#haystack king

[cedarsmoke4]

God’s perfect killing machine has the most luscious lips known to man

#karl heisenberg #resident evil village #re8 village #mechanic au #cedar doodles #I’m exhausted rn and I’ve been staring at this for too long so *slaps it down* bed head Heisenberg #also please for the love of all that is holy please stop giving this poor man abs #you know he’d sit around munching on tasty food and drinking beer if he had the chance #give him a little redemption tummy #he deserves to gain a little weight after his ordeal #he probably survived solely on cigars and whiskey until Ethan showed up and murked Miranda #let him be healthy and happy #let him have a donut and a nap #also longer hair Heisenberg is lovely #very much enjoying it #haystack king

[kalsiferdraws]

Well teen/adult obviously won! So here's the first round if them! Ben starts us off, then Bill, then Stan, and a little stenbrough (for me honestly)! Enjoy

Again I'm curious how many headcanons people can spot!

#art #digital art #artists on tumblr #my doodles #illustration #it #stanley uris #stan uris #stenbrough #bill denbrough #ben hanscom #haystack baby #lemme enduldge #it fanart #it fandom #stephen king #stephen king's it #fanart

[suguann]

OH, DARLING—ASTARION

✎. he’s in a perpetually strange mood for the rest of the day, quieter than usual and more sulky, and you have the sneaking suspicion he's upset with you. | wc. 1.3K+

tags. fem!reader, established relationship, jealousy, slight dirty talk, pet names [18+ only]

masterlist

Eighteen days. That’s how long it takes between the Shadowlands and reaching Wyrm’s Crossing. Longer still since you’ve interacted with anyone other than bandits, lost refugees, cult-crazed lunatics, and your merry band of weirdos (Gale’s words, not yours). 

For once, you’re not picking berries off bushes to offset hunger until you make camp or plucking bramble from your pants when the occasional trail turns out to be safer than the King’s Road. You can finally sit at a bartop and order wine instead of choking down the contents of an ancient bottle of Ithbank you snatched from a cellar in some decrepit village.

That was at least the most tolerable thing you experienced outside the gates, as far as roughing it in the wilds goes.

And it might be your newfound appreciation for city life, of finding an escape from what’s become your current normal—sneaking past goblin-infested camps, waterlogged boots, and haystacks for beds (an upgrade from sleeping on the cold, hard dirt, you suppose)—that lures the Drow twins over to your party walking down from the top floor of the Sharess’ Caress.

“You must be curious after keeping such…” Nym glances over Astarion, Shadowheart, and Karlach, hovering behind you, threatening with blood stains on their clothes and out of place in an establishment full of nobles and wealthy ministers. “Interesting company.”

It’s safe to say you’re uninterested in the twins, but that doesn’t stop your curiosity from piquing when Nym demonstrates her talents with a peach she snatches from a fruit bowl off the nearest table. By the end of it—an obscene display that catches the eye of a few patrons walking by and sends your imagination reeling—you wonder how often she does this to gain clientele. If it’s always so…hands-on.

“So what do you think?” 

You don’t know what to think, oddly confused like that first time Astarion had to spell out for you that he wanted to have sex—you’re going to be so fun to break, pet—a girl who’s every bit the product and trappings of a sheltered fool. 

“Are you interested?”

The mutilated peach in Nym’s hand drips clear fruit juice down her wrist in thin rivulets, collecting at her elbow. You start to shake your head—

Astarion scoffs. “She already has her hands full without your sticky fingers and whatever the hells you’re doing to that innocent peach.” 

Nym’s mouth curls up into a coy smile before her gaze sweeps over to Astarion. “Her lover, I presume?”

“As in, I already tasted said peach while you’re still trying to get your mouth on it; well then, yes. Very much so.”

You slap his chest, your face somehow getting hotter. “Astarion!”

“Darling, we’re in a whorehouse. I assure you they’ve heard worse.”

Nym makes a wordless, amused sound. “Well, if you ever find yourself curious or—” she gives Astarion one last scrutinizing once over and looks at you again “—unsatisfied, you know where to find me and my brother.”

Before you can politely decline, Astarion chips in on your behalf, “Trust me, she’s not.”

He steers you toward the door—I’m never going to look at a silly piece of fruit the same after this—and you don’t miss how he sends the twins a withering stare right before he joins you on the street.

He’s in a perpetually strange mood for the rest of the day, quieter than usual and more sulky. 

You stare at the back of his head as he walks in front of you, bulky pack slung over his shoulder with the books and scrolls you bought earlier, deciding whether you should join him or leave him to his thoughts.

Karlach nudges your shoulder. “Trouble in paradise, soldier?”

“Not really.” You bite your lip. “Should there be?”

Her gaze follows yours to Astarion, and she hums in understanding.

“If you stare at his back any longer, you might burn a hole through it." Heat crawls up your neck, and you try to give her a shove when Astarion looks at both of you over his shoulder, but she doesn't move an inch and laughs instead. "He’s probably upset over finding another pebble in his boot again. Don’t sweat it.”

An unreasonable suggestion, for you know it’s more than another pebble.

He doesn’t say anything once you all reach camp, nor does he give you even the slightest acknowledgment when you walk by his tent on your way to bed or look up from his book—no hello, my sweet readily waiting on his tongue—when you slip a little note under his nose. 

It’s starting to give you the sneaking suspicion he’s upset with you—though you hardly have the faintest idea why.

You’re pulled awake by the quiet, careful shifting of your blanket as someone slips into your bedroll behind you. You stare blearily at the barn's wall, trying to blink away the disorienting feeling still clinging to you like dew on a humid summer day. 

It’s the first brush of sharp incisors against your throat that erases the last vestiges of sleep altogether.

Ah, so he read your note.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you whisper, aware enough to remember the other two people sleeping in the barn with you.

“Have I?”

“You know what I mean.” You tighten your grip on your blanket. “You’re upset, aren’t you?”

He kisses the tender spot below your ear. “I wouldn’t phrase it like that.”

“But you’re unhappy.”

Your breath hitches when his tongue flicks out to taste your skin. 

“Yes, I’m unhappy.”

“Was it because of what that drow said?”

“Hm, be more specific.”

“When she—with the peach.” You squirm a little, a mouse blessedly caught by the tail. “You know.”

His chuckle is soft, faintly mocking.

“Oh, darling. You think I’m jealous?” He runs a thumb over the fluttering pulse in your neck. “How cute.” 

And right before he applies the smallest amount of pressure—

“Well, you would be correct.”

When Astarion works at the laces of your pants, loosening them just enough to slip his hand underneath, you jump at the first cool brush of his fingers tracing across your heated skin. Your muscles jump, jump, jump under his touch, goosebumps prickling along your arms when his hand fits suddenly between your legs. Two soft pats that make you gasp.

“Drippy,” he murmurs. You don’t think your face can get any hotter.

Then he’s hooking two—fuck, three—fingers into you, splitting you open, curling up toward your belly; you can’t bite back the moan that breaks free.

“Hush, pet.”

Nipping at your neck, he scissors his fingers, smiling at your choked, stuttered gasp.

“Do you think I’d let anyone see how you fall apart with a few quick strokes of the fingers? How you sound? How you taste?” 

The questions are followed by his thumb pressing into the achy spot at the apex between your legs, and you don’t mention that he’s doing this with two other people sleeping soundly on the other side of the room. 

“This—” his fingers curl inside you, pressing until he finds soft flesh that makes your legs jerk. “This is all for me—mine—wouldn’t you agree?”

You nod slowly, hand clamped over your mouth to trap the sounds that keep escaping.

“Good, so we understand each other then.”

Your thighs tremble around his wrist. His fangs drag across the thin, breakable column throat, almost like a warning, catching at two identical scars that haven’t fully healed since you’ve let a feral, lost little vampire into your camp before he gives in and bites.

Digging in—messy—you imagine the dribble of red down his pale chin, how he sometimes leaves it there to savor later.

You’re limp and floating in a matter of seconds, your mind blissfully quiet for the first time in days.

“Remember that, darling, the next time someone starts giving you ideas.” After a moment, he whispers: "But I'm also happy you said no."

And he slips out of your bedroll without so much of a creak in the floorboards and out of the barn as if he was never there.

#astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion smut #bg3 x reader #bg3 x tav #bg3 smut #baldur's gate x reader #astarion x you #.things i write

[ilovetoxicfictionalmen]

AND THE OSCAR GOES TO …

Pairing - Cillian Murphy x fem!reader

Warnings - No warning, the disgust!!! Fluff with a side of angst, I’m shocked… cheesy as

Word count - 2.4+

The day had been exhausting. Cillian, who expresses the importance of sleep, was unable to keep his eyes shut last night in the luxurious king size bed. Usually the award shows were just a part of the job, never taken as seriously as working on the project. But this was different, he had never experienced the honor of such recognition by the industry he adored. Everyone was hyping him up and secretly it terrified him even though he acted unphased. 

Humble, was the word you’d use to describe Cillian. The most modest man in Hollywood, never believing that his work is exemplary. Always reflecting on what else he could have done to be better. It was a guilty desire, to want to win it. He had already won all of the other major awards, but what if he managed to fall short to this?

Likewise to him, you remained awake. Merely embracing him as you two laid in silence. You kept him at bay, he wondered what he did to deserve you. Feared the embarrassment of what you’d think of him if he didn’t win this last one. 

He threw up in the morning. It was all getting to his head. These were the parts he hated most about this job. The expectation on his back now. All eyes were going to be on him tonight. Not to mention the reporters. At all of the award shows they tended to ask insensitive questions about your relationship. 

Your relationship with Cillian was certainly controversial. Age gaps always were. Neither of you ever intended to fall in love, but denying that spark of attraction felt like a major crime.  

At first, you both tried to make yourselves believe it to just be casual. To merely get those urges out of your system. Neither one of you intended on making the encounter romantic or innermost with each other. However, by the third date, it came to light in your senses that this was real. 

The dating stage was a rollercoaster of emotions. Filled to the rim with doubts of if you both would be able to make it work. Yeah, you’ve dated some real questionable guys. But a 20 year age difference was never a bridge you expected to cross. Despite the hesitance of this intangible factor, you two just couldn’t view a future without one another anymore. 

Slowly, you both tackled your insecurities of becoming public to your loved ones. The hardest were your parents, even though there was still a bit of an age gap, Cillian was closer to their age than yours and it was a judgment they couldn’t avoid. It took some time, but as they watched your eyes blossom at the sight of him they knew it was real. 

The public would never know how you brought Cillian out of his despair. A man of privacy he was, hardly anyone knew how toxic his first marriage was. How bad his mind had become after years of trying over something that was long dead cold. With how he had given up hope on ever feeling loved by another again. Most days he felt like a man trying to find a pin in a haystack. 

Dating Cillian taught you the value of privacy and wellbeing. Behind the closed doors, your relationship was paradise. You had never experienced a relationship that wasn’t followed by the media. It was all that you had ever known. But this, being able to focus on him and not on how the world perceived your relationship had changed your whole perspective. 

When the news broke that not only were you dating Cillian Murphy, but pregnant, the backlash was astounding. However, you both had the approval and support from your inner circles and that was all that mattered. You had a shotgun wedding in Ireland with a small number of attendees. It was the greatest day of your life until you gave birth to your daughter, Aisling. 

He looked so charming as you watched him dress in the hotel room. He was laughing nervously a lot, trying to talk about things other than the ceremony. 

You didn’t blame his distress. Years ago you were in the same affair. It was your hardest role and greatest accomplishment. Portraying a woman at her lowest point in a society that she felt she didn’t belong. By the end of production, a part of you felt like you were her. When you were nominated for Best Actress, you were filled with gratitude and honor. But also couldn’t help but to think at the back of your head if you really deserved this. A part of you didn’t feel worthy to be running with your fellow nominees. The anxiety rose inside of you everytime someone asked what would you do if you won? 

But, when the presenter announced your name, the wave of acceptance consumed you deep into the ocean. Everything you had ever done had led to that moment. There was no need for you to secretly bring yourself down. You have pushed your mind, body and soul for this project. The gratitude had overwhelmed you as you accepted this recognition. 

Watching him on the red carpet, you could see right through him. The illusion of confidence mixed with the gratitude of accolades. He wanted the night to be done with, there was nothing more that he wanted to do besides be at home with you and Aisling. It was the first time Cillian had attended the grand event and you observed him look around in awe in the ceremony room. The whole time you had held onto his hand tightly as the big four without hurry finally rolled over. 

“And the Oscar goes to…” Brendan Fraser paused as he opened the envelope.

Time froze over, your iron grip on Cillian’s hand as you stared immensely. There was this clock ticking in your head. Your emotions were masked as Cillian had a stern expression. You could sense how anxious he was with being in the running for the greatest honor.   

Despite the distance, you ever so clearly saw the look that lit in Brendan’s eyes and knew immediately. His gaze looked up to Cillian as he announced his name to the world. A radiant smile grew on Cillian’s lips as the audience started cheering for him. 

He acknowledged you promptly, his blue eyes soft as he leant in to kiss you. After a small exhale of relief, you wrapped your arms around his body and kissed him passionately. His forehead pressed against yours for a few seconds, but it felt like hours. The noise drained out and you both forgot where you were. It was just the two of you. When Cillian opened his eyes again, his gaze was met with your undying smile of bliss. 

The track for Oppenheimer was playing as Cillian slowly let you go and embraced his fellow cast members You were clapping your hands together uncontrollably, your eyes welled with tears of joy as you watched Cillian make the short journey to the stage.

Emily embraced you, you exhaled heavily against her as you were still feeling the overwhelming sensation against your skin. It was all too much to take in, you could see his photo up on all of the screens, the cheers were running down to your ear drums. It felt like deja vu from years ago when you were in the exact same spot. 

He shook all of the presenters' hands. Sharing a few words with each of them individually. The audience were still on their feet as Cillian looked down to the golden prize in his hold, his mouth dry as he struggled to think of what to say. 

The crowd was standing in awe for him. Cillian laughed nervously, his expression overwhelmed and shocked at what was occurring. He has never even dreamt of this moment, never believing he’d be able to make it. His hand trailed over jaw as his eyes took in everything. He waited for the audience to silence themselves but realized that they wouldn’t be doing it on their own any time soon. 

“Um, I’m a little overwhelmed. Thank you to the Academy” Cillian started, his eyes roaming over the room. The crowd came to silence. “Um, Chris Nolan and Emma Thomas, it's been the wildest, most exhilarating, most creatively satisfying journey you’ve taken me on over the last 20 years. I owe you more than I can say. Thank you so much” Cillian expressed his gratitude to them. His mentors, the people that trusted him dearly with many of their successes. 

There was such little time. Shockingly, Cillian hadn’t prepared himself for this moment, despite everyone telling him that even though the competition was scintillating, the Oscar already had his name written on it. Of course he had summed up a few words to say, people to recognise. But the shock had drowned his thoughts. 

