your push, or your flair. Of course, taking the position of his daughter might have forever burnt that road, but you would think he'd ease up just a little bit when his wife, the Queen, had warmed to you considerably.

Unlike your mother, you had never been hostile to your bitch of an elder sister. Just like your plots for Aegon and Jacaerys, and nodding along to thread your father had started but abandoned, foolishly thinking the realm would follow without him fully ensuring your sister's claim to the throne— you carefully maintained a polite farce with Rhaenyra.

Ultimately, this became a boon to you, as she had responded positively to your abrupt marriage to her son, even reminding her deranged guard dog of their own marriage. The cream to your lemon cake had been when you birthed Aemma, the Queen's most favourite grandchild thus far. When she was a babe, Rhaenyra was never far; almost, always holding your daughter, cooing at her cheeks, remarking her likeness to her namesake with pure fondness.

But Daemon Targaryen knew, in the deepness of his marrow, that there is something wrong with you.

"Hello," you answer primly. He laughs, leaning against the passage to your open balcony. "We could have had this elating greeting at fast, if you wish to break it with me and my own."

He scoffs, unable to hide his disdain at the thought. It breaks his stare of your naked visage. Men. "I would rather jump to the fighting pits, good daughter."

"How rude. Is that all?" You meet his gaze steadily, tilting your head. "If it is not obvious yet, good father, I am bathing."

An amused smirk. "I can see that." Lecherous fucking geezer. "No matter. I just have a... curious thought, a wonder I suspect you may be able to answer. See. Truly odd it is, for the keepers to alert me this morning that Sunfyre had taken a ride past the Hour of Owl." Your heart thuds in your ribcage and you do your best to keep your expression mildly irritated. "Not with one, drunken rider, but with another. It had taken them hours, only coming back when morning had already presented in the air."

He steps forward, slow, menacing, until he reaches the edge of your tub and crouches. Your gazes are still unmatched in height, defiant as yours might be.

"The distinct smell wafts them, a Keeper said, and one suspects that though one dragon left last night, two might have come back this morning for he had seen another fly away." His fingers dips into the water, swirling the steam without breaking eye contact. "I wonder if you know anything about it, darling niece of mine."

The mocking emphasis is not lost on you. If the Queen is the Realm's Delight, you were Darling of the Realm. A sweet, merry girl, the secondborn daughter of Viserys I who frequently fought for the plight of the small folk, who gathered friends of all kinds of lords and ladies no matter the standing of their houses to her own, visiting far lands and charming every person in any room. Who made any feast brighter, always sparkling, always the darling.

Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.

You sit up, leaning, baring your breasts completely to him as you pull yourself up on the ledge he is crouched from. He leans back, only slightly, as you smile demurely. Sweet. Tart. On the edge of pulling his head and hitting it against the copper tub.

"I am unsure of what you suspect, or is accusing me of, kepus, uncle," you purr and there's a twitch in his mouth, a widen in his irises— men are so fucking simple — "I had been feeling down last night, as my husband, as you know, is beyond my reach at the moment as he rallies alliances for the good of the realm. My brother had simply offered to take me out riding, trying to quell my loneliness with an excitable flight I had never been afforded."

You tilt your head. "Even if there had been a dragon binded to my own, why why would I not regale the realm with news of my success? I have longed for a dragon of my own, but alas, I have not quite succeeded where most of the family have." You pout. His eyes flicker. "Mayhaps I am more Hightower than I am Targaryen."

A huff leaves his lips, the amusement in his smile arching to his dark, dark gaze. Before you can react, his hand had comes forward to hold your chin in a tight grip, your jaw aching soon enough at the fingers that dig against your skin, wanting to bruise, to break.

Though a tremble passes your body, you keep his stare, gritting your teeth as the pad of his thumb brushes your lips. Moments and desires thrum between a charged hatred.

The lust is twisted from wanting to fuck you to wanting to kill you. The line is not simple. Maybe that is your fate together.

But he can't. You are well too ingrained in his family now, loved by the people he cared about. You are untouchable. For now. This is a warning, waiting for you to stutter, to show your hand. Any show of your true intentions... he is more than happy to swing Dark Sister across your throat.

He releases you without another word, standing up and leaving through the front door, the door clicking shut.

You sink back into the bath, letting the water engulf you.

Your daughters are moons apart in birth, and there are only a few differences between them that people oft remarked they could be twins. Daenera is taller, spindly. Built like Aemond when he was younger. Her hair is spun moon and eyes of mullish blue. It reminds you of Daeron's eyes. You had named Daenera yourself, a gruelling birth that took the entire night. You promised Jacaerys he could name the second. He had chosen Aemma for a girl, Laenor for a boy.

Not a few moons later, you were with child again. Your husband pinked at the cheeks at the chiding from his family. When she cried into the afternoon sun—Aemma was born mid day, during a council meeting — he pain did not stop the laugh that came out of your mouth from the horrified expression from the Master of Coin as your water broke.

Aemma had a sweetheart face, cheeks much fatter than her older sister's, with a yellowish tinge to her hair, curlier too, reminding you of Aegon. And Aemma laughed more, her deep, violet eyes always half closed as she exploded in giggles and bright, sunshine happiness.

Sons they might not be, but you had given heirs for the throne. And for them, you would do anything to keep their futures intact. Bond with a dragon, face the Rogue Prince, upheave Winterfell. Anything.

You flounce to the nursery where you know the two would be, smiling sweetly at every person you pass as they bow in reverence. Most wore sights of confusion, their greedy eyes and wagging tongues drinking in the deep, emerald glisten of your gown.

It's an old dress, one you keep in the corner of your collection. It isn't as if you had forgo the colours of your mother's house, but playing court meant every movement, even the clothes you wear, can be meaningful. And since your marriage, your Jace liked you in Velaryon colours.

"A goddess come to bless," he gasped against your collarbone, keeping your legs high on his waist as he rutted into you before his teeth sunk on your skin. As newlyweds go, there is not a lot of teasing to be had for your husband to curl against you in a darkened alcove. Merely wearing his favourite colour on your skin has him panting like a dog. His favourite dress is a seafoam blue that dragged longer against the ground in a soft, almost-gossamer material with a silver belt.

Enticing him never took long, but you enjoyed the dance presented. You enjoyed the dark hunger that filled him until he grabbed you to take you because he just had to take you.

The fresh wound slices deeper as you imagine all the things Jacaerys is doing to the so called Sara Snow. The emerald green of your gown shimmers with your anger.

"Fucking bastards," you can't help but say aloud, nodding at the guards posted on the nursery as you hear the squeals of your daughter and the calm, even voice of your brother.

"Muña! Mother!" Aemma squeals, untangling herself from being pressed against Aegon's side as the children— Daenera and Jaehaera — cuddle around him, before running to you. Helaena is on the floor, entertaining baby Maelor. Your mother, hands twisting against her own, stands vigil by the window, staring far ahead.

You catch your secondborn, giggling as you pressed kiss after kiss on her face.

"I see everyone has started without me. Where is Jaehaerys?"

"You were late, sodjisto, aunt," Jaehaera grins gummily. Jahaera is only a year older than Daenera. Your daughters, five and a half and five respectively. "Jaehaerys is with kepus, uncle. They are training."

"Smart girl." You meet your brother's gaze, whose eyes had notably been staring at your dress, mouth turned down. "Why don't you three play with Helaena? I shall speak about Name Day gifts for your Uncle Joffrey for a bit, hm?"

As Aemma shrieks something about cakes, and Daenera dutifully kissing your cheek in greeting before she takes Jaehaera's hand, you turn to your brother and mother.

"Aemond?" you ask softly, keeping your voice out of earshot. Alicent shakes her head. You nod. "Good. We don't want him inciting a war before I have mine properly planned."

As the Dowager draws in a sharp inhale, Aegon grabs your hands, the worry pulled taunt in his eyebrows. "Are you seriously contemplating war, sister? Isn't there a better way to punish them?"

"What punishment does a man regale in?" you hiss, stepping close to him. "Or the Queen's heir for the bloody matter? When Aemond nearly killed Lucerys, and he confronted me as if I had ordered Vhagar to tear through his brother, I thought I had put to bed any doubts in our marriage. It seems that men stray, regardless. My daughters may be his heir now, but what is to say that bastard wildling he's found himself cock deep in produces a son? Will he shame me with a mistress? Or will he shame me with a second wife?"

Your mother's lips tightens, her fingers paling at how tight she is gripping her nerves.

"Bastard or not, if he takes her to wife, I will be nothing. Make that babe a son, and the realm will rally for it. Daenera is his heir. My daughters will not be forgone. I will not be pushed aside. This is mercy, brother," you say softly, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. "My last one. It requires time, moons, to unfurl. It requires seeding doubt and unfathomable inadequacy. Better if Aemond is none the wiser, Helaena the same. But I will need both of you for this to work. It is the only time I will ever ask. For me. For my daughters."

"And you will punish Winterfell with a war?" your mother asks, frown pulled deep. "That is the plan?"

"I will not. I won't do such a thing so blatant, mother, you know me better than that. But this is my last mercy, and it will be the last. For the next time he offends me so, I do not care if Rhaenyra feeds me to Syrax. I will put a dagger through his heart, heir or not."

The Prince Jacaerys comes back not a week later. Though he comes back to the same castle with the same occupants— your shiny new threads gleam. The stage has been set, a play ready to act. You had sent more spiders in the North, keeping a close eye to every blasphemy your husband has been enjoying in the absence of his duties, and as the rage in you quietly grew with each new whisper, your determination hardens.

You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.

You count for each fall your blow will land on him.

Vermax lands with a screech and a heavy thump, your husband leaping off him with a grin on his face, matching the one you own, waving your arm joyously with Aemma in your arm and Daenera beside you, holding to your skirt as she grinned at her father.

Aemma wiggles under your hold, and you let Jace get close enough before you set her down, laughing, "Okay, okay!" Her laughter carries through as she scrambles like a bull to her father. A squeal peals out of her as Jace picks her up just in time and tosses her in the air.

"Want to meet kepa, father, sweet girl?" you whisper to Daenera, running a hand down her hair before she nods, breaking out into her own sprint, hugging her father as he greets them with laughter and kisses.

You let them have their time, and this, at least, eases your heart truthfully. A kind reminder that Jace adores his daughters.

You stay at the edge of the entrance, your too-wide grin softens into a smile. You were dramatic, nothing new about that, but even in the pale, pearl blue of your dress in silky, Myrish lace, the emeralds in your heavy, golden belt winks. Green ribbons twisted in your hair alongside fresh flowers. When the trio of your family treks toward you, silver-haired babes clinging to your dark haired prince, you serve a wink at the girls and they untangle themselves from their father while you stepped forward.

A choreographed dance, not giving him time to think. To pause.

Every step is calculated, every item on your body— the silk, the small seahorse that locks your dress behind you, the tint on your lips to the oil in your hair and body — is made to perform. You engulf him in you as if you want to suffocate his senses, your arms wrapping around him with sweet kisses pressing on his face, his neck.

Most in the dragonpit looked away, others, scandalously amazed and enchanted, watch as the princess is undeniably enthralled with her lord husband.

His laughter rumbles across his body, infecting your own, smelling of dragonback and crisp winds. You wonder if your nose is more heightened, you would be able to smell his whore in him, but you don't. It's just him. Your Jace.

Your body moulds against his as his arms tightens around you. When you lean back, you sweetly press a chaste kiss on his lips, grinning.

"What is this?" he huffs a laugh, meeting your doeful gaze. Your fingers curl around his chin, his cheek, idly tapping and touching as if you are committing so much newness to memory.

"Kostagon iā ābrazȳrys daor jaelagon zirȳla valzȳrys? Can a wife not want her husband?" you ask softly, pressing a few more kisses before sucking the last one just under his ear. His body shudders. You hide your smirk. "Skori ēza issare qrīdrughagon tolī bōsa? When he has been away too long?"

A yearning look tints your gaze from under your lashes, and you have to stifle the winning smirk as guilt pinches his face.

"My apologies, my wife. I did not mean to be away from you for long. From the girls." As his eyes flick to his daughters, your mask momentarily sharpens into clear distaste. The urge to dig your fingers into his eyes until he is bleeding and screaming under you is one you tamper with great distress.

Did not mean...

Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?

Did not mean to fall into bed with a fucking bastard, you insidious cunt, while I await here with your heirs?

Your anger thrums, nestled deep in your heart, it breathes. You school your face the moment he turns back to you, bringing your hands to his lips, kissing each finger with reverent tenderness. His brown eyes smoulder, rubbing your bare— irises widening — back.

"If you wish it, I can be on my knees for my apologies, my princess."

Your mouth curls. "I'm afraid that might have to be quite later, my prince."

"Huh?"

"The Dowager Queen hoped to congratulate you on your successful campaigning. Reaching as far as the North so frequently, we planned a feast for your return." Eyes shinning, you cup his face. You hope the guilt eats him raw from the inside out. Like worms. Like termites. Hungry, hungry, hungry. "We have never been more proud of you, I have never been more proud of you."

You laugh brightly, ignoring the way he squeezed you just a bit harder that mere second the same time his eyes tightened. "The moment I told the girls of it, they had begged to dance with you." Then you bit your lip, frowning slightly. "I... I understand if you are tired, 'tis a long journey after all, I did try to tell them you might want to rest, we can sneak you—"

"No, no, my heart, of course I would be happy to, I— I want nothing more." He brings you close, face disappearing into your neck. "Thank you. I love you."

You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. "As I love you."

For the rest of the feast, you dance just at the edges of his fingertips, ensuring that you permeated his sights and senses despite it. A game. A dance. When he thanks revelries who congratulate him, who ask him of his adventures, you proudly stand beside him, dutiful as the wife that you are, spearing him with compliments as much as you can. Hands squeezing his arm, your oils swallowing him with your smell.

When dinner came, you take chances massaging his thigh, sliding a salacious grin that had him blushing, ever so sweet, green— making you wonder what kind of fucking bastards do that he finds your attention so swallowing.

You don't let up.

Whenever he, in turn made a move, you sidestep, flutter a smirk, a wink; always escaping, letting him grow frustrated as the night went on.

Your one respite from taunting him had been when he danced with his daughters, making a gallant show of asking them, even Jaehaera. Giggles and spins, the ladies of the court fawn and coo.

Even now, you're making him to be the perfect man. The endearing husband, the wondrous father, the brilliant prince, the perfect lord.

To execute your plan, it must be made with a surgical precision. A slice that guts him to his knees, that breaks his spirit and quenches the whispering, wicked madness nestling with your ire. On another cheek, he must remain upright and upstanding, as to keep your daughters' future in perfect order.

You catch the domineering gaze of Daemon Targaryen, idle as he is, on the side of his distracted Queen, talking to a highborn lady. You don't look away as you toast him your cup of Arbour Red before you pucker your lips for a taste. Your eyes move to where your husband is already looking, flushed red and sweaty from all the dancing, your girls, preening and giggling around him.

You tilt your chin at him, a challenge in your gaze, before you slowly pull your lips away from your wine, stained red.

His throat bobs.

It will be a long, arduous game. Full of pitfalls and tightened webbing. One trip can kill you. But once the machinations are in order, once everything and everyone is in their proper places... oh, you cannot wait for the dance the dragons will make.

A flutter, a simpered footstep. Then a rustle of a dress as one bows.

"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.

"Hm?"

"The spiders in the ice have met the pup in the snow."

"And?"

"The pup is not suspicious, in fact, they might go as far as to say that the pup is lonely. Though others largely understand her existence... no one likes a bastard."

You snort. "No, they don't, do they?"

"The wolf cares for the pup though, and is largely protective of his only sister."

"Hm. Complicated, but not impossible. Have Meera change the tone of my missive. A softer edge. Sweet but not overtly. Ensure the prerogative of politeness. Then have it sent to the Rookery. The proper channels."

You sigh, taking the edge of your braid and twisting through the ribbons your maid tangled between them. Tonight, you had elected Targaryen colours. A black dress akin to scales and a low, exposed back and dipping front, held together in red ribbons and silver chains. One that might be too on the nose, but the constant, feverish stares from your husband made it worth it.

"We have to ensure a good relationship with the Warden of the North, don't you think so?" You have not looked away from your husband since your maid came, and as he whispered something in Daenera's ear, nodding off to her grandmother with Aemma towed, he turned towards you, one stride after another.

"Precisely what I thought, milady."

"Go," you order her for the last time, giving her your cup, just before Jacaerys reaches you.

Game, set.

Worshipping you has always been something Jace excelled at. At the least, his cock was much larger than most, and without the preparation of his tongue and mouth, it burned. At most, he oft found himself holding your shaking thighs, your head and shoulders left on the bed as he feasted on you like a man starved, hungered for your nectar, the sounds you make, and the shaking of your body as you reached your peak on his tongue.

"J-Jace, please, I—" Your breath stutters, a hiccup escaping your mouth, but he is not letting up. On his knees as only a lordling can with his back straight, he is holding your thighs, your lower back, eating your cunny for the third time of the night.

As soon as he had reached you, he grasped your waist, whispering against your hair in a rumbled groan, "You are torturing me so, my wife. We leave. Now."

"Now?" you echoed, amused. "This is a feast in your honour."

"My honour is already hanging by a thread. The revelry will go on without us. I want to have my fill of you."

And fill he had. He didn't even wait to get you out of your dress before he had pushed your skirt upward, gone on his knees, and got his tongue inside of you.

Now, you are overwhelmed, overstimulated as you are hazy, gripping the wrecked sheets as your peak reached you once more. A strangled, breathy cry of his name falls between your lips as your back arched impossibly so, and instead of letting up, this seemed to fuel him harder, the muscle of his mouth working harder inside of your cunt, hands digging into your flesh to keep you steady.

It builds with a stimulation unending, and just as you're on the throes of your last high, it builds again, quick and fast this time, shuddering gasps of, "o-oh gods, g-gods, Jace!" is the last thing you are able to shout before your fourth peak breaks against the shudders of your last one, your wetness exploding, and you start crying before he lets up.

Your blubber becomes laughter, and he is soft as he lies you down, massaging your thighs as you twitched. He hovers above you, running gentle hands across your arms, kneading through skin, before he reaches your face. He's still in most of his clothes, his long white shirt and breeches, but his mouth is covered in your wetness before he wipes it, obscene in the prettiness of his face and messy locks from where you had tugged and grabbed.

He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, so close to your body, all too tangled in your soul, and can feel his hard cock upright and wanting against your belly, but he pays it no mind. Concern mars his features as he brushes down your hair.

"Are you alright, my love? Too much?"

You shake your head, brushing your hand down his chest. "N-no, I am well. I just never did that before."

He smiles, kissing your closed eyelids before he brings you close to his chest, cuddling you deep. "You deserve all the pleasure I can give you," he says against your hair. "I have been gone far too long. Consider it my apology."

You hum, eyes open. "Apology for what? You were doing your duty, nothing more, ñuha zaldrīzes, my dragon." You feel him stiffen as you keep your voice soft, caring. "I understand duty far better than you. It is what I love most about you."

You look up, taking his chin between your fingertips as you stared at those warm, brown eyes. "You, who carries your honour like a shield and your duty like a sword. I feel as if the gods had blessed me a husband far better than I should have had for I know I do not deserve you."

"H-how can you say that? You are—" He swallows. "— You are the most excellent woman. The mother of my children. You... You are the one I do not deserve."

Your head falls back against his chest, gripping his shirt. Only by your teeth had you stop yourself from screaming.

You curdle, you keep, you poise.

"My love?"

But you pay him no mind, pushing him on his back as you straddle him, your hands working quick to unlace his breeches until his cock slaps against his stomach, end red and swollen. A sharp hiss falls from his lips as your hand tugs on it once. Twice.

He calls your name, spits it really, eyes blown with lust as he holds your waist, unsure if he should lift you off him or grind you against his aching cock.

"I want you inside me," you whimper, plead, feeling his cock twitch at your words, your false, yearning gaze. He mistakes the burned tears of anger in your eyes as unbridled want. "I have gone so long without your warmth, your cock, swelling inside me, your seed nestling deep, taking root—"

"Yes," he gasps, fingers digging into your doughy sides, pulling you up, moving you around whilst you grabbed his length and directed inside your wet, hot cunt inch by inch, filling you so thickly you can feel him in your throat. It takes time, patience and grit, but you're wet enough and you're determined. Once he's fully inside of you through a choked moan of your own, his neck arches, head thrown back. "Fuck! Yes, y-yes, there you are, my g-good fucking girl."

You move slow at first, taking him, bracing one hand on his knee, almost testing the feel him of back in the familiar contours of your cunt. Veins pop between each groan and choke that shudders through him whilst praise, your name, the possessive titles— my love, my wife, my princess — is spit in between.

When the heat tightens in your belly, you shift positions, placing both palms on his chest, and riding him without abandon, bouncing up and down as you watch with a sharp eye as his release builds. His hips move on their own, fucking up in you as you meet his thrusts with equal vigour, and it's delicious. It's heated. You grind your swollen folds against his mon and your cries make him thrust up harder into you, calling your name, denting your doughy hips.

You don't stop, your pleasure at the back of your mind, wanting him to unravel, to break— a final cry of your name dissolving into a choked moan, spilling his seed deep inside, the continuous snap of his hips digging it deeper into your womb.

But your last peak is still tightening, so you press a quick kiss on his chest, a bite really, before you continue to chase your own high, a hiss slipping his lips but moving your hips with his iron-grip, stutters of, "d-do it, reach your high, f-fuck! fuck!"— Your head throws back, nails digging his skin as your cunt clenches his cock in a vice grip, forcing his hips to snap up once more, twice, until you fall, slumping against him.

When he kisses the top of your head, murmuring words you ignore, you close your eyes.

Your plan is in motion. The missive will be sent to the Lord Stark, in pursuit of an innocent friendship. The spiders you have placed on the Northern bastard are set, and a dragon flies in Dragonstone with your bond in its blood.

Your Jace is home. He will fall in love with you all over again. His wonderful daughters and darling princess, he will regret the events that have transpired in the cold. In his head, he will make promises to do better, to be better, that whatever happened is a blip. A mistake that will not happen again. but you know, he will trip. He will wander once more.

But you will make sure that the next time he does so, he will regret it for the rest of his days.

Because it is not you who will burn Winterfell to the ground.

It will be him.

Your plan moves, your web is perfect.

Now, the spider waits for the idiot fucking flies to feed on.

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[writingoddess1125]

Carbon Copy

Mihawk x FemReader + OOC Alucare

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Old Men Series <- Click to read more

It had been far too long out at sea, especially with the growing irritation of Mihawk and Alucare- Maybe It was their personalities being too similar or the fact they were training daily but had to be careful. However it looked like two monsters about to Duke it out any day- You sitting there trying to keep the peace.

But finally the 3 {almost 4} Of you made it to the Grand Line and Kuraigana Island- You didn't know what to expect... but it sure wasn't nightmarish hellscape with a dark castle!?

Alucare and You standing there on the docked ship staring up at the Gloomy place- Your son slowly turning to look at his father.

"Are you some vampire we don't know about?-"

Mihawk sighed at this and gave a half glare to Alucare.

"No... it is ruins of the Muggy Kingdom that I have converted into my home" The two Dracule men glared at each other and you knew then.. this wasn't going to be as positive as you hoped.

It had been some weeks since arriving at Mihawks home and you had hoped the tension would disperse between Mihawk and Alucare.. but it honestly just got worse somehow? Maybe it was a father son thing but it seemed now both were fighting over everything- Food, Books, and even for your attention.

"I am warning you now Alucare- If you continue your attitude I will take something of value to you" Mihawk said with a narrowed gaze- The teenager cocking his head to the side in almost amusement.

However most recent was Perona, The young women taking a liking to Alucare who was the younger version of Mihawk in her eyes- While she was still too old for him, That didn't keep Alucare from flirting and trying. Much to Mihawks ire...

The older male taking Alucare out to training one day- Glaring at his spawn.

"Alucare- I do not appreciate you trying to flirt with my pupil... Not only is she too old for you, I know you're doing this to irritate me" Mihawk spoke calmly, Alucare giving a emotionless stare.

"Whatever do you mean?" He said calmly, Mihawk taking a breath.

