#and the pale king is this close to firing the retainer

[kornyo]

Oh well now you have me CURIOUS so, here outside of tags, tell me about those PoF death experiences 👀

@mystery-salad

i’ll never say no to unleashing my oc lore gates 🫶 be warned. this will be long. like 800 words type of long . for context i will be explaining important backstory first that will be related to the pof story descriptions . and obviously spoiler warning !

starting with my first commander, zoya. zoya already has a complicated relationship with life and death from the get go, which only gets worse during path of fire.

zoya is a secondborn, podsister to canach actually. and just like him, she was abducted to vorpp’s research lab and experimented on. vorpp was draining her of her life force to power his golems, and she actually succumbed to these experiments and died in the lab days before caithe and faolain arrived. her body was discarded into the sea, and to canach and everyone else, she was dead.

and she was dead, her body had been drifting in the ocean for weeks, if not months, before she washed up on the cursed shore in orr. when she did, she caught the attention of the eye of zhaitan, who until now had not seen any of mordremoth’s minions.

now, due to the fact she is mordremoth’s minion (despite the pale tree cutting them off), sylvari can’t be corrupted by the other dragons, but i feel like at the time of the secondborn it was not widely known/confirmed for certain yet.

so, like he does, zhaitan tried to corrupt her and convert her into one of his undead minions - after all, if this would work, he could yoink his brother’s minions for his purposes and his army would grow even further. while the „corruption“ did not succeed - her tie to

mordremoth saved her from becoming his minion - he did somewhat revive her in the process, but not fully. zoya, now technically dead and alive at the same time but not having access to zhaitans power to keep her alive, is forced to absorb life force from other creatures to stay alive. hence, her being a necromancer. she stays in orr for a while, no idea of who she is and who she was previously, until she eventually encounters trahearne during his travels in orr and he takes her back with him to the grove. together they both study orr and try to solve his dream of cleansing it.

so when zoya dies during the fight with balthazar (to the sword rammed into her chest), her afterlife is different than the one in game. she wakes up floating in the ocean, like when she was dead for the first time, alone, no memory of who she is and who she is supposed to be yet again. but she’ll swim to the cursed shore this time, and meet the judge who will guide her through the domain of the lost, regaining her memory (even before her first death) to now.

however, it is not necessarily the judge that brings her back to ‚life‘, it is she herself who uses the power from defeating zhaitan in her memories to bring herself back into the realm of the living. she still retains her ‚undead‘ status, and similar to joko, she’s essentially a lich.

and different to the in-game, she was dead for an hour approximately, and she had troubles controlling her body for the rest of that day and needs to rest before she can continue with the fight.

my other commander, rhys, on the other hand has a complicated relationship with balthazar, which makes their encounter in path of fire difficult on a very different level.

rhys was a priest of balthazar prior to becoming known as the commander, and she was VERY devoted to him. still prayed to him frequently, despite his departure during the exodus of the gods. to me, rhys and balthazar have a relationship similar to zeus and achilles in the iliad; a god and his beloved champion, sometimes i think their relationship was as close as zeus and hercules even.

balthazar, despite being chained in the mists, heard and responded to every one of her prayers. he had very big plans for rhys; she, as a descendant of king doric and king adelbern whom were both personally blessed by balthazar and gifted with his swords sohotin and magdaer, was supposed to be his champion by his side while he would slay the dragons and absorb their powers. rhys was also supposed to be the one to free him from the mists initially, but rytlock finding and freeing him first was not a problem at all. another important detail: being a priest of balthazar made rhys immune to any fire damage whatsoever, making them a very powerful berserker.

during the course of season 3 and POF, their relationship with balthazar is strained and tested numerous times — rhys was always tempted to join his side every time he called out to them, but their hesitation was close to a betrayal in balthazars eyes, and so, they were no longer his ally anymore but his most powerful enemy that had to be destroyed. he removes his blessing, and as a result, rhys is incredibly vulnerable to fire damage.

during their battle, rhys doesn’t die by his sword like zoya, a death some could see as a merciful death. instead, he burned rhys to death, FULLY. this was a lesson to his former disciple, one that should follow them into their afterlife.

rhys’ afterlife was a burnt and barren wasteland, full of ash and the occasional leftover fire/ember. they, too, forgot who they are and what their purpose in life. even when they slowly regain their memories, they don’t consider going back to the living but staying dead. in the domain of the lost they have been „dead“ for a few days, but in the domain of the living they have been dead for a whole day.

when rhys decides to come back after all, out of vengeance and out of loyalty to aurene, they willfully step into a raging fire inside a hollow tree trunk which acted as a portal. their body was about to be cremated when they decided to come back, emerging from the fire. their whole body was burnt, but they found new strength in killing balthazar once and for all.

#so sorry for going off but once the gates have been opened i cannot contain myself #rhys #zoya #pof spoilers #and w that i shall go sleep ahjkhdkjdf #askbox #mystery-salad

[femuirdris]

But Now I've Met You And I Know

Fire Emblem Awakening | Rating: G | Character Focus: Chrom, F!Robin (Emmeryn, Lissa, Aversa) | Ship(s): F!Chrobin | CW: Mild Fictional Racism/Xenophobia

The young Prince Chrom of Ylisse is often fed much negativity about the neighboring country, Plegia. Upon hearing the daughters of the grand vizier are set to arrive, his interest is piqued.

Chrobin Week 2023, Day 2: Plegian Royalty!Robin AU

[Chapter 1 - Read on AO3!]

A great fanfare erupted outside, the castle walls vibrating from the call of a hundred horns.

Chrom was just tall enough to peer out the window, balancing his weight between his tiptoes and arms. He gazed at the incoming Plegian entourage, the deep blacks and purples adorning their horses a stark contrast to the pale emerald and azure hues of his home. Fitting, he figured, for the Fell Dragon worshippers to look equally as despicable as their god.

A pair of haphazard, noisy little footsteps broke him from his trance. “Lissa, be quiet! I’m tryin’ to keep an eye on our enemies!”

“Chrom, it’s time to come down to greet our guests,” his eldest sister urged, her voice gentle but her tone firm. Chrom flinched at the sound of her voice, having only expected Lissa, but there was Emmeryn holding her hand. “And please do be mindful of the scowl upon your face. If we are to negotiate for peace, we must remain diplomatic—and polite.”

“Okay…” he replied obediently. He kicked himself off the sill dramatically as his sisters watched, Lissa appearing impressed while Emmeryn remained stoic. “But why do we have to go to this anyway? Usually Father and Mother and the war council take care of all the big meetings.”

“The Plegian royals have expanded their entourage to include the grand vizier’s daughters, who are about our ages,” she explained. “Mother and Father agreed that we would make an appearance, as well, to represent the future rulers of Ylisse. You will have a squire as your attendant today, as well, lest you find yourself running off into trouble.” She smiled, but Chrom knew it to be a warning. “Come, we must make haste.”

As they walked, Chrom and Lissa imagined what the “princesses” would be like. Lissa hoped they’d be dressed in frilly black and purple gowns with cute pigtails just like her. “Maybe they’ll play games! Or find fwogs with me!”

“Not uh!” Chrom argued, “I bet they’re spooky witches and know all kinds of dark spells! I bet they’ll put a hex on you the second you say hello!”

“Now Chrom… you know better than to call dark mages and sorcerers witches,” Emmeryn chided.

“But that’s what Father—“

Chrom promptly clammed up when he met his sister’s disapproving eyes.

“Well… I hope they at least know how to fight… I wanna challenge one of them to a duel to show them how strong Ylisse is!” he said excitedly, grabbing the air with his fist.

Emmeryn chuckled. “Very well, so long as you are chivalrous during your skirmish. And…” she gestured towards the knights they were approaching, “so long as Squire Frederick keeps watch on you.”

At that, he groaned, not at all eager to have the most dutiful of the squires attending him. Emmeryn seemed to favor him most, though Chrom could only imagine it was because he was the only one who could keep close watch on him and Lissa at the same time. On the bright side, he knew Frederick would protect him and Lissa lest the Plegians attempt any hexes.

The siblings took their places beside their parents (with Frederick on guard alongside their parents’ retainers) as the Plegian entourage entered. A low hum of whispers could be heard among the crowd of Ylisseans watching the Mad King Gangrel make his way towards the throne, followed by a tall, spindly man who Chrom assumed was the grand vizier. Behind him were two girls—his daughters Emmeryn spoke of. One looked about Emmeryn’s age, with stark white hair draping down her shoulders and deep olive skin adorned with purple facial tattoos. Her outfit was nowhere near Lissa’s vision, with a black feathery cloak, a loose black blouse with large gold bands, a skirt surrounded by a large metal brace, and gold and black boots. She wore a spiky black crown, which Chrom thought was far less attractive than his golden one. A sorceress, he figured, by the way Frederick was eying her suspiciously.

The other daughter was younger, probably around Chrom’s age, with her white hair pulled into twin-tails adorned by spiky golden accessories. She had a more modest black and purple cloak over a stitched cream-colored dress, knee-high black socks, and golden slippers. While the elder daughter held a smirk on her face, this younger one seemed more reserved, more approachable even. If he was to spar either of them, he’d much prefer this one.

Chrom sighed. Introductions at important royal events were always so stuffy and formal and slow. He enjoyed being the prince, of course, but sometimes he just wished he could go up to someone and say hello without the need for someone else to announce him as Chrom, Prince of Ylisse. Couldn’t he just introduce himself to the Plegian princess? Surely this would make this process go faster. He began shifting the weight in his feet, his gaze fixed on their young guests.

Finally, he got to learn their names. The elder was introduced as Aversa, and the younger as Robin. Compared to Validar, Gangrel, and Aversa, Robin’s name seemed… sweeter, somehow. Still foreign, of course, but it didn’t seem as harsh to his ears. How curious.

After what seemed like hours, the welcoming ceremony finally concluded, allowing the young royals the opportunity to more casually intermingle with one another.

“Princess Robin!” Chrom blurted, met with a glare from both Emmeryn and Aversa. “Er, sorry,” he said, remembering his manners. He gave her a small bow. “I’m Prince Chrom. A pleasure to meet you!”

“Well met, Prince Chrom,” Robin replied with a small curtsey. “Though, I am not a princess, per se. Plegian royalty does not follow the same conventions as your kingdom. You may address me simply as Robin.”

To his surprise, she spoke so much like Emmeryn—with big words for someone so small! From the way his father always spoke of Plegians, he imagined them more sinister, more… barbaric? Closer to bandits and snakes than someone as noble and respectable as his eldest sister.

“Well then!” he smiled, deepening his voice to imitate her formal tone. “You may address me simply as Chrom!” She grinned, her nose crinkling.

“Robin, you have pigtails like me! Except yours are white and mine are yellowy!” Lissa giggled excitedly. Chrom huffed at the interruption, but both Robin and Emmeryn let out shy laughs, covering their mouths politely. “I’m Princess Lissa! Do you wanna go catch fwogs with me?”

Aversa sneered. “Of course a Ylissean would allow their royal children to go off playing in the mud with amphibians.”

Chrom and Frederick scowled in response while Lissa pouted sadly. Emmeryn, though, remained unshaken. “Perhaps instead of frog hunting, you ladies would prefer to have tea? Our stewards brew only the finest.”

Lissa’s sadness quickly dissipated. “Tea party!”

“I suppose I can be pained for a cup of tea,” Aversa answered, not meeting Emmeryn’s eyes.

Chrom spoke up again, a little more hesitantly than before, “Well I was gonna ask Princ—um, Robin, if she wanted to spar with me…”

Robin’s face lit up in a way Chrom hadn’t noticed all this time of observing her. She looked to her sister, who still looked unimpressed. Aversa sighed, then locked eyes with Frederick. “Squire! See to it that your prince brings no harm to my little sister, or it will be your head and his.”

He sucked in a breath, lifting his chin. “You have my utmost assurance, milady.”

If Chrom didn’t know any better, he’d say Frederick sounded shaken.

“Then it is settled! Come on, Robin!” Chrom said, offering his hand. “Let me show you our training grounds!”

#chrobinweek2023 #chrobin week 2023 #fire emblem awakening #fe13 #plegian royalty!robin au #f!chrobin #chrobin #chrom #fe chrom #f!robin #emmeryn #lissa #aversa #child au #my fanfics #to be continued #q'd

[bloodofthefates]

x. 48.  RELAX :  for both muses to share a hot tub or hot spring. (For Iseult) for @therogueprincedaemon

Secrets of history had been lost to stones over years of civilization and yet they retained so many properties. Clairvoyant, deadly or healing the stones were always bound by magic like the keepers of time and only made known their stories to the right person at the right time. Iseult had learned from a young age to harness their energies, to use her own cursed gift to read stones and runes of dead languages when casting but the stones she climbed now were ageless. They existed in a timelessness that put her troubled mind and weighted soul to rest. It had been protected and guarded for centuries by the very dragons that became the seal and symbol of House Targaryen but it was only one dragon she sought with the fire in him her heart craved like warmth to a fire. It was Caraxes that had allowed her to find him, her intentions goodhearted and pure; a motive the creature could discern from her with only a single touch of her hand. Iseult had climbed her way through narrow passes and slipping stones, a rudimentary path carved out but no less precariously until the fog thickened with moisture and the path she followed leveled out onto a mountainside plateau of natural hot springs bubbling and pooling within craters of various sizes. Iseult pulled back the pale blue cloth of her hood, her long dark braided hair cascading down over her shoulder as she shook it free. It was much colder at this height and altitude, the temperature biting at the tip of her nose and reddening her pale cheeks but apart from the cloak she wore on top of her dress she wasn’t at all dressed for the scaling of stones or the whipping winds. She spotted familiar silver hair, slicked back by the steaming water he sat within luxuriating in its warmth. Iseul smiled softly, secretively to herself though they both knew he was already aware of her presence. His back was to her, sitting on a submerged outcropping of rocks like a natural bench and Iseult made her way to the edge of the heated waters to kneel at his back. Drawing her hands from her cloak, cold without the thick hide of gloves she gently placed them on each of his shoulders to steal his warmth as she leaned in and nuzzled her nose against his neck in greeting and devotion. “I found you My Prince. My King..” She cooed softly against his ear, closing her eyes as she brushed her cheek against his. Pulling away reluctantly, it was only to undo the clasp of her cloak as she stood to her full height, letting the material fall away to reveal the scant layers of her usual court attire. “Caraxes feared you were growing lonely.” She whispered, slipping her fingers beneath the gathered material at her shoulder to let it fall from her arms, the rest of her dress falling to pool at her waist before she tugged it the rest of the way down to reveal her bare body beneath. Without further instruction or invitation, she offered out her hand for him to take it and help her to step down into the waters. The sudden heat of it sent a thrill straight to her core, her body adjusting to the warmth of the water as it lapped at her calves until she descended further to dip her whole body beneath up to her shoulders. Iseult gilded closer to Daemon where he sat, adoration in her eyes and a serene pleasant smile firmly in place. “It seems I’ve discovered your hiding place.”

#therogueprincedaemon #✲ ISEULT [ interaction ] #✲ ISEULT [ dynamic ] DAEMON TARGARYEN #answered

[berryrobinson7]

Brilliantfiction Astral Pet Store update - Chapter 598 – Brother? plug fetch suggest-p1

Thriven and throfiction Astral Pet Store - Chapter 598 – Brother? unadvised reaction reading-p1

Novel-Astral Pet Store-Astral Pet Store Chapter 598 – Brother? beam thought Whoos.h.!.+ Whoos.h.!.+ From time to time they might lead to a dead conclusion, when often they will run across lairs where monster kings had been soundly in bed. out?” It had been Su Lingyue! He, way too, was intrigued. Earlier times three days together instructed Li Yuanfeng that Su Ping was actually a person of extreme care he was much more seasoned as it stumbled on cloaking approaches. Li Yuanfeng was surprised to determine that Su Ping experienced an wonderful interspatial artifact. He obtained located her! “The monster ruler never left behind the Corridor.” Or, was it because that monster during the Flames Field acquired brought the range in excess of? “Is this your combat furry friend?” Yan Bingyue expected. Or, was it because that monster from the Fire Area obtained maintained the level in excess of? Li Yuanfeng transformed pale. “That is not going. Your sister may have possessed to endure the Fire Discipline and also there are famous fight dog fighters there they would have ceased her as long as they acquired viewed her. There's also the time when our captain achieved in the market to them they advised him specifically that they can didn't view your sibling. It's difficult on her to get in this article!” Li Yuanfeng put in one following considering it and agreed upon. Li Yuanfeng converted paler. “That is improbable. Your sibling would have got to undergo the Flames Area and also there are renowned conflict animal fighters there they will have ceased her once they got found her. There's even the time when our captain achieved in the market to them they informed him specifically they can didn't watch your sibling. It's unattainable on her behalf to become here!” Their teamwork was quite great they handled the monster from both flanks and smacked it suddenly. It absolutely was unfortunate for that beast ruler considering that its realm was at the Seashore Express Li Yuanfeng alone could possibly have subdued it and Su Ping was provide. Each acquired knocked it prior to when the monster ruler discovered that which was taking place. The discomfort woke the beast queen up. Su Ping darted her a peek but didn't response. He built an awl together with his astral strengths and poked the beast king's head. However… That component of scope was resistant! That sound was barely audible but the complete silence caused it to be obvious. Li Yuanfeng and Su Ping were definitely startled. The beast master behaved due to the stress enforced through the Inferno Dragon's gaze. The concept on the rainforest determined the fact that monster queen would not dare to disobey the Inferno Dragon the latter would devour it if in any other case. He appeared through he identified a gal gradually displaying herself, next to the darkish retaining wall. Su Ping could not believe it, but soon discarded all his concerns and issues. He was seized with delight. He wasn't drastically wrong regarding the scope! Su Ping was puzzled. Is Su Lingyue really on this page? A minute later, Su Ping informed the Inferno Dragon to return to the agreement s.p.a.ce, then wiped out the monster ruler well before he left behind. The monster ruler could destroy the world inside the browse if he wasn't close to, and then he acquired nothing else interspatial artifact to get the monster queen out. In case the creature got out, it may try to escape and idea other beast kings out. Su Ping opened up his swirl and also the Inferno Dragon became available, hunting decrease in the monster king from your level. Su Ping identified far more silver scales after fifty percent per day got pa.s.sed. Viewing the siblings' reunion obtained introduced a smile to Li Yuanfeng's experience. Su Ping nodded. He didn't be able to meet the famous challenge family pet fighters on the Fire Discipline and can even not say undoubtably when they had ignored their tasks or otherwise not. Has this kind of a while went by on the rest of the world? Astral Pet Store Su Ping didn't even examine her, lest speak with her, well before he gone away. Yan Bingyue little her lip and stomped her toes. Su Ping contemplated that beast. He stood up from a moment's doubt. “I'm planning to grab that beast king to inquire some issues.” “The range is produced by my sister's combat pet.” He, far too, was interested. Earlier times 3 days with each other explained to Li Yuanfeng that Su Ping was a gentleman of extreme care he was much more seasoned if this got to cloaking approaches. It was Su Lingyue!

#ull #Derby Day in the Yukon #the dyeing of wool fabrics

[scribbleshanks]

vessel duo au, white palace edition

Guys hear me out.

Vessel duo AU but it takes place at the White Palace.

Hollow has to hide Ghost like the kid hiding an alien in that movie from the 80′s.

Ghost is not pleased with this. 

Food and weapons go missing. The Pale King has no idea why and his future vision is doing shit.

Ghost and Hollow scurry around under a random box trying to get past the retainers’ radar.

One day Ogrim mistake Ghost for the Pure Vessel and gently guides them back to the training grounds. Ghost gets a nail so they don’t complain.

The Pale King: have their horns always looked like that? 

Cut to Hollow having a heart attack.

#hollow knight #rambles #vessel duo au #i'm quite tired and would not like to draw #but this. this will live in my head #one of the retainers go insane trying to prove that yes there are two vessels in the palace and yes one of them is the thief #they're real they're real they're real please believe me they're somewhere in the palace #but every time they have proof ghost and hollow get away with just enough to make their claim baseless #and the pale king is this close to firing the retainer

[littlefreya]

The Devil’s Tongue

Summary: A mask of virtue hides a man riddled with lust and while his stoicism proceeds him, even he can’t withstand a begging girl. 