“Every single crew member, every single cast member on Oppenheimer. You guys carried me through. All of my fellow nominees, I remain in awe of you guys, truly” Cillian acknowledged, his eyes darting around the room to look for his fellow nominees. 

He truly was in admiration of them. The pair of you had watched all of the nominated films and Cillian couldn’t help to be even in applause of them, but also intimidated by them as award season had rolled over. 

“I wanna thank my incredible team. Ah, big shout out to Craig Bankie!” Cillian grinned. “Brendan Murphy- Brendan Murphy, Mary Murphy. Who are currently taking care of my baby girl back in Ireland. Aisling, my darling, daddy loves you so much” He smiled purely into the camera. 

There was a pause as he blinked heavily. His gaze found its way back to you so lovingly. CIllian stared at you in awe. Even though you were at a distance from each other, he could see you so perfectly. His perfect woman, wife, lover.  

“Oh” he breathed out, tilting his head up the slightest bit. “And there’s a woman” he professed as he closed his eyes dramatically, taking in all of the emotions he was feeling. 

Some of the crowd couldn’t resist screaming out in excitement. Your hand pressed against your mouth as you slowly shook your head in disbelief. 

“Yeah” he said to himself as he nodded his head, eyes still shut. “A woman. Who I love” Cillian vowed, his eyes finding you once more. Cillian breathed out your name as he watched you enchantedly. “You’re the love of my life, and I owe everything to you. You’ve kept me sane throughout this whole process. I wouldn’t be up here without you. This award, it’s for us. I love you” Cillian commended, giving you an angelic smile. 

The crowd roared in exhilaration. The camera focused on you and your teary eyes as you were shaking your head in disbelief and happy embarrassment. 

“I’m a very proud Irish man standing here tonight. So…” Cillian smiled as he raised his award into the air. The crowd cheered as he could feel the privilege of honoring his nationality. “You know, we made a film. We made a film about the man who created the atomic bomb. And for better or for worse, we’re all living in Oppenheimer’s world. So I would really like to dedicate this to the peacemakers everywhere” Cillian finished with a satisfied nod. “Go raibh mile maith agaibh!” He raised the award one final time as he spoke his native language and took a step back from the microphone. 

The music began as Cillian winked to you. Everyone stood up again as they all applauded him, many eyes were on you as well. He engaged with the past winners as they all walked off stage. People congratulated you for landing such a romantic man and you couldn’t argue with them if you wanted you. 

You kissed him passionately in the elevator, the buzz of the champagne you shared in the ride over giving the pair of you slightly too much confidence. Cillian was chuckling slowly as you both looked at the award in his hand. The doors dung open and you were cheered by the guests in the venue of the afterparty. 

A snort left Cillian as he noticed a tap of Guinness at the bar. Neither of you could refuse a pint of it. The night rolled on with many congratulations, drinks, photographs, hand shakes, embraces and conversations on what an achievement this had been. No one would be able to guess how exhausted Cillian truly was. But the adrenaline was still pumping through his blood stream and it wasn’t stopping anytime soon.  

As the music blasted and the dance floor filled with highly tipsy people, Cillian confidently pulled you onto it. His arms wrapped around your body as he swayed you to the music. The two of you smiled gleefully, intoxicated with the moment and built up emotion over these past few months. Even though the lighting was dark, you could see the crooked smile on his lips. 

“Let’s have another” he proposed into your ear. You hummed and looked up to him. A heavy laugh left your mouth as you turned your foot to the bar but he stopped you. “No, no” he laughed. “Another baby” he clarified. 

“You only ever wanted one” you brought up. It was unsure if he was being serious, or merely caught up in the moment. 

“I’ve been wrong” he admitted, swaying you perfectly to the beat of the music. You hummed confidently, a sparkle in your eyes, the thought of a baby boy with his eyes coming to mind. “You’ve brought me out of my hardest moments. I know I tell you this all the time but woman, you mean everything to me. Your support, advice, guidance and love is all I’ll ever need to live a fulfilled life. You’ve taught me so much which has benefitted not only my career but happiness and spirit in life. I love you more than I’ll ever be able to say or show you” Cillian confessed. 

Innocent embarrassment made you shake your head towards him. He just had a way with words that made your heart swoon over him, even when he was drunk. A long, gentle kiss connected you together once more. This was life, the happiness you both could share together. Not the expensive outfits, fancy cars or grand events. It was the emotions and feelings intertwined as one between two bodies. 

Cillian had made history tonight, but you were forever to be his grand prize in life. 

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian x fem!reader #cillian x reader #cillian murphy fluff #oscar winner #light angst

[scarredlove]

Just Resting

A little, soft drabble of my King of Fools AU You're taking resting, taking in the morning and afternoon breeze. And people around you take care to not disturb.

King Sun X You (non gender) X Fool Moon

You laid on the haystacks in the stables, horses whining and tapping the ground sporadically in the depths of the shack. You felt so at peace. You had no shows scheduled for the day, nor any meetings to attend. Crossing your arms over your belly, a sigh left your lips as you laid there, fully conscious, but your eyelids refused to open to the afternoon light.

After a few minutes, you could hear a low discussion happening somewhere in the distance, sounding quite formal. A voice cut off the other into silence and there was a small laugh before a dismissive mumble of words was given. One set of footsteps drew near and the light that warmed your eyes was disturbed, a small sigh leaving whoever was nearby. They stood right next to you. And yet you could not open your eyes. Nor could you find words.

In a state mimicking sleep, the figure leaned down and a gloved digit ran over your cheek softly, brushing loose hairs aside that threatened to disturb your peaceful state. Even with eyes closed, you could feel a smile radiating from whomever was looming above.

Humming, the footsteps wandered further into the barns, dry grass and gravel crunching beneath their weight. After a brief pause, the soft, rough noises grew louder once more, the presence coming back towards you, and with a flourish, a breeze wafted around you before cloth was draped over your figure.

A blanket? 

There was another chuckle and after their gloved fingers combed through your locks a few times, he cleared his throat and began walking away, back towards the castle, light returning to your eyelids, pink being all that you see.

—

You continued to lay there as the day passed on, the setting sun closing in on the mountains before it vanished for night. The faint sound of crickets could be heard from the tall grass surrounding the stables, various critters harmonising like a ceremony. But you still felt so less tired than you originally felt when laying down on the hay stacks, giving a long sigh into the nothingness.

The horses chirped merrily as a bundle of bells sang in the back of the shack, praise and care mumbling somewhere in the distance as the large creatures heaved happy snorts. The crescendo of bells drew closer before abruptly pausing in their approach, as if surprised to see you there in the stables. Silence followed for a minute or two, feet shuffling on the dirty stone ground as the figure debated to come closer or not. 

But you weren't bothered by whoever it was. You were at peace here. After a little while longer, soft jingles drew near to you hesitantly, slowly, as if trying to careful as to how the person's bells rang. There was a gravelly grunt before a huff followed. Before long, the bells resumed their song, coming closer and closer… before growing quite again, walking straight past you.

Moments passed listening to the soft breeze brushed against your cheeks, hair tickling your skin slightly but thankfully not in an uncomfortable way, nor was the air that cold for the growing evening. *Ring*. Jinging returned to your ears as it grew louder once more, snapping you out of your slight daze as you almost succumbed to sleep. The bells halted beside your bed of straw as you sighed, expression not shifting at the arrival of this somebody. 

A gentle touch stroked your ear slightly, tucking hair back into place. Sighing to themselves, breath brushing your face a little, fingers streaked a little into your locks before placing something soft behind your ear. The touch ran the rim of your earlobe before moving away, pausing for a moment at their handiwork before walking back away, suddenly bursting with jingles and grunts as the wood above creaked as if suddenly having additional weight upon it.

Without opening your eyes, your fingers reached up to your hair to inspect the strange weight nestled behind your ear. Something soft and small met your digits, before gently removing it. Opening your eyes for the first time in a while, it took a few moments for your eyes to adjust to the orange and purple skies in the corner of your vision. But within your hold, standing tall,  bright and vibrant, a flower met your vision.

A dandelion.

#scarredlove #scar rambles #scar drabbles #scar writes #fnaf daycare attendant #fnaf dca #fnaf au #dca au #dca fandom #fnaf fandom #fnaf moon #fnaf sun #sun #moon #royal au #King of Fools AU #King Sun #Sun King #Fool Moon #Moon Fool #kof y/n #dca y/n #fnaf y/n #sun x reader #sun x y/n #moon x reader #moon x y/n #dca x reader #dca x y/n #fanfic

[applcrumbl]

Moonlit Man.

Pairings: Rafe Cameron X F!Reader Warnings: Sex allusions, Strong Language, Suggestive content, Word Count: 2.5K Author's Note: This took on an entirely different direction than it was supposed to, but that's life. Went very poetic with this one, take it or leave it.

Summary: A hookup-only relationship that becomes more.

The golden shine of his back in the soft glow of the balcony lighting outside. He came late and left early - though she never minded. They simply enjoyed their time together, every few nights, sometimes a week, never more than a month.

His breathing was shallow, his back defined. Comforter hanging low on his hips, it was a surprise he wasn’t freezing. The large bay window had all 3 glass panes wide open, the sound of the beach whistling through the breeze that blew gently into the room. The wind carried away the smell of sex from mere hours before.

She never slept afterwards, she couldn’t. Not when she knew he’d expect her gone in the morning. So she would wait until he snored soundly, before slipping into her shoes and sliding out the back door. Sleek. Silent.

He only slept when she was there. He couldn’t otherwise. Not when her soft heartbeat didn’t provide rhythm for him to focus on. So he would shut his eyes tight and knock himself out before she had the chance to be gone.

She never really wanted to leave. And he never really wanted her to go. How they’d found themselves in this familiar routine, neither knew. Like clockwork, and neither questioned. A fear of it ceasing altogether if it were mentioned.

There was no talking, other than the small introductory necessity beforehand, or the sexy profession of need during. Just sex. They knew each other’s names and mobile numbers. She knew he lived at Tannyhill, and he knew that she was a local. They were just sex, some light banter, and a guaranteed ride home at the end of a drunken night.

That was all.

Until it wasn’t. He’d looked her up. Breaking their unspoken arrangement. He searched instagram, he asked his friends, he’d almost near hired a private investigator when his seach turn up nothing. Her name like a needle in a haystack. Like an earring back in a freshly dug bed of soil. As if she never existed.

She did of course. It was so easy to block someone on social media. So easy to stay on a certain side of the island where one is reluctant to step foot. So easy to know where best to go on the odd occasion that one does. So easy to stay an elusive part of Rafe Cameron’s life, and carry no consequence for his action. How she liked it. No strings attached.

But despite a lack of strings, people can find other ways to be entwined. Feelings can be caught, and laughs shared. Snippets of memories, and drunken honesty. Over their short period of time together, they’d grown to enjoy the company. In ways that werent just late nights. Him sleeping first, and her slipping out.

This night were no different, and as his breath gently tickled her neck, she crept from his king sized bed as she’d done countless times before. Her underwear slid over her legs, dress over her head. She carried her shoes and jacket down the stairs of the large home. Quiet so as not to wake any of it’s other inhabitants.

The rest of her clothes were briskly added once she reached the front landing. The same path each time. Left step, right step, dodge the creaky floorboard, and out the old servants' quarter's door. It was in the house's original design to be the quietest area, so that the Plantation’s staff could once enter and exit without disruption to their masters. Perfect for her need.

She opens it, careful to dodge the miscellaneous boxes strewn about. Evidently where the family’s random items were collected. She knew that the baseball bat must’ve been Rafe's and that the dolls would have belonged to a pair of sisters she’d only heard traces of. But, as much as she’d happily let Rafe tell her all, she knew it was best to keep their paths clear and uncrossing.

“The front door is closer, you know.”

She jumps at the surprising voice, turning quickly to be met by her moonlit man. Hand clutching pearls, she steadys herself.

“Thought you were sleeping.” She states.

“I was” Rafe replies, rubbing the back of his neck, still shining with the lightest layer of sweat.

She pauses for a moment, unsure of what to say. “Oh, then I’m sorry to wake you.”

They look at eachother. Him directly at her eyes. Her at his shoulder, avoiding his direct gaze. They spoke sometimes, but not often, and never afterwards.

“You forgot your earrings.”

“Oh,” She breathes, “Thanks.”

She hold her hands out, expectant for the boy to place the studded pearls in her grasp. He doesn’t. “I left them upstairs.” He apologises, opening his fingers to show her his empty palms.

She just nods, “I’ll get them next time.”

There would be a next time, after all, there always was.

He clears his throat, “Sorry.”

A smile without teeth, and a curt nod. These were the most words they’d uttered to one another at a single time. At least not for those moaned, or whispered under bedsheets.

She turns to leave through the open doorway. Eager to be home before the cold took over too much. Laden in nothing but the thin jacket, shoe and satin dress she wore out the night before. 

“You never answered my question.”

He catches her on the doorstep.

“Servants' quarter's door is the quietest place in the house.” She explains, “Slave owners liked not to be disturbed early in the morning.”

“Are you calling me a slave owner?”

“No!” she apologised, “I just meant it’s the quietest way out of the house.”

Typically, an air of confidence surrounded her. Conviction in uncertainty. She could pretend to be someone she was not, especially to those who knew no different. Her insecurity slips out. The strong bravado once built, comes tumbling down. 

He enjoyed this side of her. Sweet, clumsy. He seldom saw it.

“Is that why I never hear you leave?”

“I wait until you’re sleeping.”

“Why don’t you just stay?”

The question throws her for a loop. Caught off guard, she can only stutter and answer. 

“I have things to do?”

It comes out as more of a question than an answer.

“At 3am?”

She just nods, jacket pulled even tighter around her shivering body. She wants nothing more than to leave as usual.

“Why don’t you exist outside of my bedroom?”

It’s bold. It’s new. It’s nothing she ever expected to hear him say. It’s unlike anything Rafe Cameron has ever asked. It scared her. Shocked her into silence.

Any normal person would find words at that moment. Even something as simple as ‘I don’t know’. Yet, she stood, mouth agape, no sound coming out.

“I’d like it if you did.” He follows.

An admittance. A moment of pluckiness. An opportunity to spark a new light in their relationship. Testing the waters of whether or not they could be more. Whether he could have her full address. Whether she could stay over for the night.

But, her confidence is out of the window, and he needs his ego bruised a bit.

She just turns and walks away instead. Silent, except for her feet crunching the gravel path. Leaving Rafe alone at the servant's quarter’s door, which he never even knew existed. She runs from Tannyhill Plantation, and away from the man who she simply saw for sex.

Regret fills them both but for different reasons. She wishes she spoke to him. She wishes she stayed, she wished her confidence did too. She wishes that he kept sleeping and that she hadn’t forgotten her earrings. He wishes he’d offered to take her home. He wishes he’d just let her leave so that he’d know she’d come back. He wishes he’d never asked her for more than that. 

He goes back to his bedroom, and she to hers. Pulling covers up tight around her shoulders, she nods off securely in her own bed. Rafe tossed and turns as the warmth leaves the spot next to him. His bed grew colder as hers grew warmer.