"Oh? What like taking me away from the place I was raised? my mother? Throwing me across an island?" Alucare said with some venom in his tone. Mihawk taking a breath through his nose to calm himself.

"You son of a bitch!!!" You heard Alucare shout from his room, Mihawk smirking slightly as he sipped his coffee. You heard Alucare rapid footsteps march right to the kitchen area and you gasped at the sight- Alucare long hair had been cut- While before his hair was down to his waist it was just past his shoulders and fairly evenly cut, The shortness making the thick hair spike more and it reminding you of Mihawks more natural hair.

"Alucare- I am being serious. Stop it with Perona and stop testing me.." He demanded, Alucare giving a smirk at the man.

"Or what?" He said calmly, Mihawk feeling something snap inside of him.

"..." The older man just nodded and ended the training then and there- The rest of the night being oddly quiet between the two..

By Mornibg you had started breakfast and was talking to Mihawk when you heard it-

"Mihawk you didnt-?!" You start, Glaring at the male who continued to sip his coffee.

"Hm?- I warned him... if he kept up the disrespect I'd take something precious of his as punishment-"

"SO YOU CHOSE MY HAIR!? YOU CRAZY MOTHERFUCKER!" Alucare yelled in pure rage, Mihawk smiled at his choice of wording and winked.

"Yes that is a fair insult- I am a Mother Fucker" He said calmly setting down his teacup and picking up his newspaper to read. You groaning in your hands in both embrassment and irritation at your partner. Alucare was red in the face from anger and marched outside angrily and slamming the doors behind him- He was most likely going to train somewhere far away from the island.

"Must you antagize him Hawks?.. that was way to famn far and you know it-" You start now mad and standing up from the dinning room table.

"No- I'm giving him something he needs and something I didn't have-" Mihawk said calmly, this making you huff in frustration.

"Oh and what is that?!" You place your hands on your hips, feeling that the hormones were working you up and ready to bite Mihawks head off.

"The opportunity to be a teenager-" And just like that he took the wind from your sails... confusion being written on your face at his words.

"You said it yourself.. Alucare acts just like me- From the stoic attitude to hiding one's emotions... He has matured far too early for his age to protect you- But taking away his need to be strong for you, it's allowing him to express bottled up emotions and act as he should for a 16 year old.. Is he angry? Yes. Is he being dramatic? Absolutely. However it's better for him to express these in a environment that can handle it and then be taught how to work through them.... then to never feel them at all again-" Mihawk said truthfully and with a twinge of regret in his voice. Your heart Sinking as the realization of this all hit you...

Mihawk was wanting to let Alucare experience teenage emotions since he was never able to and help him grow as a person.. Mihawk didn't want his son to be like him- But better then him..

Sitting down you felt your eyes water.

You didn't see Alucare that night- or the next night. While you were shaken with worry Mihawk had insisted that Alucare was fine and he had checked in him from time to time- simply camping out on the north side of the island.

By the second night you went to the study and saw Mibawk drinking his normal wine, Seeing what looked to be a cheese and fruit board prepared as well.

"Ah (Y/N) thank you for the wine and snacks" Mihawk said calmly, finishing off the last cracker and cheese. You didn't remeber setting them out yet- But you usually did so it wasn't a huge surprise especially if you forgot.

"Hm I guess I forgot I did that- But no problem honey" You kiss his cheek and he smiled up at you touching your rounded stomach.

"It's normal- What did you call it? 'Pregnancy Brain?'" You nodded and smiled quite pleased he'd remembered. After some brief conversation Mihawk yawned and tried to shake the sleep away- He looked more tired then usual, Rubbing his eyes as he finishes his final glass of wine.

"Hm.. I'm exhausted" He mumbled, you watching as he seemed a bit uneasy on his feet when standing. You assumed he had drunk too much so it wasn't surprising, so the two of you walked back to the bedroom and he fell asleep quickly and soundly that night, you following suit soon after.

Unknown to both of you a pair of yellow eyes was watching the whole time-

The next morning you were the first one up, deciding Mihawk could sleep in and headed downstairs. Much to your surprise to see Alucare- bathed and dressed with his hair in a short low ponytail. Cooking a nice and large breakfast.

"Sweetie you're back!" You said cheerfully and kissed your sons cheeks. He smiled softly, finishing cooking.

"Couldn't miss the show" He said almost cheerfully, you raising a questioning eyebrow at this as you made a plate for yourself.

Perona was the next down, Chatting mindlessly with Alucare and even saying his hair didn't look bad either. Which he clearly appreciated but you could tell his mind was elsewhere- Soon the heavy footsteps of Mihawk approaching alerted all of you.

"Morning-" You heard Mihawk start as he stepped in the kitchen and it was like someone threw bricks at you all..

Perona choked on her eggs suddently and started to cough hard as she turned away. Your jaw dropped as a surprised shriekd left you- damn near dropped your plate as well, Alucare sitting there with a smirk on his face as he ate another bite of his breakfast calmly.

"M-Mihawk.. Honey" You start, The tired man looking at you confused at your reactions.

"Are you okay? Is something wrong?... I do apologize you had to make breakfast- I feel drowsy for some reason.." Mihawk admitted as he rubbed his temple to try and ease the drowsiness away.

"I'll be out training..." Alucare said calmly as he stood up and left the kitchen quickly. Perona now starting to laugh which confused Mihawk more-

"Your face... oh my God your face" You manage out and cover your mouth- Unsure if you should laugh or cry first.

"My what?-" Mihawk said quickly and went to the closest mirror which was in the hallway and stared at himself. There he saw it- half his facial hair had been shaved off paired with an eyebrow and some very nice pen work which had 'Dickhead' on his forehead with a detailed cock on his cheek.

It then clicked- The wine and snacks... The little fucker must have drugged him and did this to him while he slept-

"..."

You closed your eyes and sighed, practically feeling Mihawks anger from the hallway and you prayed your son would survive whatever was about to happen- Especially when Mihawks voice boomed across the castle and island.

"ALUCARE!!"

#x reader #one peice x reader #one piece #one peice live action #hawkeye mihawk #mihawk x reader #one piece mihawk #dracule alucare #dad!mihawk #dracule mihawk #mihawk #op mihawk

[elenamegan14]

Yandere One Piece - Irish/Nordic Fae Folk Myth X F!Reader - Prologue

It's a spooky season, and I have yet to see any Yandere One Piece reader fics based on Slavic myths and legends! Blame me for being too invested in Bramble: the Mountain King game.

---

Once, there was a childless couple who lived in a quaint village. Although the village is rich in tradition and harvest, it was also a fearsome place. Not far from them lies a great forest called the Grand Line, a home of every fae folks, each more astounding and nightmarish than man had ever known. 

But that was where our story began. 

One night, on a full moon during a winter’s eve, the couple is visited by a frail, old woman. They immediately brought her in, warmed her, and fed her. When all is done, she transforms into a beautiful fairy. A member of the fairy monarchy, Rogue. 

To thank the couple, Rogue rewarded them with something they had yearned for years: a child. And so, on the first day of Spring, a healthy baby girl was born. 

Alas, even the fairy world has it;s own rules, and the rule is crueler than the rules of mankind. A baby who is granted life by the fairy must be returned back by the ripe age of thirteen. Rogue did not want her work to go to waste, so she told the couple that they must move the child away from the village, never to enter any fairy rings at any cost, and give their child a pair of special earrings made of iron to protect them. 

Thus, the family evaded the pursuit of the fae folks beyond the age of thirteen. In retaliation, the fae folks began to terrorize the villagers - they would not stop to torment them until the child was given to them. Furious at the fleeing family for putting them into this bedlam, the villagers set up a trap to return the child back to the Grand Line. 

Eighteen years have passed, and the child grew up in the Kingdom of Goa. With each passing day, the blessings from Rogue had made the child cunning, wise, and attractive. The child was a curious oddity amongst her peers, but there was one person who despised her existence more so than the others. 

Sarie is the daughter of a notorious monarchy in the Goa Kingdom. Although she has everything in the palm of her hand, she is wicked jealous of the child’s charm and beauty. Her opportunity stuck when a vengeful villager asked her to cooperate to rid of the child’s existence in the mortal world. 

Soon after, Sarie begged her fiancee, Sterry, to arrange a special trip only for his classmates, the child included, straight to the child’s original village. Sterry and his cohorts lured the child to the edge of the forest, right before the entrance of Grand Line. Once there, Sarie threw her scarf into the middle of the fairy ring and asked the child to pick it up for her. 

The child is confused. Why should she follow such a petty instruction? Also, the child pleaded that she was not supposed to enter the fairy ring at any cost. However, Sterry and their classmates loudly demanded her to do so. 

When the child reluctantly tried to enter the fairy ring, Sterry once again ordered the child to take off the child’s iron earrings for Sarie. She tried to refuse but Sterry warned her that if she disobeyed, he would make sure that she became the enemy of Goa. 

The child had always wanted to be accepted by Sterry and Sarie - she did not understand what she had done wrong to receive his ire. The child also knew that Sarie and Sterry’s family had more power than her family did. She hastily took off her earrings and gave them to Sarie. With a heavy heart, she entered the fairy ring. 

Sterry and Sarie’s deception became light once she turned around inside the fairy ring, only to find herself alone in a strange forest. She ran back and forth, calling for her classmates. 

None answered. 

Alone, terrified, and confused, the child trekked into the woods of Grand Line on her own, in hoping to find her way home… not knowing that she had fulfilled her promise…

And break the village’s curse. 

---

You are wandering around the fogged oath, unable to see what's beyond. Suddenly, you heard footsteps. Behind you, in front of you, everywhere! You barely have a moment's rest when a mischievous-looking human-like creature appears before your very eyes. Shrieking, you fall back behind, astounded by what you see.

"Shishishi! Did I scare you?" The creature grinned hugely, enhancing his unique shaggy features with a stitched scar underneath his left eye.

Monkey D. Luffy, the Pookah, has arrived. Next

#one piece #yandere one piece #one piece x reader #one piece imagine #one piece x y/n #yandere sanji #yandere cavendish #yandere Robin #Yandere trafalgar Law #Yandere Eustass Kidd #yandere one piece x reader #yandere imagine #yandere fic #yandere vinsmoke sanji #yandere nico robin #yandere Usopp #yandere Rob Lucci #Yandere Shirahoshi #Yandere Nefertari vivi #Yandere Luffy #Yandere Katakuri #yandere King #Trafalgar Law #yandere Doflamingo #Yandere Crocodile #Yandere Dracule Mihawk #Yandere Nami #yandere portgas d ace #yandere Monkey D. luffy

[faebaex]

The Escape Plan

author note: back by popular demand (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ i swear, when light fae reader and Malleus are together, they actually have negative amount of brain cells. Also, extremely indulgent but necessary Diasomnia family moment, featuring little Silver and Sebek (*≧ω≦*) so far most of my stories have taken place either at NRC or just before they attend, so this was a nice change of pace.

characters: Malleus Draconia x F!Light Fae Reader 

Left. Left. Straight. Right. Down the stairs. Straight. Right... And dead end.

You grumbled in frustration as you scribbled down the failed route for the umpteenth time in your journal. You pouted up at the cold stone wall, as if it would feel your ire and open a path up for you out of shame. You flipped back through the pages of your journal, your pout only intensifying as you saw your scribbles over your past failed attempts to escape this place.

You had been residing in Briar Castle ever since the odd fae with the horns had whisked you away here. Not through choice, of course. Every free moment you had, you’d been trying to find a route out of this castle and back to your cottage. Being entirely unaware of your location and surroundings, you couldn’t take the easy way out and simply teleport home. But that wouldn’t stop you, you’d walk all the way home if you had to!

Your arrival in Briar Valley had caused quite a scene. It appeared that many of these fae felt the same way as the horned one, that because you were a light fae, you needed to be protected. Your protests fell on deaf ears, and the Queen had decreed that you could stay in this place until they discovered your origins. You’ve never regretted a sarcastic comment more in your life, with the mess it’s gotten you into. It also didn’t help that the horned one turned out to be the Crown Prince of this kingdom. 

You huffed at the thought as you begun retracing your steps, flipping through the pages of your journal, one you’d started since you arrived here. It contained every route you’d attempted to try to leave the castle, as well as thoughts you’d jotted down and little sketches of castle scenery that had stuck with you. One particular page, towards the front of the journal, contained sketches of several faces with notes framed next to each one. You hummed, looking over the information, wondering if you had anything new to add. Maybe making the horned ones sketch look more unsavoury would satisfy you...

“Is that supposed to be me?”

You almost jumped straight out of your skin, slamming your journal shut with a sharp slap of the pages before looking around in alarm. Of course, you should have known. Hanging upside down from the rafters with a devilish smile on his face was the horned one’s caretaker, Lilia. You put your hands on your hips and glared at him unabashed, “get down from there! You’re too long for such behaviours, what would your son think?”

Lilia’s ruby eyes glittered, any mention of his son always bringing a fond shine to his otherwise sharp eyes. “He quite likes it, actually,” Lilia commented as he swooped down from the rafters, falling easily in step with you, “how is the escape going?”

You huffed and stuck your nose in the air, he knew exactly how it was going! “None of your business.” You replied curtly, although your growing pout undermined your position. Lilia only laughed at your disposition, before holding out an arm to stop you, “Well, are you done pathfinding for the day? I’ve come to collect you for dinner.”

You froze, giving Lilia a wary look, “dinner with you? I don’t quite feel like taking my life in my own hands tonight.” Lilia’s grin only widened at your words, holding his arm out to you with a dramatic flourish for you to take, “unfortunately, I am not in charge of the food for tonight. Besides, we’ve got some little guests who’d be delighted to see you.”

Well, when he puts it like that...

You sighed, “well, I suppose...” You tucked your hand into his arm and before you knew it, he’d teleported you both to a different part of the castle. The room you appeared in was smaller than most of the rooms you had dined in previously, more of an intimate setting. A cozy room, mostly dominated with a table that held five place settings, and a crackling fireplace adding a warm glow to the area.

You let go of Lilia’s arm once you orientated yourself, and he strode forward with a sigh. “Now where has Malleus gone? I told him to wait here. Searching for you two in this castle is aging me, you know,” Lilia complained, but with no bite to his words, “you wait here, my dear. Hopefully this won’t take long...” With that, he strode out of the room without even a glance back.

You sighed, deciding to take a seat at the table whilst you waited. You flipped open your journal again, finding the profiles page again and wondering if you should add Lilia’s apparent rapid aging into the notes. You didn’t have much time to ponder it, however, as the sound of little footsteps running down the corridor met your ears, before the door burst open.

“F/N!”

A small boy with fluffy silver hair made a beeline as soon as he saw you, and you couldn’t resist the urge to pull the boy into your lap, giving him a soft squeeze, “hello Silver. My, you’ve grown again, haven’t you?” You smoothed down some of his unruly locks from his run here, which proved fruitless when he nodded his head proudly at your words.

“I’ve grown 6 whole centimetres since I saw you last!” Silver informed you excitedly, and you exclaimed at his words. Humans really did grow as quickly as Lilia had described. “Wow, you’ll be taller than me soon.” Silver seemed encouraged by your words, flexing his little arms as if he was trying to show off his strength, “I can protect you better if I am bigger!”

How sweet. You ruffled his hair at his words, ruining your own previous handiwork but not really caring. You opened your mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by a disruption in the corridor.

“SILVER!!”

Both you and Silver exchanged a wide eyed look, fully aware of what was about to come bursting through that door.

“SILVER, HOW DARE YOU RUN--” The lime green boy came bursting through the door, his booming voice doing more than enough to announce his presence. However, clearly he was not expecting you, as his jaw immediately dropped when he laid eyes on you, pink beginning to dust his cheeks. Nevertheless, ever adaptable, Sebek balled his hands into fists and projected his embarrassment right at Silver instead.

“SILVER! HOW DARE YOU CLIMB UPON PRINCESS F/N! CEASE AT ONCE!”  

The little green haired boy always brought a smile to your face, acting and speaking like an adult even though he was practically considered still in his infancy in fae eyes.

“Now, now Sebek, none of that. I told you just to call me F/N,” you scolded gently, before gesturing him over. Sebek approached almost meekly, and you scooped him up onto your lap next to Silver once he got close enough, watching as the pink on his cheeks bloomed into a fiery red, his hands fisting into his lap. 

You curled your arms around both of the boys, resting your chin on Sebek’s head as you listened to him announce that he had grown 8 centimetres since you’d last seen him, and how he was definitely excelling in his training with Master Lilia. You exclaimed in acknowledgment and Sebek preened at the praise, holding his head up high and almost knocking you in the process. Soon, both Silver and Sebek were clamouring to tell you their achievements, beginning to bicker with each other in the process. 

“Ah good! You’re all here! No more people to find.” 

You looked up to see Lilia marching back into the room, with Malleus trailing behind him, wearing a pleased smile. You couldn’t help but narrow your eyes a little, always feeling a certain kind of bitterness whenever you saw Malleus. You didn’t have long to dwell on it, however, as you almost found yourself elbowed by a very excited Sebek. 

“WAKA-SAMA!!”

Sebek squirmed himself off of your lap to rush forward and attempt to prostrate himself before Malleus, Silver clinging onto you during the ruckus to make sure he wasn’t sent flying. Sebek was stopped by a firm hand from Lilia on his shoulder, “Come on Sebek, dinner is waiting. It’ll spoil if we loiter any longer. To your seats, the both of you.” Silver reluctantly slid off of your lap to take a seat at the opposite side of the table along with Sebek, who had his hair ruffled by Malleus as he passed. You expected Malleus to take the seat at the head of the table, but instead he approached the seat beside you and slid into it. Lilia tittered at the sight, as he made his move to the only free chair, “how kind of you to offer me the head chair, Malleus.”

You scowled at that, and that only caused Lilia to laugh some more, as the first course materialised in front of you all. Silence fell around the table, only the clanking of cutlery against plates. 

“So,” Lilia started, with a smile that promised chaos blooming across his lips, “how are your escape attempts going, F/N? You never did say.” You shot him another glare, knowing exactly what he was trying to achieve and of course he was successful in it with the pandemonium that erupted around the table. 

“You’re trying to escape?” Asked Malleus, his eyes widened in shock at this revelation, whilst Silver and Sebek sounded their own complaints across the table. “It’s true, she has it written all in her journal.” Lilia continued, and you quickly snatched your journal off of the table, sitting on top of it to keep it out of anyone’s reach. You ignored Malleus, leaning forward and offering a placating smile to the children, “Lilia is just teasing. I enjoy exploring the castle, is all.” 

“I see...” Malleus hummed, before nodding, “then I shall take you on a tour of the castle.” 

“What a lovely idea, Malleus!” Lilia cut in before you could turn him down, that same chaotic smile on his lips, “why not after dinner? It would be good exercise after a meal.” Before you know it, you found yourself signed up to an evening tour with Malleus, and could only glower at a smug Lilia in return. 

After dinner, Lilia used the convenient excuse of taking the children home and to bed to escape before you could protest, although it took him some effort to get Sebek to follow along, who was insistent on coming along for Malleus’ castle tour. You sent both Silver and Sebek home with a kiss to the forehead, the latter’s cheeks blooming pink again and offering you an amusingly formal salute before his departure. Sooner than you would have liked, you were alone with Malleus. With no children around, you openly scowled at him, crossing your arms. 

“You have some nerve! Offering me a tour of the castle when you’ve been avoiding me this whole time!” You rebuked, your scowl only deepening at the return of his surprised expression. 

“But you said you enjoyed exploring the castle. A tour would enable you to see some beautiful spots.” Malleus reasoned, finding your flits in mood very difficult to keep up with. You, meanwhile, wanted to smack your palm to your forehead, for you found him impossible. 

Before you could retort, Malleus had already turned and walked out the door, and you were left to chase after him. “Hey!” Grumbling about his behaviour, you fell into step next to him, with much struggle, “do you mind? We aren’t all gigantic, you know!” 

“Oh. My apologies.” Malleus slowed his gait so you could walk beside him comfortably, a small smile crawling across his lips, “I’ve learned in my research that light fae are more diminutive than dark fae, I should have been more considerate.” 

You bristled at his words, why did most things that came from his mouth appear so insulting?! “Excuse me?! I am not diminutive!” You hissed, with Malleus barely batting an eye, “I didn’t mean it as an insult, I find it cute.” Malleus replied honestly, continuing to lead the way. 

“I have been deep in research about your kind, so I have been largely unavailable,” Malleus went on, oblivious to the astonished look you gave him, “I apologise. I hope you haven’t been lonely.” Malleus would feel no end of guilt if you’d become lonely due to his negligence, “I will rectify this, I will make time for you from now onward. It is unacceptable for me to have brought you here and left you unattended.” 

Curse this fae and his ability to make you dumbfounded. 

“Yes, yes!” You clung to whatever statement you could, “it is unacceptable that you brought me here! Ergo, you should take me back to the glade, and we can forget this ever happened.” 

Malleus frowned at your words and shook his head, “But this is the safest place for you. Taking you back to the glade would put you in an immeasurable amount of danger.” 

“I live by that glade! It’s never been dangerous for me!” You huffed out in frustration, wanting to shake the man by his horns again, “look, I’m not a princess! I was-- I was making fun of you when I said that! Because you said you were a dragon and, lets be honest, that’s ridiculous so--”

“But I am a dragon. A dragon fae.” Malleus corrected, his frown only deepening. “And mine and Lilia’s research has uncovered that there were potentially questionable movements amongst the light fae royalty during a certain period of the war. This information could very much reveal what happened to the light fae, where they disappeared to.” Malleus stated his research leisurely to you as if you were having an honest debate about it rather than arguing with him. 

“But dragons are no-- wait, really?” He truly had been researching into your kind with a view to sending you back, like he said he would? That was surprising... You were convinced that was just an elaborate scheme he had created to placate you whilst he kept you here indefinitely. 

“Yes. The light fae were peaceful during the war, but that did not stop them being the target of hunters,” Malleus’ tone took on a sorrowful edge, “finding reliable information on light fae is difficult normally, but locating such specific information has proven even more arduous than expected.” 

With all your bickering and conversation, you’d completely forgotten that you were actually supposed to be touring the castle with Malleus. You were walking up another staircase when he pushed open a door, only for you to feel a breeze hit your cheeks. 

“This is one of my favourite places to come in the castle.” Malleus held the door open for you as you stepped through the doorway, greeted by the cool night breeze, now standing on one of the castle’s large balconies. Your mouth fell open with awe, the balcony giving you the perfect view of the town below, illuminated in the darkness by dots of green flames. When you looked up, you were greeted by a perfectly clear night sky, decorated with endless amounts of twinkling stars. You found yourself breathless, silence stretching between you and Malleus as you took in your beautiful surroundings. 

A thought did nag at the back of your brain however, slightly ruining the dazzling scenery before you. You were now outside! And the balcony railing wasn’t very high! Perhaps once you were alone, you could jump from here and float down. No point doing it now, Malleus would more than likely pursue you, you think you could remember him saying something about having wings, that did make sense with him being a fae after all... 

You cursed internally, suddenly realising that you’d left your journal on your chair in the dining hall. Now you had no way of writing down the directions to this place. Perhaps on your way back down, you could memorise the route and write it down later... You were so deep in thought, that you didn’t even notice that Malleus had arrived beside you. 

“Your wings look so beautiful in the moonlight... As if they absorb the very rays of the moon... How intriguing...” Malleus muttered softly, a hand reaching out for your wings. You jumped at his sudden voice, and frowned at the sight of his hand coming towards you. “Hey! I told you about this, you can’t just touch someone’s wings!” 

Malleus blinked at you, looking fairly taken aback at your scolding of him. His eyes clouded in thought, his hand pulling back to press against his chin in thought. After a moment spent awkwardly in silence, to which you eyed him warily, Malleus simply nodded... Before beginning to undo the belt at his waist. 

“... W-what are you doing?” You stuttered in alarm, your eyes blowing wide. At this point, you felt that his behaviour shouldn’t alarm you as much as it did, that you should be more used to it, but he always seemed to pull of another bizarre action that’d leave you speechless. 

“I realise I have committed quite the error. Whilst I have been able to appreciate your wings on more than one occasion, I have not given you the opportunity to appreciate mine. I will rectify that now.” As he spoke, Malleus had already removed his coat, folding it over the balcony rail as his hands moved to begin on his robes next. 