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x OFC (3rd person POV)

Warning: 18+. Manhandling, abuse of power, MaleDom/FemSub, some thigh riding, unprotected sex, deflowering, loss of virginity, mild mentions of blood, sex in front of mirror (auto-voyeurism), profanities, bodily fluids, possessive behaviour. 

Words: 4.5k

A/N: Many thanks to my muse @agniavateira for supporting me through this story and for betaing. This was inspired by a certain scene in the film. My pervy mind took it elsewhere. Sincerely, I am not sure how I feel about it, so I’ll let you be the judge while I’m having my panic attack. 

Please reblog and give feedback if you enjoyed. 🖤

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own*

Title: The Devil’s Tongue

The treacherous moon was already high in the midnight sky and winds of melancholia whispered through the ivy leaves that grew timidly around the window’s panes. Despite the solace of night, her blood seeped with venom, and vicious thorns grew beneath her skin.

Striding through the desolate corridors of Holmes’ estate, Vanessa fumed while listening to the sounds of the old house: the creaking of the floorboards, the glass panes rattling in the wind, and the scratching of mice that ran between the walls. A kerosene lamp hung heavy between her sweaty fingers; her knees cracked as she marched forward to face her master.

Same as every night, Sherlock hid in his library to chase adventures behind thin sheets of paper. He was not to be disturbed, though he left her no choice.

Sent her away he did, claiming that her service was no longer needed even though she was promised a home at the estate, despite Enola’s departure. The worst of it was that he didn’t even bother telling her himself, but simply sent another servant to announce that she must pack her belongings tonight.

‘Like hell, I would!’

Vanessa willed her heart to beat slowly as she tiptoed, cursing every wooden plank that grated beneath her feet. It’s been over a year since she started working for the Holmes family, and despite battling her concupiscence tooth and nail, Mr. Holmes has possessed her very existence. Sleepless nights left her yearning to drink the mead of his mouth and feel the slapping of his skin onto hers.

Wistfully, the brooding detective only stared at her with a lustre of ice. But the notion of never seeing him again felt like holding a blade pointed to her chest; the wish to confess nibbled in her gut like a pesky little fish.

‘At least I will have the chance to say farewell…’ she mused as she finally reached the open doorway of the library. It was a cosy cavern, stuffed with endless shelves of books and vases of pink roses to mellow its austerity.

Wood burnt to a crisp within the hearth, its aromatic scent bleeding into the air and a light layer of ashen mist wafted over the chamber. There sat her master, resting comfortably on his maroon leather armchair with a book in one hand and a pipe pressed between his succulent lips like a king on a throne of solitude.

Silently she stared, brow furrowing at his sight. It baffled her how a man can be so oblivious to the dangerous power he had over women. Sherlock was as divine as the coldest day of winter: eyes of crystal snow, curls darker than the night, and sharp facial features that gave a tinge of intimidating flavour. The ancient god Hades would have been jealous of his divinity. Even in these serene moments, Sherlock’s presence exhumed dominant masculinity, consuming oxygen like the fire that burnt in the mantle.

Clad in a white cotton shirt loose over his broad chest, he calmly turned a page on his book and sighed.

It was impossible not to sense her nearby. The young woman was a breeze of autumn wind: spiced yet soothing, bringing the omen of a season’s change. She tried very hard to hide her feral nature, abiding, serving, and acting polite. While she fooled everyone, including herself, he detected the brazen kiss that raged within her.

Nights were riddled by dreams of dismantling her shackles, only to bind her further to himself. And yet, every time he looked at her a loathing rage gnawed inside. To him, she was a dire trap meant to expose the thing that hid behind his mask of virtue—a reckless savage, sick with twisted desire.

It took true power to send her away. Yet, here she was, barging into his shelter to pour another drop of simmering turmoil into his already seething blood.

“Can’t sleep, Nessie?”

Vanessa jolted with a startle. His deep voice threaded tendrils of dark silk around her heart, attempting to draw it further out of her fragile ribcage. Maintaining attention on the book in his hand, Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a cold grin of respect, sensing her glare stabbing at his nape.

“You might be a mouse, but you have the stomp of an elephant.”

Forcing the book shut with a soft thud, Sherlock turned his head aside, daring to catch a glimpse of her. His pretentious smile died, and a surge of passion seized at his groin. Like the virgin Persephone, she stood before him wrapped in a sheer nightgown, the creamy fabric barely hiding her delicacies. A mystic glow of sweet honey and amber gold rimmed her flesh, kissing down her clavicles and leading his enslaved gaze to the soft heaps at her chest.

By courtesy, he should have looked away, but the wish to incinerate the silken threads that retained whatever left of her modesty whispered in his ear like a little devil that sat on his shoulder. It was cruel of her to provoke him like this.

Quirking an eyebrow with disdain, he finally battled the sight away.

“Something ails you, girl.” Sherlock’s rich baritone dropped. Touching the pipe to his maw, he took a long whiff and suckled his lip. “You seem unnecessarily emotional,” he noted dryly, pretending as if her appearance was a mystery.

Noticing the uncaring shift in his tone, she scowled and stepped carefully into the room. Placing the lamp on a nearby stand, she purposely stepped into his line of sight and looked at the frowning detective with the feral wilderness growing inside her chest.

“You’re sending me away tomorrow,” an unmistakable hint of rage seeped between the cracks in her voice. Grasping her knuckles, she began striding back and forth across the Parisian rug as if lost in her own musings, “why? What have I done to you?”

A small huff escaped his nose, and he rubbed a finger beneath his bottom lip. His patience spread thin as the young lady scurried about with hysteria. The mere idea of bending her over and teaching her some discipline caused the fabric of his trousers to stretch over his engorging desire.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, it was simply my decision.” He answered, striving to sound neutral and remorseless. “A lady’s maid without a lady is useless in a place like this. But now, Vanessa, it’s late, and I’d like to get back to my book. No reason for you to stand here in your... undergarments.”  

Lips agape and feet nearly colliding on to one another, Vanessa paused on her steps. His words crept a chill down the length of her spine, making her cheeks blaze. Passionate and irrational, she never even noticed her lack of chastity when she left her room.

“I… didn’t think much, I was upset…”

‘Of course, she didn’t think much. Irrational, savage thing.’

A string twitched in Sherlock’s cheek, and a dark errant lock fell rogue upon his pale temple as he turned his head aside, adamant to brush her away. His self-restraint was but a delicate, dying leaf, hanging by its last yellowing strand.

“I came here to ask you to…”

“I’m afraid it’s not negotiable.” Sherlock interrupted and swatted his hand flat on the leather binding. His stern glance floated out the window, focusing on a large spider that threaded lines of silver amidst the peeling frames. “You will find a new job in London, a better house,” he apprised and took a deep inhale, turning the book over to open it where he paused. “Now please leave before we’ll both hurt one another.”

‘Before I will pierce cavities in your soft flesh.’

Stunned by his dismissive, arctic demeanour, her stubbornness and frustration only grew to monstrous proportions. With clenched fists and water pooling at her lids, she grunted and took a courageous step closer, standing at the fore of his couch while shaking her head.

“No!”

“No!?” he scowled, eyebrows lowering with dismay. “You forget your place, woman.” He flashed her a quick warning look, his icy glare tinted midnight black as he stood at his wit’s end.

If only it didn’t make her heart shrivel with wanton. Their proximity perilously close, Sherlock’s strong scent pervaded into her lungs: a musky blend of whiskey, leather, and fine tobacco that made her thighs wobble. Before she could even register what’s happening, her knees were brushing the thick carpet, her decorum and dignity gone.

“I want to stay here. With you.”  Slender like stalking vines, her fingers crawled onto the armchair, squeezing at the smooth leather with pitiable desperation.

“Keep me, please!”

“Vanessa,” Sherlock drawled, still refusing to meet her gaze while his thumb circled deep into the coarse binding. Furious tides rose in his eyes, whisked by the rageful storm that inhabited his mind, “Do not make me regret this night.”

He didn’t want to hurt her, but she was pretty when she begged.

“You don’t know what it is that you’re asking, I am not the gentleman you think I am.”

Ignoring his warning, she insisted. Daring, needy talons rose from the armchair to claw at his arm, clutching it with demand. Even through barriers, a surge flushed between their bodies.

“Sherlock,” she half-whispered, crystal droplets of sadness gliding down the smooth slope of her cheeks. Not caring the least as they dribbled onto the soft sleeve of his shirt, leaving tiny stains that dampened his arm.

“Guide me, teach me, make me yours!”

Nostrils flaring and breath rigid, the large man finally snapped his stare at her with the sanguine hunger of a starved vampire. The mask of his virtue fell shattering to the floor, and a harrowing silence took over the room, diffused only by the sound of crackling embers and Vanessa’s shaky breath.

“Remember this tomorrow when you’re raw and hurting; this is what your begging bought you, little Nessie.”

A strangled gasp died at her sternum as his hand suddenly grasped her throat. With a quick yank, she was up on her feet, her toes barely scraping the ground as the hulking man held her up to his face.

“Oh the things I’ll do to you..” he whispered as his thumb dug deep onto her cheek and the rest of his fingers etched at her throat.

Swinging on his boots, he swept her across the silent halls. His stride a dark ceremonial gyrate, the creamy fabric of her pristine nightgown floating mid-air like a sheer tongue of white morning mist.  

“I will make you mine as you begged,” he rasped barbarically, one hand pushing the door open while the other held her attached to his chest, “I will teach you what you asked…” his lips brushed her ear, his breath hot over her cheek, “your first lesson begins... in my bed.”

With a swift shove, she was forced into his realm. Feet stumbling upon the tepid wooden floor, her ears throbbed with shock. Her hands reached to grasp onto the engraved bed column to prevent herself from falling.

His bedroom smelled of dying roses and smoked wicks, echoing the putrid decadence that gnawed at Sherlock’s mind. A dozen melting candles burned in every secluded corner, their little orange tongues licking the reflection of a sizable mirror that stood opposite of his large bed.

A dull metallic click broke the air, followed by Vanessa’s sputtering breath as she saw him lock the door. Her faith sealed - now caged in the lair of the beast. Reduced to his own shimmering shadow, Sherlock advanced toward her, ripping his shirt off.

Fingers biting into the wooden pole, Vanessa stared, unable to determine if it was a man or a lycan god who stood before her. Every breath made his bare torso look menacing. Under the deep dusky twilight, his muscles curved and stretched, coated by a virile, dark fur.

Curious, her gaze followed the striking veins and the trail of unkempt hair that paved its way down his fine abdomen and disappeared beneath his trousers. Guiding to that which she feared and wanted at once.

Eyes of blue flame shone with absent remorse, brows arched with a pretentious demeanour as he reached a hand to seize her to him. “Your innocence dies here tonight,” he hissed in her ear, “from now on, you’ll be my little whore to plough as I please.”

The air died in her lungs as his firm chest collided with hers and his knee forced her legs apart. Bulging and muscular, his thigh rose to brush at her clit, the thin fabrics a shy barrier.

Shuddering, she swallowed hard in a dire battle to find her voice. “I will be whatever you need me to be,” she retorted as the thought of being exploited by her master released fluttering butterflies of fear and excitement in her chest.

Sherlock smirked and captured her jaw between his finger and thumb as he leaned in. Torrid lips hovered over her own, offering a phantom kiss to distract her from the greedy fingers that pushed the sleeves of the gown off her shoulders.

Like warm milk it poured down her body, exposing her delicacies to the night and to the gluttonous hands that kneaded her breasts while he flicked his tongue over her closed mouth, tasting the plumpness of her lips.

A true creature of the underworld, Sherlock’s touch was cruel like his promises; he took as he pleased, leaving his sigil seething on her skin. Her sputtering gasps served as an opportunity to invade her hot cavern. The detective’s kiss was even more ruthless, his tongue smooth as silk seized and conquered her breath.

She could feel him streaming in her blood, tasting him all the way down through her gut. Dark and intoxicating like poisonous absinthe, the promise of death swung amidst their hot, serpent-like dance.

Yet she only yearned to drink to her demise.

As if under a stupor, she swayed to his spells, bucking her hips to ground herself on the meat of his thigh, leaving the coarse fabric wet with sticky arousal. A condescending grin tugged at his lips, and his hand rushed to the back of her head, weaving through her hair and yanking her back.

“Already the wanton harlot,” he spat, swiftly turning her over and holding her against his chest. “Look at yourself,” he growled hoarsely in her ear, forcing her doe eyes to stare at their reflection. Sherlock rested his dimpled chin on the top of her head with his brows lowered like an apex predator examining his prey.

His hand disappeared behind, hastily fumbling with his trousers, “You wanted me to show you, you want to see,” he called as his trousers piled at his feet and he carefully stepped out.

Something hefty and hard nudged at the small of her back, turning her veins into thin tendrils of ice. Abysmal panic coiled at her gut at the realisation that Sherlock meant to reshape her as the vessel of his primal urge.

Hand snaking around her belly, he snatched her to fall back onto the mattress with him pillowing her fall. Her firm buttocks slid across his hairy abdomen, hands fumbling to grasp his thick thighs while her eyes flared at the sight of his hardened cock displayed in front of her in its full generous size.

It was nothing like the medical illustrations she saw in books: bulging tendons swerved across an imposing, meaty rod. Ridges rippled across its girth like soft silk, and the heart-shaped head dripped of glistening, pearly arousal.

Curious, her trembling hand wandered to feel him, stunned by the liquid-like texture that engulfed the absurd rigidness. By order of her touch, he twitched and swelled, causing the radiating heat at the apex of her groin to palpitate.

Pressing his lips to the shell of her ear, Sherlock growled, “Do you like what you see, little one?”

His taut hands reached to grasp her thighs, spreading her wide over each of his legs and holding them apart to expose her untouched sleek at the mirror. The thundering in his throat was nothing but animalistic as he glowered at her perfect sight: his little Nessie, his little untainted flower blooming fresh with dew, yearning to be plucked.

“Look at yourself,” Sherlock demanded with a whisper drenched of fervour. His coarse hand dragged to capture her chin and forced her to face the salacious spectacle reflected before them. Her breath shuddered; she saw their skin mapped onto one another, their bodies entangled and their souls unmasked.

How could something so forbidden be so beautiful?

“I dwell in the darkness, Vanessa.” Sherlock explained, his voice stroking her temple as his lips inched closer, “You must know that, you must have me as I am.”

He laved his tongue over her cheek as if he was tasting the sweetest delicacy and reached for his erection, stroking the pulsating girth between his fingers. Eyes still glued to their likeness on the glossy surface, she glanced as he pressed his pink, meaty tip between her dripping petals.

“Watch as I take something from you that can never be given back, something that will forever belong to me.”

“Sherl….”

His name died on her tongue, the moment forever lost in a loud shriek. Savagely and unceremoniously, he pried her virginal cunt open the way a predator rips at its prey’s throat. His massive shaft tore through her purity with no resistance to fight back against his brutal invasion.  

Pain rattled its way through her entire entity while the dark spectacle of the loss of her innocence played right in front of her eyes, spurring grievous tears. Lost to the bliss of her warm cavern, Sherlock chanted in loud groans, continuing to force himself all the way between her squeezing walls. Remorseless of her cries, he never stopped until every hollow inch inside her was full of his cock and his sac smacked against her stuffed opening.

“My! You feel good!” He panted with astonishment, his virility twitching within the lush sanctuary between her thighs. Noxious pride flowed in his veins at the reflection of the naked young girl, spread open with him inside her.

“Do you like having me inside you, my little harlot?”

“God!” Vanessa screamed, stunned by the sensation of him swelling at her core. His invasion seared, her legs trembled against his in a plea to be kept together. But he only stretched her wider, hooking both hands below her thighs.

“It will feel good in a little while,” he promised and slowly shifted his hips back. Inch by inch, his cock slid out of her now defiled slit, coated by blood and a sheer layer of arousal. It was something of decadent theatrics; his broad chest puffed against her spine, a blissful hum leaving his bobbing throat at the image of the crimson stain that decorated his sword.

“From this moment and beyond, this belongs to me,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck and planting wicked, butterfly kisses along the tender slope, “do you understand? Your little cunny is my property, your moans, your pleasure, all belong to me.”

Her cunt clenched around nothing as she watched his full length slipping out, tainted by broken purity, the empty void leaving pure urgency to course through her tendons. Hopeless for something she couldn’t even recognise, she whined and writhed on top of him. Her eyes levitated from their sexes to meet his icy glare.

“Sherlock, please, more! Please put yourself back inside me!!!”

“Fuck!” Sherlock rasped in awe of her wanton, his control nearly lapsed. Fingers digging into her thighs, he undulated his hips and pulled her down the length of his throbbing erection. Low melodies of pleasure rolled on his tongue as her wet cunt pressed around him again.

Gawking at the mirror, she nearly fell apart in his arms, cries of daze escaped her as Sherlock's drove back into her sleek. Every bit of his flesh unfolding hers, disappearing within her body to defy the loneliness aching in her cove until his entire shaft was lost in her depth and the tip of his cock hit something lush and tender. She could have sworn she felt him waver deep in her gut.

“Sherlock!!!” she cried, shutting her eyes at the sharp twinge that shuddered through her core.

“Don’t you dare close those eyes, dove,” he warned, and the authority in his voice left her no choice but to obey. Wickedly, his fingers slithered to the little nub of flesh above her slit and ruthlessly tugged at it to expose more of her battered sex. He continued to pound into her mercilessly, quickening the rhythm with each one of his thrusts.

“Look at you, taking me so obediently. Perhaps I was wrong about you, perhaps you are easily tamed.”

The thick bones of his hips crashed into her rump vigorously, his girth violently splitting her protesting walls. He was fast, wet, and hard inside her, his cock drilling into her over and over, every plunge stripping more layers of her soul and pushing her higher toward the heavens.

Enslaved to the beguiling aphrodisiac, she squirmed on top of him, her body beginning to push down to meet every thrust. The vision of herself being brutally taken by the large, civilised beast made the blood pool at the seams of her womanhood and tingle with frustration.

A shuddering quake began to spread within her, spiralling out in a sequence of spasms sourced at the spot where they connected. Bliss and ecstasy shattered her body and a sudden flush of pleasure exploded through her body as she came all over his cock.

Engulfed in her milking cunt, Sherlock could hardly believe what beheld his eyes. His beautiful nymph, coming undone around him, ethereal and divine. Her blissful chants a song to his ears only, she was like dryad humming a hymn to call upon a lonesome hunter.

“‘My Vanessa, I wanted you for so long.” He called, fucking her wildly through her orgasm. “Tell me you want me to come inside you,” he choked out on his grunts, her sugary walls closing around his thickness like a predatory flower, demanding to suckle his sweet elixir.

Still riding her climax, she shook her head, hesitant of speaking such profanities. But the stern glower on Sherlock’s face instantly forced her into submission.

“I want you to come … come inside me!” She panted and then screamed as another wave of intense rapture swept her away.

Her squeezing cunt forced the thick stream to vibrated through his shaft, making him drill into her with zeal. His fingers clutched her waist as he slammed her down onto his swollen cock, burying himself the deepest he could. Vanessa yipped as something hot sprouted into her, flooding her womb like a soothing kiss that slowly began trickling between their tight flesh.

Still locked in an embrace, they shivered together. Soft maple hues glimmered over their wet skin, their bodies heaving against one another while a symphony of pants and gasps filled the silence.

Sherlock’s glaciers sought to capture her reflection, a dark, brooding look on his sweat-silken face while his lips ghosted over her shoulder. There was no question in the rough expression of his face.

Nothing spoke louder than the possessiveness that pierced through the sharp reflection.

~*~

A tender stream of sunshower kissed her lids awake. The cerulean sky winked at her through the open window while her senses gingerly regained their functions after what felt like graveyard slumber. Finding herself alone, she wondered for a moment if the night before was only a fantasy; but this bed was too soft and far too large, and the sensation of shame licking between her thighs told her otherwise.

Even in his absence, Sherlock’s presence lingered. His pungent sweat layered on her skin, and from her torn seal trickled the pearly, forbidden essence of his loins. She allowed herself a moment of coy bliss, pressing her lips upon her bare shoulder to kiss the taste of him off her flesh when the thud of inching footsteps and creaking wood made her sit up with fright as if her presence was forbidden.