-

The next time they spoke was a mere week later. Both tired of their hand, and longing for the other. Rafe was the first to fold.

Wednesday, March 11th at 09:58pm.

RAFE Can we ignore what I said? I think I was still a bit high.

Wednesday, March 11th at 10:04pm.

Y/N That makes sense. Okay. RAFE I need you. Y/N Me too. RAFE I’ll pick you up? Y/N I’ll meet you at yours. RAFE Okay.

Message read at 10:12pm.

A round trip of Kildare Island will take you an hour and a half at most, and although he didn’t know much about her, he knew she drove. No matter where she stayed on this small island, she would have been with him after 45 minutes. And he’d known from past times that she always pulled into the driveway after 22. So when the clock struck 11pm, that is when Rafe began to worry.

He worried that she’d chosen to walk. He worried that she’d gotten into a car crash and died. But, most of all, he worried that she’d changed her mind. That she wasn’t coming. He text her again.

Wednesday, March 11th at 11:16pm.

RAFE You on your way?

The speech bubble that popped up soothed him. She was alive. The fact that it came and went a few times put him on edge. What was she going to say?

Y/N No. RAFE What do u mean?

He tries to call her. The number rings once before sounding the dial tone. She clicks the decline button, hands running over her thighs.

RAFE Answer your phone. RAFE Please RAFE Have I done something? Are you in trouble? Y/N I’m fine. Why would I be in trouble? RAFE Why aren’t you coming?

Wednesday, March 11th at 11:22pm.

Y/N We’re getting too attached. RAFE We’re not. RAFE I promise.

Wednesday, March 11th at 11:29pm.

Y/N We are. And that’s okay, It’s just not what I want. Y/N It’s not what either of us want, really RAFE We’re literally not geytung attached RAFE getting*

Wednesday, March 11th at 11:38pm.

Y/N Rafe, u searched me up. You asked around for me.

He draws his cigarette. A sharp breath in and a gentle one out. Contemplating his next message. Unable to deny his actions, but embarrassed by the reason behind them.

Y/N You’re literally still wake at 1AM waiting for me to come around.

Y/N

Waiting on your fucking porch for me Y/N And I know for fact that you have other numbers in your phone that you can call instead.

His eyes snap up. Scanning the darkness for a set of headlights. How else would she know he was here?

RAFE Where are you parked? Y/N Wdym? RAFE You know i’m on my porch, which means you’re here. Where are you? Y/N Lucky guess. RAFE Don’t believe you. Y/N You should. Y/N I’m at home.  Y/N I just know what you’re doing right now because we’re getting too close. RAFE Is it really such a bad thing RAFE That i want to see you RAFE That i like you?

Wednesday, March 11th at 11:45pm.

Y/N You like my pussy RAFE Well yes RAFE But I want to know you Y/N

The speech bubble appears again before it leaves. It doesn’t show up for the rest of the evening. Or the following day. Or the next week. Month. Three Months.

-

Her life goes back to normal. His does too, only emptier. Her friends see her more, his see him less. She tries to forget about Rafe Cameron, and what it felt like to be beneath his sheets. He is plagued with thoughts of the girl who didn’t want him back. The first of her kind.

Kildare’s annual bonfire was the one chance he had of seeing her again. It was how they’d met the year previous. The first night of many stolen kisses and rumpled bedsheets. 

Rafe had considered that the fact he’d never seen her, or that none of his friends had heard of her, might be because she was a pogue. He’d never thought to ask, and ultimately he’d started not to care. But it was underlying in his mind as he sipped a beer next to the bonfire. Using its flame to illuminate the face of every girl gone past. None of which her's.

He’d tried texting her. Called once or twice whilst drunk. But never got an answer. And he’d never admit it, but he missed her. Missed her almost as much as he did his own mother. A casual hook-up held the same weight in his heart as an absent parent. The one who got away.

Except, she never really got away. Because, she was never his in the first place. He can’t lose something he never had. He can’t have something that never wanted to be his. Rafe bullied himself into the ground for screwing up the opportunity. 

She did the same for a while. Thinking, and thinking about what might have been. She’d dream of white dresses, and bearing children. She’d wonder what he was doing, who he was seeing. If he’d gotten over her. She’d convinced herself he had. She’d convinced herself he didn’t care for her anymore. She’d convinced herself that he wouldn’t even be at this stupid bonfire this year, and that the fact that she was going was stupid in itself.

But she’d do anything to at least see him again. Even if it were just the back of his shoulders, glistening in the low light of outside his bedroom window.

Maybe if she got the chance again, she’d stay. Maybe if he got the chance again, he’d keep her with him.

She sat at the bonfire. Eyes hurting from the smoke that blew her way. Unbeknownst that the very man she’d come for was exactly adjacent. Hidden by the burning embers, and floating orange ribbons. The fire died slowly as she pulled her phone out. Biting the bullet and sending the text.

Thursday, June 25th at 11:57pm.

Y/N Are you here?

An answer comes quickly.

RAFE Yes. Are you? Y/N I wouldnt have said ‘here’ if I wasn’t 

He missed her quick wit. She missed his dumb questions.

RAFE Where? Y/N Meet me by the big rock? Y/N They’re away to put the fire out.

He rises quickly, avoidant of the poured water buckets that smother the once-roaring flames. It sizzles and hisses with the drastic change in temperature, but he can barely hear it over the thundering of his own heart. Rafe practically sprints to the rock, the phone still in hand.

She follows, catching a glimpse of him for the first time in so long. He has his back turned, it feels strangely poetic. The light of flame is replaced by that of the moon, and she watches Rafe in a familiar state. Broad shoulders outlined by blue shimmer.

The open horizon of the beach feels like Rafe’s bedroom window. He takes a seat, back still turned to her. His phone in hand as he begins to draft a text. No doubt asking where she is. She fights every urge to make as she normally would, and slip away. But, they both fight their vices.

Rafe's eyes stay firmly open, as he turns to the sound of her footsteps. Hers close tight as she sits next to him, head resting on his shoulder.

#applcrumbl #writing #rafe cameron #outer banks #drew starkey #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron smut

[moongothic]

So I'm confused about something. There was a cover story about Ms Goldenweek and other Baroque works agents breaking Crocodile out of prison but he just. Told them no? And stayed there with Mr 1 and Mr 2? I don't get why he wanted to go to Impel Down just to break out when he had the chance

I can't tell you 100% why Crocodile chose to stay in prison and go to Impel Down, but my best guess really is that he was just...

Taking the L with grace

More specifically. Crocodile had lost everything. I think deep inside he might've been literally too depressed to want to go free again.

Like he does literally say that. He gave up.

He had been building his reputation as "the Hero of Alabasta" for at least 10 years at this point. He had built not just a criminal organization that he had been running for four years, but also he had been running legal business stuff (like his casino) for probably longer than that. A decade's worth of work and effort to take over a country, and most importantly, get away with it. The reason he had orchestrated that whole rebellion was so that the rebels and the royal family could "take each other out", leaving the country wide open for a World Government Official such as himself to take up. The reason Baroque Works was doing this all in secret was so that the WG never found out, otherwise they wouldn't have let him have Alabasta.

But indeed, his plans were foiled by a kid in flipflops in less than 24 hours, just at the final moment before Crocodile would win. He lost everything. And the World Government found out about what he had been planning.

So even if he escaped from that prison with his former agents, what was he going to do?

He wouldn't be able to take over Alabasta anymore because he did not have manpower (as he had lost all his goons), and having lost his financial empire he wouldn't be able to build a new army any time soon. And even if he did, now that they knew what he had done the people of Alabasta would not accept him as their new king, even if he personally assasinated Cobra and the entire family. Not to mention, the WG finding out about his plans meant that they had every fucking reason to try and stop Crocodile if he did as much as set foot on that island again. By which I mean, they could launch a Buster Call on his ass. Send all the fucking Admirals after him. And so, even if Crocodile still believed Pluton was somewhere in Alabasta and that he just had to comb through the entire desert to find it... Between the Alabastan people and the WG in the way, finding Pluton would not be easy. Especially when Robin wouldn't even be there to just point him directly to it. It could take years, if not decades, while fighting off the WG by himself. And that's while assuming Pluton was somewhere in Alabasta. Like WE the readers now know Pluton is in Wano, but since Robin didn't tell him that. All Robin said was that the Poneglyph "didn't mention the weapon", and Cobra's reaction to the name merely proved the weapon's existence in Crocodile's mind. But surely, because Crocodile is a smart young man, he'd understand there was a risk that Pluton could exist, but just not be in Alabasta, right? Like that would be a possibility too, right?

I think this is why Crocodile has given up on Alabasta. He had one opportunity at seizing the country, and he failed. And without Robin, he could spend the rest of his life combing through a haystack for a needle when there's no needle, and he'd have no idea. I think is why he explicitly says in Impel Down he no longer has "interest in that country". He won't be able to pull off another stunt like this, ever.

And that leads us back to "why not escape earlier and avoid going to Impel Down to begin with". Thanks to his status as a Shichibukai, Crocodile hasn't been on the run from the WG for like two decades. And the past 10 or so years he has seemingly lived a life of luxury in his funny little casino. But now, having lost everything, he'd be back on the run. And because he's a world famous former "hero of the people", there would be nowhere he'd be able to go where people would not recognize him and send the marines after him. So he'd be on the run, for the rest of his life or until he'd get capture again. And mind you, the guy does not trust anyone, so he'd be on the run alone. Without any purpose or goal.

And you might be thinking, "Daz and the rest of BW was still there!", yeah, arguably true. But at this point Crocodile had no reason to trust any of them. Like personally, I think the reason Crocodile ended up taking a liking to Daz was BECAUSE he chose to follow him to Impel Down when he really did not have to. Like Daz showed an unusual level of loyalty to Crocodile, and I think Crocodile recognized that. That's why Daz is still with Croc, post-timeskip. But Miss Goldenweek and co? Crocodile had no reason to believe they wouldn't betray him if given a chance and a reason. And if the WG would come chasing his ass, they'd have plenty of reason to try and betray Croc (handing Crocodile over to spare their own lives). Not to mention, when they come release their former boss from jail, what did Miss Goldenweek say?

"Let's do Baroque Works again"

As I've already explained in detail, I think we might know why Crocodile wasn't interested in being Baroque Works' "boss" again.

So. Yeah. If in Crocodile's mind he'd be on the run from the Government for the first time in two decades all alone, in a situation where rebuilding what he had before would be bloody hard if not downright impossible, and he wouldn't be able to obtain what he had spent the last decade working for regardless...

Taking the L and just going to prison might've been the easier option

#Moon posting #Asks #OP Meta #Sir Crocodile #Long post #Mind you Crocodile only *left* jail because he saw AN AMAZING OPPORTUNITY for petty revenge #Like had it not been for that war bringing Whitebeard out he probably would not have bothered to try and fight WB again #Otherwise he could've just escaped prison with Goldenweek and co and travelled to the New World to fight the old man right away #((Also theoretically Crocodile might've been slightly suicidal with the ''taking WB's head'' thing)) #Also worth noting that Crocodile choosing to stay in prison could've had two other purposes re:the former agents #It could've been a test of loyalty (to see if anyone would stay with him or would they all abandon him) #Which could be important to Mr Trust Issues (and to be fair he did find at least one loyal subordinate in Daz) #((Like if they had all told Croc they'd stay with him...... Who knows. Maybe he might've chosen to escape after all?)) #Other option: Crocodile escaping with them would mean the agents would be in much more danger than they'd be without him #Like the WG wouldn't send tons of marines after the individual agents if they all scattered to the winds #But if they all stuck together they'd become a bigger target. And even more so if Crocodile was there to lead them #And like. IDK if Crocodile was willing to leave out Goldenweek from the assassination order and spare her... Maybe this was the same #Maybe he wanted to spare Goldenweek (and the rest?) from being put into danger by going with them? #I dunno man this reptile has far too many layers to him I can't tell what's going on in his head

[cregan-starks]

Flames of Deceit

Summary: Aemond and Visenya reunite amidst the Dance of the Dragons.

Words: 13,005

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x OC, Cregan Stark x OC, Alyn Velaryon x OC

Warnings: canon-typical incest (Aemond and Visenya are cousins, as well as uncle and niece), book and show spoilers, Westerosi geopolitics, mentions of imperialism and slavery, canon-typical violence, war, blood and gore, fire and burning, mass death, mention of amputation, mentions of torture and captivity, mentions and threats of execution and physical harm, mentions of poverty and starvation, parental neglect, food and eating, alcohol and drinking, sexism, victim blaming, slut-shaming, ableist language, explicit language, nudity, smut (vaginal sex in flashbacks), unresolved sexual tension, grief/mourning, trauma, angst, hurt/comfort, survivor guilt, mutual pining, emotional/psychological abuse, verbal abuse, mentions of pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, and death in childbirth, mentions of child/infant death, mentions of infidelity. If I missed any warnings, please let me know! Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: This totally didn’t take me almost 7 months to write. Cregan Stark is the protagonist of Fire & Blood. Rise, Cregan nation. My OC Visenya is Rhaenyra’s and Daemon’s daughter, and Jace’s older twin. Superfecundation, baby. Visenya and Jace are born in 111 AC, not 114 AC. The Battle in the Gullet still occurs in 130 AC, soon after the events of this one-shot. Reblogs and comments are encouraged and immensely appreciated. If this does well, I’ll post a reader version.

Credits: Huge thank you to my betas @maharani-radha-writes 💛 @aereth 💖 and @revolution-starter 🩶, and to @haystack-boy @lavendertales @buttercup--bee @agirllovespancakes and @oloreaa for their constant patience and support. It means a lot, and I’m immensely grateful. Apart from my OC Visenya, all characters belong to George R.R. Martin. Gif by @aemondtargaryensource (x)

Ao3 | Masterlist

EARLY 130 AC

HARRENHAL, THE RIVERLANDS

          The sheer immensity of Harrenhal had provoked dizziness in Visenya. She had heard the story innumerable times. For four decades, King Harren Hoare had built greedily and obsessively, sacrificing thousands of slaves, and beggaring the riverlands and the Iron Islands. The indestructible construction had been no match for Balerion, whose fire had consumed the tyrant and his sons inside it, ending their line. Most Westerosi believed that the phantoms of the Hoares wandered the castle halls. The fortress is costly to maintain, and it devours its possessors. Qoherys, Harroway, Towers… All extinct. Whether cursed or not, Harrenhal remained a strategic location – the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms.

          The current castellan – and Larys Clubfoot’s great-uncle – Ser Simon Strong had recently surrendered Harrenhal to Daemon Targaryen. The presence of Caraxes might have contributed to his hasty decision. Following the victory at the Burning Mill and the subsequent submission of Stone Hedge – terminating Green strength in the riverlands – Queen Rhaenyra’s allies had commenced their gathering at Harrenhal, in accordance with the Prince Consort’s stratagem.