“I hardly thinks that’s appropriate! M-malleus, stop!” Your cheeks turned bright pink. How would you explain to anyone that the Crown Prince was stripping a mere foot in front of you, outside no less?! If someone happened upon you, you’d be executed on the spot! Or worse, Lilia would witness it and never let it go. “Malleus, put your clothes back on!” You hissed, trying to keep your voice down. 

“It’ll take but a moment, please be patient.” Malleus continued to unravel his robes, not the least bit perturbed by your protests, and you ended up burying your face in your hands, not sure whose modesty you were protecting - his or your own. 

“I am ready now, Princess. You may look.” You heard Malleus say, but you shook your head wildly, still covering your face with your hands, “I shan’t!” Silence stretched between you, before you heard him taking a step towards you, closing the gap between you in one. “Please don’t be afraid. I don’t want you to be frightened of me.” 

Before you could open your mouth to retort, you felt a hand on your shoulder, holding you still before another hand wrapped gently around one of your wrists, tugging softly but firmly to coax it away from your face. You relented, but simply moving your remaining hand across your eyes, keeping them squeezed shut. You could only dread what he planned to do with your hand. He pulled your hand forward slowly, and you found yourself attempting to shrink back, but Malleus’ grip on you was strong, his hand on your shoulder giving you what you assumed was supposed to be a soothing squeeze. 

Eventually your hand came in contact with something... Leathery? Oh, had he put his clothes back on? Well, good. Slowly, you moved your free hand from your eyes and opened them... Only to find most of your vision dominated by huge black... Wings?

“Oh. Oh! Are those your...?” You gripped it tentatively between your fingers, rubbing gently to get a feel for the strange texture. It felt smooth, but strong. If he flexed them, he could probably send you flying. “It’s... Very big.” 

“Do you think so?” 

“Mhmm... Are you sure you are actually a fae? These look nothing like mine...” Despite your words, you couldn’t help yourself from admiring them, they were quite wonderful in their peculiarity. Malleus was more than happy to allow you to survey him, his wings drawn around him so that you could reach them easily. 

“These wings are common for dragon fae.” Malleus replied and you scoffed, biting your tongue only so you didn’t reignite your constant argument that dragons aren’t real, “right... Is that why you keep them hidden? They do seem quite bulky...” 

“Hm, well my more draconic features tend to manifest more during certain periods, usually for convenience I’ll keep them hidden. But my wings are surprisingly lightweight. Here, let me show you.” 

You wanted to enquire more about what he meant about certain periods, but you were distracted by the gust of wind that was brought around as he unfurled his wings from around himself, flexing them wide and proud for you to see. And what a sight it was. His wingspan was impressive, practically blocking out the sky behind him, and despite the size of them, he manoeuvred them with ease and dexterity. You were actually quite impressed...

... Until you realised his entire chest was bare. 

“Malleus!” You squeaked, so distracted by his wings that you hadn’t registered that you were practically eye level with his naked chest, a very nice naked chest, thankfully his robes tied at the hips at least, “put your clothes back on!” You tried to step back, but his grip on your shoulder held fast. 

“But I needed to undress to show you my wings,” Malleus stated, a frown marring his features. Suddenly, his hand that had gripped your shoulder moved to softly grab your chin, tipping it up so he could scrutinise your face, “Are you well? You are flushed.” 

You hadn’t realised your cheeks had grown red at Malleus’ state of undress, and him grabbing your chin in a surprisingly tender gesture wasn’t helping. You felt more blood rush to your cheeks, and you tried to stutter out a response before Malleus released both your wrist and chin, reaching instead for his coat. 

“Hm, it won’t do for you to become ill. Allow me.” Before you knew it, Malleus had draped his coat over your shoulders, and you imagined it must have looked comical hanging off of your wings, but the size of it still managed to cover over you appropriately. “Putting your clothes on didn’t mean for you to put them on me!” You protested, burying your face into the overlong sleeves at your hands,  equal parts embarrassed and distraught at the other fae’s actions. Perhaps if you hid your face for long enough, he’d take the hint and redress himself. Hm, his coat did smell nice, though... 

“I have a request to make of you.” Malleus added, continuing on the conversation as usual, as if you weren’t flustered by his current state, “actually, both me and Lilia had discussed that this could lead to us uncovering promising information regarding your origins.” He explained, seeming to derive contentment from discussing his research with you, “with your permission, we would like you to take us to your previous abode.” 

Your head snapped up, eyes wide at this sudden request. Go home? They wanted to go to your home? Your brain went blank, entirely taken off guard by this information. Malleus must have saw some hesitance in your eyes, so he continued on, 

“Finding information regarding the light fae has been notoriously difficult. Currently, our best lead would be to seek out the last known residence of a light fae... Which would be you.”

If you allowed them to visit your home, that would mean you would get to go home... And once there, you could just refuse to go back with them! This might be your best chance to finally get home... Sure, you could wait until you were alone and jump from the balcony, but there was every chance Malleus or even Lilia would follow after you once they discovered you missing, out of this absurd misguided obsession for your safety... 

Seeing the continued hesitancy in your eyes, Malleus leaned closer to you, wanting to assure you of his genuineness, “it is not our intention to disturb your memories, we want to help.”

You startled at his sudden closeness again, his form almost boxing you in with his posture. You felt fresh redness flush over your cheeks, and you were thankful that you were still covering half of your face with the oversized sleeves of his coat, “if I say yes, would you finally put some clothes on?!” You tried to sound outraged, but your voice ended up coming out high pitched and flustered. 

“If that is what you desire, I can comply with that.” Malleus nodded, although thinking what strange bargains the light fae made, so mild in it’s demand, “however, please do keep my coat, it looks quite charming upon you.” 

You huffed in exasperation, closing your eyes and shaking your head at his behaviour. Ironic that this fae was so keen on discovering the light fae and keeping you safe when you were sure he’d be the death of you. “Fine, fine! I’ll take you to my home. So please, put some clothes on before someone finds you like this!” 

And with that, your escape route was ensured... 

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst malleus #malleus draconia #malleus draconia x reader #malleus draconia x y/n #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland x y/n #twst fic #malleus x reader #malleus x y/n

[idkyetxoxo]

Two | Allure | The Last Kingdom

"What do you know about Freyja?"

"Enough to know that she is the cause behind such unparalleled beauty,"

───☆⋅☾⋅☆───

Hild stood beside me, offering quiet prayers, as Uhtred and Finan solemnly dug up Gisela's body. Tears streamed down Uhtred's face as Gisela's body was engulfed in flames. I held him close as he mourned the loss of a woman so deeply cherished.

Beocca eventually approached Uhtred to discuss the grave we had just disturbed, and I joined them. Despite the circumstances, Uhtred insisted on expressing his remorse and offered his apologies.

However, the peace was short-lived as Brother Godwin, driven by arrogance and bigotry, began disparaging Gisela, labelling her a pagan whore unfit for blessed ground. His disrespectful words cut through the sombre air, provoking my ire.

"Shut your trap, you pathetic excuse for a man. You've got bigger worries than your endless whining, like the fact that you're as useless as your withered limbs" I snapped, the sharpness of my tone cutting through the tension. Aelswith gasped audibly as I offered her a mocking curtsy.

When Godwin persisted in his insults, Uhtred finally snapped, striking him down in a fit of rage, unintentionally killing him. Alfred's men moved to seize Uhtred, but he managed to flee the hall, with me hot on his heels as an "oh shit" slipped my lips.

Alfred's command echoed through Winchester, ordering the city to be locked down and Uhtred to be brought to him. Outside, the tension thickened as Steapa's presence loomed near. Yet, Finan and Sihtric stood firm, denying him entry.

As I stepped outside, Hild entered, exacerbating Steapa's frustration. "Uhtred!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the air. I feigned irritation, covering my ears dramatically.

"Shh, shh, shh, you're annoying our little devil," Finan quipped, gesturing towards me with a knowing smirk and a finger over his lips. "Uhtred, don't make me step on your Irishman," Steapa persisted, his words heavy with veiled threat.

"That's not nice," I rebuked, my tone laced with sarcasm, "you could do so much more than just step on him," I teased, meeting Steapa's narrowed gaze with a mischievous twinkle in my eye.

I trailed my finger teasingly across his chest, meeting his eyes with a sultry stare as I slowly bit on my lower lip.

His discomfort was palpable, his grip tightening as he squirmed. With a swift movement, he grabbed my hand and pushed me away, a mix of annoyance and uncertainty flickering across his features.

"You're no fun, big man," I grumbled, shooting Sihtric a wink as he bristled. With a flirtatious gesture, I blew Steapa a kiss before following Beocca and Aethelwold back toward the house, leaving Steapa to stew in his annoyance.

As we entered the house, tension thickened in the air, spurred by Uhtred's terse warning to Skade "I will kill you if you speak again." I couldn't help but find amusement in the situation, a flicker of a smirk gracing my lips as I glanced at Skade, whose expression betrayed a mixture of defiance and irritation.

Alfred's demands unfolded as expected, he wanted Uhtred to swear an oath to Edward. Beocca interjected, reminding Uhtred of the opportunities Alfred had afforded him in Wessex, emphasizing the weight of the choice before him.

Reluctantly, Uhtred handed his weapons off to Finan and Sihtric, signalling his intent to comply with the king's summons. As he informed Steapa of his decision to go peacefully to the king, a sense of unease settled over the room.

"Uhtred, what are you doing?" I couldn't help but voice my concern, meeting his desperate gaze. There was something in his eyes, a silent plea hinting at unforeseen consequences.

──☆⋅☾⋅☆──

Outside, I paced restlessly, my impatience evident as we waited on Uhtred. "Stop that, it's distracting," Sihtric grumbled, and I paused momentarily before resuming my restless pacing.

"You're pacing like a caged animal," Sihtric remarked with a mocking sneer, his voice dripping with disdain "And you're talking like an imbecile," I shot back.

"Save your wit for someone who cares to hear it," he retorted, his eyes narrowing into a glare. "I'll save it for when I need to remind you of your place," I snapped, my words slicing through the atmosphere.

Uhtred's arrival interrupted the exchange, his presence commanding attention and quelling the venom that had momentarily permeated the air.

As we mounted our horses and prepared to depart, I couldn't ignore the visible signs of Uhtred's discomfort. "Uhtred, you're injured," I gasped, concern etched into my voice as he grunted dismissively, brushing off the notion with a wave of his hand.

Skade, ever the cunning manipulator, continued her sinister game, weaving tales to ensnare Uhtred further. "Should you continue to deny me, you will remain cursed," she hissed, her words dripping with malice. I couldn't help but exhale loudly, exasperated by her relentless manipulation.

"You're sounding increasingly desperate," I retorted, meeting her sneer with a defiant gaze. "Go ride alongside Sihtric and annoy him," I ordered, nudging her horse forward with a forceful gesture.

"He's just as desperate as you, wasting all his silver on women who don't want him," I added, throwing a sly wink in Sihtric's direction as he rolled his eyes.

Turning to Finan and Uhtred, I listened as Finan voiced the question burning in all our minds. "Why isn't she dead yet?" he demanded, his voice tinged with frustration. Uhtred's response was cryptic yet revealing, hinting at forces beyond our comprehension.

Despite the urge to lash out at the absurdity of the situation, I maintained my composure, the weight of our predicament settling heavily upon us as we rode on.

──☆⋅☾⋅☆──

Uhtred's condition worsened with every passing moment, a growing worry gnawing at my heart. When he vomited and tumbled from his horse, it was the final alarm bell, jolting me into action. With a surge of urgency, I reined in my own mount, sprinting to his side in a whirlwind of concern.

"She is squeezing the life from me," Uhtred said, his voice strained with pain. I shook my head firmly, pressing a calming hand against his chest. "You are going to be just fine. We'll get to Brida, she'll know what to do," I reassured him, my voice laced with determination as I glanced between Finan, Osferth, and Sihtric.

Despite my attempts at reassurance, the worry in my eyes betrayed the facade of hope. We all knew Uhtred's condition was dire. Taking a moment to gather ourselves, I quickly prepared a bowl of broth, passing it to Osferth to bring to my ailing brother.

"He's going to be fine, right?" Finan's voice trembled with concern, his worry noticeable. "He is strong. He will be just fine, he's a Ragnarsson, it's in our fate," I replied, offering him a weak smile. 

"So you didn't inherit the strong quality then?" Sihtric's jest sliced through the tension, drawing an irked scowl from me.

"Sleep with one eye open, rat, maybe I'll have to show you just how vicious I can be," I shot back, my tone sharp as I pivoted toward Uhtred's side.

"God, she was truly created by Freyja herself," Finan mused as I stepped away, his admiration laced with a reverent tone. 

"What do you know about Freyja?" Sihtric's astonished query lingered in the air as I walked off, his gaze fixed on my departing silhouette, taking in every movement.

"Enough to know that she is the cause behind such unparalleled beauty," Finan sighed, redirecting his focus to the horses. "That she is," Sihtric murmured in solemn agreement before joining Finan, a contemplative expression etched across his features.

──☆⋅☾⋅☆──

Gratefully, Brida arrived at our camp and guided us toward Dunholm.

"Ragnar!" I exclaimed with unbridled joy as I leapt into his arms, allowing him to twirl us in a circle before gently setting me down.

"Any of these men giving you trouble?" Ragnar inquired, casting a casual glance toward the group. I feigned contemplation for a brief moment before shaking my head. 

"Hmm," I hummed playfully, "You know well and good that no man would even dare to give me trouble," I answered, falling into step beside him as we walked, eager to catch up.

It took time, but Uhtred eventually recovered from his sickness, and Skade was securely locked away with a Nithstong buried opposite her to nullify her powers.

We gathered in the grand hall, nursing drinks and engaged in conversation while Cnut questioned Uhtred about his reputation. 

"Cnut, if you're questioning him, then you're questioning me," I remarked absentmindedly, spinning a dagger between my fingers.

I knew all too well that Uhtred didn't particularly enjoy the nickname Dane-slayer.

"We all know questioning me never ends well," I added with a grin, landing the dagger into the wood of the table inches away from his hand.

"I never understood how she's related to you two," Brida commented, settling beside us and gesturing between Ragnar and Cnut. "The gods knew they had to bless our parents with at least one decent child," I quipped, smirking as Ragnar tossed a piece of bread in my direction.

"Truly, the gods were weaving mischief on the day she graced us with her presence" Ragnar chimed in, prompting me to throw the bread back at him.

"Come, Brida, let's pay a visit to the little witch. I'm tired of gazing at these heathens," I declared, pulling her up as we strode towards the cell. 

"She is powerful," Brida remarked as we approached the cell door. "She's nothing but a fluke," I retorted, peering inside to see Skade grumbling in her cell.

"Oye, Jackdaw, wake up and do your job," I ordered, nudging the sleeping Dane, who grumbled as he positioned himself back in front of the cell.

I smirked at Skade, blowing her a kiss as she snarled in response.

"I have also been cursed," Brida confided as we began to walk back. "I cannot bear children," she continued, and a frown creased my brow at her words. "I'm sorry," I offered sympathetically, stopping her from walking but she casually brushed off my concern. "Do not worry, I am content enough with Ragnar," she assured, and I smiled.

"I'm glad," I began, sincerity lacing my tone. "If he ever wrongs you, you tell me, and I'll ensure he regrets it," I vowed, prompting her laughter as we returned to the hall.

"It will draw many Danes," Ragnar remarked as Brida and I settled back into our seats. "What will?" I inquired, seizing Cnut's drink and taking a sip myself.

"Alfred without Uhtred," Ragnar explained, and I turned to Uhtred, eyebrows raised in curiosity. Clearly, we had missed a significant portion of the conversation

"If Uhtred is to truly be a Dane then he must undo the past and destroy Alfred" Brida supplemented.

From the expression on Finan's face, it was evident that he did not endorse the idea in the slightest. However, I tabled the matter for the time being, aware that a more extensive discussion would unfold later.

The night carried on with an abundance of ale coursing through everyone's veins, fostering an atmosphere of revelry.

As a game unfolded, so did the tension and teasing between Sihtric and me.

With each toss of the small pebble into the cups of ale, our taunts flew across the table like arrows in battle, adding an extra layer of amusement to the spirited contest.

With a sardonic smirk, I raised my cup, the glint of defiance dancing in my eyes. "Careful, Sihtric. I wouldn't want to bruise that delicate ego of yours any further," I taunted, my voice dripping with venom as I prepared for my next shot.

Sihtric's response was swift, his retort sharp and cutting. "Ah, so the little devil fancies herself a competitor now? Pity you've always been better at running your mouth than skill," he jabbed, his words like daggers aimed at my pride.

As Uhtred and Ragnar observed the intense exchange between Sihtric and me, a subtle yet unmistakable tension lingered in the air, charging the atmosphere with an undercurrent of intrigue and rivalry.

Their eyes met in a silent exchange, speaking volumes without the need for words. Ragnar's brow furrowed slightly, his gaze flickering between Sihtric and me as if deciphering the hidden dynamics at play.

"Are they...?" Ragnar's voice trailed off, his words laced with curiosity as he sought Uhtred's perspective on the matter.

Uhtred shook his head with a knowing grin, dismissing any notions that Ragnar might have entertained. "No they've always been like this," he replied, his tone light yet tinged with a hint of mischief.

Despite Uhtred's reassurance, Ragnar couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the verbal sparring between Sihtric and me than met the eye. Nevertheless, he accepted Uhtred's explanation with a nod, content to leave the matter be for the time being.

As the game continued Ragnar's mind occasionally wandered back to the subtle nuances of our interaction, pondering the complexities of friendship, rivalry, and perhaps even a hint of unspoken attraction that lingered beneath the surface.

"Keep dreaming, Sihtric it's the closest you'll ever get to victory," I fired, my tone laced with icy disdain as I released my next pebble with calculated precision.

Sihtric's laughter echoed through the hall, a mocking symphony that grated on my nerves like sandpaper. "Victory? You wouldn't know victory if it struck you in the face, little devil," he jeered.

As the game raged on, so too did our verbal onslaught, each taunt and insult fueling the flames of our rivalry.

"Game, now drink," Sihtric taunted with a smirk, his eyes dancing with mischief as he threw the final pebble with ease. With a roll of my eyes, I reached into the cup, retrieving the winning pebble with a flick of my fingers.

Raising the cup to my lips, I tilted my head back, allowing the liquid to cascade down my throat. Some of it escaped, trickling along the contours of my chin before tracing a tantalizing path down the curve of my neck, disappearing into the valley between my breasts.

As the cup met the table with a resounding slam, I wiped the remnants of the drink from my mouth with the back of my hand. 

Glancing up, I couldn't help but notice Sihtric's unwavering gaze fixed upon me. His eyes lingered on the escaped ale, following its trail as if ensnared by its journey down my chest, a mixture of fascination and desire evident in his gaze.

───☆⋅☾⋅☆───

medieval beer pong anyone 😝😝 ALSO thank you for all the support on the first part I'm so grateful but also kinda nervous now because I don't want to disappoint with the rest of the parts 😭

#aethelfaled #alfredthegreat #danes #enemiestolovers #finantheagile #historicalfiction #love #osferth #ragnar #saxons #sihtric #sihtric kjartansson #sihtrickjartansson x reader #sihtric x reader #slowburn #thelastkingdom #thelastkingdomxreader #thyra #tlk #tlkxreader #uhtred #uhtredofbebbanburg #uhtredragnarsson #vikings #xreader #the last kingdom x reader #tlk fanfic

[myfandomprompts]

𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐞 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟏

Summary: Aemond is better, thanks to your new ally. But should you have trusted your instincts?

Warnings: angst, mention of blood Masterlist (Part 30 - Part 32)

Over the next few days, word of what had happened spread like wildfire. Vhagar had returned to her rider, and Caraxes was unheard of. Some said dragons would go mourn in a familiar place of their own before returning to avenge their riders, but the presence of Vhagar soothed every worry you had about that.

Harrenhal became sort of a neutral zone, the decided place where the terms of peace between the Blacks and the Greens would be passed. Only Baela and Rhaena had been left behind in King’s Landing, the Velaryons not trusting the grief and ire they felt after the death of their father to remain diplomatic enough. Prince Daeron had also remained in Tumbleton, a force left in the Crownlands in case things went sour. 

The only dragons present as a result were Vhagar and Meleys, the Queen Who Never was overseeing the restitution of Jacaerys for her granddaughter with her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon.

Everything seemed to go the way your father had intended. Terms were still to be determined for both sides to be content, but one issue constantly loomed over your head.

The fate of Aemond Targaryen, to whom every Black demanded either his death or lifelong imprisonment. They did not trust Vhagar in the least, and even less in the irascibility of a man like the Kinslayer. But since word of his wounded state had spread among the Blacks, their hatred seemed to have diminished, as they claimed that Aemond Targaryen would not ride any time soon, nor have a say in the upcoming parlays. Maybe they thought Daemon had injured him so badly that he would never recover, or that the murder of another one of his kin had cursed him further and would not be able to live a normal life, doomed to suffer the torment of the gods. So they gradually left him alone for the time being, out of their sight on the God’s Eye edge.

But little did they know that what the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms thought about your husband were the last of your worries.

Aemond had quickly recovered thanks to Alys Rivers’ tending and to some of maesters dispatched to his care. The said maesters were quite displeased by the presence of the wet-nurse, but Aemond had ordered that she was to be kept close, and no one had dared to question him. It was true that her techniques seemed to work wonderfully, but it came with a price: you had barely seen Aemond in the last few days.

Yes, you were quite busy with helping your father to set up camp for the Greens’ delegation to arrive as well tending to Naerys on your own, since no one, not even Alys, would even offer their help. And yes, in the first few days of Aemond’s convalescence, he had been in much need of rest, both Alys and the maesters claiming preferable that he remains unbothered. But it should not have prevented you from seeing him, you thought.

After that, his mother, great-cousin and Ser Cole came to visit him the moment they arrived at Harrenhal, and since that time, you had not been able to be alone with him. With him was either Alicent, Alys or other people in his presence each time you went to him, and all that you could do was hold his hand while he was asleep with milk of the poppy, or tend to him as best as you could when he needed it, doomed to be only something resembling his shadow. 

Within a few days everyone could see the improvement of his health, and you felt relieved and grateful, but it was brief.

In the rare times you could speak to him, you had only talked about general subjects like which Lords and Ladies had arrived at Harrenhal for the treaty or Caraxes’ whereabouts. But it never went beyond that, and you could not help but notice that he had not asked about Naerys once, nor had he asked to see her.

You didn’t dwell on it too long, blaming his state and his mind which was still affected by the milk of the poppy and the many medicines he was on, but the more time passed, the more you were becoming unsettled by his behaviour, and Alys’.

Since the duel you had not talked in length with the wet-nurse, leaving the topic of the ritual floating in the air between the both of you but never assessed. Meanwhile she took great care of Aemond, granting him a fast recovery, faster than it should have been according to the conversation you once overheard from the maesters. They had talked about the almost ‘unnatural’ recovery of the prince as well as the many brews of her own making she was administering him. It made you frown but you didn’t linger over it until rumours about her started to spread around the camp. From what you understood, her reputation as a witch was not much of a secret, but even though people did not utter it out loud, you were not spared from the pitied and judgmental glares the highborns you crossed paths with gave you. It worsened as soon as it became evident to everybody that Alys Rivers was spending a great amount of time with the Prince, a fact that did unnerve your father greatly for your sake and the honour of your House. Still, you forced yourself to pay them no mind, instead going to visit Aemond as soon as you were able.

But each time you ended up more baffled than the last. Whenever you managed to have you and Aemond alone, Alys always seemed to come unannounced and proceed to busy herself with nursing him. And each time that happened, the latter asked to be left alone, dismissing you.

The fourth time this occurred, you had refused.

“I would like to stay this time, if it’s alright with you.”

Both Aemond and Alys looked at you, as if you had said something incredibly stupid. “My Lady, I assure you this is fine. I only need to change his bandages.”

“Thus why I want to stay. I should do this myself, in truth,” you realised, trying to remain as polite as possible.

Aemond clicked his tongue. “The Lady Rivers knows what she is doing, do not worry about it Y/N.”