Huddling the blankets around her chest, she gulped as the door flung open.

Already dressed in a clean shirt, a vest of golden brown, and a long black jacket, the hulking man offered her a small wrinkle on his brow. Fine silks were folded on his forearm, and his eyes fell upon the naked beauty in his bed. A shadow of dark desire danced upon his slanted smirk as he noticed the little inkling of dry blood on the edge of the mattress.

“Slept well, my little Nessie?” He asked, passing a finger over his neatly combed locks before gesturing for her to approach him. Obedient as ever, his little servant quickly climbed out, immediately regretting her haste as a spear split through her core. With jolting legs, she swallowed her discomfort and approached him with her head lowered to the floor.

“No, we will have none of this,” Sherlock chided, his finger stalking beneath her chin to fix her stare on his. Their gazes met for a shy second and then he stepped back, unfolding the fabrics held beneath his arm.

A waterfall of black and crimson flowed down, hanging from his hands.

Vanessa’s eyes rounded with wonder; being a woman of lower status, she never owned anything as beautiful and expensive as the dress he held before her.

“Lift your arms, dove,” Sherlock commanded and she did as he bid.

The soft fabrics felt like warm liquid washing over her skin as Sherlock carefully slipped the dress over her head. His hands smoothly roamed her body, tugging at the delicate fabric to fit over her figure. The tall detective stepped to stand at her back and began working the laces of the corset embedded into the gown.

One by one, he tightened the silk binds as he pulled at the laces. Vanessa slightly hissed when her breasts squished against the generous cleavage.

“Forgive me,” Sherlock mumbled as he heard her distress, “I am not used to such… arrangements.”

“Arrangements?” she asked naively, though it quickly dawned on her that her dear master never had a wife or a mistress, which didn’t come much as a surprise after witnessing his bohemian desires the night before. And yet, no regret touched her heart as Sherlock pressed his hand over her torso and perched his chin atop her head once again.

“Look at us.” His lustrous eyes carried to the mirror, guiding hers to follow as he stroked his hand lower to flatten the folds of her dress and pushed her hair over her shoulders with the other.

“Don’t we make a pair?”

Glancing forward, Vanessa took a deep inhale. Crimson and black were unusually beautiful as they graced her figure. The rim of the cleavage was beaded with fine black jewels that gave her appearance an elegant, yet erotic flavour.

Taken by her new design, she allowed herself to be swallowed into Sherlock’s beautiful darkness.

She wouldn’t have him without it.

___________________________________

Additional notes: I don’t own Sherlock Holmes or Enola Holmes franchise. Thanks to @wondersofdreaming  @wolvesandhoundshowltogether and @sapphirescrolls for moral support. 

#henry cavill #sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x ofc #Henry Cavill fanfiction #henry cavill sherlock holmes #henry cavill x reader #sherlock holmes x reade #enola holmes fanfiction

[amuelia]

Do you think Roose and Barbrey are friends? I always got the vibe they have simmering dislike of eachother.

I do think they are friends/very close allies! Here are some of my reasons:

Barbrey refers to him almost* exclusively by his first name when he isn't present, and when she talks directly to him, she uses no polite modes and is very familiar. We know that usually, Roose is keen on being addressed politely ("You will call me my lord when you speak to me, Nan"), so theyre likely close enough that he doesn't mind; as a contrast, Catelyn who isn't close to him addresses him as "Lord Bolton". While Barbrey has an irreverent tone about some other lords as well when she talks about them in their absence, Roose and Brandon appear to be the only two who are primarily referred to by first name and no other mode of address. (For example, Manderly is both "Lord Wyman" and the "fat man", Eddard is "Ned Stark" and "Lord Eddard"...).

"No dish so much as touches Roose’s lips until he sees Lord Wyman eat of it first." - The Prince of Winterfell, aDwD

* the one exception i could find being "Truth be told, [...] Lord Bolton aspires to more than mere lordship.", which uses the title for dramatic effect as she talks about him wanting to become king.

She says he is keen on keeping her in positive spirits, since she is an important ally

That pleased her. She took a sip of wine, her dark eyes sparkling, and said, "The widow of Barrowton … and yes, if I so choose, I could be an inconvenience. Of course, Roose sees that too, so he takes care to keep me sweet." - The Prince of Winterfell, aDwD

Roose refers to her as their truest ally

"Lady Barbrey is a woman who knows how to nurse a grievance. Be grateful for that. Barrowton is staunch for Bolton largely because she still holds Ned Stark to blame for her husband's death." - Reek III, aDwD

"How many of our grudging friends do you imagine we'd retain if the truth [about Bran and Rickon] were known? Only Lady Barbrey, whom you would turn into a pair of boots … inferior boots." - Reek III, aDwD

Ramsay also names Lady Dustin as the main person Roose interacts with next to his wife:

“Is this why you left Lady Dustin and your fat pig wife? So you could come down here and tell me to be quiet?” - Reek III, aDwD

Where Ramsay is forced to be at Stout's castle because Barbrey hates him so much, Roose resides at Barrow Hall with her

"Barrow Hall and its kitchens are not mine to dispose of," his father said mildly. "I am only a guest there. The castle and the town belong to Lady Dustin, and she cannot abide you." - Reek III, aDwD

It is both outright shown and implied that they meet in private to discuss important matters; Barbrey is also invited to councils that Ramsay isn’t

"Roose is not pleased [with Ramsay's treatment of Jeyne]. Tell your bastard that." - The Turncloak, aDwD

"He has been with Ramsay. Lady Barbrey, allow me to present the rightful Lord of the Iron Islands, Theon of House Greyjoy." - Reek III, aDwD

Steelshanks led him back to the Great Keep and the solar that had once been Eddard Stark's. Lord Bolton was not alone. Lady Dustin sat with him, pale-faced and severe [...]. - a Ghost in Winterfell, aDwD

Roose is notoriously paranoid, yet trusts her with vital components of his venture, like when he allows her to keep watch on Jeyne (which risks that Barbrey finds out she is fake); and she also has an insight into stuff like the wedding plans

Lady Dustin had insisted that she should have custody of Lady Arya until such time as she was wed, but now that time was done. - The Prince of Winterfell, aDwD

“Why me?” he had asked when Lady Dustin told him he must give the bride away. - The Prince of Winterfell, aDwD

They generally have a long history of being in-laws, and Barbrey loved Roose' son a lot and fostered him for a while as a page

This is more of a meta reason, but i think it's fun that the Bolton character from Fire and Blood is called "Barba Bolton", a name very similar to Barbrey... Seems like a little tribute to them being close, like Davos Baratheon is for Stannis and Davos.

Barbrey and Roose appear to be somewhat foils/counterpoints to Catelyn and Eddard in several aspects as well as shared history

Obviously, and this is likely what you are picking up, Barbrey does talk badly about Roose to Theon at length ("Roose has no feelings, you see") - potentially this is a sign of resentment due to the Domeric situation (after all, Barbrey is set up as someone who can "nurse a grievance" and takes the death of someone she loves very personally). There are also several theories out there speculating a role of Barbrey in northern conspiracies or other counter-Bolton factions. We also know that Barbrey has a very concrete reason to be discontent with Roose, which is her hatred of Ramsay.

It seems possible to me that the idea is that they are very close with a long history, but will have a friction growing between them that causes some sort of drama in twow. This drama will hit well precisely because they are close; Roose himself openly states that he distrusts most of the other northern lords, but might be taken aback or at least surprised if even Barbrey turns against him. On the other hand if Barbrey did stay loyal to him, or at least had some remaining affection, this would also add an interesting dynamic that complicates the situation.

As always feel free to send asks to discuss this issue further if you have questions or disagreements! Since they are not PoVs and tWoW can also bring unexpected changes, we cannot say anything for sure.

#asks #anonymous #roose bolton #barbrey dustin #asoiaf #meta #long post

[chipper-smol]

*cracks my writing knuckles bc my artistic patience isn’t enough to fill the ambiance and tone properly*

2K WORDS. JUST FOR YOU GUYS

Was their ire and spiteful nature exclusively directed at the Pale King? Some retainers of the palace would say yes. Others would object and say it extended to the Five Great Knights as well since Ogrim had yet to hold onto his charm for longer than a day and Hegemol continued to wield a pole instead of a mighty hammer.

Well if you asked the source, they would simply stare at you silently, but you might get the impression that they had strong opinions (a wild thing for a vessel to have) on a few individuals other than the King.

Which is why the Feral Vessel is currently running for their life with the Great Nailmaster Sly hot on their back.

“Give it back you impetuous brat!” Sly roars behind them as he bounces off the walls at unfathomable speeds. Ghost, now going by Feral, is only surviving thanks to their knowledge of Sly’s moves from the Godseeker’s Pantheons. Sly’s jumps are still wildly unpredictable to them, but their now longer legs help them meet the speed needed to dodge the flea’s grabs.

Why are they doing this in the first place?

Well because when a rule is made that the Feral Vessel isn’t allowed a nail in the palace, or in any location in Hollownest, the only reasonable way to follow that rule, if you are said Feral Vessel, is to obtain nails of increasing ridiculous sizes. They first took their sibling’s old nail after the Pure Vessel grew out of it, and then they continued from there. They thought of borrowing Sheo’s nail for a day, but they quickly realized after finding the three Nailmasters that they were still the three Nailstudents. They were adorable but small and didn’t have their nails.

So Sly was there and Feral had some lingering rage left over from the Pantheons and well, the decision wasn’t hard to make. Two aspids with one stone. Now they were finding out that conceptualizing that plan and executing that plan were completely different things.

How do they get him off their back!? They already tried losing him through the maze that is the White Palace but they could not build any distance between them and Sly to make the endless corners and hallways useful. They need something- anything-

A-HA! One of Hornet’s web traps! (ingenious sticky things that clung ruthlessly to the clothing of the royals that walked this palace.)

Feral musters up their soul to push themself into one last burst of speed. They dash over the top of the trap just as they hear Sly zooming right at their back. With a twist of their leg and a firm grip on the oversized nail they spin at the last moment and swat the flea with his own nail into the poorly hidden nest of sticky silk.

The indignant yell of rage made that whole marathon worth it.

Not wanting to squander their momentary freedom from Sly’s wrath, they quickly turn and hightail it out of there.

Left. Straight. Left. Right. Straight. Straight. Up. Up. Right. Left-

That should be enough, right? Feral slows down and leans against a wall to catch their breath. Great Pale Beings they have not felt that much adrenaline since the first time they danced with Grimm. They were safe, for now. Feral straightens up, adjusts the greatnail onto their back and looks around.

...

They glance back from where they came.

Where... is this? They know the palace like the back of their hand, even without the buzzsaws. This corridor isn’t familiar. There is only one open doorway with a shining pale light gently leaking into the tiled hallway. Curious yet cautious they approach. They had a sharp greatnail after all.

They step into the light and freeze as they see the towering form of the Queen leaning like a drifting tree over a lush bush. Her back was turned to them, maybe they could-

“Vessel,” her voice, even though a whisper is loud enough to seem like she’s speaking at normal volume. Feral had noticed that with all of the higher and pale beings they’ve known. They all whisper.

Still, they had conflicting feelings toward their mother that they hadn’t yet put into words. They were avoiding her. They still want to avoid her.

“Come, garden with me,” she says, not lifting her head an inch from her work. Feral itches to disobey, but the urge feels wrong. It doesn’t carry the same gleeful note that comes with directly ignoring the King’s orders. They don’t have a solid reason to dislike their mother and it doesn’t feel right to force one either.

It’s not often they feel hesitant, but the Queen has a fae-like air about her. She could hide cruel remarks in what seem to be compliments. They had seen her pick apart arguments to the letter until her opponent had nothing else to say. She wields her words like she would a nail, and a battlefield of diction is an area Feral is massively lacking in. Hopefully she doesn’t want much. Hopefully she wants them to retrieve some confusing herb or something.

Carefully, they enter the room— a green house— and slowly make their way over to the White Lady’s side. They peer over at what she’s tending to. It looks like a bundle of dozens of little blue buds. Her hands glow underneath and the flowers respond by drifting up gradually and opening their delicate petals.

Feral watches quietly.

“They are not what they make themself appear to be,” she says after a long pause. Feral tenses. She reaches to her side where a basket of tools hangs from a kingsmould that Feral didn’t realize was there and picks up a humorously small pair of scissors compared to her massive hands. She carefully begins to snip the bases of those small flowers, collecting them in one hand as they fall, “My senses may be fading as things do with time, but I am not yet so blind to see that they know things that they should not.”

Feral never tried to hide their emotions and personality when they emerged from the Abyss, but they found themself smothering their nervousness before it could leak out of them.

“… they are nervous?” The Queen finally turns to look at Feral with her slightly glassy blue eyes, “I did not intend my words to be a threat, but their reaction proves my thoughts correct.”

Feral maintains as much eye contact as they can before turning their gaze to the floor. The full force of a pale being’s attention wasn’t a thing most bugs could endure. She watches them. Silent. Considering.

“It is odd. I have wanted children of my own for so long, yet what I have received from this world is curious,” she turns back to the blue flowers and snips two more into her hand, “one offspring that is meant to be empty, yet wishes to be a child, and one offspring that acts like a child, yet has experienced more than a child should have.”

Feral feels an odd twisting in their gut. They want to leave, yet they now also want to stay. The Queen is perceptive, that was never a doubt and perhaps another reason why they avoided her. The fear of being known. Yet… now they are known and it’s more of a relief than anything. They slowly look back to her as she places the scissors back in the basket.

“I have wondered why, but I cannot come to a conclusion that satisfies me,” she places three flowers in her spare hand and begins to braid the stems, adding flowers as the braids start becoming short.

“Why do they hold their branch as if it were the familiar handle of a nail? Even though they are forbidden from holding their own?” More flowers are added into the craft she is making. It’s beginning to look circular. Feral watches quietly.

“How do they know to get charms and spells on their own?” She glances over at them, but doesn’t meet their eyes. They sense her gaze on their horns. She looks back down at the flowers and makes some sort of adjustment.

"Why do they stare at things that are not there?” Feral’s throat tightens with that question- or observation?

The Queen finally finishes whatever is in her hands and takes a step over to the Feral Vessel and leans down with an alien-like grace. Feral blinks as she threads the circle of flowers over their horns to then rest right at the base of their horns. They do not know why she is doing this, but they would not dare fight it. They have no desire to.

Her hands drift down from their horns to their face to gently cup and hold. Their eyes gently flutter. The warmth from her root palms seep into their mask as if they were sitting in a hot spring. With the warmth comes a feeling of peace. Understanding. Their eyes close and before they can catch themself they lean into her touch. They miss how her eyes soften as she rubs one of her thumbs against their temple.

“I thought I had been mistaken before, but I have noticed that their pranks on my beloved Wyrm have grown half hearted,” Feral’s chest sags in a mock-sigh and, not knowing why, they nod.

“Has the novelty of his frustrated yells gone stale?” They shake their head, shoulders lightly quivering as if laughing. They crack their eyes open to catch the end of a smile from their mother.

“Why is it then? Why have they lost their fire?”

Feral stays silent as that was all they can do, but the tightening of their brow and the way they pull away from the warm comfort of their mother’s hands speaks hundreds of unspoken words. They glance at their hands, clenching and unclenching them.

When they re-awoke at the bottom of the Abyss surrounded by the thousands of masks of their dead siblings they thought they had dream nailed the black egg at the bottom of the Abyss again, though they did not know how. Soon they realized after getting to the top alongside their sibling that it was not a dream, but reality. To their delight, they could act on their spans of anger and spite they had toward the Pale King.

They thought that once they had their fun they would go and defeat the Radiance by finding the Godseeker in the trash pit. They would scale the pantheons and destroy the infection before the Pure Vessel was sentenced to waste away in the Temple of the Black Egg. It was simple so they didn’t think hard about it.

Until they realized they didn’t have the dream nail. They stressed for a bit, but then thought they could go find the seer and ask for it again! When they made their way to the Resting Grounds however, her little burrow was nowhere to be seen. They truly panicked then, scouring Hollownest for any moths they could find, but the few ones they found were not the Seer. When they held up their, admittedly, crude drawings of the dream nail they were met with confused stares.

They felt scared, frustrated, anger, desperation and then numbness.

They had been trying to run away from these thoughts, but now they were back and plainly showing on their face for the Queen to read like a tablet. There is a long silence between them before her melody-like voice whispers once more.

“Do they know how to write?” She asks.

They shake their head. No. They barely knew how to read and that was from noticing patterns in the tablets and signs they stumbled across in Hollownest. The Queen stands up and with her Feral’s eyes follow.

“I will teach you my child. Come, and perhaps while you learn you may give me your name. Feral is such a harsh word to be called by.”

Feral watches the White Lady as she walks deeper into the greenhouse. Did she just… say she was going to teach them how to write? They would never have a voice to speak on their own with, but to have the power of script in their grasp…

Excitement sparks their step as they quickly run back to her side, looking up at her with such strong wonder that she can’t believe she ever doubted her offspring weren’t hollow. The crown of flowers bounce on their head with each eager step.

“Now it will take some time for us to get the right writing utensils, but perhaps the first thing you could tell me when you can write is how you got that massive nail on your back.”

#hollowknight #hollow knight #hk #shitlordAU #feral vessel #ghost #the white lady #myart #fanart #writingwords #asks #sly #WOOOF #i am worded out #i also didn't want to draw WL over and over

[xwasted-days]

𝖘𝖆𝖋𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖘𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 || 𝖇.𝖍.

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Reader

A/N: It’s probably been done before, but I wanted to throw together a little song-fic based on Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift ft. The Civil Wars. I’m sappy and I like sad things. Also, this is my first tumblr fic, pls be nice. Requests are open and I have no tag-list, because it’s a new blog. 

Work Count: 2, 276

Complete Story Warnings: Major Character Death, Pure Angst, 10/10 sad. Also, probably language. 

The battle of Starcourt was turning in favor of the party and all therein, but war was never without casualty. 

Billy Hargrove had a questionable character and reputation among most in Hawkins. People wanted him as a friend or a fuck, and those that didn’t wanted him gone. Few succeeded in ever knowing Billy as more than the sad little king of his sad little hill, and even fewer knew the plights he faced at home. A minimal two: Max, the step sister, and Y/N, the girlfriend, who rushed into the center of the mall behind Mike Wheeler, unable to help as Billy threw himself in El’s path. Y/N moved before her mind could register: scrambling forward when Billy caught the mindflayer’s clawed gullet in his hands. Those beautiful, calloused hands with the feather-soft touch. She took another step forward, faltering as a tentacle dug into his left side, the sickening crunch of torn flesh and splintering ribs echoing in the building silence. The second hit came and she rushed forward again, slipping on fragments of broken glass. Y/N’s knees hit the ground hard, the sharp sting barely registering as the hits kept coming, clawing all around his torso. He screamed each time, every cry cutting off in a strangled garble at the sharp shock of another tentacle landing its blows. Billy screamed, daring the monster on, and Y/N screamed, begging it all to stop. 

The final blow landed in the center of Billy’s chest, silencing him. Max’s scream sounded somewhere behind her. 

As the mindflayer pulled away, thrashing, snarling, wailing in defeat, Y/N ran forward, slipping in rapidly pooling blood as she pulled Billy to her chest. 

I remember tears streaming down your face, when I said, “I’ll never let you go.”

The words, even as they left Y/N’s lips, felt like the deepest and most real thing she’d expressed since the moment he was taken by the mindflayer. 

Since the darkness had fallen over Hawkins, she’d felt vacant, plastic, unreal. She supposed the notion came first when Barb had gone missing; when the trio of sub-popular girls was first fractured. Everything seemed to fall apart until Y/N found out what really happened to Barb, what was haunting Will Byers, and what hunted the people of Hawkins.  

Life was a ceaseless ebb and flow of highs and lows; still, she never expected the tide to pull away as it was now. Nothing could compare to this feeling: her boyfriend tucked in her arms, fading away before her, was what would cause the tidal wave to break. 

Cool and fragile, the rapid thundering of his heart beneath Y/N’s palm, the salt of crystalline tears sliding off his angled pale, cheek, his hand gripping her arm as he clung to waning life. Billy opened his mouth, hoping for any words to form. None did. He felt the pain with each blow, but as the creature yanked itself away and Billy fell, there was no sensation. Nothing but an icy numbness. After his mom left, Billy prayed for nothing more than to lose his feeling, and now it was gone he wanted it back. 