          Visenya had departed Dragonstone on the same night that Daemon had summoned her, having been granted safe passage by the Velaryon ships patrolling the Gullet. At the outbreak of the war, the Sea Snake’s fleet had closed off Blackwater Bay, choking trade to and from the capital.

          As soon as she had dismounted her dragon in the castle yard, she had sensed the eerie ambience that had haunted Harrenhal’s colossal curtain walls and fissured, melted towers. Formidable and dreadful. Harren’s monument and tomb. Blackwing had responded to Caraxes’ fervent shriek with her own, flapping her wings at him. Happy to be reunited.

          Her father had offered her a warm welcome and a tight embrace, had even insisted that she sit on his war council, wherein she had befriended Alysanne Blackwood, whom she had grown quite fond of.

          At last, Visenya had thought, on the morning that Daemon had sent for her. Though she loved him dearly, her father hadn’t invited her there because he had missed his daughter. Visenya had met with Daemon alone, in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths – she had counted thirty-five – grander than the throne room in King’s Landing, the discolored ceiling looming loftily above them. Her father had donned his chain mail over his crimson tunic.

          Does he sleep in that? Or am I the threat?

          ‘Ser Crispin and the Kinslayer are marching on Harrenhal,’ Daemon had informed her, instead of “good morrow”, pressing a rolled parchment into her palm, ‘They mean to join forces with the Lannisters’, at Stoney Sept.’

          Her heart had jolted at the mere mention of his title. Aemond… At the Usurper’s farce of a coronation that the Hightowers had compelled her to attend – dressed in green – Visenya had kissed him farewell, forsaking any glimmer of hope for a future with him. I have demonstrated where my loyalties lie. I have chosen my family.

          Her lilac eyes had skimmed over the scrawled message on the sheepskin, the wax sigil foreign to her. The White Worm?

          ‘You are strangely poised,’ Visenya had observed, suspicious, studying her father’s amused expression.

          ‘I’ve been waiting for this,’ he had confirmed, smirking wickedly, curling his hand around the hilt of sheathed Dark Sister. Another one of his traps… and he’s pulling me into it. Daemon had gently cradled her cheek, purring, ‘I have a mission for you, sweetling.’

EARLY 130 AC

STONEY SEPT, THE RIVERLANDS

          Her host had encamped half a day’s ride from the town, with sufficient provisions for a fortnight. The arduous advance and the muddy soil had wearied men and horses alike, so Visenya had relied on the Greens’ tardiness to provide the respite that they had needed.

          Her dragon had brazenly exploited that ploy – napping during the day and hunting at night, increasing the risk of being discovered. Surpassed by Vhagar in age and size, Blackwing had never been ridden before a seven-year-old Visenya had claimed her. They shared a temper, a wildness, and a fierce devotion to each other. My twin in dragon flesh, Jace would jest.

          ‘You have become too spoiled,’ she had reproved, affectionately, tapping Blackwing’s dark scales, heated to the touch.

          The beast had objected, idly, releasing a guttural noise, smoke rising from its nostrils.

          For five days, her scouts had reported nothing of enemy activity. Her anxieties had continued to fester and to gnaw at her. What if I fail? What if I die? I would condemn my people in vain. And Aemond… What am I to do about him?

          On the sixth day, they had burst into her tent, blurting that the Greens had arrived at Stoney Sept. The maester had quickly dispatched a raven to Prince Daemon, at Harrenhal.

          ‘We attack at dawn,’ Visenya had declared, resolute.

          I’ll do my best, father.

          The fray had been gruesome, stretching for hours upon hours. A thick mist had settled over the Blackwater Rush, impairing visibility. Visenya had been the surprise element, concealing herself to deceive her foes, and striking unexpectedly, in the midst of battle. She had flown on her daunting Blackwing, laying waste to men and reserves indiscriminately, amongst the sounds of steel clashing with steel, shields splintering, arrows whistling, and soldiers screaming as they fought, suffered wounds, and perished. Hundreds of Greens had been engulfed in her dragon’s flames.

          Aemond had been slow to deter the princess. Afraid to face me? Visenya and Blackwing had used the fog to their advantage, climbing higher and higher into the sky – the Kinslayer chasing after them on hoary Vhagar.

          ‘Dracarys!’, she had ordered, and Blackwing had descended on Vhagar, unleashing a cloud of fire that had only incensed the latter.

          The dragons had spun, locked in a vicious struggle of claws and fangs, wings thrashing, until Aemond had suddenly swiveled Vhagar, slamming her into Blackwing. Their deafening roars had pierced the air. The collision had knocked Visenya from her saddle – the searing flames licking at her arm – and had sent her plummeting towards the Blackwater below. Having crashed into the Rush, she had surfaced seconds later, her hefty armor and the river’s currents hindering her endeavors to stay afloat. Visenya had looked up, able to distinguish a faint form lunging at another – the beasts’ screeches reverberating far above.

          Blackwing will not be coming to my rescue.

          Her tribulations hadn’t stopped there. A glimpse at the golden dragon banner of the Pretender, and she had realised that the currents had pushed her in the wrong direction… too late. She had already been spotted by the scouts on the shore, who had alerted their captain. They had aimed their crossbows at her, waiting for the Blackwater to present her to them on a silver platter. I think not.

          Visenya had bitten into the hand of the man who had dragged her out of the water, then she had tossed him into the Rush.

          ‘Cunt!’, the next attacker had bellowed, charging at her.

          Slowed down by her injuries, her movements had been clumsy. Visenya had ducked under his first blow, stumbling to retain her balance. She had unsheathed her sword to parry his second blow, and had driven her blade through his breastplate. She had slashed a guard’s belly, his entrails spilling out. A soldier’s glove had caught her weapon, yanking it from her grasp. Disoriented by a swift welt to the side of her head, Visenya had been tackled to the ground – the impact rendering her breathless. Two fists had savagely pummeled her face, again and again and again – a massive weight crushing her. She had desperately fumbled for her scabbard, had withdrawn her dagger, and had slit her aggressor’s throat. Hot blood had spurted out, blinding her. She had been hoisted to her feet, her dirk wrenched away. Howling with rage and frustration, Visenya had scratched at the man’s eyes with her nails, had kneed another in the groin, and had torn off an archer’s ear with her teeth.

          Alas, she had been one enfeebled person against all of the odds… and a dozen Greens. Her apprehension had been inevitable.

          The capture of the commander had prompted the capitulation of her army. Visenya had been delivered to Ser Crispin in chains, covered in blood, dirt, and grass, braids disheveled, dragonscale armor soaked, body aching, left arm throbbing. I will not quail. Those traitors will receive no such satisfaction from me.

          Attired in the white garments of the Kingsguard, Ser Crispin had been the living depiction of virtue and chivalry. Lickspittle. He had immediately discarded courtesy, referring to her as a “bitch in dragon’s clothing.” In retaliation, Visenya had dubbed him a “sheep in sheep’s clothing”, earning herself a cuff across the face from his steeled gauntlet. Blood had flooded her mouth, her cheek stinging sharply.

          Ser Crispin had further commented that her men had been rather committed to her, alluding that she had fucked them to obtain their service. Every woman is an image of the Mother, to be spoken of with reverence.

          ‘It’s not as high of an honor as warming the Dowager Queen’s bed,’ Visenya had admitted, slyly, and had spat on his boots, ‘Hand of the Usurper. Does he wipe his ass with you?’

          Crispin would have hit her again, had the Prince Regent not intervened. Wary, she had surveyed her surroundings for Vhagar – not in evidence. I might wind up her supper.

          ‘Enough, Cole,’ Aemond had interrupted, solemn, causing Visenya to tense, drawing their attention to where he had been standing, imposing, smeared with ashes and smoke, ‘She may be our prisoner, but she is still a princess, and shall be treated as befits her station.’

          Any shred of scorn had abandoned her, ousted by fear and uncertainty. Her father had foreseen this. If you bend, you will break. Remember who you are. She had inhaled deeply, striving to even her respiration. I am the blood of the dragon, daughter of Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon, and heir to the Iron Throne. I will not cringe for them.

          Aemond had instructed the maids to prepare her a bath and a warm meal, and to fetch her dry clothes. Visenya had grinned, baring her bloody teeth at Ser Crispin, as the guards had led her away. She had been escorted along the smoldering ruins of houses, inns, and brothels, trampling charred corpses – mindful of her step. Carrion crows had circled above, the timid sun peeking from grey clouds. The foul, stifling stench had twisted her stomach, tears needling her eyes. Mine and Aemond’s handiwork. Only the sept, the square, and the trout-shaped fountain had remained intact. When dragons flew to war, everything burned, her mother had warned at the Black Council. What have the people of Stoney Sept done to merit this devastation? What power do they have over their lives? We play our grisly game of thrones, and the commonfolk bear the immeasurable cost.

          The encampment had spread interminably – miles of pavilions, armories, forges, stables, latrines, wagons, and baggage trains – crawling with Greens cussing, mocking, and shouting at captives, pages distributing letters, squires polishing armor, honing weapons, feeding, watering, and combing horses, patrols walking to their posts, smiths hammering boisterously, cooks chopping vegetables, skinning rabbits, disemboweling deer, and roasting boars, giggling washerwomen hurrying by, and maesters ministering to the wounded. The turmoil had imbued Visenya’s senses. Mesmerised, she had watched a wailing, writhing man have his leg amputated, until one of her assigned guardians had shoved her forward.

          She had assumed that Blackwing had flown away… but, having escaped the battle unscathed, and always loyal to a fault, her dragon had landed in the enemy’s camp, razing barracks and roaring ferociously, seeking its rider. After it had mauled the Greens who had attempted to approach it and shackle it, Aemond had begrudgingly permitted Visenya to comfort her feral companion. Blackwing had nuzzled its snout against her, coiling its tail around her, protectively, while Visenya had murmured “lykirī”, caressing its scales – her taut restraints impeding the action. Her chest had constricted agonisingly when the traitors had forcibly separated them. I will return for you, I promise.

          She had been ushered into a vacated chamber, where the maids had obediently unchained her wrists, had removed her armor, had unbraided her hair, and had helped her undress for her bath, evading her glare and her nakedness – scarcely addressing her. What grim tales have they been told about me? Under the ewerers’ supervision, Visenya had washed herself – her uninjured arm vigorously scrubbing her skin with a bar of soap – and had dried off on her own, using cloths and rags. They have taken away my gear. Her indignation dwindling, she had slipped on the plain shirt, brown breeches, pelts, and a pair of flat shoes that they had brought her – tucking her salvaged brooch in her pocket. Is this meant to humble me?

          She had sluggishly eaten her bland yet nourishing food, on a bench, by a candle, goggled at by blushing serving lads.

          Aemond had summoned her to his tent, along with the maesters, who had cleansed her burns, had applied a poultice that had reeked of lavender and vinegar, had bandaged her arm, and had rubbed balms on her cuts, bruises, and split lip. Visenya had endured their ministrations in utter silence, grinding her teeth and clenching her fists. She and Aemond hadn’t exchanged a single word.

          The pavilion had been modest for the Prince Regent, consisting of a firepit, an oaken war table – stripped of its tomes, maps, scrolls, ink, and wax – chairs, rugs, and a featherbed, with books scattered atop it. The colors red and black dominated the tent of a proud and eminent Green, who carried the golden banner of the Pretender. Aemond cannot deny his Targaryen heritage. Had Otto Hightower dyed his locks silver-white and ridden a dragon, he could have sat his ass on the Iron Throne and ruled in his own name. Instead, he urged the King to make my mother his heir, coerced his daughter to seduce him, and installed his grandson on the throne. Puppets upon puppets, plots within plots.

          With the maesters dismissed, Visenya finally had the opportunity to regard Aemond. He hadn’t changed much since she had last seen him, at his brother’s false coronation. In the fire’s light, he had been a sight to behold; the flames illuminating his attractive, distinctive features, his mouth seemingly lodged in a permanent smirk, his eyepatch obscuring his missing eye, his tresses cascading down his back. Aemond had cleaned himself up, shedding his armor – now resting on a rack – for his usual black leather tunic, fastened with a belt that had his sheathed dagger attached to it, and a lengthy coat sewn with fur around the neck. He cast a tall shadow in the pavilion, his posture impeccable. Half dragon, half feline.

          ‘There’s a lack of dresses,’ informs Aemond, obdurately calm, retrieving a flagon of wine and two cups from the servant at the tent’s entrance, ‘And we had to find clothes that would suit you.’

          ‘I gather that there’s some poor stable boy currently running around naked,’ quips Visenya, tugging the pelts around herself.

          Aemond huffs through his nose, amused, and sets one of the goblets on the table, proceeding to fill it with Arbor Red for her. The war evidently hasn’t affected the Usurper’s notorious love of drinking. Lord Redwyne smelled profit, and pledged his support to the Greens, to ensure that their wine supply never dries. An onerous task. The Pretender has ample ambition in that respect.

          ‘Don’t fret,’ assures Aemond, upon heeding Visenya’s skeptical, arched eyebrow, ‘It’s not poisoned.’

          ‘Surely someone spat in it,’ she guesses, convivial, swirling the liquid in her cup.

          Aemond smiles, drinking his wine. Visenya tentatively lifts her goblet to her lips, and sips. Delectable flavors invade her mouth, soothing her nerves – albeit a little. She mulls over her next words… half carefully.

          ‘I reckoned that you and Ser Crispin would share a pavilion,’ she confides, lewdly, crossing one leg over the other, ‘Though your prides would not fit together.’

          Aemond’s gaze darkens, his mouth subtly pressing into a thin line. His disposition could make Mushroom miserable... and it has.

          ‘You could lose your tongue for such insolence,’ he cautions, sternly.

          ‘What’s new?’, suspires an indifferent Visenya, ‘I can write this down as well.’ She pauses to take a swig, then demands, bluntly, ‘Where is Blackwing? And my men?’

          ‘The dragonkeepers are tending her,’ explains Aemond, irritation in his tone, leaving his empty cup on the table, ‘Your men are being questioned.’

          Good fortune. They know nothing. The laughter and singing outside contradict Aemond’s claim. Drunk on victory. A weakness that she could later exploit. If I could reach Blackwing… lest they harm her.

          ‘Blackwing was your companion prior to Vhagar,’ she mentions, heatedly, flexing and unflexing her hand, ‘If you touch her–’

          ‘You are in no position to launch threats, Visenya,’ chastises Aemond, coldly, prodding at the logs with a poker, the wood crackling in the fire, ‘Your treatment depends on my good will. As does your fate. You have my word that Blackwing will not be harmed.’

          ‘The word of a kinslayer,’ spits Visenya, venomously, eyes darting to him, ‘If you are under the impression that minor acts of benevolence shall convince me to talk, you are gravely mistaken. You overestimate my family’s trust in me.’

          ‘They trusted you enough to put you in command of an army four thousand strong,’ reminds an earnest Aemond, ‘And you expect me to believe that you have no knowledge of your twin’s whereabouts?’