“I know as well. Must I remind you of the time I tended to you in the middle of the desert?”

“It is different. Lady Rivers has made miracles. I do not know what I would have done without her, it is evident."

Alys was now measuring some of her mysterious concoctions with a humbled smile on her face while Aemond looked at her with understanding. Something was wrong. Very very wrong.

“That is it. Out.”

You looked at the older woman you owed the life of your husband to, her beautiful blue eyes staring back at you, startled, but even though the harshness of your tone clearly expressed how much your trust in her had faltered, she still did not move.

“I said, out,” you repeated.

She turned to Aemond, looking for his approval, and it made you inhale sharply in irritation. He let out an exasperated sigh as he nodded at her to do as you had commanded, and she left the tent, taking her perusing gaze along with her.

You were really annoyed.

“What is going on with you Aemond? Why are you pushing me away like this? I am your wife, the woman you married,” you reminded him, as if it was necessary. “I need to be by your side, not dismissed like a mere servant.”

He leaned back into his bed, unfazed. “Yes, you are my wife, although you are not behaving like a proper one these days.”

You were taken aback, your jaw dropping in shock. “Oh, because you are behaving like a perfect husband. You haven’t even asked how Naerys was. Our own daughter that had been abducted!”

His eye hardened slightly but he still seemed untouched by your words. “I killed the bastard that took her. She is safe, this is all I need to know.”

Your wrath abated for a moment, and you sank at his side, taking hold of his hand with urgency.

“It almost killed you, Aemond. You were bleeding out, I was scared for you...” you said with a distraught tone. His eyes widened slightly.

“It had to be done, did it not? I told you as such a long time ago, but you refused to hear it. Besides, I am fine now, no Rogue Prince or Valyrian Steel could take me down. Nothing, in fact. Lady Alys had assured me as such.”

You frowned at his words, almost ignoring the jealousy that crept in your heart.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, confused.

He looked more alive all of a sudden, excited.

“She saw me on the Iron Throne, as the true ruler of the Seven Kingdom," he announced, expression bright. "It had been my path from the day I was born, and now it is nearer than ever. She knows it, she understands me.”

You tried to bury the feeling of hurt that hit you at his last words, rather deciding to go with common sense to answer the shocking declaration he had just made.

“You… Aemond, we are on the verge of a treaty of peace, sacrifices were made for it,” you stammered, unsure of how to react to this suddenly. “You are hurt, and we are outnumbered. It is too late to-”

“Fuck the treaty,” he spat, his purple eye shooting at you, something sour within it. “To hell with all those Lords who believe me so weak as to not claim my birthright. Daemon is dead, I will not stop there, my path is clearer than ever.”

“What about the twins?” you pointed out, tone slightly trembling. “You love them! You never told me anything about setting them aside, never! You always meant them to rule one day, even when you thought them dead!”

You were met with silence on his part. He had turned his gaze in front of him and clenched his jaw, annoyed. He took a moment to muster his response.

“She warned me. That you would not understand. That you would not see my greatness, my worth. You never did.”

“I have always supported you!” you exclaimed, now feeling both utterly angry at Alys and hurt that he would doubt you. “At Storm’s End, at Sandstone… Even in Dragonstone. My love for you goes beyond simple affection, you are everything to me, and I would defend you to my death. But what you speak of? It will only harm you even more! Those Lords would not accept you as their King so easily, I do not want you hurt trying to fight them."

“I have Vhagar,” he loudly said, but his tone remained cold. “I will make them bend the knee or they will burn, a simple choice. I will take my rightful place, and make her visions true.”

You felt the dread that filled your nights come back in a flash. Everything but this. 

“And then what, Aemond? Will you rule over the ashes? Is this the vision Alys had promised you?” you taunted, already sick of saying her name. “What if she is lying to you? What if you cannot see it? Because you feel indebted to her?”

He sternly looked at you, as if he had realised an unalterable fact. He shook his head. Something was so very wrong.

“She was right… Your heart is still on the side of your Black and disloyal family, and it is a matter of time until you turn against me as well,” he deadpanned, and you almost thought you heard wrong, his logic so absurd.

“Aemond, you are not making any sense,” you pleaded, your tone clearly distraught now. “I love you, and I see you Aemond, as you are, I know you. I will always be yours, and always fight as fiercely as you did for our daughter, for us . Please my love, do not let that woman tell you otherwise.”

You were not ready for the stoic look he gave you, almost unemotional. Never had he looked at you like that, and you felt his hand let go of yours.

“If you cannot support me, then go. I do not need you.”

Your body went rigid, and even the act of breathing pained you. You continued to watch him with disbelief, your fingers itching for his touch. He was just in front of you, however he felt so far away. Something was very, very wrong indeed.

You repressed a sob as you looked away to hide your birthing tears, glancing at the many vials that glowed on the tables around. Alys’ medicine. 

You had made up your mind.

“I will never give up on you. I'm not going anywhere,” you flatly stated, and with all of the courage you could muster, you got up and left the tent, casting a last dark look at the vials.

The cold air attacked your skin as you stepped outside but it didn’t matter, your blood was boiling with anger now.

Something was very, very wrong.

It did not take much thinking on your part to know what to do.

You had to find Alys Rivers, and confront her. Something was amiss, and you would fight to know the truth behind your husband’s odd behaviour.

From some dark place inside of your mind, you heard a voice whisper to you that Aemond maybe meant everything he had said, that you have been blind to his desires to the Throne, that you had underestimated them and that they even surpassed his love for you.

But you shut that part of your mind quickly, realising that there was something more to it, that you knew your husband and you would not let him pull away from you.

You were his as much as he was yours.

You found her near a brazier not far from there, as if she was waiting for you and Aemond to be over with your conversation. It unnerved you even more.

“You...” you seethed, coming closer to her. No one else was around, she turned around.

“My Lady,” she greeted calmly, ignoring your furious gaze with condescension. 

You went straight to the point.

“What have you done to him? What was the spell you cast? Tell me, witch,” you demanded.

She only widened her eyes in innocence. “I only did what you asked of me, my Lady. I made him survive, he killed the Rogue Prince. I did what I thought was right.”

You knew you should not have let your anger take the better of you before someone who was versed in magic, perhaps ill magic even, but you did.

“Very well then, you will continue to do so, what is right, and not come close to him ever again,” you stated, tone harsh. “I will not let my husband be the subject of whatever you are inflicting him, or let you say calumnies about me.”

Your breath was heavy, and she did not answer right away.

Instead her widened eyes disappeared, replaced by a stern expression, calm, and all innocence left her all at once. She was now looking at you with something akin to despise, and you almost recoiled.

“I am not inflicting him anything, I am only helping him achieve his purpose, what he was always meant to do, to rule. You cannot separate us, he needs me, and you are only dragging him down. I am the one who made him stronger. He could never have that with you.”

Her tone had turned cold, matter-of-factly, and it was your turn to widen your eyes, her change of demeanour shocking you.

But your anger did not falter.

“You are a fool if you think you can put yourself between us. Do you believe me so blind not to see through your machinations?" you asked, willing to not let your jealousy cloud your goal. "You have done something to him, I am sure of it. What was that spell? What are you giving him? I will not have you using him for whatever goal you hope to achieve, so tell me now.”

She scoffed.

“But you are blind. You cannot see his potential as I can, he had been trapped by the straps of decency when he could have done so much more. You are nothing, only a common woman he had some attraction to, while he is the blood of Old Valyria, a dragon rider with a mind meant for the Throne,” she explained, her eyes burning in excitement. “My spells freed him, and my potions healed him. He had finally come to realise how futile you and his family have been all this time.”

You dropped your jaw in shock, wishing you had never accepted her help. Anything but this.

“You tricked me. You did bewitch him. You-!”

“You did that yourself. You are the one that accepted to hand me his fate, to perform a powerful ritual that freed him and rid him of what had been holding him back. You should be glad, for you had made his path to glory easier by stepping away from his life. As you should have long ago."

“I did no such thing and I won’t. I won’t abandon him. I will denounce your treachery, and you will be judged. My husband won’t stand for it, he will see through your deceit, he will not be misled so easily.”

She now bore a light smile, as if she was amused. You, on the other hand, were beyond angry.

“You are powerless, my Lady, it is too late. He will never part from me again, nor send me away, even if all of his relatives ask him to. We are linked, you made sure of it when you handed me that eye-patch.”

You paused, feeling very ill all of a sudden.

“I do not believe it. He loves me, he-” you tried, panic taking hold of you at each of her revelations spilled out of her mouth.

She took a menacing step closer.

“You are mistaken, my Lady. He will grow out of his love for you, for you have failed. You have given him a daughter when he needed a son, an heir for when he is King, and that makes you weak,” she explained in a cold tone. “But I can. I will give him a son that will strengthen his claim.”

Blood pumped into your ears and you felt dizzy. You felt completely at loss.

“How dare you…” you tried, feeling tears in your eyes again. “You are a madwoman if you believe that I will let you achieve your plan, I will give him all the children he wants, he does not care for...”

“Oh but I doubt it,” she stated, her face closer to you as she whispered, voice low like a prayer. “Over time, when all of your children die inside your womb before they even see light, he will come to realise your uselessness, and discard you, and only I will remain.”

You clutched your belly, fear taking hold of your whole body, her threat making you shiver. “No…”

“Do not try to cross me, my Lady, or the Prince,” she stated, taking a step back to take a look at your watery eyes and pitiful state. “You cannot do anything to stop it. He will achieve his destiny, and I will see to it, for I have seen it. My visions are everything he hopes for, and more.”

And with that she gave you a soft and glaring gaze, and turned away, leaving you utterly lost, a sour taste in your mouth.

You had hesitated to go straight to Aemond, to try and talk some sense into him, to reverse the spell somehow. But it was no use in your state, nauseous and completely appalled, knees weak and subject to strong and uncontrollable emotions. You stepped away from the brazier, where the smoke made you feel ill, and you let your feet lead you away into the dark, without really knowing where you were going.

Silent tears fell off your cheeks as you tried to think, but your mind was empty.

What could you do against magic? Would confronting Aemond truly not be enough?

Looking up, you saw a massive shadow in the distance, and your feet naturally walked toward it, as if drawn to it. At your approach, the form raised its head and observed you with yellow eyes, curious.

You were close now as Vhagar woke up from her slumber to greet you, and you realised that you were not scared in the least. There was something comforting in being close to another soul that shared so much with your husband.

“Greetings Vhagar,” you said, holding your hand out for her to smell it, to sense your emotions. Melancholy took you. 

“Do you miss him as much as I do?” you asked. It was the first thing that came to mind and you were sure her eyes gave you an empathetic look. You continued.

“I did not have the chance to thank you, for saving me, and your rider’s daughter at Bitterbridge,” you said, remembering that night as you flattened your hand under her eye. “You would do anything for him, would you not? Even for his unborn child.”

Her thin pupil was fixed on your face, listening to your every word attentively and she squealed.

It almost made you smile through your tears.

“The bond you share is unbreakable, unique,” you talked softly. “You can sense each other, I know… This is magic, something I cannot understand.”

You grieved for your lack of knowledge about the matter, feeling helpless against someone as powerful as a witch. “I wish I could, so I would know how to counter it…”

“You should not be here! It is dangerous!” someone yelled from afar.

You turned your head at the male’s voice, startling both you and Vhagar who snapped her head up and growled at the form near the edge of the camp. You narrowed your eyes as you made your way toward the man.

“Addam?” you called, now clearly seeing his recognisable feature and armour with the green dragons and white tower coat of arms on it. 

He sighed in relief.

“It is you, my Lady! I was scared for the poor soul who dared approach the beast for a moment,” he explained, shooting worried glances toward the she-dragon that still stared at him intensely as you levelled with him. “Are you not scared?”

You looked back at Vhagar, stance protective, wings slightly deployed.

“No, I am not. I think she feels as alone as I am,” you simply replied, trying to hide your surely puffy eyes. “I am glad to see you, my Lord. Did you arrive along with Lord Lannister?”

“I did. I was entrusted with Jacaerys Velaryon's escort to Harrenhal. I saw an opportunity to demand my brother’s safe return from the Wayfarers, as terms are now discussed. But let me accompany you back to your tent. The night is cold,” he said, but his eyes were still darting to Vhagar as he gently took your arms to pull you away.

“I am deeply sorry that none of your attempts to retrieve Hugo had succeeded my Lord. I will pray for him.”

“I thank you, my Lady. But I have hope, all of this thanks to your father’s magnificent work at securing peace terms. This war has lasted too long.”

You nodded in agreement, eyes on the ground as you walked, thinking of everything that could go wrong about this last claim, about everything that was wrong about Aemond. Addam noticed your troubled state.

“Are you alright, my Lady?” he inquired, observing you intensely.

“I only… I only find myself in a difficult situation, my Lord. And I have no idea how to deal with it,” you confessed. Addam had always been a good listener.

“You went through too many tribulations to let something bother you this much. Whatever it is, I am at your service, as I have always been. I could be of help, if you let me.”

You considered it for a moment, but you remembered Alys’s words, of how Aemond would never send her away, being too far gone under her spell. You would only make things worse for you and Addam.

However, the question escaped your lips.

“Do you know anything about sorcery?” you asked, earning a dumbfounded look from your friend as you arrived at your destination.

“Sorcery?” he stopped, thinking. “I am not sure, there are many forms of magic, but why would you-”

He was interrupted when someone opened the drapes of the tent and appeared one of Alicent Hightower’s servants, and behind her, the Queen herself.

“Y/N, where have you been? It is quite late,” she stated, coming closer with Naerys over her shoulder as you and Addam entered the warmth of the tent. She observed your obvious troubled state briefly, her brows knitting in concern before darting her eyes to your companion.

“You are Addam Vance of Atranta, are you not?” she correctly guessed, and Addam bowed at her.

“Indeed, your Grace,” he said with a polite smile. “I apologise for the interruption, I was only escorting Lady Y/N back to her lodgings.”

He glanced at you, silently inquiring about your previous interrupted conversation, asking if you needed him still. But you gave him a smile that you intended to be reassuring, even though you were sure it failed.  

Addam nodded and continued:

“I shall leave you alone and bid you goodnight then,” he bowed again. “Your Grace, Lady Y/N.”

His eyes glanced at you one last time, but he stopped in his tracks instantly, his eyes widening. “Lady Y/N? Are you alright? You’re… bleeding.”

You frowned as you brought your hand to your nose, feeling something wet flowing down on your skin. When you looked at your hand again, your fingers were bloody.

Then a sharp pain shot through your skull and you fell onto your knees, crushed by the ache and your vision blurring as you screamed in agony. The blood from your nose was dripping on the floor and you felt the pain travel from your head to your neck, and take hold of your lungs. Breathing hurt, and you could barely register the hands that tried to prevent you from falling.

You had no idea how long it lasted, the pain in your head being the most dolorous, but when it all stopped and you opened your eyes, you were lying down on your bed and several heads were looking down at you.

“My Lady, are you feeling better? Is it your head? Can you talk?” you heard the maester next to you say, and you tried to stand in a sitting position, bringing your hand to your temple to massage them. It was still dark outside.

“Y/N, can you hear me?” your father asked, and you guessed that he had been called as soon as you collapsed, but you didn’t recall him entering.

“Yes I…” you panted. “I just need a moment.”

The blood coming from your nose had stopped but you could see trails of it soaking your gown.

“What is with her maester?” you heard Alicent address the scholar. “Had she fallen ill?”

“I cannot be sure at the moment. From what you told me, your Grace, the symptoms were quite abrupt, we have to see how it develops. I will give her milk of the poppy for the time being.”

“No,” you cut, taking a sharp breath. “I do not want it.”

You knew how milk of the poppy clouded the mind, how it withdrew you from reality and made you fall into slumber, creating illusions and dreams even. You needed your full capacities at the moment, no matter how bad you felt.

You noticed that Addam was still present, and he was the only one who had not spoken, observing your face with a worried expression, eyes fixed on you.

“I will go pray to the Seven for her recovery,” announced Alicent. “I will take care of Naerys also, so you may rest, my dear. This family had suffered enough.”

You nodded, glad to see how much your granddaughter was cared for, at least by one member of her father’s bloodline, you thought bitterly. You let yourself lay down again, your head still throbbing.

All except your father and the maester were dismissed, and accepting an herbal concoction from the latter before falling asleep, all of your forces drained from your body.

You had hesitated to go straight to Aemond, to try and talk some sense into him, to reverse the spell somehow. But it was no use in your state, nauseous and completely appalled, knees weak and subject to strong and uncontrollable emotions. You stepped away from the brazier, where the smoke made you feel ill, and you let your feet lead you away into the dark, without really knowing where you were going.

Silent tears fell off your cheeks as you tried to think, but your mind was empty.

What could you do against magic? Would confronting Aemond truly not be enough?

Looking up, you saw a massive shadow in the distance, and your feet naturally walked toward it, as if drawn to it. At your approach, the form raised its head and observed you with yellow eyes, curious.

You were close now as Vhagar woke up from her slumber to greet you, and you realised that you were not scared in the least. There was something comforting in being close to another soul that shared so much with your husband.

“Greetings Vhagar.” you said, holding your hand out for her to smell it, to sense your emotions. Melancholy took you. 

“Do you miss him as much as I do?” you asked. It was the first thing that came to mind and you were sure her eyes gave you an empathetic look. You continued.

“I did not have the chance to thank you, for saving me, and your rider’s daughter at Bitterbridge.” you said, remembering that night as you flattened your hand under her eye. “You would do anything for him, would you not? Even for his unborn child.”

Her thin pupil was fixed on your face, listening to your every word attentively and she squealed.

It almost made you smile through your tears.

“The bond you share is unbreakable, unique.” you talked softly. “You can sense each other, I know… This is magic, something I cannot understand.”

You grieved for your lack of knowledge about the matter, feeling helpless against someone as powerful as a witch. “I wish I could, so I would know how to counter it…”

“You should not be here! It is dangerous!” someone yelled from afar.

You turned your head at the male’s voice, startling both you and Vhagar who snapped her head up and growled at the form near the edge of the camp. You narrowed your eyes as you made your way toward the man.

“Addam?” you called, now clearly seeing his recognizable feature and armour with the green dragons and white towers coat of arms on it. 

He sighed in relief.

“It is you my Lady! I was scared for the poor soul who dared approach the beast for a moment.” he explained, shooting worried glances toward the she-dragon that still stared at him intensely as you levelled with him. “Are you not scared?”

You looked back at Vhagar, stance protective, wings slightly deployed.

“No, I am not. I think she feels as alone as I am.” you simply replied, trying to hide your surely puffy eyes. “I am glad to see you, my Lord. Did you arrive along with Lord Lannister?”

“I did. I was entrusted with Jacaerys Velaryon's escort to Harrenhal. I saw an opportunity to demand my brother’s safe return from the Wayfarers, as terms are now discussed. But let me accompany you back to your tent. The night is cold.” he said, but his eyes were still darting to Vhagar as he gently took your arms to pull you away.

“I am deeply sorry that none of your attempts to retrieve Hugo had succeeded my Lord. I will pray for him.”

“I thank you, my Lady. But I have hope, all of this thanks to your father’s magnificent work at securing peace terms. This war has lasted too long.”

You nodded in agreement, eyes on the ground as you walked, thinking of everything that could go wrong about this last claim, about everything that was wrong about Aemond. Addam noticed your troubled state.

“Are you alright my Lady?” he inquired, observing you intensely.

“I only… I only find myself in a difficult situation, my Lord. And I have no idea how to deal with it.” you confessed. Addam had always been a good listener.

“You went through too many tribulations to let something bother you this much. Whatever it is, I am at your service, as I have always been. I could be of help, if you let me.”

You considered it for a moment, but you remembered Alys’s words, of how Aemond would never send her away, being too far gone under her spell. You would only make things worse for you and Addam.

However, the question escaped your lips.

“Do you know anything about sorcery?” you asked, earning a dumbfounded look from your friend as you arrived at your destination.

“Sorcery?” he stopped, thinking. “I am not sure, there are many forms of magic, but why would you-”

He was interrupted when someone opened the drapes of the tent and appeared one of Alicent Hightower’s servants, and behind her, the Queen herself.

“Y/N, where have you been? It is quite late.” she stated, coming closer with Naerys over her shoulder as you and Addam entered the warmth of the tent. She observed your obvious troubled state briefly, her brows knitting in concern before darting her eyes to your companion.

“You are Addam Vance of Atranta, are you not?” she correctly guessed, and Addam bowed at her.

“Indeed, your Grace.” he said with a polite smile. “I apologise for the interruption, I was only escorting Lady Y/N back to her lodgings.”

He glanced at you, silently inquiring about your previous interrupted conversation, asking if you needed him still. But you gave him a smile that you intended to be reassuring, even though you were sure it failed.  

Addam nodded and continued:

“I shall leave you alone and bid you goodnight then.” he bowed again. “Your Grace, Lady Y/N.”

His eyes glanced at you one last time, but he stopped in his tracks instantly, his eyes widening. “Lady Y/N? Are you alright? You’re… bleeding.”

You frowned as you brought your hand to your nose, feeling something wet flowing down on your skin. When you looked at your hand again, your fingers were bloody.

Then a sharp pain shot through your skull and you fell onto your knees, crushed by the ache and your vision blurring as you screamed in agony. The blood from your nose was dripping on the floor and you felt the pain travel from your head to your neck, and take hold of your lungs. Breathing hurt, and you could barely register the hands that tried to prevent you from falling.

You had no idea how long it lasted, the pain in your head being the most dolorous, but when it all stopped and you opened your eyes, you were lying down on your bed and several heads were looking down at you.

“My Lady, are you feeling better? Is it your head? Can you talk?” you heard the maester next to you say, and you tried to stand in a sitting position, bringing your hand to your temple to massage them. It was still dark outside.

“Y/N, can you hear me?” your father asked, and you guessed that he had been called as soon as you collapsed, but you didn’t recall him entering.

“Yes I…” you panted. “I just need a moment.”

The blood coming from your nose had stopped but you could see trails of it soaking your gown.

“What is with her maester?” you heard Alicent address the scholar. “Had she fallen ill?”

“I cannot be sure at the moment. From what you told me your Grace, the symptoms were quite abrupt, we have to see how it develops. I will give her milk of the poppy for the time being.”

“No.” you cut, taking a sharp breath. “I do not want it.”

You knew how milk of the poppy clouded the mind, how it withdrew you from reality and made you fall into slumber, creating illusions and dreams even. You needed your full capacities at the moment, no matter how bad you felt.

You noticed that Addam was still present, and he was the only one who had not spoken, observing your face with a worried expression, eyes fixed on you.

“I will go pray to the Seven for her recovery.” announced Alicent. “I will take care of Naerys also, so you may rest my dear. This family had suffered enough.”

You nodded, glad to see how much your granddaughter was cared for, at least by one member of her father’s bloodline, you thought bitterly. You let yourself laid down again, your head still throbbing.

All except your father and the maester were dismissed, and accepting an herbal concoction from the latter before falling asleep, all of your forces drained from your body.

When you woke up at dawn, the first thing on your mind was to see Aemond, as if your life depended on it. You still felt very sore from the pain you had experienced last night, but your mind was set on Alys and what she had planned, and although you dreaded what you had to do, your will was stronger than the ache.

The maester came early in order to examine you and provide you more healing serums, forcing you to delay your plan to visit your husband, and when you finally were allowed to walk outside, you were, of course, stopped by the one person you dreaded at the moment.

“Good morning, my Lady,” she greeted, but there was no warmth in her tone. You gritted your teeth.

“Let me pass,” you demanded.

“I heard of your recent woes, my Lady. I only came to be of service," she said with a honeyed voice. “Has your vision started to fail you yet?”

You took a step back, baffled.

“You… You did this?”

A flash of satisfaction passed briefly in her eyes, happy that you had caught on so quickly.

“Did you not know that magic came with a price? You should be happy to have granted your husband such a long life. I can only hope to make this easier for you.”

You wished nothing more than to have brought a dagger with you.

“You…” you snarled, feeling sick. “You will pay for this.”

“You should rest,” she cut. “I warned you, bad things could happen if you try to impede his path to glory. Stay away, and maybe you will be healthy enough to raise your daughter in peace.”