He wanted it back because he wanted to stay with her. He’d always known he was a selfish bastard, but this instance wasn’t for himself. It was for her; his Y/N. The only girl he gave a shit about for longer than one night at a time. And now, he was going to lose her. “..I-” he struggled again, shivering in her arms. 

When all those shadows almost killed your light

“Shh,” Y/N cooed, bringing her hand up to brush sweaty, blonde curls off of his forehead, ignoring the scene that played out around them. Billy was never meant to get caught in this crossfire; he was meant to be as he always was: cocky, stupid, young and reckless. Seated atop his lifeguard seat, staring out over the crowds of Hawkins Community Pool as a king surveyed his kingdom. Instead, he was out there, vulnerable to to the upside down, taken as so many others had been.

Y/N glanced down at the gaping, bloody hole that forced the pale colored fabric of the shirt at Billy’s chest to dip inward, the rich, viscous, and sickly stain making her stomach churn. She bit hard on the inside of her cheek, a meager attempt at staunching her tears as she played strong for Billy’s sake. She felt his hand at her arm give a squeeze, her attentions drawing back toward the boy in her lap. Y/E/C eyes connecting to Billy’s steely blue ones again, she offered a shaky smile, her thumb smoothing along the arch of his cheek. 

I remember you said, "Don't leave me here alone…"

Billy’s voice was soft and hoarse, barely audible as the commotion of the party and the mindflayer fizzled on around them. The fair haired, beautiful boy Y/N had fallen so deeply for let out a soft grunt of protest at the ache, his body twitching involuntarily as pain coursed through him.

“Think you can get rid of me that easily, ya little shit?” Y/N asked with a gentle chuckle, keeping her shaky grin to ease Billy’s worry. Her tears flowed more freely now, slipping down her cheeks as she held him close. “Gotta try a whole helluva lot harder than that, Hargrove. You and me. California, remember?” 

The broken king of Hawkins High put on a woozy, pale-lipped smile and hiccupped on a sob, coughing after. A soft mist of blood peppered his lips and chin, staining his teeth crimson. California, their would-be paradise, far away from Indiana and all their worries. He’d sworn up and down that they would leave one day, go back to his home and flourish in ways unimaginable. His promise now seemed as broken as he was. He was fading. Y/N didn’t have enough time.

But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight.

The flutter of Billy’s heart was growing more and more faint, and the beats, which willed themselves with great difficulty, grew slower and slower in their efforts. 

Billy leaned his weight further into Y/N’s body, slack and woozy. All the coherency in his head fading. She had promised that wouldn’t leave, said she wouldn’t let go, but she had. Or hadn’t she? He could hardly tell, his vision fading in and out, gleams of purple and pink, the hazy sound of distant chatter. Billy felt his chest heave with a great gasp, and his jaw open and close with the effort of breath. It happened again, and again. He felt hands on his arms, squeezing, but he couldn’t register the effect of the sensation. He was cold, so cold. He wished so vehemently that he could ask Y/N what was going on, but Billy couldn’t seem to find his tongue. 

That’s a first, he thought, trying to squeeze back the person in his numbed fingers. Every bit of him was so cold, probably frozen from where he had been, lost in darkness with the delicate snowfall. He was sure another erratic breath would leave him in shards. His head lulled to the side, hardly-seeing eyes registering the plume of Y/H/C and a small streak of fiery red. He searched between them, hoping to register on either of the faces that peered down on him, but none came. He coughed, gagging on something oozing in his throat, feeling hands tighten and voices raise. 

Soft curls of blonde hair fell over her his forehead, even as Y/N pushed them away, shifting his weight so Billy’s head was more firmly pressed to her chest. He was growing more and more still, even as she and Max begged him to stay. The girl took a breath, fighting down the body-trembling sob that wedged in her throat. “Billy? Wake up, Billy, please?” She asked, watching a tear of her own fall down to slip against his cheek, rolling down onto his stubbled chin.

Billy took a deep, shuddering breath, so loud he scared himself. He'd forgotten to breathe, and the muted voices he heard in his haze kept him there. Her voice. The voice he listened to in the quiet solitude of a shared bedroom, or in the crowded halls of Hawkins High. The voice he grew to love before he could even remember what love felt like. The voice he wanted to hear for the rest of his life. 

He blinked, trying to clear the tears in his eyes, focusing on Y/N and Max hovering above him.

“....I’m sorry.” Billy shuddered as his eyes glossed over,  a sudden cloud overtaking his vision. The clarity of the world was fading into shapes, then shadows, and careening rapidly into darkness. There was a loud bang somewhere near him and had he retained the strength, he would have jumped. Another bang. And another. One, two. One, two. One. Two. One. Two, each pair of beats getting further and further apart. Billy breathed out, defeated, overcome by the realization that those noises were thuds of his heart stopping. He couldn't see, he couldn't feel, he couldn’t taste anything but the heavy black goop on his tongue, he could only smell the coppery, acrid stink of blood that clogged his sinuses. All that was left was hearing; Billy was caught listening to the terrible, awful rhythm of his once-small heart, stopping. He listened again, hoping to hear the voices, praying they would draw him out of it, but there was no sound. Nothing. Not even the beating of his heart. Just his remaining consciousness, slowly going black. Billy Hargrove was dead, he knew. He wanted to scream, to panic and cry, but nothing was there. 

He didn't see the light that everyone blathered about, he didn't feel the peace. He was the hollow, lifeless shell of a boy who could have been more than a lifeguard with an attitude problem. And he was dead. And he left her behind. 

His beautiful Y/N, whose voice and smiles and touches were forfeit to the darkness that consumed. 

Don't you dare look out your window, darling, everything's on fire. The war outside our door keeps raging on. Hold onto this lullaby, even when the music's gone. 

Y/N  felt the final, sickening beat of Billy’s heart beneath her hand. Another tear fell onto Billy’s face, then another. And another. Max whispered, begging her step brother to wake, her small hands shaking his bloodied shoulders to no avail. A hard, broken, centuries old sob tore through Y/N’s chest and echoed through the mall; the cry of everyone who had lost someone they loved for good. The cry that begged death to return a loved one to the land of the living that always fell on deaf ears. 

“Billy, please,” she whimpered, trembling fingers soothing the lifeless skin of the boy she loved. Every thought, hope, wish, and dream connected to him was gone, dead as he was. 

Jagged orange patterns began to dance on the ground all around them, and offered the girl nothing but a ghastly illumination along her lost lover’s gaunt, pale face. It made him look hollow, as if no happiness, no mischief, no curiosity had once been lurking behind those coy, gorgeous eyelids. His once tanned, golden flesh was sickly and pale, the adonis within snuffed out forever. Y/N  snarled and sobbed hard, holding Billy closer, hiding him from the sickening yellowed light of the fire that grew.

She heard feet scramble around as the party gathered, their footfalls echoing like hard beat of the drums of war.

Villains never prevailed. Heroes never lived. No one was ever truly saved. Y/N’s shoulders caved and shook as she sobbed, broken and holding onto Billy’s body. Stifling a hiccup, she sighed sadly and started humming and rocking him back and forth; their song mumbled on tear-stained lips. She was chained to her place on the ground, lost. 

She didn’t see the others there, she couldn’t hear their words. She didn’t take notice when Max hid her face in El’s shoulder and sobbed for her lost brother.  

The world around her was crumbling into vacant nothingness and Y/N felt herself heave with another sob. She leaned back, her blood stained fingers gently brushing the infallible, pure flesh of Billy’s cold cheek, smoothing the tears she’d left there away with another broken whimper. “I love you…” She whispered longingly, her voice needy and raspy. 

A hand pressed to Y/N’s shoulder. It didn’t matter whose it was. It wasn’t his. And she hated that it pulled her back. The distant thrum of helicopters rattling in the skies, the sobs that left Max as she cried, the soft sniffles that sounded from El as she sat in mourning solidarity with her friend. Steve’s voice low as sirens began to wail in the streets. 

“Y/N. We gotta go,” Steve said, joined at her flank by Robin, whose thin hand came to rest on Y/N’s arm. She didn’t move. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t leave him. Another sob leaving her, Robin leaned forward to rest her head on Y/N’s shoulder, rubbing her arm gently as she could, tears flooding her own eyes as she looked across to Steve’s battered face. 

Harrington hated Hargrove with all he had, but he didn’t deserve this. Y/N didn’t deserve this. Nostrils quivering as he fought to keep strong, he gave Robin a solemn nod. Together, they helped place Billy on the ground where he fell and pull Y/N back, consoling her as she cried. 

Just close your eyes. The sun is going down You'll be alright.  No one can hurt you now Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound.

#bh. #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove #st3 #stranger things #oneshot #billy hargrove oneshot #stranger things billy #stranger things fanfiction #fan fiction #song fic

[mrsjadecurtiss]

A different ask! What do you think Roose actually feels about Ramsay? Just before the Red Wedding he talks very dismissively about how Ramsay could be executed for his crimes, but obviously he knows Robb's never gonna get the chance so maybe he cares more than that. But Ramsay (probably) killed precious Domeric? What does he actually feel about him and potential Walda baby(-ies)?

Thank you for your question :) I have divided my answer into points regarding the different aspects of your ask.

What do you think Roose actually feels about Ramsay?

In regards to the Roose-Ramsay relationship, some facts are important:

Roose did not raise Ramsay, and as far as we know did not interact with him in his childhood beyond the two times the miller's wife came to him after his birth. ("She was never to tell the boy who had fathered him." - Reek III, aDwD) All he knew about Ramsay was that he was his son, had his grey eyes, and was "wild and unruly" (the reason Ramsay's mom demanded a servant).

"Lord Bolton has never acknowledged the boy, so far as I know," Ser Rodrik said. "I confess, I do not know him." - Bran II, aCoK

Ramsay only came to the Dreadfort in 297AC (after Domeric died). This is extremely recent - for context, we have Dany chapters in aGoT taking place as early as 297AC, and the War of the five Kings starts at the end of 298 AC according to this timeline.

As a consequence, since Roose leaves the Dreadfort for the War of the five Kings, he assumed a paternal role for Ramsay in between 297AC and at most very early 299AC (The timeline has the battle of the green fork in January 6 and he'd need to travel to the south before that in the first place). This is only between 1-2 years depending on how early or late that year Domeric died (Shoutout to @blueagia who made me realize this timeline years ago).

Ramsay is violent and cruel, but not stupid (Roose even says he is “cunning” in Catelyn VI, aSoS). He was able to present himself as an ally to Theon in aCoK, and it stands to reason he might have given a salvagable impression to Roose at the beginning while he was testing the waters. Ned Stark is a just man who tried to execute the remote-living Jorah Mormont for slave trade; Since he never went after Ramsay, we can assume whatever Ramsay did during his time with Roose was discreet enough that word did not get to Lord Eddard, and so at the beginning Roose must have had no reason to complain too much about Ramsay's conduct either.

Eddard Stark had never had any reason to complain of the Lord of the Dreadfort, so far as Jon knew. - Jon VII, aDwD

"No tales were ever told of me. Do you think I would be sitting here if it were otherwise? Your amusements are your own, I will not chide you on that count, but you must be more discreet. A peaceful land, a quiet people. That has always been my rule. Make it yours." - Reek III, aDwD

Roose gets a legitimization for Ramsay as part of his benefit from doing the Red Wedding, showing that back then he still had an intention of keeping him as his son and heir. However, returning from the war in the south shows Roose how bad Ramsay's political decisions are when left on his own, including:

Leaving Donella Hornwood for dead, horrifically abusing Theon who is a valuable hostage and a potential ally, being unable to keep good optics and alienating his allies ("Surely you misspeak. You never slew Lord Eddard's sons, those two sweet boys we loved so well. [...] How many of our grudging friends do you imagine we'd retain if the truth were known? Only Lady Barbrey, whom you would turn into a pair of boots … " - Reek III, aDwD), abusing his wife "Arya Stark" who is beloved by their Northern allies, and more...

We see in the aDwD Theon chapters that Roose is still giving Ramsay advice and counsel (see again the Reek III quote), however he also appears to be despairing of him:

"I know." Lord Bolton sighed. "His blood is bad. He needs to be leeched. The leeches suck away the bad blood, all the rage and pain. No man can think so full of anger. Ramsay, though … his tainted blood would poison even leeches, I fear." - Reek III, aDwD

We also see in later Theon chapters that he frequently holds meetings without Ramsay:

[Roose:] "The hall is not the place for such discussions, my lords. Let us adjourn to the solar whilst my son consummates his marriage. The rest of you, remain and enjoy the food and drink." - The Prince of Winterfell, aDwD

Lord Bolton was not alone. Lady Dustin sat with him, pale-faced and severe; an iron horsehead brooch clasped Roger Ryswell's cloak; Aenys Frey stood near the fire, pinched cheeks flushed with cold.  - A Ghost in Winterfell, aDwD

[Lady Dustin said] "Roose is not pleased. Tell your bastard that." - The Turncloak, aDwD

Implying he is losing faith in his son, or otherwise does not trust him or value his input when it comes to political situations; a bad omen considering heirs like Robb usually sit with their fathers in councils.

My impression is that Roose initially adopted Ramsay as an heir for the following reasons:

- Sentimentality, since Ramsay is a son of his own blood ("I should've had the mother whipped and thrown her child down a well … but the babe did have my eyes." [...] "Now [Domeric's] bones lie beneath the Dreadfort with the bones of his brothers, who died still in the cradle, and I am left with Ramsay. Tell me, my lord … if the kinslayer is accursed, what is a father to do when one son slays another?" - Reek III aDwD). As a member of a patriarchal society, Roose was raised with the expectation that he will continue his bloodline, and so likely has the wish to be succeeded by his son.

- Practicality, since Ramsay is already an adult, so he doesn't have to raise and invest in another child for years ("That's for the best. I will not live long enough to see new sons to manhood, and boy lords are the bane of any House." - Reek III, aDwD). [Speculation: For a new son, he would also have to remarry, and both his prior wives are implied to not have liked him ("The two before her never made a sound in bed" - Reek III, aDwD) while he also doesnt speak of them with fondness - so he might also prefer to be single and raise his bastard instead of having to deal with yet another unpassionate/unloving marriage (considering he's middle aged and uncharismatic, a young new wife wouldn't be thrilled about him), until he finds a marriage that provides him a good benefit (like the Frey money + alliance).]

- The belief that, despite Ramsay being raised a peasant and having violent tendencies, it is possible to "educate him" so that he becomes a functioning member of society (see again my point about Roose counseling him). Roose possibly initially projects some of his own personality on Ramsay (Compare this meta i wrote).

During aGoT-aSoS he must have still thought Ramsay viable, which is why he has him legitimized by the crown. He has not known Ramsay closely for long; This explains why he kept him around even though he is so unfit as an heir (it takes time to fully realize that), but also explains why he is so dismissive of him, as that short time of knowing him as an adult would not make him fond of Ramsay the same way one might be fond of a child they raised.

Roose then realizes after the war, as seen in a Dance with Dragons, that Ramsay is not a fitting heir. What this means for the later books is open for now... Will he abandon Ramsay? Use him as a scapegoat? Or still try to salvage him? I personally believe he is starting to see Ramsay as a danger, and is starting to think about how to best get rid of him.

Just before the Red Wedding he talks very dismissively about how Ramsay could be executed for his crimes, but obviously he knows Robb's never gonna get the chance so maybe he cares more than that.

My belief is that Roose is fundamentally selfish and worried about his own skin. While he has the goal to establish Ramsay as a capable heir, he prioritizes his own safety and reputation. By distancing himself from Ramsay's crimes in front of the other Northmen, he can't be blamed for them; by using Ramsay as a scapegoat for Bolton crimes, he himself can wash his hands from the involvement and won't be hurt if any crimes come to light. If he keeps pointing attention at how Ramsay is wild/cruel/treacherous, then the northmen are more likely to suspect/blame Ramsay than the "peaceful" Roose. Also, even if he cared for Ramsay, he would never openly admit it because it's something that could be used against him (same reason as to why he generally keeps his emotions under wraps).

If you compare this scene from aCoK (where Ramsay is believed dead) with the scene you mentioned from aSoS, you can see that to prioritize his own safety and reputation he will sacrifice Ramsay; but he will also defend Ramsay ("Yet he is a good fighter, as cunning as he is fearless.") as long as it serves his interests, of course while still keeping an emotional distance.

One important thing about Roose is that he does not always say the things he actually thinks; When looking at his quotes it is not only important to look at what he says, but which intentions he has with his words and what effect he wants them to have on the person listening. Compare this quote by grrm:

Lord Bolton may well have all sorts of things in mind. Whether or not he would act on any of those thoughts is another matter. Roose is the sort of fellow who keeps his thoughts to himself. - SSM

But Ramsay (probably) killed precious Domeric

"Ramsay killed him. A sickness of the bowels, Maester Uthor says, but I say poison." - Roose in Reek III, aDwD

This is speculative, but I personally believe that case is not as clear-cut as it is made to look. Poisoning Domeric does not necessarily seem like Ramsay's style; i often see people in fandom suspect that his mother is actually the culprit. I personally suspect the first Reek of killing Domeric - we know he once stole perfume, meaning he knows his way around the castle, and he also got looked at by a maester implying he might know the maester’s chamber where poisons could be kept. He has ample reason to hate Roose, who let him live with the pigs and had him whipped and later sent him to live with Ramsay, but also seems to have interest in improving Ramsay's status ("She made him, her and Reek, always whispering in his ear about his rights." - Reek III aDwD). He is also known to be inseperable from Ramsay, so if Ramsay went to meet Domeric, Reek would come with him.

Either way it could be that Roose just didnt initially believe Ramsay killed Domeric since it looked like he died from sickness, and only later changed his mind on this issue - note that Barbrey Dustin, whom he is implied to have regularly spent time with shortly before the quote about Ramsay killing Domeric, seems to be a believer that Ramsay was the murderer, so she might be the one who convinced Roose; And maybe Ramsay's bad conduct during the time of the war aided to make Roose believe her. Changing his mind on this could influence his decision on what to do with Ramsay come the Winds of Winter.

Or alternatively, if we’re keeping closer to the text, he just thought the positives of keeping Ramsay outweigh the negatives of him being a kinslayer; however it seems odd that Roose, who is so worried about his safety, would adopt a man if his first act he knows of was this treacherous and dangerous. Then again he frequently verbally states that he does not see Ramsay as a threat, which can be read in different ways depending on if you take it as a literal statement or as a tool to enact dominance over his dangerous son.

"All you have I gave you. You would do well to remember that, bastard.” [...]

“I know what he said. You're to spy on me and keep his secrets." Bolton chuckled. "As if he had secrets. Sour Alyn, Luton, Skinner, and the rest, where does he think they came from? Can he truly believe they are his men?"  - Reek III, aDwD

What does he actually feel about him and potential Walda baby(-ies)?

I think he would like to have a son that continues his values and manages to be a capable heir to continue the Bolton line. Domeric was the ideal son, talented and competent, and Roose invested a lot of time and money in giving him a great education. Now that Domeric died and all of this is down the drain, and Roose himself isn't getting any younger, he wants to have a new heir in a way that's the most convenient for him. It appears to me like he is currently weighing the positives of each option (Ramsay or new Baby), and it might even be that he has already come to a decision, considering how he is starting to grow frustrated with Ramsay.

"I have become oddly fond of my fat little wife. [...] Ramsay will kill [all the sons she bears me], of course. That's for the best. I will not live long enough to see new sons to manhood, and boy lords are the bane of any House." - Reek III, aDwD

In line with my earlier point about Roose’ words also being about the effect and not just the message, I believe the line about him being ok with Ramsay killing his sons might be very calculated towards the fact that Roose knows Theon is to report everything he hears back to Ramsay. If Ramsay hears this, he is placated, because it confirms that he is still the main Bolton heir - which means that he does not have to think about harming Lady Walda (because the sons are no threat to his position), and he does not have to think about harming Roose (because he just has to wait until he can succeed him).

Of course all of this post is based off the first five books, so the interpretation may change once the next book comes out or through a different reading of the lines.