          I wouldn’t trade Jace for the Iron Throne. ‘We shared a womb, not a brain,’ she corrects, tracing the rim of her goblet with her digits, contemplating refilling it. I need my wits about me. ‘You are wasting your time, nuncle. Mine, too. Fetch your torturers, and be done with all this bother.’

          ‘I will do no such thing,’ he rebuffs, inclining his head.

          ‘You will torture me yourself?’, asks Visenya, feigning innocence, brushing her loose silver-white hair over her shoulders.

          ‘You are being difficult, Visenya,’ he accuses, exasperated.

          ‘What do you intend to do with me?’, she interjects, involuntarily fiddling with her absent rings, ‘Executing me would be unwise. I presume that you will have my dragon killed, and me delivered to King’s Landing, where your usurper of a brother awaits, warming my mother’s rightful seat… or is he still broken and bedridden, lost in poppy dreams?’

          ‘Mind your tongue, Visenya,’ warns Aemond, louring at her, melting some of her resolve.

          ‘The Clubfoot will probably throw me in a cell and dispatch his floggers to visit me,’ she concludes, scratching her thigh. Stable boy must have had fleas.

          ‘I’m not sending you to King’s Landing,’ announces Aemond, with apparent mirth towards her gesture.

          ‘You will ransom me to my father?’, taunts Visenya, smirking wickedly, ‘He’s the poorest man in the Seven Kingdoms.’ Aemond’s demeanor refutes her insinuation. She continues, all semblance of jest vanishing, ‘You cannot justify keeping me here. Once the Pretender learns about my capture, he will order you to send me to King’s Landing.’

          ‘Aegon does not concern me,’ he grumbles, clasping his hands behind his back.

          ‘Pār ivestragī nyke jikagon,’ she advises, coyly. Aemond hums, musing, a glimmer in his eye that doesn’t indicate outright negation. ‘We are at war, and you allow your feelings to cloud your judgment?’ (Then let me go.)

          ‘Iksi daor rȳ vīlībāzma,’ argues a mild Aemond. (We are not at war.)

          So, you did not slaughter Luke? That’s a consolation. ‘Iksis bona skoro syt emā daor ossēntan nyke?’, inquires Visenya, masking her anger. (Is that why you have not killed me?)

          ‘Killing you would be as imprudent as freeing you,’ he reasons, purposely oblivious, ‘You are worth more alive than you are dead. You lost a fair battle, you surrendered, and now you are my prisoner.’

          ‘I’ve heard stories about how you and Ser Crispin treat your prisoners,’ she disputes, mordant, ‘And I never yielded. You ride the largest dragon in the world. That’s hardly a fair match.’

          Cole and the Usurper’s forces had sacked the port town of Duskendale, putting the ships at the harbor to the torch, hundreds of men, women, and children to the sword, and beheading Lord Gunthor Darklyn for supporting her mother’s cause. Hundreds more had been massacred at Rook’s Rest, where Lord Staunton, too, had been relieved of his head. Besieged by the Greens, he had barricaded himself inside his castle walls, and had requested assistance from the Blacks. With Prince Daemon at Harrenhal, and Queen Rhaenyra griefsick in the aftermath of her son’s murder, command of the Black Council had passed to the Velaryons. Rhaenyra had forbidden her children from answering their ally’s plea, so Princess Rhaenys had flown to Rook’s Rest instead. She and Meleys had fallen in battle against the Pretender, the Kinslayer, and their dragons. Sunfyre had been rendered flightless, the Usurper had suffered severe burns, and Aemond had assumed the title of Prince Regent – to rule in lieu of his older brother.

          Visenya’s side hadn’t fared any greater. A wroth Sea Snake had blamed Rhaenyra for his wife’s demise. Jace had named him Hand of the Queen, to appease him – a measure that Visenya had commended. Better than Ser Crispin.

          ‘You ambushed us,’ reiterates Aemond, incredulous, ‘We would have presented you with terms, to avoid bloodshed.’

          Oh, please. You don’t believe that. ‘Fuck your terms,’ curses Visenya, waving dismissively, ‘I suppose that being twice a kinslayer would have marred the carcass of your reputation.’

          ‘I spared your life,’ he chides, vaguely baleful.

          ‘A clemency that you did not extend to my brother,’ she sneers, bilious, her nails digging into the table’s surface.

          ‘Half-brother,’ deadpans Aemond, promptly.

          ‘If you had to slay your own kin, personally, I would have picked your dear brother, the Pretender,’ proffers Visenya, honeyed.

          ‘Perhaps you should have killed him,’ he retorts, untroubled, ‘You had your chance.’

          Her family had gone to King’s Landing for the Driftmark petition, where her father had created a ghastly spectacle – publicly beheading Vaemond Velaryon for defaming her mother and her brothers. The Targaryen method of solving quarrels. Viserys himself had sat the throne, and had favored Luke as the heir to Driftmark – adhering to the Sea Snake’s wishes.

          Due to his declining health, the King had been the first to retire during the subsequent supper that they had all attended. Visenya hadn’t been surprised by his condition; she had frequented the capital, unlike her parents and her siblings. The gathering had soon turned disastrous. Jace had invited Helaena to dance with him – offending Aegon and Aemond. She is so sweet. Alicent had been evil to marry her off to that cunting demon. None of them deserve her. Visenya herself had danced with Daeron, grinning the entire time. We had once been engaged... I could have loved him. He would have been a dutiful Prince Consort and a doting father to our children. Aemond had toasted to her Velaryon brothers, referring to them as “strong.” Fighting had erupted betwixt her siblings and her uncles, and her father had intervened to break them apart.

          That evening, her family had sailed for Dragonstone, but Aemond had insisted that she stay in King’s Landing with him. Against her better judgment, Visenya had accepted. She ponders whether it had been a ploy of the Greens to take her hostage, and Aemond had simply played his part. Her grandsire had tragically expired overnight – poisoned by the Hightowers, according to her father. Visenya isn’t so certain. He hadn’t required meddling. He had been rotting for decades.

          On the morrow, the Greens had locked her in her chambers. Visenya had refused to swear obeisance to Aegon – had even spat in his face – and to bow at his false coronation. Blackwing and the Princess Rhaenys had come to her rescue – emerging from underneath the Dragonpit on Meleys. Visenya had mounted her dragon, and had addressed the crowd, her voice clear and fierce, laced with fury.

          “People of King’s Landing! The Hand and the Dowager Queen deceive you. King Viserys named my mother the Princess Rhaenyra heir to the throne. For twenty-four years, the succession remained indisputable and unchanged. Rhaenyra is the rightful and lawful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. By crowning Aegon, the Hightowers have committed the highest of treasons and have usurped the Iron Throne, violating the King’s will. Aegon shall show you neither kindness nor wisdom. Remember today. Remember that you lived by the mercy of Rhaenys the Queen Who Should Have Been and myself. If the Hightowers do not cease in their treachery and do not bend the knee, I vow to return with fire and blood!”

          Blackwing had roared so intensely that the Conqueror’s crown had been hurled from the Pretender’s head.

          Aemond has the right of it. We could have bathed Aegon in flame, quelled their rebellion then and there.

         On Dragonstone, the news of Viserys’ death and the Hightowers’ betrayal had driven her mother into an early labor. Her father had descended into madness, determined to levy war. Their losses had continuously piled… and the Seven Kingdoms would bear the cost.

          ‘I am no kinslayer,’ snarls Visenya, slighted by the idea, tearing her gaze away from Aemond.

          ‘I made you a generous offer that would have foiled the war,’ he broaches, the grievous memory still raw for him.

          Oh, how could I have displayed such ingratitude? She wouldn’t describe his proposal to marry him and rule together as “generous.” It had been an odious humiliation. Aegon – who had not wanted the throne, declaring himself “unsuited” – would have embarked upon a ship and departed Westeros permanently. The Iron Throne is not his to relinquish. Visenya knows that Aemond has no love for his father, but asking her to usurp her mother’s throne? An audacious affront. She had vehemently spurned him, and they had traded sour words – their prides injured.

          ‘Our families would have started a war to kill us for it,’ drones Visenya, flatly, ‘And what of my parents? They would have never abided by your… solution.’

          ‘They have no consideration for your happiness and welfare, yet you still toil in their service,’ observes Aemond, provocatively.

          ‘And you have?!’, she opposes, her fist slamming on the table, ‘You conspired to usurp the throne and slaughtered my brother, the Princess Rhaenys, and their dragons. You are in no position to launch accusations.’

          ‘Even now, you feel compelled to defend them,’ he comments, dejected.

          ‘Lucerys was my blood!’, snaps Visenya, wrathful, standing from her seat and storming up towards him – stopping a couple of feet in front of him.

          ‘As am I!’, booms Aemond, towering over her, ‘And you have never defended me half as much as you did him! He took my eye when I was but ten, and to even that the imp felt entitled, while you gladly dismissed it as an accident and moved on!’

          Outside, Blackwing and Vhagar grow agitated, shrieking and flitting their wings, stirring the wind. It seemed to Visenya that Aemond had often been harsher on her than he had been on Lucerys. He loves me… or he used to.

          ‘It was an accident,’ she maintains, tamer, ‘We were children. Our parents mishandled everything. I’ve told you numerous times that I profoundly regret what happened to you. It’s the truth. I cannot undo Luke’s actions.’

          It’s been ten years since then, and forgetting the incident has been impossible. Aemond wears the consequences of it on his face, in his daily life. Our unease at the sight of his gash is a small price to pay.

          He had delivered several blows – and had broken Luke’s nose – afore he had been overwhelmed by all five of her siblings, and Lucerys had slashed one of his eyes. Visenya’s absence from the fight had spared her from the interrogation, wherein Rhaenyra had suggested that Aemond be “sharply questioned”, Alicent Hightower had demanded Luke’s eye to compensate for Aemond’s, and Viserys had been eager to abandon his conciliatory obligation. The discord had exposed the personal feud between Rhaenyra and Alicent – their rhetoric diverting from “vile insults were levied against my sons” and “my son has lost an eye” to “duty and sacrifice are trampled under your pretty foot” and “you have been hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness.” The Queen had gone so far as to attack the Princess – slitting her arm with the King’s dagger.

          Visenya hadn’t spoken at all – displeasing Aemond and her siblings. To her, matters hadn’t been so absolute. Although Aemond had claimed Vhagar too soon – disrespecting Laena Velaryon’s memory – his assault and maiming had been unwarranted. I love Rhaena dearly, but Vhagar was not stolen. The dragon never belonged to her. Aemond and Vhagar chose each other. Visenya had later communicated her opinions to him, and she had reassured her sister that she would have a dragon.

          The next morning, the Targaryens and the Hightowers had exchanged false courtesies and falser apologies. Her family’s exile to Dragonstone hadn’t prevented Visenya from writing letters to Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron, or from flying on Blackwing to visit them in King’s Landing.

          Alas, the bloody seeds of strife had been sown.

          ‘No, you cannot,’ concurs Aemond, glancing at her lips, ‘No one can. That is why I sought justice for myself.’

          ‘Justice?’, echoes Visenya, disdainful, her glare piercing, ‘Had you had your other eye, you would still be as blind as you are now.’

          Aemond growls, lashing out and grabbing her roughly, their lower bodies pressing together. Visenya glowers at him defiantly, placing her hands on his breast, to preserve some distance betwixt their upper bodies. The effort shoots a jolt of pain along her arm.

          If he meant to scare her, he failed. Aemond would not harm me.

          ‘Hold your tongue, Visenya,’ he exhorts, through gritted teeth.

          ‘Or what?’, she challenges, her face inching closer to his, ‘You will have it removed? You will butcher me as you did my brother?’

          ‘You are brazen, to speak of your half-brother, of my wrongdoings and my crimes,’ berates Aemond, his jaw clenching, ‘What of your family? What of my nephew Jaehaerys?... Iā tresy syt iā tresy. Nyke gīmigon īles aōha kepa.’ (A son for a son. I know it was your father.)

          Aware of what Aemond alluded to, Visenya hesitates, her response withering on her tongue.

          After the tragedy at Storm’s End, a raven from her father had arrived at Dragonstone. An eye for an eye, a son for a son. Lucerys shall be avenged. She had deduced that Daemon had hired the assassins who had executed Prince Jaehaerys – the Usurper’s six-year-old heir – with Alicent, Helaena, and the latter’s other children as witnesses. Visenya had confronted him about his heinous deed at Harrenhal. Undaunted, her father had firmly admonished that the “pious one-eyed flea of a traitor who slobbers over you” had slain her brother.

          In retaliation for Jaehaerys, the Pretender had sent Ser Arryk Cargyll to Dragonstone, to assassinate Jace and Joffrey. The knight had entered the castle in his Kingsguard attire, disguised as his twin Ser Erryk – Queen Rhaenyra’s loyalist – whom he had encountered on his way to the royal apartments. By the conclusion of their duel, the two had mortally wounded one another.

          I owe the Hightowers nothing, least of all my sympathy. Children should not be the target of our ire. How do we differ from the Greens if we perpetrate and perpetuate the same crimes that they do?

          ‘Nyke ēdan daorun naejot gaomagon rūsīr bona,’ clarifies Visenya, sincerely, albeit faintly. (I had nothing to do with that.)

          ‘No, you are merely the spectator,’ scoffs Aemond, haughty, ‘Proudly passing judgment while others bloody their hands. You are passive. Passive in your beliefs, your guilt, your love.’

          Visenya blinks against the tears that prick her eyes, her breath hitched. His cruel and bitter words cut deeply, rooted in years of grievances, enmities, neglect, and abuse. Aemond had once been a sweet, innocent boy – her closest friend, her betrothed. He’s the product of his conditions, his upbringing, and his parents’ influence… as am I. Both confined in a prison of our parents’ sins. Perhaps we inevitably inherit the burdens of our forebears.

          Though Visenya may not be the sole reason for his resentment, she is present. Aemond hadn’t blamed her for her family’s actions. He condemned her for not loving him enough. That is unfair. I’m not culpable of that.

          A consuming poison has been dribbling inside of her, on the verge of gushing. Visenya has strayed too near to the edge – now wavering, uncertain whether she wishes to tread the line and unravel the truth. That is not why I am here...

          ... but her decision has already been established.

          The truth is important to me.

          Summoning her courage, Visenya reaches behind Aemond’s head to peel off his eyepatch, lifting the veil between them. I need to see him, so that he cannot deceive me. She tosses the item aside, neither shrinking nor averting her gaze. She caresses his face, drinking him in – his scar, the sapphire in his eye socket, the flesh that had healed crookedly. Aemond tenses, watching her intently, his respiration ragged. His grip on her slackens.

          ‘Gōntan ao ossēnagon zirȳla kesrio syt hen issa?’, murmurs Visenya, circling his wrists, impeding his retreat. (Did you kill him because of me?)