And with that she turned, leaving you once again alone and horrified, powerless. You close your eyes in pain, feeling your body respond to whatever she had inflicted on you and you felt your knees buckle.

“I have you, my Lady,” you heard a voice say next to you, strong arms suddenly preventing you from falling. 

Addam.

You have not seen him come out from behind a nearby banner, and you had no idea how he had rushed to your side. “Addam? I-… what…”

He grabbed your shoulder in order to ground you, allowing you to rest your weight on him. You could now glance at him and you saw a furious glare in his eyes that you had never witnessed within him, even in King’s Landing.

When he spoke, his tone was low, determined.

“I fear that prayers from the Queen won’t be enough,” he stated, and you felt him seethe with irritation. “If dark magic is involved, we will need far more drastic means.”

A/N: Alys lovers - please don't hate me.

-0- Part 32

Thank you @enchantingcupcakecollectionfan for the beta reading

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[alteon77]

The Bizarre Breeding Habits of Anthropomorphic Personifications: Chapter 2

It's a tale as old as time.

Two idiots fall in love. Two idiots fall out of love.

Neither one of them is expecting a baby to come along and derail their unhappily ever after.

Chapter one here, AO3 here, Masterlist here

It's raining again in the Dreaming.  

Or, Morpheus supposes, it might be more accurate to say that it's raining still in the Dreaming as the rain has not let up for over a month.  

He stands on the balcony of his private chambers, their private chambers only scant weeks past, and watches the deluge as it wreaks havoc through the realm. It has been forty-eight days since they were contentedly in love, forty-eight days since he discovered her betrayal and cast her from his life and his realm. Not that he is counting the time since their disastrous separation, of course, even though he is aware of it.  

Painfully aware of it even.  

By mortal standards, their love had been a slow one to bloom. He'd first met her in 1832 when she'd invited herself into his kingdom, frustrated and full of ire, to inform him (less than diplomatically) that she would be venturing into the dreams of another. Beautiful though she was, he'd been half amused and half infuriated by her audacity as he'd questioned her regarding her intentions in doing such a thing. She had introduced herself as May before relaying to him that her brother had found himself enthralled by a succubus.  

And not for the first time at that.  

Troublesome siblings were something Morpheus had unfortunately related all too well to, with at least two of his six near constantly attempting to find ways they might embroil him in their spiteful games. So he had granted her request in an odd show of compassion and thought it generous of himself, only to have the fiery female tartly tell him that she had not sought his permission, that she was merely there as a courtesy. Fool that he was, he had felt his heart start to thud loudly at her boldness, at the determined way that she both thanked him and dismissed him in one fell swoop. The manner in which she spoke to him, fearless despite his terrible reputation, was a novelty, and he had thought then like a love-struck boy that he wished to see more of her. 

Despite this, he hadn't actually laid eyes on her again until 1946, and the circumstances then had been… less than ideal. He'd remembered who she was, though, on that first horrible night that Roderick Burgess' men had held tight to her arms outside the binding circle and tried to threaten her into assisting them. They'd marched her away when she told them no, and while their captors had been far too afraid to even consider getting near him, May… she had not been so lucky. She had been hurt. Badly. He had never witnessed it, had never seen them so much as strike her, but every time Roderick Burgess had his brutes roughly throw her to the ground before his glass prison, she was freshly bruised or bleeding, a testament to the suffering being inflicted on her. His heart had ached at the sight, his worry sickening as their captors had demanded that she communicate with Morpheus using her magic, that she force the Endless to reveal his secrets, that she cajole him into granting them gifts he could not give. 

As a maker, May had been more than capable of speaking into his mind, had even made a habit of doing so when she was lonely in that shared nightmare of theirs, but she had remained resolute in her continued refusals to Roderick Burgess when he commanded this of her, firmly telling him time and time again that it couldn't be done. No matter the consequences she'd endured for her obstinacy. 

Her strength had noticeably began to dwindle by the end of that first year of this treatment, new wounds staying for longer on her than they should because of it. And so when she'd seen the opportunity to facilitate their freedom, to take advantage of an argument between their jailers to scratch a thin line through the painted sigils trapping him, she hadn't hesitated for even a moment. She had saved him in this way, and he had felt compelled to save her in turn. He'd knelt at her side on the cold floor of that basement, looking her over as the blue glow of his power cast its hazy light over her injured form. Gently, he'd reached out and brushed the shattered glass from her unconscious, broken body before carefully gathering her up in his arms and taking her far from their captivity and everything they'd suffered there.  

It wouldn't be until they were free of that nightmare that Morpheus would understand why May's magic had been so dulled in that place, and the branding burned onto her arm, the one binding her magic, had been the very first thing he'd healed on either of them. Jaw clenching in fury as he'd worked, he had found himself wishing that Roderick Burgess had not died during their escape. For if that mortal had survived, then Morpheus would have assuredly taken great pleasure in tormenting and killing him anew for his cruelty towards her. 

Nonetheless, gradually over time May had recovered fully from her ordeal, and he had done the same. Both of them had found solace in one another and their shared experience as they mended, a friendship blooming between them from it. He had trusted her when she first started offering him her hesitant physical contact, had even found himself eventually coming to crave those shy touches of hers, and they had began to fall in love after that, bit by bit, as she had assisted him in rebuilding the desolated remains of his realm. From their many conversations, he'd quickly learned that beneath her seemingly spirited, sometimes waspish exterior, she was actually… quite kind, bright and good in a way that he had noticed influencing him long before either of them would dare to admit their feelings to one another. 

He had grown to love her completely over the decades after that, had grown to regard her without any suspicion. And because of it, he never could have foreseen her betrayal. He's known for most of his existence that love never ended well, especially for him, and so in hindsight he supposes that he should have guessed that their love could do naught but to crush him in the end. Instead he'd foolishly allowed himself to hope, to believe in better, to trust in her, and now he's been left with nothing but his heartbreak, clearly paying the price for that rather spectacular idiocy on his part.  

Heavy thunder rolls through the Dreaming, the force of it so great that the glass window before him trembles violently.  

Seeing her only days prior had somehow made his melancholy worse, but he had been unable to do anything then except rescue her from death. No matter the pain she had caused him, he knows that… that he still loves her, that perhaps he will always do so. Such is the nature of that cursed emotion. His love for her had gotten inside of his heart like delicate glass, had shattered during that final argument mere weeks before they were to wed, and he is all too aware that no matter how desperately he tries, he remains incapable of digging all the many shards of it from his aching chest.   

This lingering affliction was why he had been troubled by the state of her when last they'd spoken. She had appeared ill when he'd finally gotten her to the safety of the pier. Her skin had been sickly pale, her limbs shaking from exertion. There had been dark smudges beneath her eyes, a physical symptom of her exhaustion, of her fatigue that was so overwhelming he could almost feel it in his own being. It had taken every last shred of his self control not to check her over, not to ensure that she was uninjured then. He'd wanted to comfort her, to close the damnable distance between them and take her in his arms once again, the urge to do so nearly overcoming his fury at her.  

A clap of lightning splits the sky before him, the shade of its electrical arc a dangerous red. He thinks that he must calm himself, that he must rein in these destructive feelings, as a small knock sounds from the door of their- his, only his- chamber, startling him from his maudlin thoughts.  

"Enter," he answers, knowing as he does that Lucienne is the only of his subjects that would dare come to this sanctuary of his and risk his wrath. 

She does as he commands and makes her way into their- no, his- sitting room to stand there with her hands held behind her back, obviously waiting until she has permission before she begins her daily attempt at coaxing him from this place. He tells himself that this time he will be kinder while she does this, that this time he will not react to her honest concern with churlish anger. His librarian simply worries for him and is unable to understand that she need not do so. He is Dream of the Endless, eons old, powerful, and so he is assuredly not wallowing in his despair.  

No matter how many times Lucienne might accuse him of it. 

He huffs out a resigned sigh but stays facing the deluge outside, continuing to watch it as it falls. "Yes?" 

"Sir…" she begins reluctantly, and Morpheus has an almost immediate impulse to end the conversation at the falter in her voice. She obviously seeks to speak to him of something he will dislike hearing. "Sir, parts of the realm are… flooded. Two of the islands… are completely submerged." 

"And?" 

He can feel the frustrated heaviness of her glare on his back. "And perhaps you might see to it," she supplies with only the slightest speck of irritation in her words. 

His duties. Always his duties. Even a moment to process his grief is not allowed to him by his function. He finally turns to her, his face kept carefully blank to mask the roil of emotions within him as best he can. “Very well.” 

She’s relieved and wary all at the same time, but she modulates her tone as she asks, "My lord…. when might we expect the rain to…. settle?" 

His jaw clenches. The truth is he does not know when the storms will fade away. He does not wish to admit this to her, does not wish to admit this to anyone, but he thinks they might rage for a long while yet, powerless as he seems to be at quelling this particular manifestation of his misery. 

"I know… not, Lucienne," he confesses and feels a curious pang in his chest, right where his heart is, that reminds him a little of broken glass slicing into that infernal organ with every breath he takes.  

She frowns, her expression changing to one of pity. She understands what he cannot bring himself to say aloud then, and for that he is… grateful. "Of course, sir."

"I will… leave at once to see to the islands. Have you evacuated the subjects there?"

Before she can answer, there's a strange pull at his mind, something familiar and unfamiliar all at the same time.  

He thinks… that it is May. Again? She should not be here, should not be capable of entering this realm after he had reinforced the banishment following her last trespass, and yet her panic cuts through him, cuts through everything else in his thoughts.  

She is… frightened. She is dying.  

His whole body goes rigid. He tells himself that this time he will not care. This time, he will refuse to intervene.  

His resolve lasts less than a fraction of a second. He should not care, he knows. What is she now to him but a betrayer? But a deceiver? Regardless, he shifts to where she is, surprised to find her in the Dreamer's Sea again. She's drowning, he thinks, just as she had been when last he'd discovered her here. He doesn't hesitate to jump in after her, doesn't hesitate to grab her up and practically drag her to the pier, and later, perhaps, he will wonder over this. He's been far crueler to lovers in the past for far less egregious offenses, had even damned one of them to an eternity of Hell for simply refusing him, but with her he seems incapable of even leaving her to the consequence of her own folly. 

And it is her folly. He is unsure how it is she is entering the dreams of others, but he knows that it is her doing no matter her denials.  

Shivering, she collapses on the wooden planks of the sole structure here, coughing out water while she trembles. His heart lurches at the sight. He wants to go to her, wants to wrap her up in his warmth until she is not so chilled.  

This he will not do, however. He might be unable to allow her death, but this… this urge he can control, and so he steps back, his hands clenched at his sides to keep them from reaching out to her.  

"You must cease this," he growls, anger clear in his tone. The fact is that she indeed must stop this reckless insanity of hers. The Dreamer's Sea is a manifestation of his being, one created to contain mortal dreams and keep them from spilling over. He had designed it in a way that it would not allow anyone but him to break through its surface, making her attempts to travel it borderline suicidal.  

She doesn't stand, seemingly too weak to do so, though her ability to lash out at him in a temper remains unhindered by her near drowning. "What a great idea, Morpheus. I hadn't stopped to consider-" She stops herself with another coughing fit, this one severe enough that he would wince at the sound of it if he were not keeping his face held so tense. When next she speaks, her voice is a harsh rasp, but it does not dull the bite of her sarcasm. "I hadn't stopped to consider that I shouldn't go to sleep and find myself dying in that stupid water every night. Thanks so much for that well-thought out advice." 

He's enraged at the nerve of her for daring to take such a tone with him when she is the trespasser here. "How are you entering this realm?" His voice dips low in warning, in threat.  

"I don't know. I'm not doing anything. I even tried not opening the door tonight, but it flew open on its own and sucked me in anyway."

"Door? A door appeared to you?"

She lets loose another cough, this one wracking her frail body in a way that makes him tighten his fists at his side in a greater effort not to comfort her. "Yes," she finally answers. 

"Perhaps you would not find yourself pulled in by this door if you were not traipsing through the dreams of others," he bites out, his tone gravelly. 

"I'm not… not doing it on purpose." 

"There is no other way to do such a thing." 

Unexpectedly, she huffs out a bitter laugh. "Believe whatever you want. We both know that nothing I say is going to convince you of… well, anything." 

Indignation surges through him so quickly that he feels his eyes bleed black with his fury. As if she's expecting to have to defend herself physically, May gets sluggishly to her feet. "You would dare?" His voice is a mere rumble he says this, the rage of it dangerous to any other entity. Before him, however, his once love seems more tired than fearful, as if she's so very worn out that she's resigned herself to whatever vitriol he will level at her. 

"Look, I don't want to argue. Thanks for not… letting me die and all, but you can just send me home now." 

"What has happened to your magic that you cannot make the return with your own power?" 

Another acerbic laugh, this one fainter than the other, and Morpheus decides that he doesn't like to hear such a noise from her. She had always been so happy when she was in the Dreaming with him, always so full of creation and love. This jaded creature seems so different from his May that it almost disturbs him. Then again, he supposes that she is no longer his anything and as such he should not concern himself with this sorrowful change in her.  

"Is it really any of your business?" she questions as if she knows what he's thinking. Her eyes flick away from him seemingly to avoid his gaze, and he has the distinct impression that she is hiding something from him with this guilty gesture. 

His worry for her is a sudden, unexpected thing, and before he can stop himself, he asks, "Has something gone amiss in the Waking? Are you… safe?" Makers, he knows all too well, are hunted by many. Their realm torn apart by civil war for millennia, they've scattered across the universe even as their numbers dwindle more and more with every passing decade.  

She brings her arms up to cross over her chest as if she's embracing herself, as if she's trying to hold herself together with her own shaking limbs. "I'm fine."  

He frowns at her, instantly on alert. She doesn't sound fine by any possible meaning of the word. As if he cannot help himself, he steps closer to her. "What is the matter? You are… changed... somehow."

"I'm grieving. I know that's probably hard for someone like you to understand, but I'm… I'll be fine." 

He goes rigid at her words, at the accusation buried in them. As if he does not understand mourning. As if he is so unfeeling that he could not fathom being as torn by their relationship ending as she is. His worry dissipates in the iciness of his ire. How very foolish he is in her presence, so sentimental that he allows himself to forget her duplicity. He vows that he will never err in this way again. "Very well. I will send you home, but know that if you wander into this realm yet again, I will leave you wherever you land… even should it be these waters." 

She curls in on herself a little. "Okay. I… I am trying not to… Just never mind. You'll… do whatever you want, and you won't let me… let anything change that." 

His heart contracts almost painfully, his chest burning with the force of it. "I will do what I must." He does not give her a chance to answer as he pushes his power out and shifts her home. After she's gone, he stares at the place she had just been in, his fists loosening at last, his eyes prickling with the unshed tears that he refuses to let fall.  

By the time he gathers himself enough to return to the palace, a hurricane is ripping its way through the Dreaming, leaving a devastation in its wake that's almost as great as the devastation of his tumultuous emotions. 

May wakes the next morning with dried tears on her face, her stomach roiling sickeningly, and a rather alarming headache.  

She's very quickly learning that pregnancy isn't at all like the books and the movies make it seem. Oh, no. In reality, it isn't beautiful, isn't magical. No. Instead, it just really… well, sucks. 

After sitting up in bed and getting dizzy, she has to practically sprint to the bathroom to heave up the meager contents of her stomach. Honestly, she's starting to think she should just bring a blanket and a pillow in here and start sleeping camped out next to the toilet. It might do something for that about-to-faint feeling she gets when she has to stand upright to run in here. Contemplating over whether or not she can fit an inflatable air mattress in front of her bathtub, she brushes her teeth and downs two full glasses of water in an effort to rehydrate herself. With her powers disappearing more and more every day, she knows that she can't depend on her magic to keep her healthy like she always has.  

Only her contrary body, however, apparently doesn't want to do the hydrated thing since the water just makes her sick all over again. Dropping to her knees so fast that it sends shockwaves up through her actual fucking spine, May uncontrollably retches, and while she does, she finds herself regretting all the choices she's ever made in her life that have led her into this rather codependent relationship with a toilet.  

"You sick or something, sis?" It's her brother, leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes narrowed in concern.

There are a hundred scathing responses to that question on the tip of her tongue. Does he think she's just hanging out here on this cold tile floor because of the aesthetics or something? Her vision blurred by tears, May still manages to cast an annoyed look Viego's way. "What do you think?" 

Yeesh. Is that her voice? It sounds like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together.  

Uncaring of her current grossness, Viego ignores her aggravation and steps forward to crouch at her side and put a comforting hand on her back. "How about something to drink? Maybe something with some electrolytes in it?" 

This is the dichotomy of her brother, the one that Morpheus never understood. On one hand, he can be a feral monster, one who's killed his way through the millennia in an effort to make them as safe as he could (to make others safe too sometimes even if he always refused to admit those particular murders to May). On the other hand, though, he loves her as much as he had when they were children still, when he'd whisked her away from their home realm to this one and promised in his little boy voice that he would protect her.  

And he had. He'd practically raised her, had been good at it even. While she doesn't remember very much of her time before Viego had brought them to this world, she remembers everything afterwards. The basic facts are that underneath that dangerous persona he shows to everyone else they meet, he's actually gentle, and for all the things he's ever done that others might condemn him for, May never stopped seeing him as that little boy who'd taken care of her, who'd given her as much of a childhood as he could, who'd always been there for her.  

That he'd killed their father was no matter to her. After all the horror that monster had put Viego through, May likes to think that she would have been the one to do it if she were strong enough at the time.  

Her thoughts blank for a moment, and she forgets what she had even been turning over in her head as Viego, still at her side, studies her worriedly. She knows the second he realizes what's going on with her because he freezes and then recoils a little. "Holy… shit. You're-"

"Don't say it," she pleads. Saying it out loud will make it seem more real somehow, and she can't… can't handle that right now, especially not with Morpheus' latest dismissal still fresh in her mind. 

To his credit, he clamps his mouth shut immediately. A couple of minutes pass before he even considers opening it again. "Not… happy news then?" 

"I don't… I don't know." 

He frowns at her. "Do you know who the father is?" 

May rolls her eyes. "Of course I know. Not all of us sleep with anything that has a pulse." 

"Please please tell me it's not that Endless bastard's. Please, sis." 

Without answering him, she shakily gets to her feet, and he doesn't press for an answer as he takes a hold of her arm and helps her up. "What are you even doing here? I thought you were going to be in Italy for another month with…. What's her name again?" 

He absolutely sees straight through her attempt to change the subject, and though May knows he's probably got a bajillion questions, he promptly shuts up about both her pregnancy and the Endless responsible for it. Viego has always been good at that, at letting her process things in her own time and come to him when she's finally sorted it and needs to talk. "Giselle," he supplies nonchalantly as he hands her a tube of toothpaste from her little cup beside the sink. "We had an argument, and then we tried to fuck it out instead of fighting it out, which led to a bigger argument and more fucking, and then a massive argument and… well, you know how it goes." 

She doesn't really know how that goes actually. As May scrubs her teeth with all the ferocity of someone who's just had a dog give birth to puppies in their mouth, she thinks over this. Despite that her and Morpheus were together for several decades, they'd never had hateful sex. He'd always seemed as if he was holding back with her, like she was something delicate that he had been afraid to hurt. Which is kind of hilarious now considering how thoroughly he'd ended up crushing her. When she's finished scrubbing her tongue, she spits into the sink and says, "I mean, you and Giselle lasted longer than I thought you would." 

Viego makes a face at her. "It was only two months."

"Yeah. I know. I stand by what I said. I thought three weeks. Max." 

His grin is contagious, the brightness of it making her smile too. Just a little smile, because her head is throbbing like she's got the worst hangover of her life, but a smile nonetheless.  

"Oooooh. Someone's cranky. Maybe we need some coffee?" 

Aaaand the smile is gone. If it's possible, her reflection goes even paler in the mirror. With how sickly white she's been lately, she's kind of morbidly impressed by how much color she sees draining from her face at the mention of the dreaded C word. She's pretty sure that she's mourned the loss of coffee more than the loss of her magic, which is really really saying something. Her stomach, fickle hell beast that it's been lately, had noped out of allowing her to have any once it discovered the joys of tormenting her with morning sickness. 

"Fries," she blurts out, surprised at how firm she sounds in this very stupid request of hers. 

His eyebrows raise. "Um, sis, it's eight in the morning." 

"Hash browns then. I just want fried potatoes of some kind." 

Viego looks totally iffy on the idea of her eating fried anything right now, but May doesn't care. "That's probably a bad idea. You know that, right?" he tells her like the boring big brother he can sometimes be. "If you're… sick, then something a little… less greasy might be better on your stomach." 

Is she going to be a brat over this? Why, yes. Yes, she is. This is the first food she's wanted anywhere near her mouth in two weeks, and she's suddenly ridiculously hungry. "Let me try that again. Viego, I'm getting dressed and going out for hash browns. You can join me or stay here and finish your lecture. The bathtub might stick around and listen to you but only because it doesn't have legs to run away." 

"Sheesh. You are cranky." He sighs in resignation. "Alright, stupid hangover food it is. Get dressed and grab a coat. It's cold out there." 

Of course, because her stomach is evil incarnate, May ends up getting sick again. Viego offers to go and get the food for her and bring it back home. He offers to do this for her like he's being sweet or something, but May knows better.  

He just doesn't want her riding in his car if she might puke in it.  

Not that she's bothered. It's totally fine with her as long as she gets what she wants to eat soon. While he's gone, May showers and brushes her teeth again, wondering at what point she needs to start worrying that she's accidentally scrubbing the enamel right off of them. She pulls on her comfiest clothes, a baggy pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt she had stolen from Viego that reads: Ass, Grass, or Cash. No one gets this hot mess for free. 

After that, she plops miserably down on the couch and pulls seven or eight blankets over her, one at a time. For the past week, she's been so frickin' cold that it's like the baby is sucking up all her warmth for itself. She shivers all the time now, even when she's wearing three layers and covered in a mountain of blankets, and like everything else to do with this pregnancy so far, she's finding it… kind of terrible. 

When Viego returns a half an hour later, the first installment of Kill Bill is playing in the background, the violence on the television screen strangely soothing to her. Probably because of her foul mood. Her brother sits beside her and makes to grab the top blanket of her little pile, but May holds tight to it. "It's mine. Get your own." 

"Pretty sure you've got them all, May." He laughs teasingly, and May would smack him if she wasn't so reluctant to stick her hand out from under the blessed heat that can only come from several layers of thick, plush fleece. 

Like she's a dog, and he's trying to lure her out of a corner with treats, he waves the bag in his hand at her, and the smell is… heavenly. A greasy stain spreads out from the bottom of the brown paper, and her mouth waters in anticipation.  

"I found you fries," he announces, and she detects the smallest hint of pride in his voice. 

"You're my favorite brother," she replies, snatching it from his hands like the feral animal she apparently is before roughly pulling it open. 

He chuckles at her. "Yeah. That's nice. I'm your only brother." He puts his arm around her and tries to pull her to him. "Come here, you idiot." 

"What are you-" 

"You look like you need a hug." 

May bristles at the pity she can see in his face. It does nothing good for her raging irritability today. "I'm fine," she informs him tartly as she takes a bite of the greasy carbs before her like they might make her feel better.

"May, I've seen corpses that have more life in them than you do right now." He should be expecting retaliation, really, but he seems caught completely off guard when he yanks his arm back from her sharp-nailed pinch. "Ow, that hurt."

Mouth full of half-chewed food, she mumbles, "Good. I meant for it to." 

"And after I slept with Ernie down at the diner to get him to make you fries." 

Thinking of the very happily married, very hairy Ernie in a passionate embrace with her brother makes her choke as she attempts to swallow. "Wait. What?" 

"Very sweet guy. Likes to snuggle after." He smirks playfully at her. "I'm kidding. I told him you were sick, and he did me a favor." 

May eyes him suspiciously. "A favor." It had seemed like he was gone for way longer than he needed to be. "Are you… sure?" 

"Yes…. I didn't actually fuck Ernie. Now eat." 

Mindlessly, she sticks another fry in her mouth and chews. This time, when Viego puts an arm around her and tugs her closer, she gives in and leans towards him, comfortable with his embrace in the way that millennia together have made them. She knows that Viego, despite his ruthlessness, can be just as cuddly as she is sometimes. Like a giant, albeit homicidal, teddy bear. 