#asoiaf #roose bolton #ramsay bolton #asoiaf meta #meta #asks #i have a cold i hope this is coherent as a whole... if you have questions feel free to come into my ask box #mzyraj

[pupil-of-law]

“ stop squirming— it will hurt less. ” (William)

@mettleborn

It was a sunny winter’s day when B Company marched into Trematon Castle. The rest of the regiment were already infesting the grounds with munitions stores, mess tents and all the accoutrements of a temporary barracks.  Campaign tables and office equipment was being carried inside the house, and Sebastian angled his gaze down as a young ensign came running up to the cluster of mounted officers by the door and gave a nervous salute. ‘Captain Reed! Trouble from the Master of the house, just as they said Captain.’

Sebastian stilled a moment. He had not expected him to still be here. Somewhere, something burned within him, a cold fire which made his pale eyes even paler as he glanced up to see the figure of a middle-aged man striding through the hall towards them. The horses stamped and fidgeted, and for a moment Sebastian felt equally unsettled. He tightened his jaw as he watched the man approach, then jumped down in his bright uniform to meet him. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, his eyes fixed unflinchingly on their reluctant host, though not bothering to address him. How many years had it been since he had seen this face? ‘This was Lord William Cavendish the Earl of Cornwall, owner of Trematon Castle.’ The few chuckles of amusement at the use of past tense from above did not dispel the cool contact between the two. ‘What are you now? Now that everyone knows you’re the most vile fiend this country ever spawned. No pretty wife? I can’t say I am surprised.’

Sebastian was engaging no subtlety at all in his visual assessment of Cavendish, from the new lines around his eyes, the slight thinning of his hair, to the shabbiness of his state of dress. Though his face retained its usual severity - Sebastian was known as one of the cruelest officers in the Hussars - it was possible someone who had known him before might just notice the hint of melancholy in his eyes as he took in how much had changed since he’d been at war.

‘Captain Lieutenant Reed, of the King’s Royal Hussars. I’m in charge of this regiment, and therefore now of this house.’ The satisfaction of this moment was almost unparalleled in his entire career. He extended a gloved hand. But whatever Cavendish might have been about to do with it, instead of waiting Sebastian gripped the man’s arm in a vice, pulled him sharply forwards by it, and with the other hand swung a fist hard at the bone below his eye. Deaf to the scuffles of surprise behind them, Sebastian gripped Cavendish by the back of his hair and helped lower him to his knees. ‘Shh. Shh, old man. Go down easy. Don’t try to struggle with me.’ Another hit, this time to the stomach and he didn’t give William time to launch a counter-attack - for he knew the man had it in him and he was enjoying his display of power far too much to let William try and compromise it.

As soon as he looked about to speak, Sebastian swiftly intervened, drawing his cavalry sword to hold the man up against his own wall. ‘Keep your filthy mouth closed.’ At twenty-six he had not only become taller and more handsome, but the years in which they had lost sight of each other had seen off the last of Sebastian’s religious naivety. If he had never have met William, perhaps he would not have turned into the man he was, but there was a certain poetic justice in William meeting the product of his influence now.

‘The Earl will give you no more trouble, Officers,’ he said, releasing the hand fisted tightly in William’s neck-tie. ‘I’ll show him back up to his bedchamber.’

As Captain Reed disappeared, a young private carrying a stack of maps was heard to wonder to his friend ’How's the Captain know where ‘is bedchamber is?’ 

#you see why i didn't post it lmao #goodnight to the ghost of leo tolstoy who apparently jumped into me three hours ago

[rexcoatlarchive]

Servant profile: Kukulkan (Quetz alter)

Class: Lancer

Master: Rex

True name: Kukulkan

Alignment: chaotic good

Origin: mayan mythology

Region: central america/mexico

Height: taller then you

Gender: female

Appearance: Kuku is a tall muscular women, with an appearance that roughly matches a woman in her 20's. She has pale white skin, golden snake like eyes, razor sharp teeth, and a forked tongue. Her clothing matches closely with the original Quetzalcoatl but colored an obsidian black with blood red accents, with a very different looking headdress consisting almost entirely of feathers. In later ascensions her limbs are covered in what appears to be a golden paint, a possible reference to "el hombre dorado"

Str: B+

Agl: B

Luck: B+

End: A

Mp: A

Np: EX

Passive skills:

Magic resistance A

Riding EX

Core of the goddess EX

Active skills:

Charisma A

Fury of the war god A+

Ruda fighter EX

Noble phantasms:

Xiuhcoatl

Rank: anti-army, anti-fortress.

Unlike her original self who uses the noble phantasm as a bombastic lucha plancha this version manifests the noble phantasm in the form of a huge fire serpent (the pterosaur) to set the whole enemy team ablaze.

Quetzalcoatl

Giant cretaceous Era dragon kin. She is able to summon them like her original self, but she is unable to access the full storm powers connected to the creature thanks to her class.

Gem of Kukulkan

Unlike her counterpart Kuku was worshiped as a more wind focused diety. As such rather then the sun stone the original wields, she has the wind gem. Use of this noble phantasm allows for near complete control of the winds, and even earthquakes.

Created after a mishap involving the human master Rex and a holy grail, Kukulkan is an alternative version of the servant Quetzalcoatl where the violent war god/warrior king aspects are put at the forefront. She is still obsessed with lucha libre, but now acts like a ruda type wrestler. She's constantly picking fights with strong looking servants and will not hesitate to attack anyone She doesn't like. She still retains the gentler aspects of the original but they only show up around Rex and anyone else She may care about.

A/N: so since I made up a servant in the last big story I decided she needed a servant profile too. Most of the more game focused stuff was just thrown in randomly so if it doesn't make too much sense that's because I'm not really one for game balancing and such. Would you guys pull for her if she was an actual servant? I know I would.

Tags @panyum @hasereshdoneanythingwrong @hasishtardoneanythingwrong @haspaulbunyandoneanythingwrong @castlecsejtespeakertechnician @hasabbydoneanythingwrong @grievouslyxorvia @gxymlky

#fate grand order #servant profile #kukulkan

[stargazer-balladeer]

Happy Birthday [Y/N]! [Fire Emblem: Fates - Conquest]

[Nohr Siblings x Sibling! GN! Reader]

Requested by: @bagel-prince​

Note: Hi! Thank you again for requesting! I hope you’ll like this one! (PS: I don’t really know if it’s a surprise party or not, but I decided to make it a surprise party. Hope you don’t mind :P. If you want, pls request again for a different one.) I REALLY love Fire Emblem, including the Nohr siblings (mainly Leo but--) Let’s get to the One-Shot! By the way, your NOT Corrin in this, she’s a separate human (dragon) being. ENJOY!

Reader’s Gender: Neutral

Warning: None

Word Count: 1950

Hushed voices and hurried footsteps can be heard throughout the halls of Krakenburg Castle. It was still early in the morning when the young (princess/prince) woke up from their slumber. They rub their eyes as they tried to get rid of their sleepiness. They blink a bit before lowering their hands and yawning. “What’s with all those noises?” [Y/N] muttered, slightly annoyed at the noise for waking them up. 

Then the door flung open abruptly, making the poor royal (princess/prince) jump in surprise. They look over at the door, only to smile at the familiar sight of her sibling. “Sister!” [Y/N] cheerfully exclaimed as they hurriedly got out to bed to embrace her purple-haired sister. Camilla chuckled as she drop down to her knees to hug her younger sister. “Hello, dear (sister/brother). I see you’re already awake.” Camilla said in her sultry voice while running her fingers through [Y/N]’s hair.

[Y/N] pouts in response. “Because it’s so noise, sister.” Camilla only chuckles as she puts her hand under [Y/N]’s bottom and stand up along with her sibling, effectively carrying them. [Y/N] gasp as they hug Camilla tighter, afraid to fall. Camilla chuckles once more as she walks towards the (princess/prince) bed. “Maybe because they are busy, dear (sister/brother).” Camilla said as she puts down [Y/N] on the bed.

“Busy with what, sister?” [Y/N] asked as they watch her go to their closet and open it, revealing their set of clothes. Camilla hums in response as she picks up clothes and inspecting them. “Oh? You don’t know, dear?” Camilla twirls the clothing around before letting out a smile and nodding to herself. She closed the doors of the closet and walks over to [Y/N]. 

[Y/N] looks at her in wonder. “Why? Is there something I should know of?” Then their gaze fell down to the clothing Camilla has in her hands. Their brows rising in surprise. “And am I going to wear that?” The clothing she has is one of their favorites, and they only wear it for special occasions. For Camilla to pick this outfit means something is happening today. They look at her only to see amusement dancing in her eyes and lips. 

“You really don’t know, [Y/N]?” Camilla chimed, an innocent smile still present on her face. [Y/N] thought about it a bit more, trying to recall what is so special about today before shaking their head. Instead of a disappointed sigh that [Y/N] was expecting, Camilla chuckles. [Y/N] blinks at her, confused at their sister’s behavior. “Oh! This is marvelous!” Camilla laughed. 

Camilla calms down after a while, coughing a bit before smiling ever-so-gently at her youngest sibling. “Forgive me, (sister/brother). But I must go now. Brother Xander is requesting my presence today. You better clean up now.” Camilla instructed as she calmly starts to walk towards the door. [Y/N] following her movement. She opens the door, and before she’s fully out. She looks at her sibling over her shoulder. “See you later, [Y/N].” And with that, she closes the door with a click of the knob.

[Y/N] stares at the door for a couple of minutes before releasing a sigh. “Why is sister acting so weird today?” [Y/N] wondered out aloud before shrugging it off and started getting ready for the day.

——

“Brother!” [Y/N] called when they saw Leo’s familiar back on their way to the kitchen. They noticed Leo’s sudden tense when they called out to him, and how hesitant to turn towards them. He looks down to [Y/N] with a weak and wry smile on his face, but they noticed Leo’s hands behind him, hiding something from them. “(S-Sister/B-Brother)! What a surprise!” [Y/N]’s frown went deeper as they crossed their arms in front of their chest. “Why so tense, brother?” 

Leo’s eyes weren’t looking directly at theirs, which made the young (princess/prince) of Nohr suspicious. “I.. I’m not sure what you’re talking about, [Y/N].” Leo’s acting weird, Camilla’s acting weird, what’s next? That horses can fly now? (Well there’s pegasus but that’s besides the point). [Y/N] huffs while crossing their arms in front of them. “Why are you and sister Camilla acting weird this early in the morning? What is today that I should know of?” [Y/N] is determined to find out why.

Leo was sweating while looking away from the burning gaze of his young sibling. He looks pale. He opens his mouth to say something but someone cuts him off before he could utter a word. “Prince Leo, Prince Xander is requesting your presence.” A familiar sultry voice said as both siblings turn their head to meet a smirking white-haired retainer of Leo’s. “Niles!” Both siblings exclaimed in surprise. Niles rolled his eyes, whether playfully or not, [Y/N] couldn’t tell. 

“Yes. My name is Niles.” Niles said dryly, sarcasm dripping from his mouth. “Also, haven’t you heard what I said? Prince Xander is requesting you, Prince Leo.” Leo raise a brow at this, looking confuse at what Niles is saying. “But why would--” “Immediately.” Niles interrupted with a slight glare and scowl on his face. Leo’s confused face shift to realization as he nodded his head swiftly. “Very well.”

He then turns to a very confused [Y/N] and slightly bowed his head. “Excuse me, dear (sister/brother), but I must go. Have a good day.” And with that, both Leo and Niles started to walk away, but not before Niles giving you a wink. [Y/N] stare at their retreating figures, who seem to be fighting about something, as they walk towards wherever Xander is. 

[Y/N]’s frown went deeper, almost like a scowl, with furrowed brows and slight pout on her mouth. “What is today?” She asked in exasperation as she continued her way towards the kitchen.

——

“(Princess/Prince) [Y/N]!” [Y/N] jumped at the sudden shout as they swiftly turned around to meet one of Xander’s retainer, Laslow. He was running towards them and skidded to stop just before he could land on them. He was huffing and sweating profusely, like he ran from Hoshido to [Y/N]’s front. [Y/N] tilted their head slightly at the sudden appearance of the flirt. “What is it, Laslow?”

Laslow took a deep breath after regaining his usual breathing and lets out a gentle smile to the young Nohr sibling. “Princess Elise and Princess Corin wants to eat with you in the garden, they are requesting you, mi(lady/lord),” He explained while putting one hand on his hip. [Y/N]’s eyes widened at what the retainer said as their eyes began to sparkle. “Sister Corrin is here?!” Laslow internally melted at the sight of [Y/N]’s eyes sparkling. He laughs at what they said as he nodded his head.

“Yes, your father agreed for Princess Corrin to come here.” [Y/N]’s excited smile faltered a bit at this revelation. Laslow noticed this as he think of what he previously said before his eyes widened at his accidental slip. “Father?” King Garon rarely lets Corrin out of that fortress. Usually they were the one visiting her, not the other way around. And yet now, Corrin was allowed to visit them in the Castle of Krakenburg. This made [Y/N] even more suspicious of the sudden arrival of her dear sister. “But why would Father allow sister Corrin to come her on her own?”

Laslow nervously laugh as he cough behind his hand. “I-I believe they are still awaiting for your arrival, (Princess/Prince) [Y/N].” [Y/N] snapped to him as they sigh and smiled at him. “Whatever his reason may be, I guess I can entertain them. Take me to where they are.” [Y/N] ordered as Laslow excitedly nodded his head, internally sighing in relief that his head would stay intact, for now.

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

“Sisters.. may I ask a question?” [Y/N] asked as they sip on their tea. They were currently outside in the garden. They were sitting in a ‘Y’-shape, Elise and Corrin on the two end. They were accompanied by Jakob, Silas, Kaze and servants of the Castle. The two female sisters hummed in response as Corrin nodded her head, beckoning for the (princess/prince) to continue. [Y/N] scowl as they set down their teacup to the saucer.

“Why is everyone acting so weird today?” They asked as both Corrin and Elise flinch at her question. This goes not unnoticed by the [H/C]-haired (girl/boy), which made her scowl deeper. “See.. even you two are acting weird.” [Y/N] sighed as she trace the teacup’s opening with her index finger. Both sisters look at each other for a while before turning to their sibling. 

“You’ll find out soon enough, dear (sister/brother).” Corrin said as vague as possible. Elise happily giggles behind her hands. [Y/N] looks at them, looking like a confuse puppy. “Yes! You just need to be patient, (sister/brother)!” Elise cheered, her cheerful smile still present on her face. [Y/N] sighed before letting out a smile, deciding to trust her sisters on this. 

Jakob, Silas and Kaze was watching their interaction with an equal excited grins on their face. They turn to one another, having one thought in mind. “They are so cute together.” 

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

“(Princess/Prince) [Y/N]? Are you in there?” [Y/N] looks up when they heard someone knocking and calling them from the outside. [Y/N] closes the book they were reading and answered back. “Yes! I’m here! Who’s there?” They could hear shuffling noises from the outside. “It’s me, Xander.” [Y/N]’s eyes widened at who it was. They look out to see the night still present as ever, but it was strange for Xander to be here.

“May I come in?” [Y/N] snapped their head back to the door as they said yes. The door slowly open to reveal the Crown Prince in his fullest glory. He smiled at the sight of his youngest sibling sitting on their bed. “My.. you look (beautiful/handsome) as ever, dear (sister/brother).” Xander complimented. [Y/N] blushed lightly, as they smiled brightly at their older brother. “Thanks, brother! But, don’t mind me asking, what’re you doing here?” 

Xander only smiled at them, which made [Y/N] confused. “I’m here to escort you to the ballroom.” [Y/N] blinks at what he said. “Ballroom? Wha--” “Shall we, dear (sister/brother)?” Xander holds out his hand towards the young (princess/prince). [Y/N] decided to just go along with him as they hold Xander’s hand. Xander squeezes their hand as he leads them to the ballroom.

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

“Go on, [Y/N]. Open the door.” Xander encouraged as [Y/N] looks at him, confused and scared on what’s in store beyond this huge doors. “Are you not going to follow me inside, brother?” [Y/N]’s small voice squeak out. Xander merrily laughed as he ruffled his youngest sibling’s hair, which made them pout. “Don’t worry, (sister/brother). If there’s danger, I’ll protect you.” [Y/N] slowly nodded their head as they face towards the door once more.

They took a deep breath before pushing open the door, only to be greeted by smiling faces of their siblings, retainers and servants and balloons. [Y/N] stand there with mouth agape and eyes widened at the sight of the ballroom. The siblings noticed this and giggled at their awestruck sibling. Someone began counting down and they shouted,

“Happy Birthday, [Y/N]!”

[x] Main Page || [x] Fire Emblem: Fates Page

#fire emblem #fire emblem x reader #fire emblem fates #fire emblem fates x reader #camilla #niles #laslow #nohr #nohrian siblings #nohr siblings #corrin #leo #xander #elise #kaze #jakob #silas #req ans❣️

[border-spam]

Leech Lord : Sigil

(Early COV)

"Oh Seifa come on, come onnnn, it's not like that!"

She wasn't listening. Of course she wasn’t listening. If there was one thing Troy had realised in the last 18 months since they landed on Pandora, it was that no one who mattered ever fucking listened to him. 

Or maybe it was just women. Tyreen and Sei would rip his balls off for ever daring to raise it, but hell did the pair of them have more in common than anyone would be stupid enough to admit within earshot. They were both stubborn, blockheaded assholes at times, and right now was one of them.

Man, he was so glad they were alone in her office wing. The last thing he'd want to add to the pile of shit he already had to deal with would be for some of her engineers to have been watching on as God King Calypso shuffled awkwardly behind one of his department heads, whining for attention like some giant Skag pup while she completely ignored him. She always did when she got like this, when she was moments away from working herself into a frenzy he knew was coming because you could feel her foul temper like static in the air.

She'd throw all logic to the wind and then lash out at him, herself, the COV, everything, unless he got her to listen now before she blew... and each second that ticked by without her calming was another step further away from this ending amicably. Troy hated this. Every time it happened was needless stress for both of them, just another problem he needed to shoulder and try to find a resolution for, and it wasn't even his fucking fault this time. 

He ran a hand down his face with a groan, rapidly losing hope as Sei continued to storm across the workshop ahead of him, rage hunching the curve of her shoulders while she muttered insults Troy hadn’t been able to quite make out.

"Janked up skinny little shit." Ah... He heard that one fine, and if he didn't know her as well as he did, he'd take the hitch in her voice as weakness rather than a warning.

"Arrogant, two-faced prick." Made that muttered one out too, almost as crystal clearly as his head would have made out the wrench she’d just flung viciously backwards from her workbench if he hadn’t retained his reflexes from years of hunting on Necrotafeyo. This wasn't his fault!

"Sei.." he comforted tentatively, warily eying the other tools within her reaching distance as he took a step closer to where she stood shaking in front of the bench. "Please. Trust me, ok.. It really ain't like that."

"Like what, Troy?" she growled over her shoulder, slamming a crowbar against the solid wood table as he winced behind her. "Like you're not telling me I need to get your fucking copyright brand engraved into my skin? Are you HEARING yourself?". He was, actually, and if she would for one goddamn second instead of getting this defensive, then they might finally get somewhere and not waste the rest of their night at each other's throats.

He was close enough to hear her deep breaths, fighting to get her emotions under control enough to continue without unwanted tears making him think she was anything but furious.

"...you want to mark me like I'm.. like I'm property?" the crack in her voice at the end hit hard, he felt that one like a gut punch. It didn't matter that he knew she was wrong, or that she was blowing it massively out of proportion, this wasn’t the reaction he had expected. Seifa was logical, generally. She pushed emotion out of the way of hard numbers, facts, she’d swallow her feelings to make way for profits... He'd thought she’d understand the same way he had when Tyreen had discussed her worries about the Saints, he’d thought she’d take it well. He'd been an idiot. Look at him now: standing behind his closest friend as she held back tears, both of them tired, frustrated, hurt, and Troy was unsure of how the hell this had even happened yet alone how to fix it.

Her head bowed with a sniffle she hadn’t manage to hold back, and he dropped his eyes to the workrooms gritty floor with a scowl. Easier to stare at the dirt and pretend he couldn't see how much this was hurting her than watch her shoulders tremble. He chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to see the path out of this mess. Maybe he could still pull things back, reassure her and salvage things.