          At the Black Council, Jace and Luke had offered to act as their mother’s messengers, to acquire support for her claim. The twins had been tasked with the difficult mission – negotiating with the Eyrie, the Three Sisters, White Harbor, and Winterfell. Lady Jeyne Arryn would declare for Rhaenyra if dragonriders defended the Vale. Jace and Visenya had met with Lords Borrell and Sunderland at Sisterton, and at White Harbor, they had arranged for Joffrey to marry Lord Desmond Manderly’s youngest daughter.

          The news of Luke’s death had accosted them in the Vale. Visenya had collapsed in Jace’s arms, wailing as her twin had embraced her tightly. She had agonised over her brother’s demise every night, plagued by what she could have done to save him, weeping into a tumultuous sleep. Visenya had never listened to the rumors and the gossip. Lucerys had been her family, her brother, her blood. I fed him, bathed him, read to him, sparred with him, played with him… yet I could not protect him from Aemond.

          She possesses little knowledge of what had occurred betwixt Luke and Aemond at Storm’s End. The weather had been atrocious, her brother’s dragon too small to withstand it. In the following days, bits of Arrax’s carcass had washed up on the shore of Shipbreaker’s Bay. Luke had never been recovered. He may have died a dragonrider’s death, but he had died alone and afraid. Had his demise been slow and painful, or swift and painless? Her brother had sworn on the Seven-Pointed Star that he would not fight – merely deliver the Queen’s message. Aemond had taken no such oath. Had Visenya known, she would have held on to Luke and besought him not to go.

          If I had flown to Storm’s End in his stead, Aemond could have slain me, and my brother would still be alive.

          ‘Daor,’ whispers Aemond, at last. (No.)

          Visenya stifles a sob, tears escaping her eyes, dampening his thumbs. She foolishly believed that her grief would wane. His confession barely scrapes the surface. Visenya feels no relief, no closure. Has she been on an erroneous campaign to absolve herself of any responsibility, to alleviate her own conscience, and to forgive Aemond – chasing these ends to the detriment of Luke’s memory? If I wanted to bring justice to my brother, I would have slit his killer’s throat and let him bleed out on the ground.

          When Aemond succumbs and pulls her into him, Visenya doesn’t resist. The buckles of his tunic are cold and rough against her cheek, contrasting the warmth that he radiates. She releases the exhale that she has been withholding. Her greatest flaw rears its hideous head – a flaw that has sown division amongst her family and has rendered her an outcast. Visenya had suffered for her refusal to forsake her friendship with Aemond, enduring disapproving scowls from her parents, mean jests and malicious accusations from her siblings, and a lack of compassion – all serving to remind her of her tenuous position.

          Her proximity to Aemond had even prompted her mother to spurn her as her heir – arguing that he would undermine her as Queen. I cannot have both Aemond and the Iron Throne. I am the eldest child. By all rights, the throne should pass to me.

          Shoving those thoughts away, Visenya clutches his sides, sobs wracking her body. Aemond timidly buries his mouth in her locks, breathing in her scent.

          ‘Daor,’ he repeats, definitively, cradling the back of her head. (No.)

          The remainder of her defenses crumble. Visenya loathes that she errs, that she seeks and welcomes comfort from the man who is the source of her sorrow. With the realm plunged into war after Lucerys’ death, there has been no time to mourn – not for her grandsire Viserys, nor her sister Aemma, nor her brother Luke.

          An unavoidable war. We are Valyrian, and prone to violence. A testament to power corruption. Prior to the blood magic, the dragons, and the conquests, Valyrians had been a peaceful community of shepherds. They had become increasingly tyrannical and ambitious as their power had soared. The peak of our Freehold… and its ruin. Forewarned about the Doom by Daenys Targaryen’s prophetic dream, her forebears had fled to Dragonstone – a venture that the other, unsuspecting dragonlords had considered cowardice and had ridiculed. We had the last laugh.

          Targaryens have always been stubborn, passionate, fierce. Visenya is no exception. Despite their families’ hopes and despite his crimes, her love for Aemond hasn’t dwindled. Their bond is too strong, their souls and fates entwined. I am the blood of the dragon. Nobody dictates whom I love.

          And love is seldom simple.

          Aemond brushes his lips over her temple, causing her skin to tingle. Visenya lifts her eyes to meet his, and recognises the same ache and longing that lay dormant inside her. Affection blooms in her chest. She could stop this from flourishing, spare them both the misery. As children, they had found solace in each other’s company whenever their families had been the reason for their anguish, so they had promised to never hurt one another.

          A part of Visenya still yearns to love Aemond freely. Must her logic always be at odds with her emotions? The only man that I have ever desired, and I have been deprived of him my entire life. I have never been in control. The forbidden aspect merely furthers the appeal of the dalliance. She wants to surrender to the temptation, repercussions be damned.

          Visenya traces his mouth with her fingertips, reverently, and strokes his face – recommitting it to memory. Aemond leans into her touch, reveling in the gesture, his respiration shallow. The tips of their noses graze against each other. He wipes her tears before his digits fall on the sides of her neck, feeling her quickening pulse under the pads of his fingers. Aemond’s eye gleams with lust, igniting the same blaze within her. She peers at him from underneath her lashes, drowning in the depths of his blue eye. A shiver runs down her spine. Her lips tremble in suspense, the proximity making her dizzy.

          Aemond dips his head to capture her mouth in a tentative kiss. Visenya surges upwards to reciprocate, inhaling sharply through her nose, eyes slipping shut. Their lips mold together, their flame rekindled. His large, calloused hands grip her jaw, to guide her. She splays her hands over his chest, fisting the lapels of his coat, desperate to draw him closer. Visenya parts her lips, granting him entrance, tasting the lingering flavor of the wine that they had shared earlier. A familiar ardor seeps into her belly, immersing her body. Her fire has burned quietly for too long. Now, it has stirred again, emboldened to emerge.

          Aemond sinks his teeth into her bottom lip, splitting it and sucking the blood, famished. Visenya groans, her breath blowing the loose strands of hair that cover his forehead. Her knees weaken, and she grasps his shoulders for support, grateful that he wraps his arm around her middle. Her pelts land on the floor. Aemond steps forward, backing her into the table, and hoists her on it impetuously.

          Aemond kindly adjusts his belt, to remove the dagger betwixt them. The irony isn’t lost on Visenya. She spreads her legs, inviting, allowing him to settle between them. He sprawls over her, caging her in, his heavy weight almost crushing her against the table’s rigid, uncomfortable surface. His silky hair cascades around her head, framing his face, conferring a strange sense of privacy. Visenya peppers delicate pecks over his chin, continuing along his jaw, her digits prodding at his smooth neck.

          She fervidly awaits a kiss that never comes. Aemond hums affably, his arrogant smile shooting to her core. Their breaths mingle, his hands traveling up and down her sides with modest curiosity. Visenya huffs in exasperation, and shifts, ticklish, the heels of her feet digging into his ass. Her thumb catches his lower lip, pressing into it. Aemond holds her gaze, parting his lips enough to engulf her thumb. He swirls his tongue over it afore sucking on it gently. She watches him, captivated, her mouth slightly agape.

          The knot in her belly snaps, her patience having thinned, ousted by resolve. She pushes him off, so she can sit up, impelling him to stand. Aemond obliges without objection. Visenya hooks her fingers in his belt, to bring him nearer, and deftly unbuttons his tunic, revealing his bare chest – inch by inch. She drinks in the sight, caressing his glistening skin. The intolerable heat induces sweat to drip betwixt her breasts and to trickle down her spine.

          She leans in, only for Aemond to jerk his head away and deny her another kiss – the tip of her nose bumping against his cheek. He smirks, conceited, despite his ruddy complexion. Visenya gnashes her teeth, intent on retribution. Straightening her body, and looping her uninjured arm around Aemond, she licks his earlobe and bites it softly, eliciting a growl from him. He squeezes her hips in silent warning, and sneaks a hand under her shirt, to fondle her breast and pinch her nipple until it stiffens. Visenya moans, hushed, her head lolling back into her shoulders.

          Aemond rests his free hand on the base of her throat, his digits winding around it, lips latching onto her exposed neck. Visenya suppresses her whine, the air deserting her lungs. He incessantly strokes her bosom, his teeth abusing the sensitive skin of her neck. She drops her arms – mindful of her wounds – one hand surrounding his wrist, her other fumbling, blindly cupping his hardened member through his breeches. A salacious grunt rolls out of Aemond’s mouth, filling the tent.

          His fingers release her throat to tangle in her tresses, and yank, his hips grinding against hers, creating friction. He withdraws his lips from her, and tugs her hand away, his other hand raking down her abdomen. Her chuckle turns into a gasp as Aemond languidly rubs the wet area between her legs, his breath fanning her face. Visenya relishes in the waves of pleasure enveloping her body, her spine arching, though her soaking cunt clenches around nothing. She heaves her thighs higher, hugging his waist – lest he dare pull away from her.

          A metal item pokes at her thigh.

          My brooch.

          Visenya peels her eyes away from him, scrambling to salvage her composure. Aemond ceases his ministrations. He raises her chin with his thumb and forefinger, coaxing her to look at him. Her heart stutters, her vision bleary beneath his suffocating leer. The clouds in his eye have cleared… or he conceals them well. Their lips crash in a frantic kiss – her veins aflame, scalding. He swallows her wanton moan, kneading the flesh of her ass. Aemond cannot fool me. A constant tempest festers within him, ravenous for blood and revenge. Visenya would never be able to tame it. Nothing would.

          Numbing remorse smothers her fire. She had forgotten herself and her loyalties. She breaks the kiss, tasting ashes on her tongue. His mouth chases hers, his hand curling around the nape of her neck, to reunite their lips. Aemond bends her back, cradling her against him – the pressure on her shoulder tearing a whimper from her. He lays a tender, apologetic kiss there. Her digits slide into his locks, thwarting him. Visenya stares at the shadows dancing across the ceiling of the pavilion – Aemond’s head pillowed on her breasts.

          What am I doing? Where am I going? With him? Distant limbs envelop her, lips ghosting over her skin. He licks a stripe up the column of her throat and nips at it, nuzzling his nose against her neck. I would never betray my family. I cannot have both Aemond and the Iron Throne. The dream is over. Bury it, and crawl out of this bottomless pit of vipers.

          He has been stretching seconds into minutes, delaying the inevitable, but he cannot stop it. The die has been cast.

          ‘Aemond, wait,’ pants Visenya, her own voice foreign to her, her nails clawing at his back, ‘We cannot. I am–’

          ‘Betrothed?’, deadpans Aemond, cocking his head to peek at her, crimson lips swollen, hair and clothes disheveled, ‘I’m aware. Your half-brother told me, at Storm’s End.’

          Her heart leaps into her throat, yet Visenya falters, preferring to disregard his comment and its implications. If Aemond and Lucerys had exchanged insults – and her brother had mentioned her betrothment – it might have incited the former to attack the latter. A door best left shut.

          ‘Lord Stark is a good man–’

          ‘Have you sunk so low?’, criticises Aemond, reproach etched on his features, ‘You are a Targaryen princess, the blood of Old Valyria. Dragons do not mate with other beasts, and we do not consort with lesser men.’

          Visenya blinks in incredulity, scanning his face for any indication of pretense. He has been collecting dangerous beliefs. Undoubtedly the result of Ser Crispin’s and Alicent Hightower’s influence. King Viserys had been too neglectful to bear any blame in that respect. He’s overly culpable in innumerable other matters.

          ‘If I have sunk low, I do not wish to imagine what hell you wander in,’ she retorts, dour, shoving him away, her lower back pressing against the edge of the table, ‘I do not require lessons on our heritage. Valyria is gone. I do not adhere to the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, nor do I delude myself about our superiority. According to this logic, your Westerosi mother is lesser. Everybody has their history and their pride. The Starks are the blood of the First Men, descendants of Bran the Builder. Cregan is my equal, and I will not bring him dishonor. You once said something similar to me, when we were younger.’

          Visenya purposely omitted that Cregan would have taken additional offence if Aemond – a usurper and a kinslayer – had been her choice of paramour. Following the annulment of her betrothment to Aemond, she had snuck into his bedchamber, and had urged him to claim her maidenhood. It would have compelled our parents to marry us to each other. He had adamantly refused, reiterating that he would dishonor her by doing so. Visenya wonders whether his consent would have changed the tide, whether he rues his decision now… were he capable of it.

          ‘I remember,’ mutters Aemond, cupping her cheeks, brushing his nose against hers, ‘Yn īlon issi daor riñar dombo.’ (But we are not children anymore.)

          ‘No, we are not,’ she assents, doleful, undeterred by his lingering lips on her forehead, ‘I am a woman grown, my mother’s daughter, and I vowed to marry Cregan. My word is not fickle. A foreign concept to you and your family.’

          She had suggested the match herself, on Dragonstone, prior to hers and her brothers’ departure. Supposing that the Queen’s appeal failed to persuade Lord Stark to pledge the North to their cause, Visenya would offer her hand in marriage.

          The memory of beholding Cregan for the first time still exhilarates her. She had been climbing down from Blackwing while Jace had approached Lord Stark, to greet him. Cloaked in furs, he had been an imperious presence – tall, brawny, handsome, graced with grey eyes, dark, wavy locks that cascaded to his shoulders, and a dense beard. His gaze had frequently drifted towards her. Jace had suavely introduced her, and Cregan had curtsied, addressing her as “princess.” Visenya had answered with “my lord” – her smile timid, her eyes wicked.

          The harsh weather hadn’t spoiled the northern capital’s beauty, magnificent structures, and rich culture. The twins had received a warm welcome at Winterfell, amidst the winter preparations, and Lord Stark had been a most hospitable host, entertaining his guests with drinking, sparring, and hunting trips in the wolfswood. Visenya had mingled with the commonfolk, conversing with them, helping them with their errands, and teaching their children how to read and write. Cregan had often watched her, fondly, from afar. Some servants had been intimidated by her appearance and her station, stammering through their responses. She had instructed them to simply call her “Visenya.”

          Whenever his duties had permitted, Cregan had accompanied her on walks around the castle, to the library, the ancient godswood and its hot springs, and the disturbing crypt that had contained the tombs of the deceased members of House Stark. His direwolf Splinter had ambled after them everywhere. They had discussed history, politics, trade, and their families, and had comforted one another in their grief, as Cregan’s wife had recently perished in childbirth. He had even confessed that Jace had reminded him of the brother that he had lost more than a decade ago. She had met his sweet babe Rickon, whom she had doted on. Cregan had bestowed upon Blackwing the highest distinction, deeming her a “formidable beast” – with his habitual morose disposition. Visenya had become besotted with him, regarding him as virtuous, conscientious, tenacious, and reputable.

          By the end of the twins’ stay in Winterfell, the Pact of Ice and Fire had been formed, whereby Visenya would wed Lord Stark, and the North would side with Queen Rhaenyra. He had forged a direwolf brooch for her, and she had gifted him one of her rings, to wear it as a necklace. Cregan and Jace had sworn an oath of brotherhood, sealed in blood.