He doesn't speak as they watch the movie together, as she finishes off the entire bag of fries, and when the credits roll, May hugs his torso and clings to him like she used to do as a child. Viego is safe, she reminds herself. He has always been safe. She can talk to him about anything, even when talking seems hard.  

"It's Dream's," she confesses quietly, hating the brokenness in her voice. "The… the baby." 

He lets out a little hum, the sound low enough that she can feel it vibrate in his chest. "I know, sis." 

"And he… he banished me. He doesn't want to have anything to do with me." Her eyes well with tears that spill over, but she doesn't wipe them away, feeling too tired to even lift her hands right now.  

"He didn't… banish you because you were pregnant, did he?" 

"No. I… I haven't told him." 

His hold on her tightens. "I don't want to tell you what to do," he starts with, like he always does right before he proceeds to do exactly that. "But you need to come clean to him, May. He'll find out eventually anyway. Big secrets like this never stay buried like you want them to." 

May doesn't answer. She thinks, though, that she certainly doesn't have to tell Morpheus a damn thing, that he had said all that was needed between them both when he'd tossed her out of the realm and then threatened to let her drown if she showed back up again. As far as she's concerned, she'll manage this all on her own, and Dream of the Endless can just stay in the dark concerning this child's existence.

She ends up very being wrong, of course, and Viego ends up being unfortunately very right. Big secrets don't stay buried. She'd just thought that when it was all said and done, she would have longer than four short days before Morpheus found her out.

Next chapter here

#morpheus x oc #morpheus x reader #sandman fanfiction #sandman fic #dream of the endless #sandman x reader #morpheus fanfiction #sandman oc #BBHAP

[imaginedreamwrite]

Exile: Part 7

The village was busy and bustling, teeming with more human life than you had ever seen before, even on the journey toward the kingdom, toward your captivity.

There had never been so much going on that you had seen, and it was hard not to feel overwhelmed by the noise and the manner in which people had wandered the streets and the markets intending to conduct their business as usual.

The entrance to the village had been marked with a hand-carved sign hanging between two corded logs that had been held in place by a makeshift kind of fence that had continued a few feet on either side. The sign was clear and well-maintained and would have been illuminated by oil lamps if they had been turned on.

“Let me show you around.” Bucky had drawn you to the left, allowing a horse-drawn cart to pass by, the father and little boy sitting on the bench had both turned to look at you with curiosity, although the father had soon turned away while the boy looked on.

You hadn’t known whether it was because you were wearing something that had been crafted and designed with the royal crest, the fine gold and silver threads that marked your cloak apart. The gift from Steve was meant to keep you from freezing, was comfortable and warm, it had staved off the chill of the winter air and the gusts of wind that had ripped through you.

Though you were not used to this kind of chill, it seemed that most people milling about the markets had no trouble with the weather. They hadn’t seemed to be any colder than they would’ve been on a crisp autumn day whereas you, if not for Steve’s gift, would’ve been chilled right to the bone.

“This is the market, there are a few people who live right on the market street, others live further into the village and of course, there are outlying farmers. Steve has guards and knights set up right in the village to dissuade any violence from bandits and thieves, spies from other kingdoms-“

“He cares about his people.” You muttered under your breath, a brief and albeit momentary admiration for the royal prick.

“He does care.” The sound Bucky made was crossed between a laugh and a snort, it was made as he observed your hardened shell slip just enough to give Steve half a compliment. “And you do-“

“I promised I would kill you after I kill him. I can rearrange that order.” You huffed and grit your teeth, denying Bucky and the claim that there was anything less than pure animosity for the man who had taken you from your home and demanded that you become his wife and queen.

The entire chase and the series of risks you’d taken to escape before arriving had created another surge of anger and irritation between the two of you that was extensive.

It was the back and forth, the two of you clashing with what you wanted or needed that was entirely different from you to him. You had been hidden away, squirrelled away by your guardian who had hated the kingdom, who hated him.

She had wanted to keep you safe from his ire and his power though she had never given a direct reason why and you hadn’t bothered to ask. You had expectations of Steve Rogers, an impression that he was a beast and a monster who was maddened by the death of his first wife and the faked soulmate mark of the other woman.

“Calm yourself down, nymph. Wait until I show you around before you decide to rip my throat out.” Bucky was no less worried than he was amused, treating your threat like it was nothing more than a kitten’s yowl. “Do you like bread?”

You tilted your head and studied Bucky, the great Captain of the Guard, as he straightened his tunic and fiddled with the belt around his waist, his fingers nimbly touching the blade he kept on his person. He had worked on his appearance, running his hands through his hair and genuinely appearing to be a nervous wreck while looking at the path that went straight through the market.

“What kind of question is that?” You finally spoke, drawing his attention from the market stalls and the people milling about, back to you. “Do I like bread? What is wrong with you? You look like you’ve been stung in the ass by a hornet.”

Bucky appeared bashful, he had blushed and stuttered slightly. Despite this being one of the first times you and he had been together, there was a kind of ease between you that felt familiar. It was like the two of you had been friends for years, as if you’d known each other for a lifetime.

It was much easier to threaten harm to Bucky without genuinely meaning it, almost as if you were speaking to a sibling than it was threatening Steve. The King who had taken you had deserved the full weight of your ire, Bucky Barnes, the Captain of the Guard, was not your true target.

“The blacksmith,” Bucky had begun walking with you again, stepping onto the path that would lead you throughout the market, passing by a few stalls with their wares and what fresh fruit was still available in the winter months, “is at the edge of town.”

“I doubt they’ll have bread.” You muttered, rubbing your hands down the front of the cloak Steve had gifted you. “I doubt the arrogant King would let his captor into a shop with sharp weapons.”

“The tailor and seamstress,” Bucky had spoken again, still as anxious as he was when he mentioned bread, had run his fingers through his hair again, “are at the edge of the market.”

With every step you took, you felt eyes on you. The gazes of those you passed, or had passed you, were curious or scrutinizing, their intents varying from wonder to ire and disgust. You had no doubts by now that people had known who you were and what you had meant to Steve.

The fact that you were ripped from the farthest and deepest portion of the woods would certainly earn you a reputation. Steve had called you a forest wench, others would likely call you a forest whore or forest fucker, neither of which was any better than being called a wench.

“The baker,” Bucky had exhaled slowly, coming to a stop before a shoppe that had been radiating a delicious smell of honey-infused bread and sweet tendrils of sugar and cinnamon, “do you like…bread?”

You stepped up before he could and pushed the door open, entering the shoppe to be greeted with the invigorating scent of baking bread. Your stomach had grumbled, hunger rallying you to move toward the edge of the wooden display, your eyes studying the various colours of bread that were set upon shelves.

“Bucky! Hi!” A woman with thick plaits that were pinned behind her head had chirped, drawing your attention and the bumbling Captain’s, to herself. “Back so soon?”

“I’m showing-“ He hesitated, nervous and anxious before the pretty young woman who appeared to be your age, if not a year or two younger.

“King Steve’s bride,” her eyes had grown wide and she began to bow her head and curtsy, the action making you furrow your brows, your lips pursed, “it’s an honour-“

“I am not that arrogant pinworm’s bride.” Your voice was like ice, it had stopped the motion of her curtsying and giving you more praise than you deserved. “I’m more like his prisoner or his little trapped doll.”

“Y/N,” Bucky had stepped beside you, drawing a hand toward the woman behind the display, “this is the baker’s daughter-“

She was beautiful and seemed soft, with enough grace and charm to make Bucky want to fall over his feet. Her thick black hair was set in plaits that had been pinned as you had previously observed, however when you had gotten a better look at her, you could see soft gold beads that were woven into a few strands of her hair at the crown of her head.

She had flour dusting the front of her apron and a few flecks on her cheeks, the act of making today’s special loaves was not lost on her or her dress, and both had made Bucky appear even more captivated.

“I have your favourite,” she had set a small closed pie onto a piece of cloth and secured the top, holding it out for him to take, offering him a warm smile as she waited for him to take it.

“Thank you,” Bucky’s voice was warm, it was soft and tender, and there was a moment of silence between the two before he cleared his throat and drew his attention away, “Steve would like some fresh rye bread, I know you have-“

“I have five loaves set aside for you. If you could give me a few minutes to bundle them up?” She was as focused on him as he was on her, and you were the observant party who was almost gleeful to watch the man stumbling over his feet.

“We can wait,” you spoke for Bucky, drawing yourself to the far wall away from the display shelves.

He was already on edge, already irritated by the constant barrage of the council and his advisors who were pushing for him to take their daughters as mistresses and whores, the women who he could fuck while keeping his wench as nothing more than a trophy or a placeholder.

They had been bothering him endlessly while he was preparing for the few dressmakers in the village to come and take your measurements in order to fit you with an entire wardrobe befitting his future wife and Queen.

He didn’t need the offers for whores or mistresses. He didn’t need their daughters to be thrown at his feet for favouritism or to gain ground upon the other nobles. He wanted and he needed his future queen to be by his side, everything and everyone else had fallen short.

And yet…when he had returned to his private wings of the castle, the private areas that were meant for the king and queen, a few handfuls of servants and chefs, he had found his annoyance reignited when he had been stopped by one of the maids. The arrival of news that you would not be sleeping with him, in his bed or even in his room, had sparked a new flurrying and scathing reaction.

“If you think for one crazed nanosecond that I would ever share a bed with you-“ You drew your hand back in recoil as he grabbed your free hand and yanked you across the hallway from the bath chambers.

“You are my wife-“

“Not yet I’m not.” You ripped your arm from his, spiteful gaze burning into his steely glare. “And I don’t plan to be, your royal pain in the ass.”

“Wench-“ Steve hissed, his nostrils flaring and the scent of spiced meat and rum radiating from the private dining room.

“Kidnapping swine.” You countered and bristled past him when the servant had come to announce your dinner, stopping short with widening eyes when he had caught the anger of the king.

“I expect my wife to warm my bed-!” Steve stalked after you, his heavy footsteps echoing in the short hall.

“Then find one who can stand to be in your presence.” You snarled, your lip curling in defiance and your hands striking him when he reached for you again. “Let me go and find some pleasure maid to keep you warm.”

“You are my soulmate, you are my wife and the future queen of my kingdom. I am king!”

“Good for you, I’m really glad you know who you are.” Bucky moved from the corner of your eye, drawing both your eyes toward him.

“If you’re done tearing at each other’s throats,” he quipped with a smirk, “I’d like to eat while the food is still hot.”

“Bucky-“ “Barnes-“

“You need to hate fuck, get it out of your system.” Bucky shrugged, getting away with the comment because of his long history with Steve, but narrowly missing the goblet you threw at his head.

“I’d rather shove a hot iron up his ass and watch the steam come out of his mouth than spend one second-“

“Perhaps you should fill your mouth to bide your tongue.” Steve sneered, yanking his chair back to sit on the cushion. “Come sit with me wench, if you’re not going to warm my bed at least you could warm my lap.”

The perpetual silence felt like it was charged with cracking electricity that was a precursor to a surging light night strike that would obliterate everything within its reach.

There was nothing, not a single beat of sound that had come from either Steve or yourself, and Bucky was too busy watching everything as if it was his entertainment. He had sat by the table with a goblet of rum in his hand and a roasted spiced chicken leg in the other, tearing into the meat with his teeth as he watched the two of you, silently, standing off against each other.

Steve had waited for you to speak, he had waited for you to do something, anything, while he reached for his cup and pressed the rim to his mouth and slowly tipped the glass back. He had swallowed the entire glass of wine in one shot and set it back down with a bang.

“Are you going to sit? Or would you prefer to stand all night, wench?” Steve had reached, again, for the table and within a moment had recoiled his hand with a hiss.

You had, at the moment between him reaching for the table, thrown a knife toward the table and his hand. The blade had struck the table less than an inch away from his hand, the throw and the force behind your throw adding to the tension in the room.

“I would rather starve than eat with you.” You gave your final decision and swiped one of the pitchers of wine from the table, turning sharply on your heel to leave the private dining room as quickly as you had gotten there.

You were not halfway down the hall when his hand caught your arm and your back had met the wall, Steve keeping you trapped against the hard surface and his chest. He had glowered down at you, his blue-green eyes darkened with a thrush of swirling emotions that was heady and had been almost impossible to distinctively differentiate between the first and last.

You had raised your hand, you had gone to strike him with the pitcher of wine, acting out of basest instincts, and had once again been stopped by his quick reflexes. The pitcher of wine had fallen from your hand, falling to the floor with a loud clatter as the delicate red had spilled from the opening, the liquid splashing against the two of you although neither of you had paid any mind.

He had captured your hands in his as he leaned against you, holding you to him by the strength of his chest and his strengthen. He locked eyes with you as his lips pursed tightly, the warmth from his body was radiating and intoxicating if it had been anyone other than him.

“You will not endanger yourself and think that I’ll let you rid yourself of me.” He had glowered at you, his voice husky and hoarse. “I’d feed you myself before I let you starve.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Huh? To have some little pet sitting at your feet? Some backwoods forest whore-“

“You are my queen, my wife. You have so much more value—“

“You don’t think so. No one thinks I am anything but a whore.” You felt the crack, you felt that perpetual chip falling off your guard, the loosening pieces from the walls you had built to keep yourself safe.

“You and everyone else think I’m a little whore or some kind of animal that crawls in the dirt. You call me a wench, how valuable can I be?”

There was a shift in tension, and you were left feeling stuck when he rested his hand against your neck, his thumb brushing your jaw. There was a definitive moment where his eyes had softened and his lips had parted as if he wanted to speak and mumble something akin to a kind word.

That tension and the moment of blissful tenderness had wavered when you scoffed and recoiled from him, mistaking his silence for confirmation of your lack of self-worth. You began the struggle to get him off of you, fighting with everything you could to give yourself enough space to run. You pushed and pulled, you had attempted to rip your wrists from his hands, thrashing between his chest and the wall to seek any opening to escape him.

“Y/N!” His voice was bolstering and it had ceased your fight long enough for Steve to pin your wrists above your head and push his thigh between yours.

You were trapped again, without the ability to verbally accost him. His lips had crashed against yours in a searing kiss that was fuelled by sexual tension and emotional drive, the feeling of his lips moving against yours was bolstering and electrifying. You had resisted the urge to moan or whine into his kiss when his thigh clenched and you had fallen into him.

You were being overrun with different thoughts and feelings that were crashing against each other, every thought and beat of your heart was rooted in the feeling of Steve switching positions. He had captured your wrists in one hand while the other had slowly started to slip up your tunic, his fingertips grazing the width of your waist and stomach as you wavered against his touch.

“Interesting turn of events.” Bucky had quipped, his voice bringing the kiss to a screeching halt.

You had been given the chance to yank your wrists free from his hand and with every possible ounce of strength you could muster, you had rammed your shoulder into his chest to give you an escape route. You didn’t turn back, you didn’t dare look over your shoulder as you ran down the stone halfway with everything you had.

You didn’t even know where you were going, you had just seen an out and you took it, your feet carrying you throughout the halls of the castle that had still seen other souls hanging around before the castle gate was closed.

It didn’t matter where you were going, all that mattered was you had put as much distance between yourself and him.

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#king!steve rogers x reader angst #king!steve rogers x reader fluff #king!steve rogers x reader smut #king!steve rogers x reader #soft!dark!steve rogers #soft!dark!steve rogers x reader smut #soft!dark!steve rogers x reader fluff #soft!dark!steve rogers x reader angst #soft!dark!steve rogers x reader #historic au series #exile series #exile masterlist #exile #exile part 7

[vulturereyy]

Going to be a brave Rey and share this snippet from my "Hegemol confronts the Pale King and he's fucking Pissed" little. Mini fanfiction? I am working on.

Set post embrace the void ending, PK/everyone survived, anyone killed by infection was brought back

Sorry about the asterisks, it was originally for discord, and I've spent 10 mins fighting Tumblrs editing thing on mobile to italicize ; ;

-------

As soon as the King's Trident was leveled toward him, Hegemol *wrenched* it toward himself. He nearly ripped the Pale King from his throne as he brought the points to his own neck, ignoring the strained commands of the guards struggling - and failing - to keep him held back.

"What are you going to do, My King?" It was not rage that filled Hegemol's voice, but a low, lilting *taunt*, just barely concealing the venom below each word. "Kill me again? Before your own court, held down by knights *I* trained for you?" He cocked his head to one side.

"*Do it.*"

Hegemol lowered his great head to meet the Pale King's eyes, feeling the points of the King's Trident press into the soft flesh just below his chin. He held it there in a vice grip as he *loomed*, shattered mask opposite pale visage.

"*Do it,*" Hegemol repeated, *urged* now, as building ire was spat from his maw. "Let all of Hallownest know that the *revered* Pale King felled his own Great Knight and spilled his blood across the palace floor, for *daring* to condemn the actions that killed *thousands.*"

Silence.

Hegemol did not waver.

As the last echoes of his booming demand faded from the Pale Court, he swore he felt the King's Trident shake.

Then - and only then - did Hegemol *thrust* the weapon back toward it's master. He rose to his full height once more, expression unreadable in the shadow of such blinding light.

"The *very first* lesson I teach my squires, when we move to training wasters," He began again, voice low, measured, *patient*; the very tone he always seemed to take when correcting his men's misdeeds, "Is to never point a weapon at someone if you do not intend to use it. I give them one chance to remember this. If you do so again, I will treat it as an attack. Do I make myself *clear*, Wyrm?"

-------

Worthy to note that I don't write PK as necessarily intimidated by this in the usual since... But given that he is very fragile right now and gets his strength from adoration and the belief his kingdom has in him, he very much just realized that this is /not/ a fight that the people would side with him on. And what he does with Hegemol right now can very well make or break him.

The downside to working and fighting alongside someone for decades... is they know exactly when to call your bluff. And Hegemol has had. Enough.

#really hope it readmores sorry if it doesnt tumblr mobile post editor is my enemy #every time i italicized one word it would do the whole thing when i clicked off #mighty hegemol #the pale king #pale king #hk pk #hk hegemol #hollow knight fanfic #rey writing #baring my soul here b nice to me #maybe ill draw this out but im god awful at backgrounfs #hollow knight headcanons

[askthedarksidersfam]

In the Pines

Chapter 2: Morbid Curiosity

Summary: A first meeting with the new soul, but there is more to this strangely dressed man than you expect. Especially when the Dead Court demands his presence to the King.

A/n: This series is slowly becoming a favorite of mine, but why is plot so hard to make. And apologies for the longest wait ever 😭. The band Ghost do be pulling me out of my writers block bless Life Eternal. Please excuse any typos or format weirdness. It's a much shorter chapter this time y'all.

The method of dying isn’t a stranger to War. It is an unwelcome experience than a closely held fear that all creatures hold close to their chests. He wouldn’t be one to boast about having been through the whole shebang of death, but he wouldn’t shy away from exclaiming he doesn’t fear it.

This time however he can’t ignore the waves of shame that ache like a slug to the gut. Indeed, he’d felt shame when he perished in battle when carrying the Ravaiim relic to safety. But this was beyond what he felt all those eons ago.

A failure to keep a relic away from enemy hands was vastly overshadowed by the obliteration of War’s image, his legendary honor. All knew of War’s pride of being the warrior he was, the oaths he’d made and the extensions he’d reach to see them fulfilled. He’d been a poster child, in a sense, of the perfect enforcer of the Balance.

The favorite of the Council with his diligent work ethic, outshining them all in how he’d throw himself into his duties. As if he’d have something to prove despite the need not to.

How far he’d fallen…

Stripped of his power, thoroughly chewed out by them and put under their chopping block to serve as their punishment for a supposed crime he didn’t commit. After War opened his eyes, he didn’t need to see the sickly green hue clinging to his being to know he’s been transported to the Kingdom of the Dead. The stench of stale air and a musk of the ever decaying souls assaults his nose. Beneath him is a ground devoid of any green, and instead substituted with layers of dust that flutter through the air at the slightest disturbance.

He can still feel the vague wetness of tears that trail his cheeks. The rider never felt more vulnerable than before.

The racing images of the past events came flooding through his mind, from the moment of the call to his arrival. The chance meeting with Abaddon…

Abaddon. He must be here, War vaguely thinks between the onslaught of thoughts that plague his mind. If he can find him here, then he will find out why he was there… one way or another…

But that very thought sends a wave of anger through his chest, as War is only able to reflect on the accusations and confusion that follows. What purpose did the Archangel serve among the ranks, he was leader of the Hellguard, a division dedicated to the protection from Hellish infiltration of protected areas, especially the borders of Heaven. They were not at all meant to march at the front lines of the Apocalypse as it wasn’t their duty.

Yet there they were, among the ranks fighting with just as much ferocity as the summoned legions. The gears in his brain churned at an incomprehensible rate as he tried to key together this mystery.

What purpose did they serve, and what secrets are they hiding?

Something greater was at play here. Abaddon, the Call beckoning him to do his duty, and no sense of his brothers and sister in the Earth.

All at once, the frustrations bubbled and broiled over within the Horseman. The memories that lay bare across his vision began to crumble and branch into webbing cracks as his own wrath, hot as frothing lava, rose in terrible tidal waves, fueling dead veins with his famously irremovable ire.

Then, akin to a weakened dam holding back a tsunami, the images of his mind, and the last of his reserves, explode in an extraordinary display.

Pulling his lips back to unleash terrible canines, War’s prosthetic arm clenched tight enough to nearly break the metal fingers. Eyelids snap open to reveal the blazing glow of glacial blue, near blinding as they’re fueled by his rage. He raises his fist above his head and, in one great swell of strength, swings it down with a terrible velocity as War unleashes an agonized bellow of betrayal. The momentum of his arm stops short, colliding with the ground below, stone beneath shatters upon impact. Dust flies everywhere as the shockwave sends throughout.

War doesn’t need to see the ground to know he’s left a crater.

Though he doesn’t need air, War huffs as greatly as a rhinoceros. The fire within him surges through his body, showing no signs of slowing down soon. The rider can only stare hatefully at the cobblestone below as he tries to ride out this immeasurable wave.

For an immeasurable amount of time, the Nephilim stays motionless, sucking in deep lungfuls of dust laden air before forcefully exhaling. His right arm, the flesh one, shakes with tremors under his gauntlet, before it slowly spreads across his body.

The great injustice of it all enraged War greatly, but he can’t reflect upon what the Council said to Fury of their elder brothers being absent. Strife had been sent out on a mission according to them, but Death’s case had his mind reeling.

The Eldest had done this before, in the distant past. Disappearing for five hundred years without a trace until finally showing his face in the wake of the Council’s urgent summons. He had disappeared, likely for his own sake of solitude after the Nephilim’s fall.

But what reason had he now to disappear? Where could Death go that not even the most sensitive ears or eyes could detect him on the furthest comer of Creation?

He wouldn’t abandon them. Not again…

So caught up in the haze of his muddled thoughts, War doesn’t hear gentle footfalls coming up to his side. His hood, far over his head, obscures his peripheral vision and had he noticed, he’d be ashamed for letting an unknown person get so close.

But he doesn’t scold himself as he’s still caught in the fray. At least, that is until he hears a throat be cleared before asking him a question he’s never been directed to in his eons of existence.

“Hello there sir. Are you alright?”

——

The behemoth of a man doesn’t move when you call out. But you know he’s heard you if the tensing of his body is any indication. His face is obscured by the hulking copper pauldron and blood red hood pulled far over his head, blocking off any view of his features.

There’s a tremble to his figure, albeit faint, you can spot the quivers beneath his strange armor. You’d would’ve guessed him to be a frightened Angel if it weren’t for the lack of wings and the doubt of seeing one so scared. Demon was far out of the question due to the obvious absence of a tail, malformed wings or the faint sulfur stink they possessed (a surprising fact to learn).

Was this stranger human? The question rattled in your head as you took in his huge figure, the apex of his shoulders were equal to yours at your full height. But the sheer size of him alone suggested Maker, but even this beast of a man would be minuscule compared to Engri.

But it didn’t matter who or what he was, but rather, the shaking that didn’t cease even as you both stood in silence. A pang of sympathy wells in your chest, remembering how you were just as frightened when you first arrived.