The iron fist at his side flexed involuntarily, nerves firing on reflex as he sighed. "No Sei, and it's not about you, ok? It's not some grand attack aimed to undermine you specifically. Pleeeeaase, just listen. Hear me out for once. You know damn well I'm not in the habit of agreeing with Tyreen if she's in the wrong,  she's right about this Seifa, an-"

She spun whip fast to face him, pointing accusingly up towards his jaw with far more threat than someone her height should rightfully be able to wield, and he jerked backwards, snapping out of his lethargy as he staring down his nose at the finger shaking below him in fury. He’d never seen her this upset before, indignant as she hissed breath through clenched teeth.

“I won't be fucking owned by you, boy." Seifa spat... and the clever bite in that insult wasn't missed.

He fought back a snarl, lip twitching as he met her glare. Here it was, he should have fucking known, here was the attack.She always did this, acted like there was nothing between them once she’d decided he’d riled her up, regardless of what had actually happened. Any affront on her pride was met with the same focused rage towards whoever she saw as the aggressor, and the chain of command ceased to exist instantly. Size, age, power, always treated him like he was some sick, stupid little kid, like she was always right and he never was... She never fucking listened to him.

Troy shifted on his feet, standing straighter as he stared down at her, pale and shivering below him. He gently pushed her finger away with a hand that dwarfed hers, and leaned forward, still towering above her even as he hunched to come closer to her eye level.

"Seifa." he hissed, jaw tight and frosty eyes narrowed to daggers. "YOU won't be owned by anyone. This has to happen, for all the Saints. This is how it needs to go. Ty’s right. I wasn't sure she was either but I checked in with our new advisor and he completely backed it up, not doing this would end in a waste of lives I'm not willing to lose even if you're apparently happy enough to risk the one I'm trying to save right now."

She laughed, a snorting wheeze with a smirk far too fake to remotely touch her eyes, and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest, cocking a hip in haughty challenge. "Ahhhh, I get it...” she tapped a finger to the center of his bare chest and smirked as she felt him flinch subtly beneath it. Troy sucked in a breath, but she cut him off before he’d even managed to get his next word out.

“So your new space wizard I've never so much as met, Ven was it? This Magic 8-ball lookin fucker gets to decide I'm marked as owned by you, Calypso? Funny... here I was thinking you were the big boy of this organisation, that it was you in charge...  not that you were some weedling little shitbag bending to his big scary sister's demands while using a fucking scam artist he's been stupid enough to be taken for a ride by as his justificati-"

"STOP"

He immediately regretted the outburst as it echoed through the empty workshop, bouncing off the skeletons of technicals suspended from the ceilings and scrap metal pilled against walls. It was far louder than he’d intended at all, but the hurt little choking sound she made in response? That was even worse.

Troy whistled in a lungfull and held it, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as he counted down from three, tightening the steel fist by his side till the metal creaked in distress and interrupted the heavy silence.

The tension between them was palpable in the dark heat of the hangar, nothing to break the the uneasy quiet bar the murmuring hum of the machinery outside her sealed quarters. He slid his eyes open and lowered them to her at the end of his count.. but the tears she was struggling to hold back winded him, and he no longer felt the justification he needed when he realised how much she was hurting.

She looked away, lip trembling as her arms wrapped around herself, more for comfort now than to force an air of confidence. God, he wanted to fix this. He didn’t want to see Seifa small. She was meant to be unbreakable, not something that could be hurt at all. Troy lifted his hand to touch her shoulder but stopped, catching himself before his fingers brushed against her skin, reconsidering. It didn't feel right... he shouldn't. It wasn't what she needed, she needed...

"Sei.." he whispered, slowly lowering himself to his knees, waiting for her to shudder in some wracking breaths before gently placing mismatched hands on her hips and tugging her lightly, pulling her step by step closer to where he knelt In front of her. "L-look at me." he rumbled, voice soft and stutter unhidden.

Her red rimmed eyes shifted down to his from where he looked up at her, and he risked a lopsided smirk. She mirrored it shakily, breathing out a hitching laugh as she clumsily wiped a sleeve across her eyes, black liner smeared along her cheeks and ego dropped alongside the gesture, Just DeLeon and A'Rosk again, like before all this cult bullshit. God’s and titles be damned. 

His thumb brushed across the ridge of her hip as she sniffed, waiting for him to continue. "Please Sei, j-just trust me on this, please, for once.”

“If some scumbag slaver got their hands on a transport vessel with a woman insisting she was a fuckin' Saint of the COV, it wouldn't mean shit. They wouldn’t believe it for a second. We're growing so fast Sei. So fast. In a month's time how many fakes you think there's gonna be, huh? How many people risking their necks for fame or favors by saying they're one of our Saints, huh? You know how supply and demand works b-better than I do..."

She nodded quietly, avoiding the concern in his eyes by staring at the curve of his jaw instead. He figured she was embarrassed, or still hurt maybe, but she was listening, and her hands slid from around her waist to lay on top of his.

That bloomed something warm in his stomach, flickering and deep. It was working, Troy was fixing this. She was listening and he wasn’t needing to pretend to be someone else to be heard for once, hadn’t needed to sneer and intimidate like he was playing a part that didn’t suit. She didn’t need threat to care, she cared too much if anything, he knew that, even if she hid it under layers of false hardness.

"Sei, telling people you’re a Saint won’t do anything if you’re in danger. OK? It won’t, it’s like.. zero protection. You know that, you’re cleverer than me and I know that, so stop b-bullshitting ok? Words aren't going to mean fuck all, but a symbol? A symbol can't be a lie. A symbol will keep you safe. Keep all of you safe as we keep getting bigger. No one would risk wearing our sigils without our blessing considerin' what we'll do to them. People will know it’s not a lie being made up on the spot cause right then the fear of them is greater than the fear of us." 

He was right and she knew it. He’d won even if she hadn’t agreed yet. That was her too, a woman so stubborn that silent surrender didn’t cut her as deep as admitting defeat. Just like Tyreen. Just like Mom.

He squeezed slightly, shaking her gently and snorting out a chuckle at the wobble that ran up her torso as she shifted back and forth with his movements, failing miserably at pretending she didn't want to laugh. “Are you... are you negotiating with me and winning, Troy?” he could hear the playful challenge in that without needing to read it on her lips. 

“Ohhhh you got me...” he cooed, pouting up at her from under dark eyelashes “I learned from the best though, nightmare to fuckin work with, she should get all the blame.”

That was it. That’s what he wanted. That ugly snotty laugh she choked out, the smeared makeup and terrible hair piled haphazardly on top of her head as her nose scrunched with the width of her smile. That was Seifa, not the cold shell she tried to hide behind when she encountered a threat to the control she’d built a lifetime of survival on.

He moved closer, a subtle shift that pressed his forehead against her stomach as he carefully leaned against her, voice dropping to a whisper as her hands moved to rest on either side of his collarbone. "Seifa, the danger out there is real. It's so r-real Sei and it's goin' to get more vicious and more aggressive every goddamn day as who you are and who you’re close to becomes so valuable, people will kill for a touch. It's not a brand. I promise, it’s not ownership. It's protection. It's to keep you safe. You aren’t property, you’re not. I mean, God. Like you could be owned, like I could ever have y-"

The words caught in his throat as she dropped to her knees on the dirt floor, wrapping her arms around his neck in a hug so tight that he could feel her shuddering sobs echo through her chest and into his ribs.

Good timing, he realised with a wave of confused emotion. 

Really good timing.

Asks are Open!

#Borderlands #borderlands 3 #bl3 #troy calypso #calypso twins #seifa #leech lord #lldrabbles #my writing #my hcs

[eternalstrigoii]

Unfettered - III

Original; I, II Borra (Maleficent: Mistress of Evil) x Forest Dark Fey Reader; Philip x Aurora; King John is Everyone’s Dad (reprise)

                    Your people did not celebrate the way they should’ve.

It should’ve been a glorious occasion – you were, at last, after centuries of destruction, on the path to justice. To true peace.

But Shrike kept only Ini for company, and you had yet to apologize for your outburst in the courtyard. You told yourself with increasing frequency that you did not mean it, though you were painfully aware that you did not speak because you had.

Because Percival went before them again afterward, and he told them of you. He told them that he was aware of your and the other fey’s captivity. You had known by the look on Philip’s face that the boy mandated the door be left open so you would not feel caged again, although you had.

The only comfort you had regarding that betrayal was that he had never partaken directly in your torment. He knew of it. He did nothing. And he answered honestly when Lord Azarias asked if he supported it – at first, he had.

You owed Shrike so much for standing beside you. You felt like you owed her your life; never once did she take your hand once she’d finished crying. She was like Maleficent, like Borra, like you would never be. She had her moment, her pain returned to fury, and if she could’ve burned him alive with her stare, she would’ve.

Even when he told them of how he stood beside her at Aurora’s wedding, and he saw, just as they did, how beautiful she was. He was rightfully wary, especially after you were found. He was open to change, since Philip was. Since Borra hadn’t killed him. But he expected retaliation, and so he waited.

He waited until he saw her fly during a great storm. It had been late in the evening; many shops simply closed for the night before their time. The torchlight in the palace, the hearths were all stoked. It was a cold rain, and it came down in a fierce, white blanket. He had seen her, felt the crash of thunder in the breastplate of his leather armor, and went to the highest point of the battlement protecting Ulstead from the sea. He stood on the very ledge where her people had been fired upon, battered by the ocean spray, and held out his hand.

You saw tears well in her eyes, but they never fell.

The ribbons of her bodice clung to her leather breeches. The braid in her hair was windblown; tendrils of rainbow jerked to and fro with every gust. And he called to her, the fool, catching his death in the storm to make sure she was safe.

That was when he decided to know you. All of you. To know you as Philip did, to love you as Aurora did. And he did, now. He loved your children. He cared for the moor-folk. He sat at your fire, he heard your stories, he brought sweets for your fledglings. He respected Maleficent.

And it did not erase what he’d done or what he hadn’t.

The tribunal lasted until sunset. You endured the full account of Lickspittle’s torment of the moor-folk; how he came into Ingrith’s servitude, how he could justify his actions to himself. How the poaching began, how it escalated, what he hoped to learn. What he intended to do. Why he never stopped her, or helped them, or let them go.

You were the subject he danced around the longest, and you knew it had something to do with the man at your back who did not know how to stand still or contain his frustration. Borra was not stationary. Borra was not powerless. And yet he heard, as did you, in excruciating detail how you entered the dungeon of a room, hauled in by a trio of poachers, bleeding from your wing.

You were delirious with pain. You didn’t recall what you’d done. You didn’t recall fighting, though he said you had. You were strong enough to knock things from the tables, nearly strong enough to break yourself free, had the third of them not restrained you by the throat.

Philip asked, gently, with his eyes locked on your mate, if Lickspittle knew their names.

No, the gnome had replied. He couldn’t even point them out if he saw them in the square, there had been so many poachers over time.

At some point, when your story began to interlock with theirs, you no longer craved solace. You stopped yearning for the vivid hues of pleasant memory in between his account of pouring the first dose of tomb-bloom treated iron powder onto a dandelion fey, and the way Borra recoiled as though intending to tear the very stone from the walls when Lickspittle revealed how your wings never fit in the ice bath – how you were never fully conscious when you were submerged, and yet you didn’t drown. (Ingrith was intrigued by that after Maleficent plunged into the sea; you did not recall it occurring at any increased frequency, though he attested that it had.)

You were still trying to make sense of it afterward.

After Aurora found the room. After Aurora found the missing fey. After Ingrith launched her attack and he hid for the duration of the battle. After she found you, and he almost thought after everything he’d done, they might show mercy.

Borra laughed out loud at that. The sound was sharp and musical and very much his.

Even Lord Azarias paled in response.

John declared the tribunal would resume in the morning once Lickspittle was finished with his urgent amendments – he swore he had plans to repent for the error of his ways, he’d nearly put them into action when the crown brought him to justice, and you smiled at that just as sharply as Borra laughed.

They walked home with you from the tribunal as though you were all too tired for flight. As though the citizens of Ulstead didn’t flock to their windows in numbers they hadn’t dared assemble in when the sun revealed them, as though their shadows blotting out the light didn’t give them away.

You walked home to the moors among the glowing toadstools and the dancing will o’ the wisps, several of which rushed to greet you once you crossed back onto unpaved land. You could’ve kissed the soil. You felt filthy and wrong after standing in their dusty little room for so long – your legs hurt. Your feet ached. Though, it was all the more pleasant to sink down in front of the fire and rip the meat from your falsely celebratory goat.

You did not say two words to one another until new steps approached. Booted steps.

Half of you sat upright with curiosity. You did. Borra did not.

“Hello,” Philip greeted them. He wore only his dressing shirt, no doublet, no coat. You blinked at him; wasn’t that considered half-obscene by his people? Like – well, walking around like one of you.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

“Nothing.” He sounded equally tired, though, and you hoped that he’d brought his horse lest he walk all that way by himself. “I wanted to make sure you were all alright.”

Borra did not look at any of you. Not even to you, and you felt that was fair of him.

“I plan to ask you both to speak before the tribunal tomorrow.” He didn’t approach, though it wasn’t out of wariness; he wasn’t in attendance as frequently as Percival, but he understood your custom better than you thought he did. Though only five of you were directly involved, it was a matter of the collective, and he offered it just as anyone would’ve had you retained the meeting-cove. “If you’re willing.”

Borra finally looked to you. Were you? he asked with his eyes.

You nodded. Are you?

His eyes hid nothing. He would not keep his anger from them. It was a detriment to your people, and yet, if Philip offered him the floor, he would take it.

You linked your fingers securely through his. I will be with you every step.

“Does your father know of your decision?” Borra asked, and you pretended not to hear the note of mocking in his tone.

“He does. As does Aurora.” His posture was soft though he stood straight. “They know what you have to say will be necessary.”

That it will be unpleasant, and cause problems. But they want you to say it anyway.

Borra stood, then, allowing your hand to fall from his grasp. His wings perked, and the sheer difference in size between them with regards to his horns and his wings should’ve been off-putting.

Philip never faltered.

“You trusted me when I said I would not let her ruin your kingdom. Trust that I will not allow them to silence you, no matter what it is you have to say.”

His down bristled a bit, and you dug your feet into the soft earth to stand. They wanted to give you justice, but they gave him no outlet to act upon what he learned. Your people didn’t have law, you had sense. You had compassion. Empathy – for each other and your fellow creature.

Knowing that a man who came to you with love in his heart for your sister could be responsible for your father’s slaughter reflected poorly upon them as a whole, and that was the most drastic understatement you could make of the matter. Borra was right to be angry.

“Will you sit with us?” you asked.

You kept nothing from each other. You were family regardless of your blood-bonds. Without unity, you never would have survived.

Without unity, you still would not.

There were decisions to be made, and they came for you one after the other. Do you trust him? Do you trust any of them? Yes. In spite of it all, Philip was not his mother, even though when he frowned he shared the same partial pucker of his soft lips. He was an open, gentle creature, and he had come to you, knowing what had been said, knowing that you would be angry and hurt and desperately in need of rest. If he was afraid, it didn’t show. If he distrusted you once, he certainly placed his life in your hands now.

He looked to Borra. He wanted to make sure that it was alright, though your mate said nothing. Borra always knew what to do, what to say. He had never waited and watched from the sidelines. Your father implored him to, but he didn’t. There was action to be taken, justice to be dealt.

This was different. Now, he was forced to. Now, you all had been asked to trust an ornamental ruler whose people didn’t even choose him. You had to trust a murderer’s husband and a pair of children to bring you justice and preserve your peace – all, while they asked the man you love, who led your people for a reason, not to act.

Did he feel just as powerless as you, or had he already planned for the alternative?

“Come.” You held out your hand to Philip and rested the other upon a bare spot on Borra’s arm. He nearly recoiled at your touch, and that made you slip your talons into his braces and pull him closer to you.

Philip took your hand. Let you guide him over the logs and toward the fire. He saw the goat you ate, and you nodded toward the leftovers in event he desired some for himself.

“No, thank you.” He sunk down with you on the red-needled earth. “Frankly, after this afternoon, I haven’t much of an appetite.”

“It’s there if you want it.” You folded your legs under yourself, and the shiny strips of skin that ran from your knees nearly to the ends of your calves glinted in the firelight. You touched them absently, and it made you painfully aware of Borra, rigid beside you, so you claimed one of his hands and rested it on your knee.

“I’m sorry.” You had to begin there; before you could ask Philip anything, you had to reconvene with him. “I know I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

He took a slow, deep inhale. Stars, he was seething. “You shouldn’t feel that way.”

“I shouldn’t, but I do. I depend upon you. You have obligations that I shouldn’t impede.”

“Do you still?” He did not share in your feelings, which you knew, but it still stung that whatever you said had to be breeched one subject at a time.

You were also aware that Philip, and the others, did not know of what you were speaking.

“When I feel overwhelmed, I do,” you admitted. If not for the immediacy of your fingers in his, he would’ve withdrawn. “I can’t ease my pain, and I have no outlet.”

“You’re not alone.” His frustration bled into his voice, though you knew it wasn’t at you. “You depend upon me,” he repeated, and you reconsidered; maybe he was upset with you. “As though I didn’t choose to be there.”

“My pain isn’t something you should have to endure.”

“I don’t endure it, Cas. I hate it when you cry. I hate that you flinch when someone moves toward you, I hate the way you shy toward me when they look at you. I hate that you need to hold my hand to cross the river, and I hate that you fear each and every last one of them – you, who are so powerful that you can still look at them and see their faces when you do.”

You ran your thumb over his fingers. It never ceased to compound your hurt, knowing that you caused him pain.

“If you died,” his voice lowered. Though sitting beside you, Philip was entirely forgotten. “If you died while you were still in the palace, I would’ve mourned. I could have respected your father’s sacrifice.” He lifted his uncovered hand to hold your face the way you liked, so you were resting in his palm like it was made to cradle you. “I would not if they took you from me now. By their hand, or yours.”

After what they did, you should not be alive. Just because you shouldn’t be did not mean you weren’t.

He did not take breaking peace lightly. He never had, not after the way your people suffered. Your suffering couldn’t be elevated, you thought, but you didn’t know if anything like this had been done before. Your people, slaughtered, yes – violently, cruelly, without regards for their age, frailty, or innocence. But to endure what you had, to survive in spite of it…

Perhaps he wasn’t wrong about you. About your strength.

“I cannot stop using you for my tether, and it frightens me,” you whispered, “It’s why I dream what I dream. If anything happened to you, I could not imagine what would happen to me.”

He stroked your cheek. You held his eyes, searched them for something, anything, that would help you find peace.

“You’ll be safe.” He could offer you no comfort but his immediate certainty. “Only once did they manage to shed my blood.”

You hoped he meant it as a joke, but you didn’t treat it that way. You kissed the heel of his palm and closed your eyes.

“I won’t let that happen.” There was a promise in Philip’s voice that you trusted without question.

He watched you, both of you, and somehow managed to hold Borra’s gaze when he said, “Our kingdoms are united. You have my full support.”

You didn’t want to lift your head from his palm, but you had to. Not for yourself, not for Philip, not even for your people – you raised your head from his hand so you could ask the impulsive question that had been nagging at you since you started trying to wade through your iron-fevered memories.

“Philip?”

His head perked.

“Tell me about the man in red. Why does he look at us the way he does?”

“Lord Azarias?” he asked. You saw in his eyes that he had some manner of answer, though you doubted it would be pleasant. “He distrusts you.”

“He hates us.”

“That as well.”

“Does he have reason?”

Philip hesitated. You braced yourself, so to speak; tensed the muscles in your wings little by little to distract yourself from your blooming anxiety. The ones that could respond, did; the ones that couldn’t quivered.

“His father was the advisor to King Henry that encouraged him to go to war with the moor-folk. They have had something of a crusade against fey for generations.”

“You let him sit on your council?” Borra interjected.

“We have to. He funds several smithy in Ulstead as well as Perceforest.”

Iron. What made the color of his coat so best resemble blood – the iron that bound you, the iron that gave you fever and left these marks upon you, it was his?

Borra stared at him, surely sharing your conclusion.