          ‘You sold yourself to a wolf pup so that you may rally his army to your mother’s cause, and you boast about honor,’ accuses Aemond, scornful, satisfied that he discerns her imagined act, ‘Twas a different kind of sword that you required.’

          Sold myself? Visenya’s mouth twists downwards, her latent, crude contempt quivering. Blackwing rattles her shackles, screeching viscerally. He views me as property. I paid my price in kindness and youthful promises, so I am constrained into being his property. I have no freedom, no intuition, no capacity for judgment. I am a frail puppet dancing on my family’s strings, dependent on Aemond to rescue me. He would rather I were a fly in his web. What sort of person expects me to fulfil the vows that I uttered as a child?

          ‘Cregan would have honored his late father’s word,’ she contends, smoothing her garments, heedless of Aemond’s eye roaming over her body, ‘Lord Rickon Stark swore an oath in the throne hall, and acknowledged my mother as King Viserys’ heir. All of the Westerosi lords did, great and small.’

          Upon his lord father’s death, Cregan had inherited Winterfell at the age of thirteen, so his uncle Bennard had ruled as regent until his nephew had reached manhood. Bennard’s reluctance to relinquish power had spurred Cregan to imprison him and his three sons. Akin to Queen Rhaenyra’s plight, his kinsman had attempted to supplant him. Lady Jeyne Arryn – Queen Aemma’s cousin – had thrice endured uprisings that had contested her inheritance of the Eyrie.

          A hereditary curse. A woman’s curse. In this world of men, we women must band together.

          ‘Over twenty years have passed since then,’ specifies Aemond, shrugging blithely, ‘Most of those lords are dead, including the wolf pup’s father. Bones are all that is left of them and their vows.’

          Pup. A peculiar term to use for Cregan – a man older than they are. Aemond’s vanity confirms that, to the Greens, King Viserys’ succession amounts to nothing. Their cause is false – founded on quicksand, conspiracy, and murder – and they bury themselves deeper and deeper into an abyss of lies and treachery.

          ‘They represented their Houses and spoke on their behalf,’ corrects Visenya, her shoulders slumping from the sheer absurdity of having to explain this, ‘Enlighten me, nuncle. How does your situation differ from mine? Are you not betrothed to one of Borros Baratheon’s daughters for her father’s troops? Or is it all four daughters? I have heard varied accounts.’

          The illiterate Lord of Storm’s End – another traitor responsible for Luke’s demise. Her brother Joffrey had sworn a terrible oath of vengeance against him and the Kinslayer. The Velaryons had prevented Joff from instantly mounting his dragon Tyraxes to exact revenge. Would I have done the same? He is merely a boy, too young to know such hatred and grief. He and Rhaena are in the Vale, out of harm’s way. Willful Baela remains on Dragonstone, to fight by Jace’s side. Aegon and Viserys, the youngest, are with them. We must ensure their safety, else the war will strip them of their innocence… and their lives.

          Dragonstone, Harrenhal, Winterfell, the Vale, King’s Landing, Stoney Sept… My family is divided. If only I could protect them all…

          ‘I did what was asked of me,’ defends Aemond, forlorn, resting their foreheads together, ‘I never intended to wed her.’ He adds, his words scattered among hasty, consecutive kisses, ‘We have always agreed that we would marry one another. I have neither forgotten, nor forsaken that. I want you.’

          ‘I thought that we were not children anymore,’ she echoes, shrewd, bending to retrieve her discarded pelts, ‘Our parents annulled our betrothment years ago. You would have us marry without your mother’s blessing? I value my well-being, even if you do not.’

          ‘You are mistaken,’ coos Aemond, holding her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles, her palm, her inner wrist, ‘It’s not too late. There’s still a chance for us.’

          Visenya had once shared that sentiment. He lives in the past, clinging to it, misconstruing it. Matters betwixt them would never be the same – a truth that he hasn’t accepted. I would have waited for him... Aemond had usurped the throne and had slain her brother. Now, he hopes to abuse her clemency. What stops him from mistreating her, from hurting her? Why must I always be patient and compassionate? Why must I always forgive and forget? What will I gain from it? Aemond? It’s not enough. His redemption is a prolonged, tedious endeavor that she will not partake in.

          I’m severing my noose.

          ‘A chance?’, snarls Visenya, in conjunction with Blackwing’s shrieks, ‘Is that what you offered my brother when you unleashed Vhagar on him?’ She folds her arms over her chest, her furs caught between them. ‘You have already spilled my blood. I will not present you with a chance to do it again. Aye, I once wanted to marry you. A summer dream of summer children. Winter is coming.’

          Ripping the cord that binds her to Aemond will be excruciating, like slashing a part of herself. He is the thorn lodged in her side, her twin flame, his scent and touch imprinted on her, haunting her asleep and haunting her awake. The only power I wield over him is denying him myself.

          ‘You have returned to threats,’ chides Aemond, buttoning his tunic, visibly irritated by her usage of the House Stark words, ‘Parroting words that are not your own, chirruping tales that others have stuffed your head with, like a little bird.’

          ‘‘Tis not a threat, beloved,’ purrs Visenya, woven with venom, savoring his indignation, ‘It is a fact. The maesters of the Citadel will release the white ravens soon, to announce its arrival.’

          She had witnessed the foreboding signs with her own eyes, at Winterfell – the resplendent snow, the howling winds, the bitter cold. Winter is upon us… and we are vying for the throne.

          ‘‘Tis also a fact that your wolf pup has a wolf pup of his own,’ jeers Aemond, donning his eyepatch, ‘A son whom he fathered on another wench. A son who will inherit Winterfell and all of its attendant lands, titles, and incomes. A vile indignity, a humiliation, to you and your brood. You would submit to a puny northern savage, as his second wife?’

          Puny northern savage? Innovative.

          “Our children will sit the Iron Throne,” Visenya had told Cregan in the godswood, with the snow floating around them, piling in thick layers on the ground, the trees, and the castle walls. I kissed the snowflakes on his lashes, and they melted on my lips. Her heart flutters at the memory. My sullen wolf. She longs for him more than she can express.

          Would that appease Aemond? Nothing would. He has become spiteful. “Wench.” Lady Arra of House Norrey had been Cregan’s late wife and cherished childhood companion. She had dismally died birthing Rickon. I will not debate Cregan’s family with Aemond, a jealous craven threatened by suckling babes.

          ‘Rickon is an innocent babe,’ reasons Visenya, hugging herself, suddenly feeling naked without her armor, ‘Aye, he is the heir to Winterfell, and no threat to me. I will not set my children against their brother, nor will I encourage them to steal his birthright. I am not your mother.’

          And, oh, how you despise that…

          ‘I suppose that you will be no threat to him, either, should you die in childbirth,’ ventures Aemond, elated at the notion, his eye shimmering in the light of the flames, ‘And your wolf pup would be twice widowed.’

          Visenya lashes out, striking him so viciously across the face that his head whips to the side. Blackwing’s mighty roars rumble outside. Aemond doesn’t even blench.

          She had never hit him before. If he is startled or enraged by the assault, he masks it – devoid of any emotion. Visenya quashes the temptation to shout at him, to call him a dog, a pig, a rat. He is beneath these creatures. He has no conscience, and his cruelty is boundless. Her grandmother Queen Aemma and her aunt Laena had both expired in childbed. Her sister had been stillborn. What does Aemond know about the perils and throes of women? Nothing.

          I could flee, go anywhere but here... Her flesh crawls. I’m his captive in so many ways. Briny tears well in her eyes.

          Tears cannot quench dragonfire.

          ‘Do you love the wolf pup?’, challenges Aemond, his demeanor impassable, though she distinguishes a crack in his frigid tone.

          And if I do? You would flay him alive, and force me to watch. The question of Visenya’s suitors continues to be intricate and contentious. The Disputed Lands of Westeros. She had been engaged to Aegon, to Aemond, and to Daeron, and had been courted by Westerosi Houses, Essosi princes, triarchs, archons, nobles, magisters, merchants, and generals. The Red Kraken would have made me his salt wife. Visenya had rejected all of them. Adulterers and drunkards old enough to be my grandsires and fat enough to crush me beneath them.

          Rhaenyra had been sympathetic to her daughter’s predicament; she herself had initially opposed marriage. My mother had been younger than I am when she had birthed me and Jace. Visenya shudders at the thought. Her father hadn’t been concerned, confiding that she could wed out of duty and fuck whomever she pleased. Men always do so. Why shouldn’t I? Her twin had convinced her that she would find a suitable pair, to her liking. Jace had the right of it. I chose Cregan, and he chose me. She touches her brooch through her trousers. I’m assuming control of my life and my future.

          ‘I will,’ declares Visenya, seething, jutting her chin, ‘He is neither a usurper, nor a kinslayer. Cregan is worth a thousand of you, and more.’

          ‘Yet you delay marrying him, and the wolf pup delays assembling his banners and marching,’ admonishes Aemond, his reddened cheek beginning to swell, ‘Perhaps you are not as devoted to each other as you think you are.’

          A surrounded animal, slinging its final, pitiful blows. Her wolf’s motives for not marching had been warranted. He awaits the collection of the harvest, so that he can feed his subjects throughout the winter. The Southrons seal themselves in their castles with their bountiful harvests, whereas the Northerners bear the brunt of the burden – snow, frost, famine, death. Cregan’s obligations lie with his people and his lands.

          As for herself, Visenya prefers to marry him during peace and stability. He could mourn his wife properly, and he would not be widowed again, if I were to… to…

          ‘His Winter Wolves are at the Twins,’ she states, noting Aemond’s mouth twitching, ‘They have joined their forces with the Freys’, and will resume their advance south. They are merely a fraction of the North’s strength. I assure you. Cregan will honor his vow.’

          She had wept upon reading Lord Roderick Dustin’s words to Lady Sabitha Frey. We have come to die for the dragon queen. Cregan had taught Visenya about the Winter Wolves – elderly men who leave their homes in order to conserve supplies for their kin. Grisly custom. Those warriors hope to die for glory and plunder. They will never reunite with their families. Wretched conditions, wretched measures.

          Aemond must have observed a spark in her eyes, heard something amiss in her voice that aroused his suspicion.

          ‘What have you done, Visenya?’, he demands, narrowing his eye, fixing her with a hawkish glare.

          I fucked the wolf pup. And Alyn Velaryon… Not both at the same time. She had befriended Alyn and his older brother Addam shortly after hers and Jace’s return from Winterfell. Her twin had summoned Targaryen bastards – “dragonseeds” – for the riderless dragons, promising wealth, lands, and knighthood for those triumphant. Addam’s feat of claiming Seasmoke had emboldened the Sea Snake to petition Queen Rhaenyra to legitimise the Hull boys. Conveniently, their mother Marilda had revealed that they had been sired by Ser Laenor Velaryon. And Mushroom is seven feet tall. My stepfather had no interest in women. Lord Corlys had proceeded to name Addam his heir.

          Alyn, however, had been less fortunate. Sheepstealer had bathed his cloak in flames. His brother had doused the fire, saving his life. At least Grey Ghost had vanished. Those had been wild dragons. Alyn is lucky to be alive. Grand Maester Gerardys had tended his burns, and Visenya had changed his bandages thrice a day – delighting in his insolence. The habit had blossomed into clumsy intimacy. She had seldom stayed the night – a decision that hadn’t troubled Alyn. He never judged me. Visenya misses him; his jests, his smile, his company.

          A furious Jace had reprimanded his twin for her recklessness and temerity, arguing that Cregan was a good man, a second chance – everything that she had ever dreamed of. Her involvement with Alyn could compromise their indispensable alliance with the North. Visenya had listened to his warning, remorse slithering around her throat.

          I have been remiss… but Alyn is only a matter of brevity. I have to tread prudently.

          ‘I do as I please,’ she asserts, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips, ‘Do not fret, cousin. Cregan treated me well and was most gentle with me… the first time.’

          Her admission slices him to the bone. Aemond’s expression sinks, desolation flooding his eye. A child looks at her, into her, agony engraved on his features. Have I been too austere? Spoken too harshly? He had betrayed her trust, had usurped the throne, and had murdered her brother. My sins pale in comparison.

          Aemond recoils, turning away from her, his head lowered. His fists clench at his sides. The table behind her shakes at Vhagar’s menacing growl. Visenya maintains her composure, sheathing herself in steel. I will not cow. I am the blood of the dragon.

          And I will not regret Cregan.

          While she hadn’t lacked for suitors, those men had sought to marry her out of pride and ambition. My Targaryen heritage brings their House closer to the Iron Throne, and my dragon is power.

          She had proposed to Cregan that she would willingly surrender her maidenhood to him, as a token of her intention to wed him. Fighting a war a maiden seems particularly dreadful. Should anything befall her, Cregan wouldn’t feel cheated or insulted – he would have claimed her gift of innocence.

          I lost my innocence long ago.

          Visenya hadn’t abused her station to compel him to lie with her. She wouldn’t have been offended if he hadn’t desired her.

          “I would be,” her wolf had responded, earning a chuckle from her.

          Two nights – and numerous fiery kisses – later, he had accepted her offer. A timorous ardor had washed over Visenya, her heart hammering against her rib cage. Cregan had led her out of the godswood, past the hot springs, the main iron gate with its walls, across the inner yards, into the castle, and up the winding stairs – retreating to his solar, where they had shared half a flagon of wine. He had kindly asked her if she had been nervous.

          No. I am a Targaryen princess, a dragonrider… and the wine soothed my nerves.

          Their intimate moments had been sweet, passionate, exhilarating. Visenya remembers them so vividly. His large hands cupping her face, disrobing her with deft precision, caressing and fondling every inch of her. His darkened eyes reveling in her figure. Cregan lifting her into his arms as though she weighed nothing, laying her down on the bed. His tongue licking her stiffened nipples, his mouth sucking on her plump breasts. Her fist stroking his leaking cock, guiding him into her heat slowly. Cregan swallowing her soft whine when entering her, the stretch burning deliciously. The overwhelming need to hold him nearer. Wrapping her limbs around him as he vigorously thrust into her, the featherbed engulfing her. The chambers brimming with their moans, gasps, and the lascivious sounds of sweaty skin slapping against sweaty skin. Cregan intertwining their fingers, Cregan driving her to the heights of pleasure, Cregan spilling his seed inside her, blending with her maiden’s blood.

          Slick pools between her legs, and Visenya squeezes her thighs shut, salivating at the memory.

          He had collapsed on top of her, and – at her insistence – had lied there, panting, his face buried in her neck, his beard tickling her. An equally breathless Visenya had threaded her digits through his damp hair, pecking his cheek and his temple. Cregan had rolled off of her, grunting at the effort, and had pulled her into him, allowing her to rest her head on his chest, and to hook her leg over his. Her wolf had attentively inquired whether he had hurt her.

          “Not at all,” she had murmured, demure, draping her arm over him, their combined fluids trickling on her groin, “You have been so good to me.”