‘He could probably use a hand, after who knows what he went through.’ You shudder at the thought of the untold horrors that he must’ve endured at his death.

‘Friendly face…’ you remind yourself as you clear your throat and try again.

“Sir, are you alright?”

This time you get a reaction. The man’s head whips around in record time, near startling you as you’re suddenly stared down by the mysterious newcomer.

Behind the copper pauldron and his hood, you spot two bright eyes staring you down, unlike anything you’ve ever seen. They’re pupilless, glowing like sulfur fire with just as much intensity. The twin flames stare you down like a wrathful lion roused from slumber, and you the culprit.

You can’t help but find yourself lost in the void, sinking further into the crashing storm of anger and despair. It’s too powerful to pull away now, and you can’t gather the strength to as you spot something within him.

For just a moment, in the moment that time was creeping between the two of you, there was the slightest hint of fear swimming beneath the surface. As quick as you caught it, it was dashed away as those wild and raw eyes hardened. It was not unlike watching the surface of magma cool into solid rock, but beneath did the liquid fire still burn.

Caught up in the swirling hues of burning blue, you failed to catch the stranger’s face contort into something more offensive. If you did, you would’ve wisely backed away instead of gawk dumbly as lips pulled back to reveal glimmering teeth.

“What?” He snarls the question at you, the deepness of his breathy tone pulling you in like a magnet. You still don't give an answer, caught between the urge to swallow up your concern and run and to stay and comfort the man. If you could call him that.

Quicker than you’d expect a man his size to move, the stranger throws himself backwards. Adopting a protective stance, his left arm is poised to cover his body more effectively as he bares his teeth warningly. Simultaneously, you jolt back instinctively putting distance between you and him.

How ironic.

Dead as dust trying to keep alive as if you still possessed a beating heart and blood in your viscera. Even more so considering how you’d been so adamant on approaching him first.

Briefly, there’s a thought that comes into mind, asking if this was a wise idea. But what could one soul do to another when both are dead?

You doubt the dead can be killed again. With that logic you feel less insecure about an attack. So you gulp down your nerves and clear your throat.

“Everything‘s okay,” you begin, arms held up placatingly as the man eyes you warily, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Not that you could even land a single blow on your best day.

The man thinks the same, as his lips pull into a deeper scowl as his nose curls. Though he has no discernible pupil, you can feel him sizing you up. Definitely determining you to be as much of a threat to him as a fly is to a lion.

Seconds tick by like eons, neither one of you twitching a muscle as you stare each other down. One with barely restrained apprehension, the other suspicion and lingering animosity.

Until finally, the man curls his nose with a huff.

Completely unimpressed, he motions to leave you in the dust, metaphorically and literally as he spins on his heel and makes his way out of the tiny pocket of room off the road. The ground below shudders with a muffled tromp, displacing dust to flutter into the air and stray pebbles to rock.

If you’d a moment to think about his sheer impact on the ground, you probably wouldn’t have so brazenly charged forward to meet with him again. Hellbent on trying to understand what was his grand plan here.

Maybe you would’ve wisely backed off, especially when you were so hesitant to approach due to the very threat of bodily harm. Even beyond the grave. You’d definitely be reflecting on this tonight to find the answer to this crazy ass decision. But the only answer you’d receive after racking your brain to find is probably “whoopsie” or “I’m not fucking up my first day of Soul Guiding”.

Just as your hand is about to make contact with the man’s armored arm, there’s a great flash of gray as the world suddenly spins on it’s axis. Roughly your back slams into the ground as the beanie hugging your head jostles loose, half handing to your skull. If you’d any breath it’d be knocked clean out, but all you do is gawk, breathless regardless.

In one swift motion you’d been slammed into the ground with the giant of a man hovering over you. Enormous legs cage you in as he keeps a grip so ironclad on your guilty arm you can legitimately feel the pressure near breaking. You fear he’d break your bones had you not been so caught up in staring him down, dead heart lurching in your throat.

Pinned, outsized and far in over your head, the only plausible thing your panic riddled mind can do is teeter on the precipice of two options. Gather the last remnants of human survival and urge you to break loose or relive the last moments of your life cornered in that concrete trap like you are now. The only difference you felt was no roaring of blood into your ears nor the stir of a certain pounding cardiac organ.

You swear in this very moment this man was really those hound monsters in disguise, ready for a part two in their revenge.

Get off.

You see those hungry eyes through the cracks. Blues bleed into fiery orange, the shadows eclipse into coal black leathery skin.

Get off.

Pulled back lips contort into snarling maws like permanent grins. Bare gums glinting with teeth bigger than your arm. A heavy pant like laughter among the prowling pack that close in on their prey.

GET O F F !

The crushing grip melds into the pain of your arm — your missing arm —

You can taste the blood, feel it running down your throat and flood your lungs-

G E T O F F !

The proximity between him and you is near atoms apart. You feel the wisps of breath he exhales, fluttering over your cheeks like ghosts in the wind. There is no heat, unlike the breath of the hounds whose felt hotter than the pits of Hell. A complete antithesis-

“GET OFF ME!”

The shriek echoes across the empty field, rattling the naked limbs of a nearby tree and disturbing the dust to flutter around the air. Dancing between the two of you carelessly.

The man above you does not move as you demanded, instead he keeps his grip steady, the only indication of him listening to you are his raised brows and slightly widened eyes. Clearly surprised by the outburst. But he still doesn’t make a single move, instead vying to keep you pinned as his lips form words that your brain fails to comprehend. It’s only after a few seconds of silence after his words have passed his mouth did your brain catch it like a delayed echo.

“Who are you?! What is the meaning of this?” Though he near splits your ears with his bellow, the demand sounds as if you’re hearing him with cotton stuffed in your ears. And underwater.

When you don’t give an immediate answer, his patience seems to wear thin, given by the deepening furrow of his brow. Vaguely you think how it’s even physically possible before your ears pick up on a voice ring through the air.

“I-I just-!”

“It will do you good to let them go boy!”

Both you and the man’s head swivel to the origin of the newcomer. Poised for attack, the stranger is dressed in armored regalia, finely detailed with bone imagery long since worn down. He carries a glaive, or at least an imitation of the weapon due to its dramatic length of the blade. It’s pointed in your general direction, but not at you. But the head of the man above you.

He stares you down with well worn eyes, cataracts cloudy yet sharply focused on you.

The stranger doesn’t give away what he feels about the situation, but from the pinching of his brows and snarling of teeth, he doesn’t like what he sees.

The soldier jabs the weapon, the edge near kidding the red hood of the man above. He merely grunts at the proffer of the metal blade, unphased about this. Which was rather ironic given his need to attack weaponless you.

“I will not ask again! Let the ‘uman go.” He snarls, dripping with authority to make you rigid upon hearing. The man above you snaps his head between you and the newcomer, brows pinched together as you shoot him a weary grin, silently begging he’d listen.

“Yeah, uh, please let the human go…” you say weakly, struggling under his grip as you feel an atom more confident with this stranger. Though that is promptly squashed when the man glares daggers into you, sending a wave of cold dread shooting through your chest. The crushing grip tightening even more.

“I am not asking you again boy! 'ave you no sense o’ honor that you’d attack one without a weapon?!”

That gets his attention.

His ironclad hold violently wrenches free, and you immediately scramble out from underneath him. You drag yourself away from the man and put some distance between you and him, with the stranger as a barrier. Despite not knowing either, you’d take your chances with the soldier rather than the goliath.

The guard shuffles until he’s blocked the view of the red hooded behemoth, weapon poised at his head. He tilts his head back to eye you as he calls out. “You alright ‘uman?” Dazed, you can only offer an unsure grunt, grasping at the arm with fresh indents in the dead skin. You wince as you doubt there’s a chance it’ll recover.

“Y-yeah.” Is the feeble answer.

He grunts before turning his attention to your attacker, whose face is twisted into a vicious snarl half hidden by his hood. Those blue eyes are pure murderous as he glares at your savior. However, he is completely unaffected, instead vying to puff his chest out and raise his shoulders. Immediately, the man becomes larger than he already is, the armor assisting him as the oversized pauldrons that sweep towards the air flare out like boney wings.

The tension growing between the two is heavy, like a thick fog and tingling with electricity. Though you’re not caught in the middle of it, you can feel the sharp sting that leaves you dizzy.

Just when you’re sure the fog will stretch out to you and wrap you in the static blanket, it’s so abruptly interrupted.

“I do not know why you attack this ‘uman, but know that this will not go unnoticed by me. However that is not why I am ‘ere,” the man straightened his posture as he keeps his glaive pointed straight at the man, “I am ‘ere to escort you, Red Rider, to the King, for you are hereby summoned to appear ‘fore the Dead Court.”

That gets your attention.

Engri had spoken of the monarchy and his exclusivity on the few to no guests he harbors in his Court. In fact, practically no one has made company with the king in the last century other than his guards and royal advisors and overseers.

Not that making company was as simple as approaching the throne room and waltzing in to share your grievances. Between the tales of the men of the Arena who’s battle prowess could match that of the aged Maker and cynical advisors, you’d heard of one such obstacle to meet the king.

The Arena and its heralded unbeatable Champion.

Engri had shared the stories of the Champion, a creature of bone and sinew nigh invincible. How she’d faced the beast before in boast, promising to bring the skull to the Court not for an audience, but to wipe the smirk off their smug faces when they claimed she’d be unsuccessful as the others. And they’d been right.

The monster was unpredictable in its attacks and twice as formidable in strength, even against a seasoned warrior as Engri. In the end, the battle mage decided it best to abandon her quest and turn tail to save herself the near severed limbs during the excursion.

That was the only ticket to meet the king.

And this guy gets a free fucking pass.

A trickling sensation of horror and suspicion runs up your spine as you wearily eye the stranger. What had he done to warrant the king’s audience per his demand?

Probably something terrible. Right?

The “Red Rider” or he’s been addressed, near snarls at the soldier whilst rising to an impossible height. Your eyes shamelessly bugle from their sockets as your jaw fails to keep itself hinged while you wordlessly gawk.

You knew he was tall from how he nearly reached your shoulder on his knees, but not like this. He towers over the soldier who himself boasts an impressive height, and his glaive stands taller than his helmet which adds a few extra inches. You doubt your head even reaches the bottom of his sternum if you stood on your toes.

“What would your king,” he spits the word out like rot on his tongue, “want with me? I am no stranger to this realm nor am I a foe.”

The soldier doesn’t stop the scoff, making the taller shoot a nasty glare. “Do you think us so shut in from the world of the living we do not know o’ your affairs?” The hooded man immediately stiffens, your head tilts as you questioningly stare at the accused wondering if-

“I've done nothing of the sort. I am not guilty of the crimes the Council accuses me of!” He bellows, voice so powerful you can feel it punch you in the chest. Though the other male seems completely unaffected, not even a flinch.

“Whatever those slags o’ molten rocks decide is not my concern. I am here merely to escort you to the Court.” He cooly says.

Council? Crimes? Molten rocks?! What in fuck’s name are they talking about?!

Too caught up in the haze, you shake your head in efforts to clear the very muddled thoughts you’re trying to piece together. You don’t even register their conversation.

Yeah, the man straight up attacked you, but he hadn’t seemed to do so blindly. Though the whole parameters of why he’d think of you as a threat doesn’t click.

But beforehand, prior to his… lashing out, he seemed completely caught up in himself. The scream you’d heard, how the raw bellow was pained, opposite to his aloof attitude. How he sounded so… betrayed?

Scared.

Like when you first opened your eyes on the cobblestone road.

A pang of sympathy worms it’s way through your chest, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste of the past. A frown stretches across your lips, remembering that wretched feeling.

Why should you not extend that mercy to him? Because of some self preservation to your corpse? A guard claiming he’s to be punished for a possible crime? Your survival instincts screamed not to, and logic dictated that this was none of your own business.

But the man’s protests of innocence were too heartfelt. Too… fervent.

Unlike the aged corpse of a soldier, you listen to those cries. You know them well. Distant wails that cut through the ears of the endlessly noisy city like a gunshot. Too many times you lie awake on your bed, listening helplessly to the sound.

You once burst out of your room with an urgent desperation to quell those cries. Tirelessly searching for the endless laments, overwhelmed to find the city overrun with souls that scream for a life stolen away, of being lost with this insufferably ceaseless city.

Despite your best efforts, you couldn’t help anyone. It seemed as if the screams were not from souls, but part of the very ambience of the city.

You barely slept a week after that, regardless of your exhaustion.

This man, this soul- you can’t bear the thought of leaving him to his fate. It’s selfish but you don't want to bear another moment in the city after the day is done. Returning to that unshakable tune. Maybe this once, you could quell this one’s cries so he wouldn’t join that accursed choir.

Leaving him to go to the Court did not sit right in your gut. You couldn’t stop it, but maybe you could sway them.

Engri’s talk of the King did not soothe your nerves however. But in spite of that, you do not stop yourself from the words that spill out your mouth just as the soldier was about to escort the soul out.

“Uhm,” you scramble to your feet, something more dignified if it weren’t for the dust and beanie falling out of place, “wait right there! I’m coming along!”

The soldier snorts, actually snorts before he can cover his mouth with a hand. That near permanent grin of a half rotted skull seems to widen as he attempts to collect himself. You scarcely notice curious blue eyes drift your way as you pull your beanie back over your scalp, suddenly bashful.

“You ‘ave no business with the King,” he declares, tone trembling with barely held back chuckles, “it’s ‘im that the King wants, ‘uman. You’ve no idea of what magnitude the offense this one has committed.” The Red Rider shoots him a poisonous glare from behind.

“Well, I don’t happen to believe that!” You lamely retort, chest clenching at your weak protest that makes both men take pause. The soldier eyes you with suspicion while Red remains otherwise impassable, other than the slightest widening of his eyes behind his hood.

You absently wonder if he is even affected by your protest. Something within your dead chest screams that it does, that he is in fact, thinking about what you’re doing, but your head seems to think otherwise, filled with doubt.

Your brain weighs the outcomes of both possibilities at blink-fast speed, considering both extremes that could come to haunt you. Either one, this man is indeed what the guard claims, to have committed the worst of crimes, hiding behind a red hood and devastatingly convincing face to trick the bleeding hearts into his scheming and letting him roam free.

Though the worst possible crimes he can commit in this godforsaken realm such as murder was null and void, that didn’t make him less of a threat. You could let him walk free, unpunished and unforgiving into this world, here forever if you can even convince the Court.

Or…

This man is indeed innocent. A victim of circumstance, or even a setup if his protests have any hint of what had happened. You could save him from taking the fall and being wrongly punished for someone else’s crimes. You couldn’t imagine living, or rather, continuing on this dead life with that on your conscience for eternity. Not even after a million years could you imagine that the guilt would even erode in the slightest.

Then, you think about when you first laid eyes on him, how frightened he was, that scream, and those wild eyes that you almost drowned in. There was a deep powerlessness that you recognized that you couldn’t forget.

You’ve seen that look in the eyes of your fellow humans as they were slaughtered on the streets, hopelessly overpowered in the eyes of Angels and Demons. Pure, unadulterated terror soaking into the very bone, leaving no atom unmarred. Then, a ringing in your ear turns into his scream and it blends in with hundreds more you hear a familiar voice come through.

“‘M off tae take ‘em to the city,” It’s Engri’s voice from hours ago, “I doubt there won’ be any other souls while ‘m gone,” you had decided to stay behind, using the excuse of wanting to help ferry souls as a reason not to go back to that wailing city. You did want to help, but you never expected, well, this.

“Well, what should I do if someone comes and they won’t go with me?” You asked, unsure of what to expect, to which she had answered simply.

“Then follow ‘em wherever they go. With time, they’ll go with you.”

Sucking in a breath, you hope this won’t be the biggest mistake of your undead life. Squaring your shoulders and straightening your spine, you boldly stare the guard in the back as you unsteadily declare,

“Take me with him to the King’s Court, I am acting as his voucher of character.”

Sometimes, the heart is bigger than the head.

#I am so sorry for taking forever 😭 #In the Pines #war #war x reader #darksiders #x reader #reader insert #dead kingdom #undead oc #fic #chapter #I finished this instead of studying lmao

[eventideluminary-games]

Introducing: The Cornalines of the Republic of the Dustlands

The third post about the families of the main characters in the story!

Today is about Larisilla's family: The Cornalines!

The next post will be about the Topazes (Dionys' family)!

As always, AI disclaimer for generated images.

Here is each member of the Cornaline family! Left to right, there is: Deimus Cornaline, Eunomia Cornaline, Larisilla Cornaline, and Lachesis Cornaline.

Deimus Cornaline (he/him)

Deimus Cornaline is the current patriarch of the Cornaline family as well as the First Head of the Dustlands' Council. While the Dustlands' Council does not (officially) inherit positions via family/bloodline, the position of First Head has stayed within the Cornaline family for decades. Deimus inherited the position of First Head from his mother, Lavinia Cornaline. Deimus is considered to be strict and serious, a contrast to his mother who was a kind and relaxed Head. As First Head, Deimus acts as the figurehead and spokesperson for the Dustlands' Council, essentially putting him on about equal status to his neighboring royalty. He is an overbearing and demanding father, earning him the ire of his eldest daughter, Larisilla. He and his wife, Eunomia, were married together in an arranged marriage to boost prestige, a concept which is uncommon but not unheard of within the Dustlands. Deimus is currently trying to arrange such a match for Larisilla to the child of another Head of the Council. He is 56 years old at the start of the story.

An example of an outfit Deimus typically wears.

Eunomia Cornaline (she/her)

Eunomia Cornaline (née Dravit) is the wife to Deimus Cornaline and is the mother to Larisilla Cornaline and Lachesis Cornaline. She was married to Deimus, her husband, through an arranged marriage meant to boost her family's position and prestige by her mother, Caesilla Dravit. Despite their marriage being arranged, Eunomia and Deimus actually mutually love and respect one another. Contrary to her husband's serious and strict demeanor, Eunomia is kind and gentle, tending to be soft-spoken. She is a loving and doting mother, not really having a "job" other than that, but she has the tendency to be overbearing. Unlike her husband, her overbearing tendencies have not earned her the ire of her eldest daughter, Larisilla. Eunomia happily indulges her children's whims, even if Deimus disapproves. She is the one who bought Larisilla her first sword and is the one who encouraged her youngest daughter, Lachesis, to pursue a career path in the Temple of Astrea. She is 49 years old at the start of the story.

An example of a dress Eunomia typically wears.

Larisilla Cornaline (she/her)

Larisilla Cornaline is the eldest daughter of Deimus Cornaline and his wife, Eunomia Cornaline. She is also 1 of the 5 Romance Options for the Accused Royal/Main Character in the story. Larisilla is very much like her father in terms of personality. She is serious and blunt and can be quite intense. Her father, Deimus, is trying to raise her to follow in the footsteps of him and her grandmother and become First Head of the Dustlands' Council. Larisilla, on the other hand, would much rather become a knight/soldier, enjoying training and having had acquired a bad habit of picking fights. Her mother, Eunomia, encourages this by buying Larisilla equipment and other things she needs. She is childhood friends with Alceste Claudius Emeraude of the Woodlands Kingdom, thanks to a deal Alceste's mother and Deimus worked out that would force the two of them to spend 3 months of the year in the Woodlands Kingdom and the Dustlands Republic, respectively. Larisilla is aware her father is trying to arrange an arranged marriage for her and she happily makes her displeasure known loudly. Like all of the Romance Options in the story, Larisilla is technically bisexual or pansexual. She is 23 years old at the start of the story.

Examples of the outfits Larisilla typically wears. While in the Dustlands and on "official business", she typically wears a dress. Otherwise, she can be seen in variations of armor with high mobility.

Lachesis Cornaline (she/her)

Lachesis Cornaline is the youngest daughter of Deimus Cornaline and his wife, Eunomia Cornaline. Lachesis is pursuing a career as a Priestess of Astrea at the Temple of Astrea in the Dustlands. This has, unknowingly for her, been the cause of most of the strife between her older sister, Larisilla, and their father. Lachesis is about a mix between her parents in terms of her personality. While she is kind, like her mother, she is also very much serious and blunt like her father and sister. She is a high-performing priestess-in-training at the Temple of Astrea, which makes her a candidate to be High Priestess. Lachesis has the tendency to be catty and aloof and is not above playing dirty to get what she wants. She is highly competitive and views her position in the temple as something she fought for. Lachesis greatly admires her older sister, trying to emulate Larisilla as much as she can in her everyday life. She is 16 years old at the start of the story.

An example of a dress Lachesis normally wears. It resembles the dresses and robes many of the priestesses wear in the Temple of Astrea.

#under the eyes of themis #eyes of themis #uteot #dustlands #dustlands republic #the cornalines #if: larisilla cornaline #if: larisilla #if: deimus cornaline #if: eunomia cornaline #if: lachesis cornaline #image reference #side characters #info post

[theonemarvelousness]

A Half-Hearted Bargain

Leaving his queen without exactly informing her of his plan, yes, that is well enough, she gave her approval and by not accompanying him... it is consent for the actions he will next take. After several years of careful effort, the young prince is open to not only seeing the world beyond the Valley of Thorns, but does not hold a deep ire in his heart for the child of men, or others. It is progress. While, that personality is molded from those sheltered years and arrogant teachers--of his own genius and power... that will have to be worked on with introduction to outsiders.

He will be clumsy and awkward, stumble truly for the first time in his life that isn't a simple mistake. What a change it will be! He plans to send Silver the next year, and then Sebek. So the comfort of the Valley will be there, yes. Hopefully, the prince will spread his wings and learn more of the world beyond books and tales alone.

Night Raven College is almost a hundred years old, it holds a good reputation and standing--and having a dorm after the Great Thorn Fairy herself does not hurt in the slightest.

The Senate doors are as large and as irritating to behold as always. Thus, he throws them open with ease. Strolling in with little care to their debate. "Senate! I, General Vanrogue, would care to request an audience." Tact? None. Formality? Oh, he lost that a few wars ago.

"--there is procedure--" A fae starts, he doesn't care.

"Ah, to think I've ever cared for your procedure is funny--now, my business. I wish to send Prince Malleus to school."

He's met with silence.

"So he may learn more of the modern Twisted Wonderland. It is no good to leave him here, isolated from the rest of the world when he will one day inherit the throne. He is of the... estimated right age to attend, and it would be good for him to interact with others. Different races. Create an understanding of what is beyond this country."

"--It is dangerous." One starts.

"It is a school." Lilia counters. "One with a good reputation for safety--only five Overblots in almost a hundred years." He countinues. "And we have little to no risk for Malleus to fall in such a state."

"He has no experience--"

"And that is the will of this Senate."

"The la--"

"I am more than well aware of what has occurred, yet it is a far different age in Twisted Wonderland than when the tragedy occurred." Oh, perhaps some venom is there. His old heart has its bitterness.

"D--"

"You are arguing points that are the obvious: there is always danger even in this Kingdom, locking our prince in the castle has been a detriment to his socializing ability and will prevent the kingdom from further branching out into the world as the ages come--the world is a lot smaller to the children of men with their technomancy and curiosity. They are coming here. They will continue to come here. Being unwilling to open and adapt to this new age will only result in war. I do not mean fully integrate to the modern society, I hold the traditions of this land dear. However, I understand that it will be a necessity to trade, and interact with a myriad of peoples and nations far sooner than later. If we do not have an inheritor of the throne that is capable of these interactions, he will either be taken advantage of or push back enough to rile the children of men to conflict. Yes, we could burn the world, but what use is it?"

"This is something to discuss with the Queen. Why is she not here? Do you mean to try and supersede her will with your own?"

"I am here with her blessing and amusement."

"You act as if you care not for the will of the Senate."

"It is safer in the Valley."

"We are here for the best interests of the Realm."

"General Lilia Vanrogue, you are an esteemed member of our country--but you cannot come here and make demands of--"

"If. If it were my will, there would be none of you here to argue with me in the first place." He offers coldly. "I even like some of you outside of these chambers."

"Are you--"

"Oh, no, no, more my perfect future. I am old, more aged than some of you. Some of you, I have fought beside in battles long turned to nightmares. Others, well, let us hope that is not a future we march toward. I am offering this in Malleus's best interest."

"Our CONCERN is his safety."