“He needed no role in my mother’s operation,” Philip said, lowering his voice as though it kept any of the others from hearing. “She had her own methods. I didn’t even know the cutlery wasn’t silver until Maleficent’s visit.”

“Methods like what?” Ever the tactician, Borra had to know the odds. He had to know what you faced when you returned to Ulstead in the morning – whether or not it would be of grave consequence.

“Annexation of the Midlands. She made a deal with their nobility; iron and weapons in exchange for the benefits of unity. Increased military support, access to the sea, no taxes upon trade.”

Access to the sea.

You tried so hard not to let your blood run cold, but even Borra bristled beside you. War was inevitable, then; had Maleficent not been rescued, it would’ve marched right to your home. It would’ve slaughtered each and every last one of you on the shores of your own land.

“I can’t arrest him purely because of his trade,” Philip was bright enough to understand your feelings, at least in part, “but I do keep an eye on him. He’s made no secrets of the enemies he makes.”

“And what will it mean if he makes an enemy of us?”

You dared ask, though the gravity in the young prince’s expression betrayed him long before he put the thought to words. He looked at the altered flesh around your wrist while you kept your grip on Borra, and it was to that part of you that he replied, “He won’t make an enemy of you. He’d make himself your enemy.”

                     You did not know how often your father looked toward Ulstead, when he was alive.

It had been generations since your people had connection to the earth the way Maleficent did to the moors’ tomb blooms. You never regarded the way you oriented yourself in the cage as your instinct to point yourself toward home – toward family and safety, the magnetic lines of the earth drawing you back like a compass. Your people were displaced, and you had felt displaced, disoriented as you were, and yet it wasn’t Borra’s comings and goings that motivated those instincts in either of you.

He knew you were alive with the same intuition all parents possess; you were tethered to one another by more than blood – by every beat of your heart when you were small and tucked into the safety of his arm, by every braid he wove into your hair, and every day when it was just the both of you, after your brother left the nest and the loss of your mother cooled in you both to a dull, reminding ache.

Your tether to this world was the reason you carried his name in yours.

Even when you were lost, you’d known the way home. Even when you were caged, half-dead, weighted and silent with exhaustion, you’d begun to cry when your tether slipped.

Lickspittle the Gnome remembered the sound of your quiet weeping. He’d attributed it to the presence of the sentry as they left bushel upon bushel of tomb blooms around the laboratory, more and more of them infringing upon your nonexistent space. You had been silent for some time; he’d nearly thought you slipped away. Then, he thought you may have been sentient enough to have heard his plans.

“Shut up,” one of the sentry struck the front of your cage with a pole-axe.

You were so weak, you didn’t even flinch. You were hardly sentient, not even delirious with pain. Your body had, nearly altogether, given up. You were dying, and then you felt…distant. And afraid. It was as though you’d lost your homing signal.

You did not know that your father had been shot. How many times.

You did not know of the iron coursing through his blood and yours. The way it had fallen, thick like molasses, half-congealed from the heat, into the grass; the way it coated Maleficent’s skin.

Your father felt you dying, just as you felt him.

You whispered for him, in your iron prison. Your wrists bled anew as you trembled.

“Shut up!” The sentry struck it harder.

You were so close to him. Just over the river. The tears that ran down your face were swift and silent, and took more strength to release than you had. “Papa,” you whispered in a child’s broken voice. You were afraid, and you didn’t want to die.

“Conall!”

When the infantrymen were dead – thrown from heights, dragged with branches into early graves deep within the earth, clawed, strangled, and otherwise destroyed – Borra rejoined them. Maleficent was barely strong enough to keep her shield, but, for your father, she had. She was weak again, breathing heavily, and his blood soaked her bodice and her skirts. They had gone deep, left several punctures through his great, dark wings. There were more embedded in his back, and Maleficent couldn’t contain the emotion in her voice.

“I’m trying to heal him,” she said. “I’ve been—”

“Can you fly?” Borra drew her attention from them, lest she start to see him choke. If they returned quickly enough, the elders…

Not even he could lie to himself that well.

“Maleficent,” his voice sharpened; she caught the sound of your father’s hitching breath and had to be drawn back to him. “Can you fly?”

She nodded. Her eyes were damp and her frown had begun to quiver.

“Then go. We have to get him home.”

It was a struggle for him to lift Conall by himself; they were nearly the same size, and his low-hanging wings would create problems. He nearly sent her ahead to warn them, to try to save his life.

There was so much blood. It saturated the grass where they landed. It soaked into the cracks of your now-lover’s skin, mingled with their lightly-toxic mortal blood as though it was necessary to wash it away.

“Find her,” Conall rasped.

The fury in Borra burned anew. He set his jaw, flattened his wings and took off. He had to beat them hard, waste precious energy, but he would not leave him, and he couldn’t very well ask Maleficent for the help. She was supposed to save them all, and yet she hardly had the strength to summon branches.

“Find my daughter,” Conall pressed, and, for a moment, he nearly sounded like himself despite the roughness of his breathless voice. “Bring her home.”

“I will.” There was a vow in the words he hadn’t been asked to make.

He hoped you didn’t feel him, wherever you were. He hoped you weren’t bound to them the way Maleficent was to her ancestors. He hoped you weren’t, but he also hoped you were – he hoped that Conall felt you, even now.

He hoped you knew that he was coming. That he would find you. That he would not abandon you, wherever you were.

By the time Conall had been laid beneath the Tree of Life, on the Phoenix’s eternal grounds where all of your once-living people rested if they were able to return to the nest in time, Borra hoped, above all, that you could wait for him. That you were strong enough. Because if you weren’t, then he would kill them for you. In your name and your father’s.

You felt it, when he slipped. When dawn broke and he chose to give Maleficent what little strength he had left in hopes of it being able to save her – to save you all, just as Borra said. You couldn’t breathe under the weight of the iron on your chest. You didn’t have the strength to cry out for him, though the agony of loss crushed you from within.

You felt lost. Truly.

No help was coming.

You were going to die in there, in that little iron cage that Aurora didn’t even notice.

You didn’t have the strength to cry at all, and yet, tears sizzled on your oven-hot skin, like the ashes of the phoenix from which they said your kind was born.

                    Say nothing of what you now know of him while you’re in Ulstead, Philip cautioned before he left, and you were still mulling over the severity of his voice as you crossed the bridge the next morning. You wore the purple of new dawn, which you felt was appropriate.

You slept well again in spite of the day before. It was becoming a habit, and you weren’t entirely sure if it was Maleficent’s doing or Borra’s.

Even after your outburst in the courtyard, he hadn’t left you. He had every right to turn heel and go back to his nest, to his privacy and space all his own, but he had stayed with you again rather than take flight over the moors. He held you in the curl of his wings, punctuated the silence with gentle kisses, and you fell asleep against his chest with the sound of his heart reverberating through you.

You held his hand as you walked the bridge, and you weren’t even clutching him.

Perhaps, in truth, you were emotionally drained. One day of it was enough for a lifetime, one day of watching things collapse as though a gust of wind displaced a child’s stick-pile in the high canopy left you feeling raw and tired and you hadn’t even spoken to anyone but those who were already beside you.

You gently bunted with his arm before you crossed to meet John, and you thought there might’ve been a hint of a curl to Borra’s lips when he huffed out a sigh.

John wasn’t present for the battle, and you both had that in common. It was part of the reason why he moved toward you both in his robes, trying to embrace you both at the same time as he did Aurora and Philip.

Borra took a step away, though, and sacrificed you to John’s enthusiasm instead.

You weren’t even upset about it; you hugged him as tightly as you could, bumping your wings on his arms. “Good morning, John.”

“Hello, Cassia.” He squeezed you like you were a child, and the warmth of it eased your worries. You relaxed as you let go, breathed out your tension as he straightened and nodded respectfully to your mate. “Borra.”

The hint of a smile was no longer on his lips. He nodded back, silent. Waiting.

“I need to warn you,” he gently laced your arm through his as you entered the great courts of Ulstead on foot for the second time. There were more people out and about, almost as though they’d forgotten about the tribunal. Peasant women hung their laundry like flags between the gables of their above-shop homes, “I have already given Lord Azarias a talking-to this morning.”

“The iron-monger,” Borra said, and you sighed profoundly when you looked at him.

John looked surprised, but not disappointed. “Don’t repeat that in front of him. Yes, he’s been…rather difficult about the impacts that the reparations treaty has had on his business.”

“Tell him to make silver,” you replied, and it was a joke though it didn’t sound that way.

People were staring. Again. It unnerved you, but none of them approached. None of them tried to touch any of you this time, or get within the berth of your personal space.

“I wish it was that simple.” He paused with you right there in the streets of Ulstead, and your whole collective drew to a stop with you. You were all wary of them, even Udo who loved their children; they kept eyes for you while you held John’s.

“I also came to fetch you this morning, personally, for a reason.”

You waited. You hoped your tension wasn’t palpable.

“I owe you an apology, Cassia. Though it will never be enough, I swear to you that I believed Ingrith could change. I truly believed that if she knew you, she would understand why, for so long, I’ve wanted peace. She could be a cold and distant woman, but I never thought her capable of what she did. That is as much my fault as Percival’s.”

You drew in a deep breath. An apology was insufficient in ways he would never understand. You didn’t want his justification. You already trusted that he was innocent because you knew he was a very kind and gentle man – and also rather foolish. It was endearing, though your feathers bristled anyway.

“It is not as much your fault as Percival’s.” You were not your father, though you often wished you could at least pretend to be; you hid nothing from him with your face or your eyes or your words. “It is as much your fault as Lickspittle’s.”

John was taken aback. Still, there was a profound and genuine sadness in his eyes, and he rested his hand on your cheek for a moment as though you were Aurora and there were not scores of eyes upon his every move. “You are a very brave girl, Cassia. Your father would be proud.”

Your eyes dampened.

“I certainly am.” He touched his lips to the marks painted on your forehead, and you poorly resisted the urge to grip his sleeve.

John was a kind man, kind to the point of foolishness, and he loved you. He loved you like he knew the appearance of your people was not the catalyst for Ingrith’s war, just as you knew that Maleficent’s plunge into the sea was not the catalyst for yours.

And you were grateful, for once, for the pain that bloomed anew in your chest. John had to enter before you, being king, and it gave you the chance to linger in the courtyard with your fingers on the etched blue stone around your neck. You could almost feel it, the gentle bunt of your horns against your father’s before he’d gone to join them for council.

“I love you,” must’ve been the last thing you said to him. Your voice was dancing; it was as much a dismissal as a reminder, because you were redoing your braids and his lingering blocked what was left of the fading light.

You recalled, all by yourself, the way he smiled at you. The kindness that radiated from him always, the sadness and the love in his eyes. “I’ll be back soon.”

Borra stepped toward you, and Ini fell in at his back to keep eyes.

“Don’t hold back with them,” you whispered. It was the opposite of what you should’ve said.

He touched your chin, guided your face upwards, and bunted horns with you gently. He would be there when you needed him. You could be weak; he would be there to keep you from drowning.

“I hope I give you the strength you’ve given me,” you admitted, knowing well that you had to withdraw. You took a breath of him, the heat of the desert radiating from his skin, and you held on to your newly acquired calm.

He touched the downy hair at the back of your neck lightly, brushing his thumb over the little curls too short to be trapped in a braid, and let his lingering touch speak for him. You did, and it would be alright for you again. You weren’t alone.

Ini touched your back, and you rested your hand over hers. You nodded, and the five of you, watched so closely by the people of Ulstead, rejoined the tribunal in their chamber with the wide-open doors.

Philip introduced you again, as though they had forgotten who you were. It must’ve been a formality, though the rest were shorter than they had been; the date was declared, and the purpose cited as established. There was almost no time at all between when you entered and when Philip looked up at you, you and only you. “Cassia, are you ready to join us?”

No. Yes. What you wished to do was not what you must.

You still touched Borra’s arm to support yourself, though it was also to remind him that, just this once, he did not have to follow.

This was not your people’s meeting-cove, but it was functionally the same. You perked your lopsided wings to keep them from dragging on the floor, and when the left one started to tremble from the effort, you let it. You let them see what had been done to you in the light under which they were gathered.

The nobility, whom you’d heard in passing had been rather unkind to Aurora before she was queen, exclaimed quietly in shock at the shine of your scars.

You breathed, and the tall posture at which you held your wings relaxed. The left one sagged significantly; you let them see how it drooped from the very joint. Even Lord Azarias sat forward, his head canted at the sight of you.

He had never seen you beyond the shadows, you realized. You wondered if he could see any of you back there, since he looked that way so often and so intently.

“Cassia Born-of-Conall,” Philip spoke to you, “how did you arrive in Ulstead?”

Again, you breathed. They watched you, their faces so nearly like yours – nearly as colorful as the lot of your people’s, their eyes nearly as bright. Were it not for their mannerisms and their dress, your similarity might’ve been a source of comfort.

“I left my home on impulse.” It was the first time you’d said it, and it made you feel like a fool. “My father was at council with the others, and I wished to fly freely. Truthfully,” you remembered, now, why you’d gone. “I wanted to taste the sea-breeze. I missed the brine. I missed the clouds and the stars; so rarely did I leave, I had just…grown restless.” It was still a foolish reason, but it was a reason you’d forgotten. “I veered close to land, though it wasn’t intentional. I saw a man in your river, struggling against the current. He was headed toward the falls.”

You saw him in your mind as clearly as if he’d been in front of you, no more than a little black dot at first. Had he not moved so strongly, you might’ve thought he was a bobbing log.

“My father, Conall,” your heart bloomed with pain, and you let yourself reach up to touch his pendant against your chest, “he sought peace with humans. Your kind as a whole have decimated ours since the dawn of our existence; we want only to live freely in nature. Beside you, rather than among you. We mean you no harm.”

There was a low murmur from the nobility; it sounded like approval.

“I reacted without thinking. I flew down to pluck him from the water, and carried him to shore. No sooner had I set him down than I was shot,” you tried to raise your left wing, and had to reach back to part your feathers. The scar was severe, pink-shining even then as though unhealed. “I was shot by another poacher.”

“Would you have saved him,” Lord Azarias interjected, “if you had known what he’d done?”

“Yes,” you replied, and the ease at which it came startled you. “He was drowning in the river, Lord Azarias. Not even the other poacher helped him.”

“Why? Men were slain on the moors for what they’ve done to your kind.”

“My father wanted peace,” you repeated. “I wanted freedom. Those things are rarely achieved without some measure of empathy.”

“To your kind, perhaps,” he pressed. “I’ve heard this story already; you were shot and dragged through the courtyards kicking and screaming, you tried to fight your way out—”

“I was shot through the base of my wing,” you cut him off. “I was in pain. I went for the river myself before I was caught; I tried to escape. Yes, I was dragged through the courtyards of Ulstead – by my wings. I was blind with pain. I couldn’t run, let alone fly. I don’t even remember making it inside.”

“What do you remember?” Philip’s gentle voice interrupted.

You focused on it, on piecing together your past like shards of broken crystal. Glimpses of the stars from the ground, drips of dark blood congealing on the pale stone, the sear of iron melding into darkness.

“…His arm was already around my neck.” His hand over your mouth to quiet you. You couldn’t breathe, and you were afraid, and you dug your heels into the stone until you choked. You were so afraid, beating your wings. Trying to gather up wind only to be crippled by pain. You twisted, and darkness encroached… “I was unconscious before they entered.”

The whispers died abruptly.

You pretended you did not feel the heat of Borra’s eyes. The weight of his fury.

“I remember pain.” And you did. “Iron touching me.” You’d jolted, coughed. You weren’t even fully awake. “I tried to step away, but the floor was made of it. My wings hit the bars. I must’ve cried out. My back…”

You were pushed into the bars, and you screamed. You lurched forward only to have the door slammed in your face. You struggled to your feet, gripped the bars, begged the sentry man – please! It burns! Oh, stars, it burns!

“…she was there.”

“The queen?” John asked.

You nodded. “Ingrith.” You saw her just as vividly, too, in her iron-bright dress with shiny ornaments in her white-blond hair. “She stood behind several of them, at first. Watching me.”

“Is that a faerie?” she’d asked Lickspittle in the same manner of accusing tone she used when she felt he wasn’t working quickly enough.

“Yes, your majesty,” the gnome replied. “They call them dark fey. Maleficent of the moors is one of them.”

You’d never heard that name before. You hardly paid attention. The iron scalded your feet and burned your flesh and you were woefully under-dressed; you tucked your right wing as close to flat against your back as you could get it and curled the left around yourself, cradling it to keep it from sagging.

“Please,” you repeated. “Let me go. I won’t tell anyone where I’ve been.”

“No,” she clicked her tongue at you as she approached, parting the sentry with her hands. “You won’t. Come here.”

She reached in toward you, even though one of the men repeated her title. You thought she was going to be benevolent, so you did; you went to her, and she only recoiled a little before placing her gloved hand upon your chin.

“I see it now.” Her voice was cold. You didn’t understand what she meant; no one had ever seen your eyes or your cheekbones or felt the warmth of your skin and disliked them. Not even the tundra-children when they falsely swooned and told you that you were going to burn them to death like iron, being from the temperate forest, oh being out of the snow was such a tragedy!

“One bolt injured it?” She withdrew her hand, and herself, to walk toward the gnome at his table.

Injured what? you’d thought.

“In the wing, yes,” Lickspittle replied. Your skin was still burning and you didn’t understand; you shifted, restlessly, trying to alleviate the pain in either foot.

“Would another be fatal?”

The gnome was quiet for a moment, as though contemplating how quickly you might be killed, though you were slow to realize it. At first, you truly didn’t understand. Then, you hadn’t wanted to. You did your best to believe differently, but your skin was peeling and you hurt and you couldn’t take refuge anywhere.

“If you struck her somewhere vital, yes. In the back, the belly, the head or the heart.”

You recoiled. The hiss and bite of iron into your flesh nearly made you scream, and yet when you peeled yourself off the bars against the wall, it wasn’t by far.

“Which is the most vital? Does it have defenses?”

“She is not all that different from you—”

The iron queen’s hand came down on his work abruptly, and you thought you saw the gnome startle. You didn’t think her voice could get any colder, but she never moved closer when she said to him, “Do not show sympathy for that beast. It is not human.”

You were so scared. Your heart pounded; you wished for them, though you were afraid to do it. You wished your father, or your family in some combination or other, would come to your rescue. You were afraid that she would kill you. You had no way of knowing that she would rather make you wish for it; that you were folded around yourself not too unlike the way Maleficent would be when she first laid eyes upon them.

“I don’t know how long she kept me there, at first.” It could’ve been hours, it could’ve been days; you had no way of knowing the measure of time by the sun, and your body felt the effects of exposure quickly. You were not Borra; you never exposed yourself with intent to build tolerance, though it struck you as a very good idea at the time.

“I sacrificed parts of my covered legs in rounds. Sat there on my knees. My heels. Tried to reason with him.” You shook your head. “I was so sick I couldn’t even remember when I’d last had water.”

You recalled, in parts, the way the sickness took you. Iron is lethal to fey, everyone knows this. You were sick, and then you were tired, and, though the pain was immense, eventually, you laid down on your broken wing. You used it for a shield and a pillow and tried to curl your body onto it with no such luck. It was hard to sleep, but even harder to be awake. You were dizzy and nauseous and grew weak.

“She put the collar on while I was asleep.”

You woke to the burn of it. The pain. You screamed and fell on your back, grabbed at the hands of the men who put it on you. You wouldn’t have hurt them; you wanted them to take it off.

“The shackles followed.”

Strung through the iron-bar door, your hands were left on the outside. You were forced onto your knees, and you furiously beat your good wing in hope of doing something to free yourself. Blinding pain in your neck, your wrists, your legs. Your toes lost your grip on the bloody floor.

“Stop that noise,” Ingrith ordered, and one of the sentry grabbed the end of your wing. You screamed and fought, pulling hard. You felt the joint roll, but he had good hold of one of the hollow bones toward the apex.

“He snapped it.”

Right below the claw, like an extra thumb. You’d screamed at the top of your lungs, and that earned you another. The other wing flared out on instinct, the bad one, and someone else grabbed it. The first time she had your wings broken might not’ve been intentional, but you’d seen the pleasure on her face – the ecstasy in response to your pain.

You screamed yourself hoarse. You screamed until you could do nothing but cry. Until you shook, and you were limp, and the fever in your skin claimed you fully. You put your head on your arm and wept, and your tears did nothing to heal your burning skin.

You prayed, out loud. You recited old rites. Ancestors, please guide me; ancestors, give me strength, my body is weak but my soul will join you—

How quickly she had you struck for it. So violently that you were dazed. Your stomach lurched from the force and you laid your head back down on your arm.

“I lost track of time quickly. I was wholly engulfed in sickness and pain. Once she bound me, I lost the ability to move. To resist.” You moved then, though, and the stiffness in your gait betrayed you – how long you’d been left in one position. Your joints sometimes forgot what it was like to be mobile. “At some point, someone fed me. Water and bread, I think. I do recall water,” so cold that it felt wonderful in your raw throat, like it might break your fever if you were submerged. “being given from a leather flask. It didn’t burn when it touched me.”

“Forgive me,” Philip interrupted, “but do you have any idea of how long you were there?”

“The tide was high,” Ini said from where she stood with the others. “It was a full moon. One and a half before Maleficent came.”

You were doing well, you thought. Shaking, but sentient. Lost to your memories but not the emotion. You still couldn’t look at Borra, because you knew he saw all of your scars and knew of their making, now.

They were silent, aside from John. “Six weeks?” he whispered. Six weeks in an iron prison? Did that seem right? Six weeks sought to erase the entirety of your life – how had you not succumbed?

“Can you recall anything else?” Philip asked.

“Your majesty,” Lord Azarias interrupted, “We know this story. I understand that it’s a formality—”

“It is more than a formality, lordship, Lickspittle is not an authority on Cassia or the other fey. Hold your tongue. And wait to be spoken to.”

You told them all in painful detail of the re-breaking of your wings. That the memory was so violent that it haunted your nightmares and your waking dreams. You told them of the guards and the jab of their weapons, the scars on your body that they would not see. You told them of the ice baths’ abrupt addition, and that you supposed it was because your blood had baked solid and offered you some measure of relief. You told them of the addition of the iron weight, and that you didn’t know why. Just that you shook with chills and burned with fever and you knew that you were going to die in between your fitful periods of waking. You knew that you would close your eyes and you would not wake up again. That there was a long period in between when you lost consciousness and when you regained it in a royal bed.

You did not see that Philip was no longer looking at you.

“You should have been dead,” Borra agreed. There was a familiar harshness to his voice that comforted you; you knew it wouldn’t offer the humans the same, but you knew him, and you were happy that he joined you on the open floor. It was like your council again. “Aurora stayed with you when she found you in that cage. She couldn’t lift you.” When he spoke, it wasn’t to them. He sought your eyes and no one else’s. “I did.”

You suspected, but confirmation still warmed you in a strange and twisted way. You hated that you caused him pain, but you were so glad he gave you comfort.

“All of this,” he lifted your wrist, brushed his fingers over the scars at your throat, “was bloody and raw. You were drenched in it. You stunk of blood and burnt flesh. Your wings barely fit through the door. They were limp and wouldn’t bend.”

There was no hiding the anger in his voice, and you didn’t want him to. He only told them because he was also telling you – filling in the gaps of time lost.

“I had to hold you to hear your heart beat. You were so weak you barely breathed. She gave you a bed, and it wasn’t big enough.” He blinked, and you knew he saw the sight of your freshly-unfurled wings in the brightness of his memory. “You were so broken I didn’t even see the shot that started it. They had to send for the elders.” His jaw flexed. He suddenly had to look anywhere else but at you. “I thought they’d start giving you rites.”

You let your eyes fall closed. You let yourself worry your pendant over the imagined memory of shared heartache.

“They’d given them to your father that morning. Couldn’t deal with it if they had.”

Aurora silently blotted her eyes.

“Couldn’t leave you even if they would  have. Couldn’t bear to touch your wings.” He did, then, lightly, like they might break again because of the remembered action. “No human in the palace would touch you; they thought cleaning your wounds would make you bleed out. They wouldn’t even dress you.”

You thought, faintly, back to when you awoke in pain. Your change of clothes and how you never even noticed what it was you wore.

“I did.”

You met his eyes again.

You fledged together; blind as you were to his feelings for you, there were periods in your life when you felt you knew him better than you knew yourself. You always knew of what befell him, how he got each and every burn. You’d been there when his kinsman’s fledgling – the little, desert girl last born to his niche of people – rushed up to him at the bonfire with the braid of woven grass he wore around his ankle. For luck, he’d whispered to her, and you hadn’t hid your smile.

“I saw the wounds on your sides. How fresh they were. I stayed with you,” and his voice was different – strong still, hard still, but not the same. Because he wasn’t speaking to them. Pain bled through his anger. “Every moment that the elders cleaned your wounds. Every balm, every salve, every tonic they used. You slept for a day.” He moved again, the restless shift of his feathers brushing across the stone such a familiar sound. “I couldn’t watch them set your wings.”

“Where did you go?” you whispered. You hadn’t meant to sound so forlorn; you didn’t want him to share in your pain, and yet you couldn’t understand why he hadn’t.

“The balcony.” He hadn’t gone far. You could almost see him, the shift of his weight as he listened for a break in your silence. “The others went to the moors with whoever desired to stay; everyone else returned home.”

“Why didn’t you?” Philip asked, and you assumed that was equally a formality.

His eyes spoke volumes only to you, volumes that did not match how he responded to the young prince. “After your men shot her father,” the anger returned in full, and you loved him for it. You loved him because he would rather incite their fury in return than make you vulnerable by admitting that he loved you. “All he could ask was that she be found. Brought home.”

“So why haven’t you left?” Lord Azarias asked.

You thought, for just a flicker, that you’d have to hold him back. No, you had to give him more credit than that; he wasn’t foolish.

“She cannot fly,” Borra replied, the hiss of emphasis on the word drawing many eyes back to your lopsided wing.

“Perhaps, but can you not carry one another? Wouldn’t it have been more simple for you to just…go back where you came from?”

You were unprepared to interject if they needed you to. You were, but Philip was not. “Lord Azarias, I do believe I’ve made my feelings on your questions quite clear.”

“I represent the people, your majesty, and it is with their best interests in mind that I ask what I do.”

You hadn’t fought a war to run back home. Even a mortal knew that. Their people conquered territories; your family stood together to liberate themselves. And that was what Udo said when Borra didn’t justify the bait with an answer.

You knew it was in your collective best interest not to allow your emotions to get in the way, but you touched him when he got close. You met his eyes and apologized, and the hardness in his refuted it. You have nothing to apologize for.

“And yet, little lasting physical harm was done. Your people were free to go, as were the moor-folk, and you have the ability to travel back and forth as you wish. It wasn’t as though the crown infantry disrespects the honor of even a savage.”

They didn’t understand, but you did. You had to turn away. You caught Percival’s eyes by accident, and the horror in them betrayed, much to your relief, that they were too prejudiced to think that way. Oh, you had never been so glad that Ingrith’s hatred came wrapped in disdain.

“Azarias,” Philip interjected, much more forcefully than you thought the boy knew how to be. “Leave.”

The iron-monger blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Leave. The sentry will escort you.”

“Sire,” he didn’t even try to soften his voice, “you understand my intentions.”

“No, I do not. For that, I am increasingly relieved.”

“Philip,” John cautioned, which made Aurora sit straighter. The poor girl. They should’ve let her keep her rabbit.

“I will not have this tribunal derailed by your provocation. Leave. You are welcome to rejoin us in the morning.”

“What did he say?” Provocation wasn’t lost on Borra; you ended up holding onto his gauntlet, and his attention turned to you.

“It doesn’t matter,” Percival tried to quell the unrest before it began. “The crown sentry operates with honor and nobility. Lord Azarias speaks only for himself.”

Somehow, you felt like that only made the situation worse.

“What did he say?” Borra repeated, over your head. To Philip, directly.

The young prince did not respond. You didn’t even look up to see what expression he made; you thought you could cling to Borra and it would stop him, but something in Philip’s face told him. The young men of the crown sentry who knew well of your mate’s ferocity, having trained with him, did not move to stop him the way you did.

They were all afraid of him, and they should be. He was strong; he swept you behind him gently, his wings fanned out against yours as though they would act as your shield while you wound your fingers through the leather straps of his armor where they crossed on his back.

“You’re brave enough to speak to them. Say it to me.”

If Azarias was smart, he wouldn’t. Your experience with humans – humans who were not of the immediate crown family – had shown you differently.

He was arrogant enough to look your mate in the eyes despite the fact that you were holding on to him, practically begging not to let this escalate any further, and respond to him clearly. “No human sullied your little wife. Her virtue is intact, and yet the lot of you stand there posturing for sympathy.”

Even you were confused by the phrasing, though you still believed you understood. What in skies is a virtue?

When Borra breathed, you were surprised no growl followed it. You weren’t surprised that not even digging in your heels stopped you from being pulled along when he went forward; when his talons clicked deliberately on the wooden box surrounding the nobility and the gentry’s seats, as though anyone else had the nerve to join you.

“Posturing for sympathy,” he repeated. There was the growl, an undercurrent in his voice that soothed you like a big cat’s purr. “As though you don’t insult us to our faces.”

He raised a brow, nearly saying out loud that he didn’t imagine any of you understood.

“Do you know why poachers were killed on the moors?” It shouldn’t have made you feel so safe, the dangerous gravity in his tone. “They were cowards, just like you. Robbing sleeping children from their beds, shedding blood like animals.”

They were all fixed on him, but none of them dared look him in the eyes. Only Azarias did, and it reminded you so strongly of Ingrith that you felt the phantom weight on your chest return.

“Look at her like prey one more time and you will not have eyes.”

“That is a threat,” Azarias replied – posturing for sympathy.

“That is a promise,” your mate replied, and you had to hide your smile in his shoulder when the human collective jumped at the sound of agreement that arose from Ini, Udo and Shrike.

“Your majesty, you reason with savages.”

You thought John might muster some benign comment meant to placate you both, but his voice over your shoulder was hardly disappointed. “Yes, it seems I do. I agree with Philip’s motion to dismiss you, Lordship, and I remind you that your place in my gentry is contingent upon your willingness for diplomacy. I can, and will, excuse you if necessary.”

You knew he felt you smiling against his skin, and you knew that you weren’t supposed to, but it was so satisfying to hear John back you without regards for their feelings that you almost forgot what manner of unrest all of this might cause.

His lordship didn’t.

He left his seat without escort, departing from the hinged entrance to his box, and circling it down toward you. Borra’s wing canted around you like a shield, and the blood-red man paused in front of him. “So it was you killing innocent men on the banks of the river, then?”

“They weren’t on the banks of the river when I met them,” Borra replied, more even-toned than he’d been in some time.

“Is that a yes, or a no?” Azarias asked, and his deliberate enunciation made both of your pinfeathers bristle.

He got a cold smile for his trouble, and your mate deliberately, brimming with false and wholly performative innocence, cocked his head like he had no idea what it was he was being asked. Anyone with eyes could know the answer, and yet, the blood-red man stalked past you both. He was not afraid to weave through the gap between Udo’s and Shrike’s wings so he might exit, and John, to his credit, recalled the gathered humans’ attention nearly immediately.

“I apologize to our guests for the outburst, as well as his lordship’s blatant lack of diplomacy.”

“Apologize for nothing, John,” Borra replied, though you put your hands on his back in hopes he still might calm. “Best they don’t hide their intentions.”

“It’s not like that for the rest of us,” Aurora promised. She was so sad, and you felt for her, but you also had begun to feel something like relief. This fight was familiar – this stalking, this talking, the exchange of thoughts in a great chamber before a crowd. This was all so familiar to you that it was as though the war, and your captivity, solved nothing.

You stayed with him when Philip asked about the moor-folk. You stayed, though your fixed place behind him changed once you could breathe normally again.

You took your place at his side like your painted-on marks warranted. You listened, and you devoted your every breath, every pulse of your still-beating heart, to the lives that had been taken.

Lickspittle the gnome looked at you sidelong. The fear was plain in his eyes, though Percival nudged him with the side of his boot to make his gaze shift back to the tribunal. You held yourself differently. Like you were less burdened. From the iron-fire in your veins, despite the immobility of your wings, you perked them. And you held them up. Even as they trembled, even as they struggled to stay aloft. It was an instinct that you did not even notice until Borra’s hand on your back reminded you to let them down before it hurt you.

There was phoenix blood in your veins. And you were in the midst of her fire.

                         Lord Azarias made himself your enemy while you were still in Ulstead.

In the taverns, the smithy, and even the chapel, he spun stories with his iron tongue. They were lies, and many were afraid.

But fear was not the control he wanted.

The silence of it made his ears ring when he should’ve heard the pounding of the hammer upon the anvil. The renewed roar of fire in the forge.

“Bring me the human-slayer,” he said when no one rose to his call for action, “and you will be paid whatever it weighs in silver.”

There were many, still, that said nothing; the very idea was against the law, and if they were to fear the fey, they had to also fear their influence upon the king. Word traveled quickly of the way John touched you, the barrier your people made between you both and the outside world.

“Dead or alive?” one man dared ask. It was a joke to them, but Azarias set down a piece of silver before him, thick and beveled with the great, slain beast on Ulstead’s crest.

“It is a wild animal, killer of men. If I didn’t want to mount the whole of it, I would tell you to bring me its head.”

#Borra x Reader #Dark Fey #Unfettered #Borra #Conall #cw: graphic depictions of violence; discriminatory language; character death

[sk-lumen]

signs: people i’ve met

ARIES. sunlight incarnate illuminating every room they step into. the eternal child imbued with divine energy, tireless, enthusiastic, curious, ready to tackle everything new. leaping from goals with determination and have the most brilliant energy, setting ablaze all the minds they touch. aura is addictive golden-bright and warm like a hearth fire after a cloudy day. cheerful, motivating, empowering, a delightful presence. always working towards next goal, next challenge. love working out, flirting, teasing, feeling wanted and wanting.

TAURUS. strong minds that treasure routine, structure, stability. earthy voices, calm and steadfast. reassuring and grounding energy, like meditating against an oaktree for a quiet afternoon. they cherish history, time, objects of the material realm that carry stories, collect vintage treasures, find beauty in all the little things of life. loyal to people that are part of their life, that are close, that are part of their story. affinity for working with the earth, with plants, with animals. quiet, gentle souls. look best in earthy, warm colors.

GEMINI. crystal-clear blue energy like a dozen coffee shots, like brilliant 2AM conversations with strangers you instantly click with at parties. look the youngest due to mercurial energy. minds darting from one idea to the next in a nanosecond, love mental gymnastics, storytelling, jokes and puns. their whole world is exchanging ideas so they need constant mental stimulation and will forever cherish those that can provide it but only as long as they do, they are only loyal to their ideas. when these are no longer found in another, they shamelessly walk away as staying means compromising their curiosity, their joy of the new, their infinite thrill of mental energy, in other words what brings them happiness.

CANCER. mother-goddess blessed nurturers, they love to care for loved ones, making sure they’re eating right and sleeping enough and taking care of themselves. gentle, homely, cozy energy like a pillowfort on Sunday afternoons where you take a nap feeling safe and coddled. the idea of home, family, being parents, raising children excites and fulfills them. gentle beings. plump features, round lunar faces, kind hearts. tendency for body to retain plumpness as a quality of the nurturing mother-goddess. slow, hesitant and roundabout steps towards their goals, but also away from what they don’t want.

LEO. glowing leonine prince of the limelight. loves attention, being adored, seen, noticed. hides vanity under nonchalance, acts like tough cookie but is actually a marshmallow. passionate about ideas of honor, having principles, values. very protective of their friends and loved ones, if you need a shoulder to lean on or someone to stand up for you, they are yours no questions asked. radiant, sunny smiles worthy of kings and queens. thick mane like lions. tendency for athletic bodies, particularly abs.

VIRGO. meticulous crafters of details and attention. excellent organizational skills. minds like pocketwatch engines, able to decipher the smallest aspects of a project, goal, schedule or task. reserved and demure aura, but also restless and nervous. soft, lovely maidenly features, youthful look from mercurial energy. lovely, small hands, clear skin, shiny hair. awkward and shy smiles. classicism, routine, structure. can be manic about hygiene, bacteria, orderliness. calm, grounding advice.

LIBRA. kissed upon the cheek by the lips of Venus herself, they are blessed with an inexplicable quality of beauty, of symmetry, of harmony in every aspect of their being. their worldview, morals, ethics, seeing beauty in everything. organizing and rearranging colors, textures, materials and shapes to create the loveliest ensemble. carry charm like sparkling veil following upon their trail, people flock to them effortlessly. possible flaws of vanity, superficiality, distraction, but they are trying their best. naturally gifted with beautiful voices, talent for music, for playing instruments, for the arts, for acting. most symmetrical and harmonious features out of all.

SCORPIO. accurately described as the epitome of intensity. depth is the keyword. natural born detectives, explorers of the emotional abyss within. fearless of limits, of feeling everything and more - or expressing it. passionate friends, passionate lovers. strong, independent people. know what they want and don’t dawdle getting it. can be obsessive, secretive, rigid, introverted or even antisocial if scorpio qualities are misused, or sacral-chakra dominated energy is misused in terms of power dynamics. can be the most loyal and protective friends. they love only once. forgiveness and trust is crucial in any relationship for them. look amazing in tones of red or black. kings and queens of their own inner world and unlike gemini (communication) or pisces (fantasies), they’re perfectly happy not bringing anyone into it.

SAGITTARIUS. the sharp-tongued brazen wanderers. the wild at heart, explorers and travelers. skilled at languages, working with groups of people. effortless and honest communicators, naturally conveying passion and motivation which makes them excellent at coaching, training, teaching, any mentor role. predominant feature is strong, sturdy thighs or legs (fitting for their wanderlust). lanky, tall builds yet somewhat awkward in movement, like a newborn horse waiting to stretch into its prime. witty humour, optimists, like to look at the bright side, blessed with good luck in general. they crave action, adventures, conquering challenges not in the sense of excitement (Aries), tasks (Virgo), or goals (Capricorn) but in the sense of rocking the boat, tasting new experiences alongside friends and translating those experiences into lifelong lessons and philosophical questions.

CAPRICORN. the goal-getters, the bossbabes, the CEOs and natural born leaders. always working hard towards their goals, calculated and methodical. deep emotions but often hide it under a stoic mask, actually the proudest sign (and not Leo) but in terms of dignity. strong values, high standards, and principles are important to them. they see everything as an investment, so if they cut someone off, it’s because they no longer see the connection as worth their time, effort, money. consequently, those that are worth the investment they will show their love by providing financial security (provided they have it themselves). like wine, they get better - and look better - with age, as experience gives them great confidence, time accredits them with gathered wealth, and their features and oblong facial structure naturally age very well, not in the mercurial youth sense, but in a saturnine attractiveness, in that they wear their experience with power. heavy brows, thoughtful look, deep, intelligent eyes. their determination and inner strength is incredible.

AQUARIUS. the unconventional, nonconformist, the rebel. the most extraordinary minds and conversations, the ones you never forget. aliens, psytrance, futuristic fashion styles, open minds and open hearts. the most fun friends to have, that your stomach and cheeks hurt from laughter and your heart feels so full. bound to nothing and nobody. wild spirits that belong only to the stars. loyal to their ideals. great humanists, amazing sense of perspective to the bigger picture; charities, fundraisers, volunteering. quality of geniality in terms of facial features - incredibly bright blue eyes, or sculpted nose, or jawline. can make you feel like you’ve known them forever, like you’re the closest of friends, and then feel like a stranger the next. hot and cold. part of their aquarian, libertine allure.

PISCES. rosegold-colored souls, dreamy eyes, kindest hearts of all. nostalgic aura, princes and princesses trapped in their own imaginarium looking for escape. will do anything for their loved ones, especially compromise/sacrifice their own wellbeing. too often puts others first. large eyes, soft skin. always daydreaming, fantasizing, imagining alternate scenarios and timelines. loves hugs and cats. loves once and forever, loyal to emotions, they gift their heart to another only once. look amazing in pale pink hues, pearls, rose crystal quartz.

#astrology #zodiac signs #zodiac #signs #signs as #astro #writings #thoughts #horoscope #interesting #poetic #blog