"I understand this--Night Raven College *is* safe. It is a safe bastion for many species of fairy. There is no danger to them, no threat of iron, either." These are important factors.

"How can we be sure? We need him protected."

"He is well and capable of caring for himself. He has more power than all of you." It is true. "Dire Crowley runs the institution."

"Prince Malleus does not have the experience."

"And of who is at fault for this? I have been stopped at every turn thus far to gain him that experience." This is Lilia's unending frustration.

"Someone should go with him."

"My son, Silver will join him the next year, and Sebek Zigvolt the year after." He is excited to send Silver off to school!

"--someone should be at his side, not in a year, but when he enrolls."

"Oh, and who better would it be than our ever-wordly Nightmare General?"

"I am a mite old for such a thing--" Oh. Oh no. "--and I am retired." RIGHT of this moment, he is.

"Oh, no, no, what an excellent idea! Shape-shifting potions will undoubtedly even give you a youthful appearance. And you are both with experience and power to keep the prince safe."

"I do have a son to consider." Silver is not yet grown, but he is growing far too fast.

"You have left him on more than one occasion for a trip. Could he not stay with someone?"

"My daughter and her family would be more than happy to take him in for the time you are away, Lilia." What a traitor. "My grandson and he are quite good friends, as well."

Even the oldest of friends, brothers-in-arms, can betray after the battle is long done. That is so dramatic.

"I am hearing that you will only approve his attendance if I attend by his side."

"Yes."

"Then I accept, I'll go tell the Queen the good news!" And he leaves before he kills them.

Oh, the Queen is going to mock him for this.

But, it is always wonderful to hear her laugh.

#lilia vanrogue #twst silver #sebek zigvolt #malleus draconia #twst headcanons #twst writing #twst writings #twst theories #twst fanfic

[bard-llama]

WiP Wednesday: Azula Fic

The tenses are probably all over the place in this, so sorry. ATLA keeps wanting me to write in present tense for some reason??? And I'm terrible at it.

Azula’s earliest memory is of her brother hugging her protectively while a storm raged outside. Most people, she thinks, have memories of their parents, of their mothers smiling and their fathers looking proud.

Azula doesn’t have that. But she does have Zuko. She isn’t always sure if she wants to have Zuko, but she does.

Even after all the things she’s done, all the ways she’s hurt him over the years, she still has her big brother. She doesn’t understand it.

She never needed her older brother, of course. Azula wasn’t weak or soft like Zuko was. She didn’t need someone to protect her.

Even so, Zuko always had. Not on purpose always – at least, she was fairly certain he didn’t get himself burned and yelled at on purpose. But his mediocrity had a way of making Azula look dazzling in comparison, and it worked in her favor. It always had.

Until he was gone. After Zuko was banished, there was no one around to make her look good, to draw her father’s ire. There was no one to poke and prod at to make herself feel better.

Well, not no one. Azula could and would make use of the servants at her disposal if she needed to let her temper loose for a time, and she wouldn’t feel a hint of remorse. She never did.

Why should she? She was the perfect princess, everything that her father had ever wanted. What she did, she did for her country and for her Fire Lord. What reason was there to regret that?

The point was, Zuko was gone and without her favorite toy, she was forced to substitute others into his role. It wasn’t the same.

She hated to admit it, but she missed Zuko sometimes. Yes, she was cruel and monstrous and treated him appropriated and she was certain a part of him must hate her. But even so, he remained her big brother Zuzu, who couldn’t be next to Azula in person anymore, but who sent her letters disguised as reports for the Fire Lord. Sometimes he even included trinkets he thought she might find amusing to try to burn.

See, Zuko understood her. Not like Uncle Iroh, who sent her a pathetic doll from Ba Sing Se. Uncle Iroh, who went with Zuko in his banishment and who she got the distinct impression either did not know or did not approve of Zuko’s correspondence with her. If he knew, he probably tried to persuade Zuko not to write her.

But Zuko kept writing letters anyway and Azula was reluctantly grateful for them, especially as her father grew more and more demanding, his singular focus entirely fixed on her. She had to be perfect in every way. Nevermind that she was only fourteen, she was expected to know more than learned sages and experienced generals. Her tutors presented her with new material each day, either another boring scroll to study or a new firebending form. Either way, she was expected to master it immediately. Failure was not an option.

But every time Azula met the expectations he had for her, he raised them. She was perfect, she was. But how was she supposed to keep up when the bar kept moving?

Before, Zuko had set the bar, even if he rarely met expectations. As long as she was learning forms that were at least five lessons ahead of Zuko, she was fine. 

Now, she was competing against herself each week and she was starting to get worried that she wouldn’t be able to keep outperforming herself.

Then one of her father’s favored admirals proposed a plan to invade the Northern Water Tribe. And her father approved it. 

Her father was never wrong. How could he be? He was the Fire Lord. His word was Agni’s will. 

But the plan was fucking stupid. Admiral Zhao wanted to devote the entire fucking navy to an effort to invade a nation that didn’t even bother them. Meanwhile, the Fire Army was bogged down in the Earth Kingdom, resources stretched thin. The Northern Water Tribe were savages that needed dealt with, yes – but was now really the time? The water savages hadn’t given the Fire Nation a problem in 85 years, and there was no reason to suggest that would change. It would make much more sense to wait until they had forced the Earth Kingdom to submit to go after the isolated and ‘neutral’ nation.

The Northern Water Tribe’s capital city was well-defended. It would take a great number of men and resources to subdue them. Those men could be better put to use in the Earth Kingdom, rather than invading a fortress of waterbenders on the full moon.

“The moon won’t be an issue,” Admiral Zhao said with such confidence that Azula knew there was more he wasn’t saying. But the Fire Lord did not look surprised, instead nodding sharply in agreement with his words.

So Azula did some snooping. She was good at uncovering secrets. She knew the precise way to threaten people to get them to reveal what she needed and she was thorough in her research. The palace had few secrets that she did not know.

Zhao’s secret wasn’t even the most titillating, to be honest. But it was the most infuriating, because the idiot wanted to murder the fucking moon. As if that would end well.

The fucker was an Admiral in the Fire Navy. Surely he understood the basics of how tides worked… right? Her father surely must, too. After all, what use would eliminating waterbending be if they fucked up the ocean and their invading force drowned?

Azula’s eyes narrowed. There must be something she was missing. Father would never agree to such a foolish plan – so clearly there was a dimension that she was missing that made it worthwhile.

For the life of her, she could not figure out what it was. And she dared not ask. Not when concern for the plan could be mistaken as weakness. She wasn’t like Zuko. She didn’t care that sailors and soldiers would die. That was what their purpose was. But she had been taught that as a military commander, her responsibility would be to spend those lives in the most efficient way possible to achieve the outcome she wanted.

This was not efficient. This was fucking stupid.

But Azula could not say that. She knew the consequences for speaking out of turn. She could still smell the scent of burned flesh, still hear her brother’s frantic screams, still see the way his face had distorted and melted under their father’s touch. At the time, she had fixed a smile on her face, because she knew that that was what was expected of her. Fortunately, her mask had been effective at hiding her nausea and horror.

She had known even then that this wasn’t just a lesson for Zuko. It was a lesson for her, too: here’s what will happen if you fail.

She would not be like Zuko. She was the perfect one, the one who never faltered. Father loved her.

So she swallowed back her protests over Zhao’s stupid plan and fixed that smile on her face once more.

Predictably, the invasion was a huge disaster. Azula held back her ‘I told you so’ and decided that she would tell Zuko about it after he sent his next letter. He was the only one she could vent to about her duties, even if he was a thousand miles away. In front of everyone else, she had to be the perfect princess. She could not doubt and rage around them, not even Mai and Ty Lee. They had to fear her, after all. How could they do that if they heard her complain about the pressures of the crown or heard her acknowledge her frustration with the machinations of the court?

But Zuko – Zuko had never asked her to be perfect. In fact, he likely preferred when she wasn’t, because she made outclassing him look natural and she knew he hated it. 

Besides, Zuko hated Zhao. He would probably take the opportunity to besmirch the admiral’s good name. He might even teach her a new swear in the process. He had been the one to teach her ‘fuck’, so she knew he would appreciate it when she called Zhao a fucking disgrace.

Zuko also liked when she implied he still had honor. Usually, she did not acknowledge this and instead poked at the vulnerability. Still, she could make an exception for Zhao. Her brother may have been stupidly weak and soft, but he did have more honor than that asshole.

A speck of dirt had more honor than fucking Zhao did.

Not that she particularly cared. Honor, the way Zuko described it, was not something that mattered to her. She didn’t do things because they were ‘right’. She did them because they were necessary. Her father had requested they be done, and so she did them. Period.

Already drafting her reply, she waited for Zuko’s letter. And waited. And waited.

Then the Fire Lord got word that Zuko and Iroh had both been at the North Pole during the invasion. Obviously, that meant its failure was their fault. 

A banished prince might be free to roam the world, but a traitor prince had to be dealt with. And Father chose Azula to deal with both princes.

She refused to disappoint. Besides, once she had Zuko in chains, she could ask why he hadn’t sent his damn letter.

This would end fine. Why wouldn’t it? Azula was the strongest firebender of her generation. She was the wielder of the blue fire. She was the crown princess in all but name. She could easily deal with two failure princes. Even if one was the Dragon of the West. The Dragon’s talons had dulled from years of tea and Pai Sho instead of practice and battle.

And as for her brother… well, Zuko had never been able to beat her in a spar. They all knew that she was better than him. He wouldn’t stand a chance against her.

For some reason, the thought was not as reassuring as it should have been. But it was fine. There was no way this could end badly. She was Princess Azula of the Fire Nation. She did not fail. Ever.

––

She failed. Father had given her one task and she’d completely failed.

The bright side was that it was not at all her fault that the stupid guard had exposed her ruse before they could get the princes on board and secure. In fact, she would greatly enjoy making an example of the guard, so that all would know not to get in her way again.

But it changed nothing. She had still failed. Zuko and Iroh had fought and escaped, and she should be focusing on tracking them, but for some reason, all she could think about was the fact that she’d nearly killed Zuko.

She’d called on the cold fire instinctively in her rage. Her tutors always said that lightning required a clear mind, but Azula’s fury had always burned cold. She’d never had a problem conjuring the sparks, though, so lightning had become a tool of pure fury for her. 

Zuko was annoyingly relentless in attacking her and yes, it was easy to avoid his strikes, but she was already irritated about the stupid guard and she’d been summoning the charge before she’d consciously thought to do it, aiming for her brother’s heart.

There was no block for lightning. If she’d stuck true, Zuko would have died.

But at the last second, Iroh had gripped her fingers, allowing the lightning to travel through him and harmlessly up into the sky. She hadn’t even known someone could do that.

Part of her was glad that Iroh had been there, even though he’d thrown her over the side of the ship. She would definitely be paying him back for that indignity at a future date. But it was because of him that Zuko was still alive and she… didn’t want Zuko to die. At least if she brought him home as a prisoner, he would just rot in a cell for the rest of his life. She could still torment him and talk to him. But if he was dead? Than he would just leave her entirely. That was unacceptable.

She hated that she felt this way. Zuko was a worthless failure. Who cared if he died? Why should she feel oddly nauseated at the fact that she’d almost killed him? It wasn’t even as if she’d never done that before. But something about the fact that she hadn’t even been planning to do it shook her badly.

It seemed she wouldn’t be sending Zuko that rant about Zhao after all.

#avatar the last airbender #atla #wip wednesday #azula

[music-is-love-90]

A Dream of Starlight Ch. 2

A/N: Apparently I'm continuing this? I don't know.

Because you asked to be tagged: @wearebabygroot @pluto-ravensea

She had never known darkness.  Astraea was the Lady of Stars; where she walked, starlight followed in her wake and yet she was in darkness.  She didn’t know where she was or how she had come to be there and, for the first time in her existence…she was frightened. 

She forced herself to calm before she truly began to panic.  She needed to remember where she was, what had happened.  It was important, she knew it.

Morpheus.

She felt the panic begin to return, along with the searing pain in her chest.  She knew the wound had not actually been dealt to her, but to The Dreaming itself.  Its King had been severed from it and where he once stood there was a gaping, bleeding hole that she could feel in her very being.  She had never felt such pain in all her existence, and she wished with all her might that it would ease, that he would come and save her from this wretched darkness.

But no one came.

Slowly, so slowly that she didn’t even notice at first, the darkness began to recede, and she could breathe once more.  Light began to seep in, and she became aware that she was in a bed.  Someone sat nearby and she forced her eyes open.

“Morpheus?”

Her vision swam and solidified into the pumpkin headed form of Merv.

“No, my Lady,” he told her sadly.  “Just me.”

“How long?”

“A few hours,” he reported.  “I should tell Lucienne you’re awake.”

He hurried out the door as she sighed.

“I don’t sleep.” She pointed out to no one.

A moment passed, or maybe an eternity, and the door opened to admit the Royal Librarian.

“My Lady, you’re awake.”

“I do not sleep, Lucienne,” Astraea pointed out once more.  She didn’t know why, but it was important that they understood that she did not sleep and therefore was not awake as she sat up.  “Where is the Dream Lord?”

“Taken, my Lady,” the other woman told her.  “Held by mortals in the Waking World.” She hesitated.  “Can you find him?  Bring him home?”

“My paths exist only in The Dreaming,” she replied with a shake of her head.  “I could walk them until the end of time, but I would never find him.  Dream of the Endless has been severed from his domain.  Can you not feel it?”

Lucienne’s eyes went to where Astraea still clutched at her head and shook her head slowly.

“No, my Lady,” she admitted.  “I did not even know something was amiss until you appeared in the Throne Room.  You told me he was gone and, shortly after, Jessamy arrived, telling us of his capture.”

“Is she still here?”

Lucienne nodded and Astraea swung her legs over the side of the bed.

“Take me to her.”

~.~

Dream’s Raven sat on his throne, waiting for her.

“Is he alright?”

She didn’t mean to blurt out the question but, in that moment, it was the only thing her heart cared about.

The Raven inclined her head.

“He is whole and alive,” she reported, “but I hesitate to categorize him as alright.  The mortals have taken his tools and locked him in a binding circle.  He can still reach me, but it is difficult for him.”

“How can we free him?” Lucienne demanded.  “The Dreaming cannot survive without him!”

“The wound caused by his capture will grow.” Astraea agreed.  “If he does not return to heal the damage, The Dreaming will begin to fall.”

“I can travel between the realms, but I am not strong enough to free him,” Jessamy said.  “Perhaps one of the others – “

“No,” Astraea cut her off.  “The Endless are not supposed to interfere in the affairs of their siblings without being invited in.  Even those, such as Death, who would be inclined in our Lord’s favor would not risk his ire by interfering.  Our King must free himself and we must do all we can to ensure he has a kingdom to return to.”

“How are we to do that?” Lucienne demanded.  “Lord Morpheus is the heart of The Dreaming.  It will start to crumble without him.”

Astraea could feel the path calling her.  She had remained still for too long and she knew she would be forced on her way soon.  She closed her eyes, seeing in her mind how the path she walked joined The Dreaming together and knew what she must do.

“I can do it.” She told the others softly.  “I can hold The Dreaming together.  The path I walk connects me to the fabric of this realm.  It won’t be as strong or secure as when Morpheus is here, but I can do it.”

“My Lady…” Lucienne said slowly, “it will be painful for you.  You are not meant to be the heart of The Dreaming and we have no way of knowing how long you will have to hold.”

Astraea could see the path, feel it calling to her, and she knew that her eons of walking had worn it into The Dreaming itself.  She and it were a part of the realm, far more than she had ever known.  She briefly wondered if this was why she had been set on her path in the beginning, for this very moment, but she let the thought fade.

“I can hold,” she told Lucienne, “for as long as is required.  Jessamy, you are the only one of us who can traverse the realms.  Do what you must to free our King.”

“Of course, my Lady.”

The Raven took flight and disappeared a moment later.

“My Lady – “

“I must begin my trek anew,” Astraea interrupted the Librarian.  “The path calls me.”

“Be safe, my Lady.” Lucienne said softly and Astraea gave her a small smile.

“You as well.”

Astraea took a deep breath and took her first step.

Pain worse than anything she had ever felt tore through her body.  The Dreaming fought her, resisting her attempts to draw it to her.  The realm knew she was not its master and so it resisted her call.  She took her next step and it almost drove her to her knees.  Tears streamed down her face as she took her next step and the step after that.  She was going to tear apart and nothing she could do would stop it…

So, she let it happen.

The Dreaming ripped her apart at the very base level of her.  She no longer had form as she flowed down every path she had ever trod.  She was everywhere, all at once.  She was nowhere.  She stepped forward and found it was easier this time.  She stopped fighting to continue on the path she had always walked and allowed The Dreaming to take her where it willed.

Her steps became must easier after that even as they were still just as painful.  The Dreaming was willing to let her continue, but it knew she was trying to stand in a place not meant for her.  So, she endured the pain and walked the path set before her, just as she had always done, and she held.

It was not perfect.  The edges still crumbled but, with every excruciating step, she held the framework of The Dreaming together.  She walked and walked and walked until every step felt like broken glass and still, she walked.  She walked until she lost herself completely.  The Lady of Stars was gone; all that was left was the path.

And still, she walked.

Time had no meaning, not that it ever really did.  She had been walking a million years; she had barely begun.

And still, she walked.

She no longer believed it would ever end.  She remembered that she was waiting for someone to return, someone who would save her from this torment, but he is long lost to her.  She thought he used to talk to her and that she enjoyed his company, but his face, his voice, it was all gone.  All there was was the path and never-ending pain.

And still, she walked.

“Well met, Lady of Stars.”

Astraea (for that was her name, she remembered now) screamed as arms wrapped around her, every touch upon her skin like a knife.  She screamed and screamed as the arms held her tighter, pulling her back together.

And then it was over, and she could open her eyes.

“Morpheus.”

The King of Dreams smiled softly down at her, and she began to weep.

“Rest, little star,” he told her, lifting her into his arms.  “I have returned, and it is time to rest.”

Astraea closed her eyes, safe in the knowledge that he would allow no pain to reach her in his arms, and let herself slip once more into painless black.

#The Sandman #The Sandman Netflix #Dream of the Endless #Morpheus #Dream x ofc #Still maybe

[jee-eun]

The Cost of Victory: 07

Menegroth was a maze. After his sixth time getting lost within the vast cave system, he had mostly given up on navigating it, instead choosing to find one of the Doriathrim to guide him where he needed to be. 

The tall ceilings made the cave system seem larger and more airy than it truly was and easing the feeling of claustrophobia that was creeping up on some of the men. It was a truly beautiful series but the layout left much to be desired. Though, from a tactical standpoint, it did give the residents an advantage. 

His brothers had all, miraculously, made it to Menegroth. Caranthir, who was still healing, had even more miraculously made it the entire journey despite his leg injury. Maglor was relatively unharmed, just tired and in need of rest after managing their brothers and their people. The Ambarussa were unharmed as well as Celegorm and Curufin. It cannot be said that they all stayed that way though. 

They had entered Menegroth with very little fanfare, mostly concerned with getting everyone inside the safety of the kingdom and within the Girdle of Melian. 

Once inside, the leaders were greeted by Melian herself accompanied by Beren and Lúthien as well as the loremaster Daeron and both Galadriel and Celeborn. 

Once the formal introductions had finished, Galadriel had greeted Turgon and Orodreth gladly. She took happiness from being able to introduce at least part of the family to her husband and took charge of their people’s stay in Menegroth. Daeron had enthusiastically greeted Maglor and had almost immediately dragged him off to work on a composition that he had been having trouble with. 

Beren and Lúthien were a different story. They had greeted Thingol gladly enough, albeit a little awkwardly. It seemed that some old hurts between father and daughter from the Silmaril Quest had not been healed. They then regarded Celegorm and Curufin with ire and distrust. 

Maedhros felt a migraine coming. 

“What are they doing here?” Lúthien demanded of her father, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his miscreant brothers. 

“We needed refuge from the forces of Morgoth, we came here to recover and regroup,” Thingol replied, “They are part of the army.”

Lúthien looked positively murderous. Her aura growing darker.

“They have already been stripped of titles and they have agreed to a punishment of banishment once the war is over should they survive,” Thingol attempted to pacify his daughter.

Lúthien did not look pacified. Instead, she looked even more murderous if that was even possible. Somehow her appearance grew almost eerie, appearing more Ainur than elven.

“That is not punishment enough for what they did to me,” Lúthien all but snarled.

“Lighter punishment was among the terms I settled with your father in exchange for a lack of retaliation against Doriath by the Ñoldor for the crimes of your kinsman Eöl against Princess Aredhel of the Ñoldor,” Maedhros interjected. 

Lúthien’s aura grew even darker as she turned to him with a snarl on her face, “And what did my kinsman do to yours that lessens my own treatment at the hands of those orcs.”

“For the sake of peace, I will pretend that you did not insult my brothers to my face,” Maedhros graciously allowed. 

Lúthien’s ears twitched in annoyance but she took a moment to collect herself, “What did my kinsman do to Aredhel that warrants such a retribution?”

“Eöl kidnapped her, married her against her will, impregnated her, and then murdered her,” Thingol recited monotonously.

Lúthien looked taken aback, then murderous. 

“Fine,” she spat out, “I accept that punishment.”

She then began marching over to where Celegorm and Curufin stood, watching their exchange.

She brought her hand back and struck Celegorm across the face. The slap rang out, echoing the caverns of Menegroth. 

Conversation stopped, people turning to look at them. Celegorm lifted a hand to his cheek where a bright red handprint was forming. 

She turned around and did the same to Curufin.

“Be grateful I don’t do more to kinslayer,” she spat out, marching away, Beren at her heels. 

“Well, that could have been worse,” Maglor mused, Daeron next to him, muffling a laugh.

After seven days of rest and healing, they were all, finally, for the most part, healed. 

Healed enough to call for meetings at least. 

The meetings were long and they rarely made any progress. Turgon and Thingol urged them to call upon the Valar for aid. Orodreth continued to insist on traveling to Nargothrond. The men simply wanted more time to recover, as their people heal much slower than elves. He rationally pointed out that even if they called upon the Valar for aid, there was no guarantee that they’d offer it. Especially as he and Fingon had earned their ire before. 

Then, on the forty-second day since that first fateful battle, refugees from Nargothrond came, led by Gildor Inglorion. Out of the vast population of Nargothrond, only three thousand of those who stayed survived. 

“The dragon came and we fled,” Gildor told them, “The orcs we could handle, the balrogs we could slay. But then the dragon came, blocking us from the gates forcing us to flee elsewhere. We were but fish in a barrel.” 

His once long, golden hair had been singed and burnt off for the most part, curling about his shoulders. Evidence of his fight against the dragon Maedhros presumed. 

“Finduilas was leading us, but then she took on the dragon as a distraction for our escape. I managed to rescue her but I’m not sure if she’ll make it. We couldn’t do much for her on the journey here.”

He looked up after a moment, his eyes slightly haunted, “It spoke to me.” 

“Who spoke to you?” Thingol asked, leaning forward. 

“The dragon.”

They all exchanged alarmed looks with one another, “The dragon spoke to you?”

“Nostir it called itself, the second of the winged dragons. It told me it saw into my future and it saw fire and death.”

That did not bode well.

“Its eyes, too,” Gildor added after a moment, “They were almost hypnotizing. It was like I couldn’t look away from them.”

That really did not bode well. 

“But I did manage to get one good hit in,” Gildor spoke after a moment.

“Finduilas loosened a scale on the dragon’s underbelly. I managed to remove it. It has a weak spot,” Gildor looked up at them, “It has a weak spot.” 

“You did good work,” Orodreth patted Gildor’s shoulder, ��And you did everything that you could. If my daughter dies, it isn’t your fault. You did your best.” 

“We could have stopped longer in Bar Erib,” Gildor said miserably, “But I didn’t know if we were being pursued so I didn’t risk it.”

“That’s okay,” Orodreth consoled, “I think that’s enough for today.”

“I agree,” Thingol said, “We should take care of our newcomers and continue our conversations tomorrow.” 

#silm #silm fic #silmarillion #silm au #fix-it #nirnaeth arnoediad #fix-it of sorts #ao3 #maedhros #maglor #turgon #elu thingol #angst #silm angst