          Visenya had drifted off to sleep in his safe embrace, lulled by his heartbeat and his snores. His body had been a hearth underneath the pelts. I am the blood of the dragon, allured by warmth and fire.

          She and Cregan had spent most evenings together – to the dismay of his bed. Days had been dedicated to duties, negotiations, and furtive glances, nights for themselves and for each other; for raw lust, hushed laughter, and the solace that they had been starved of; for their satiation and contentment. Her loins had often ached by the next morning. A good ache.

          Cregan had even taken her in the godswood, under a starry sky, before the heart tree, following their sword sparring. Afterwards, he had suggested that they retire to his solar.

          ‘To sleep?’, questioned Visenya, coyly, tangling their feet together.

          ‘If that is what the princess wants,’ granted her wolf, amiably.

          ‘The princess wants you,’ she mumbled, nestling against him, their clothes and furs providing scant shelter from the cold.

          ‘She has me,’ vouched Cregan, carding his fingers through her locks, ‘All of me.’

          Oh, yes. He has had me in the sight of the old gods, and I have bled for him. Targaryens have always had a grievously deep connection to blood. It’s one of our House’s words. Our forebears used blood magic to bind the winged beasts to them. We cut ourselves and drink each other’s blood in the marriage ceremony. We practice incest to ensure the purity of our bloodline. The blood of Old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Blood unites, and blood divides.

          Their stealthy meetings might not have been shrouded in such secrecy. Jace had dared to tease Visenya about the marks that he had glimpsed on her throat. She had thrown a snowball at him, hitting him in the nose.

          ‘Locking myself in a castle is more appealing than waging war against my own kin,’ admitted Visenya, in an instance of fragility, atop one of Winterfell’s towers.

          ‘You’re not destined to hide in a castle,’ proponed Cregan, petting Splinter, basking in the sun – reminiscent of their early mornings abed. I would trace the lines of his back, the scars on his chest, admire his naked form as he opened the shutters… ‘Your hair is akin to the snow around us, your eyes the color of the sunset sky. Why would nature make you so lovely, if not to behold you and to reflect on you? The sun must see you to shine, the moon to glow.’

          Visenya tore her gaze away from him, misty-eyed.

          Her Valyrian appearance had protected her from japes about being a Strong bastard. Is that term so preposterous? My parents hadn’t been married at my birth. I had borne the name Velaryon for a decade. People had viewed her as a Myrish carpet – to be gaped at – and had treated her like a stud-mare, to be bought, owned, and mounted to produce sons – her beauty a mere instrument to that end. Devious motives behind hollow adulation.

          ‘You are gracious, my lord,’ rasped Visenya, flustered, the gossip of the commonfolk below muffling her answer slightly, ‘I am flattered.’

          ‘I have spoken the truth,’ affirmed Cregan, tipping her chin up, coaxing her to peer at him, ‘You are meant to be kissed.’

          ‘By you,’ she assented, his gloved digits wiping her tears, delicately.

          On the day of the dragon twins’ departure from Winterfell, Vermax and Blackwing had been impatient to leave the North and its freezing temperatures. Visenya hadn’t shared their zeal. I’m not a little girl anymore. The winds of winter are rising. There is a war to be fought and won.

          “Come back to me,” her wolf whispered to her, their joined hands concealed in their cloaks and pelts.

          I will.

          Aemond’s subtle movements wrest her to the present.

          We’re at war with the Greens. I’m a prisoner at Stoney Sept, in the Pretender’s camp. My Cregan is leagues away.

          I must not forget my mission.

          Aemond’s insidious posture betrays him, his shoulders on the brink of crumbling under the burden of his pride and envy.

          ‘A dragon rendered a broodmare by a wolf pup,’ he chastises, repulsed, his features drawn into solemn lines, ‘Have you spread your legs for his army, too? I wouldn’t be surprised, given your taste for depravity.’

          Visenya refrains from guffawing, albeit with great difficulty. Oh, may the Crone’s lantern light my path to wisdom, and may the Father judge me justly, and may the Mother show me mercy, for I am a filthy wanton, and Lord Stark does possess a generous… host.

          ‘I would rather be his broodmare than be your wife,’ she spits, defiant, baring her teeth, ‘The wolf pup is Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.’ And you are insufferably obtuse. ‘He and his bannermen will liberate me, should the Winter Wolves and the river lords fail to do so, and should you yourself refuse to release me. Are you so mad that you would oppose the might and wrath of the entire North?

          ‘I have heard enough about your wolf pup,’ announces Aemond, his nostrils flaring, ‘He has dishonored you. Perhaps I ought to march on his bleak castle, after I seize Harrenhal.’

          You ought to dress up in motley. Visenya shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her brow creased. The Hightowers must have abandoned their wits putting him in charge. Aemond is utterly inept. Their Lannister friends will find trouble at the Red Fork, and he will never take Harrenhal from my father.

          ‘Your men are unlikely to survive the muds of the riverlands, whose lords have unanimously declared for my mother,’ argues Visenya, twirling a lock of her hair around her forefinger, ‘I doubt that they will endure the dire conditions of the North… also pledged to Queen Rhaenyra.’

          ‘I have Vhagar,’ reminds Aemond, his arrogance oozing like pus.

          ‘And what of it?’, she hisses, squinting her eyes, ‘You would torch the North, from the Neck to the Wall, on hoary, old Vhagar? Tens of thousands would perish.’

          Despite rivaling the combined size of the other kingdoms, the North is scarcely populated. Their lives, lands, history, and culture matter all the same.

          ‘Your wolf pup amongst them, if the gods are good,’ drones Aemond, looping his digits through his belt.

          ‘Cregan will die of old age, in my arms,’ corrects Visenya, keeping her furled fists at her sides, lest she strike him again, ‘You cannot vanquish the North. It is too vast and too wild. The Neck is impenetrable, filled with swamps and bogs. Moat Cailin is a choke point, and it has shielded the North from southron invasions for millennia. This is folly, Aemond. It will be your doom.’

          Then why am I trying to dissuade him?

          ‘Or on the contrary, the glory will be mine,’ boasts Aemond, his permanent smirk bolstering his confidence, ‘Those savages might dare to resist me, but in the end, they will pose a minor obstacle. Aegon the Conqueror brought the North to its knees.’

          ‘Because King Torrhen Stark bent the knee after the Field of Fire, to avoid bloodshed,’ objects Visenya, scowling, ‘Do not attempt to revise history. Ours will not redeem you. The kinslayer is accursed in the eyes of gods and men. The lickspittles that buzz around you will never be sincere, so I will bestow the truth upon you. You are cruel, despicable, and you nurse a grievance like a suckling babe. You are not Aegon the Conqueror. You are a prideful fool playing at war.’ You’re not good at it, either. ‘And winter is coming. That is the truth.’

          ‘The truth?’, repeats Aemond, creeping up on her, his eye boring into hers – a predator scenting its prey, ‘What do you know of the truth, Visenya? You lie and deceive and plot with every breath that you draw. You are a traitor to the realm, daughter of traitors, sister of traitors. You chose the Iron Throne over me.’

          You chose for me.

          ‘My mother is the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,’ she pronounces, her smile ominous, ‘The only traitor here is you, nuncle. You cower from the truth, and you retain it from everyone.’ Visenya tiptoes, and their lips almost touch. ‘You are looking with the wrong eye. Perhaps you will have to close the other to finally see.’

          Aemond cups her face roughly, pressing her against the table.

          ‘Your mother will never sit the Iron Throne,’ he sneers, ‘And neither will you. She still spurns you as her heir, but I vow to pay you the homage that you so desperately crave, and to lavish you with precious gifts – the heads of your family, your betrothed, and your stepson. They shall decorate the spikes of the Red Keep–’

          Visenya swiftly yanks his dagger from his belt. Aemond seizes her wrist too late. The tip of the blade digs at the underside of his chin.

          ‘Enough, Aemond!’, bellows Visenya, and for a moment, she is her ferocious Blackwing incarnate, ‘Are you deaf, as well as blind? You have usurped the throne, murdered my brother, and butchered hundreds of innocents. Your actions have consequences. Heed my words, for the love that you claim to bear me.’ She drags the point of the dirk down to the base of his throat, nicking him. ‘You will not make me an orphan and a widow. You are surrounded by enemies in every direction, and more are gathering as we speak. We have the armies, the fleet, the dragons, and most importantly, the legitimacy. An advantage that you will never have. So, either kill me or let me go, and flee to Essos, because you cannot – you will not – survive what’s coming for you. The choice is yours.’

          Aemond’s malicious eye studies her, a forlorn wall of blue ice.

          The boy I grew up with is gone. Hasn’t Visenya sensed it all along? We are not children anymore. The time has come to accept it.

          When has it all gone so awry, become so twisted? She mourns the boy that she had once shared everything with – a childhood, hopes, dreams. Those died with Lucerys.

          Dreams didn’t make us kings. Dragons did… and tears cannot quench dragonfire.

          It ends as it had begun, with fire and blood.

          Bloodlines will burn.

          Visenya licks the blood off of the tip of the dagger, spins the weapon, and presents it to Aemond, hilt first.

TAGLIST: @a-dash-of-random-magic @aaleksmorozova @aemondsversion @aereth @agirllovespancakes @another-life-addict​ @burningshewolf @buttercup--bee​ @cecespizza01​ @cleastrnge​ @crazylokonugget​ @five-seconds-of-socialising​ @flosaureum​ @haystack-boy​ @lavendertales​ @lordsrks @maharani-radha​ @mandaloresson​ @masset-fotia​ @missusnora @moonlight-prose​ @oloreaa​ @poppyreader​ @prettyboyeddiemunson​ @revolution-starter​ @sofietargaryen​ @stargaryenx​ @strawberrypeachesss​ @sullho​ @sweethoneyblossom1​ @s-we-e-t-t-ea​ @that--thing​ @valyriians​ 

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targayren fic #aemond targaryen #cregan stark #alyn velaryon #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen/oc #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen/reader #cregan stark fanfic #cregan stark fic #cregan stark x oc #cregan stark/oc #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark/reader #alyn velaryon fic #alyn velaryon x oc #alyn velaryon/oc #alyn velaryon x reader #alyn velaryon/reader #daemon targaryen #criston cole #rhaenyra targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #tori's flames of deceit

[sparklygraves]

"Man, he had hated it when Richie called him Eds... but he had sort of liked it, too. The way he thought Ben Hanscom got to like Richie calling him Haystack. It was something... like a secret name. A secret identity. A way to be people that had nothing to do with their parents' fears, hopes, constant demands. Richie couldn't do his beloved Voices for shit, but maybe he did know how important it was for creeps like them to sometimes be different people."

--It, Stephen King, p. 292

#reddie #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #it stephen king #it 2017 #secret names #nicknames #secret identity

[faerytreealtars]

⋆˙⟡♡ What is your Soul Currently Healing? ⋆˙⟡♡

Hello again, Saplings! 🌱 A new PAC today that I hope you enjoy, take a deep breath, and choose whatever images resonate with your soul and heart, Happy reading! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚    

There are some days, perhaps even weeks where everything just feels out of place, you can never quite place your finger on why and no matter how much you rack your brain or journal away the answer seems to always slip through your fingers like grains of sand upon a glistening beach, there is no way to find the grains that belong to you, perhaps you would have more luck finding the needle lost in the haystack. 

Its on these days I personally feel our souls are going through major shifts and transformations. It’s a lot of work for a little soul to heal the hurts and mend the holes, nevermind having to function as a human in the everyday as well. 

This PAC came to me in the hopes of helping those of you in this energy, to understand and perhaps give your soul more energy and love as they work through the shadows within.

I would love to hear if the message you received resonated with you, so don’t feel afraid to comment, for it makes me so happy to connect with you all! 💕 

Song: I have a dream - Abba

Faery-Tale: Cinderella - “A dream is a wish your heart makes when you’re fast asleep...”

[ My Instagram ♡ / Personal Readings ♤ /  Faery Masterlist ☆  ]

Pile 1

[Cards: Seven of Chalices, Ten of Pentacles, Eight of Wands, The Empress & King of Pentacles (rx) ]

Dear Pile one, I can sense that your soul is currently healing from a feeling of scarcity as if everything you had would disappear someday if you didn't keep a tight almost suffocating hold on it, this may have been expressed through control issues or disharmony with money (impulse buying or not spending at all) the good news is your soul is beginning to transmute this toxic energy into something fresh, for those who still feel stuck in this energy I would recommend creating lists of needs vs wants, begin to see money as more than just a tool, it is full of energy just as we are and that energy is a blank slate so project goodness on to it - see that they can bring you joy & actually take a long time to appreciate that joy, don't rely on quick adrenaline rushes to fool you into a sense of comfort. Hope all this helps!

Oracle: Peace

Even when the sky seems stormy, there will be moments of peace. Set your heart toward finding them. Always follow that stray butterfly just to see where it will lead you. A moment of reflection is what is called for at this time. If someone or some situation has riled you up to the point of not seeing clearly, it's time to not just smell the roses but to actively seek them out. By doing this, you will create a small where you can regain control of your thoughts and emotions. Peace may not last forever in our harried world, but take a lesson from this card. There is always time to fuss and bother with all the many things we have to do. But only you can carve out those mind-easing moments of peaceful contemplation. When this card appears to you ask yourself "How do I Invite more peace into my life"

Pile 2

[Cards: Two of Swords, Three of wands, Fortitude/Strength, The Tower, Queen of Wands & Eight of Swords]

Dear Pile Two,

I can sense that the energy you are currently tiring to shift revolves around feeling trapped and helpless, perhaps others have always taken control over your life leaving you no space to speak or pushing identities you know didn't fit you upon you leaving you feeling confused and out of touch with your own soul. It may even be the case where you have felt forced to mask your true self in efforts to fit and be safe around others. Your soul is tired and weary of acting like a puppet on a stage, it is time to change. Spirit is giving you the strength to tackle the challenges ahead & there will be a lot, don't be afraid to say No or step outside "Your Labels" and explore something new. Let yourself have fun & dabble in your own creativity as you make your way down this thrilling path of self-discovery!

Oracle: Offer

Our two friends have taken a moment to meet under the full moon. The soft glow lights up the forest. There is an ambiance of quiet that allows our Gentle Creature to be fully engaged in accepting the gift his young friend has offered. It may be a handful of random green things to someone else but to her, it is something she chose with great care, Her friend understands that. The gift for them is not what is in their hands but what is in the heart of the small one looking up at them. They are grateful for one another. honoring one another with their full attention is another gift. Have you given this to another recently? The present is here. Focus on the air around you and smell the scents. see the sights. Hear the sounds. If you offer yourself up to each moment as a gift, you will learn the beauty of being present in the moment - perhaps it is time to spend time on someone who needs undivided attention.

Pile 3

[Cards: Four of wands, Seven of Swords, The Hermit, King of Pentacles & The Star]

Dear ones,

I could feel your heartbreak as soon as I tapped into your energy & then the cards only further confirmed my intuition. Someone was disloyal to you, tricked & deceived you in some manner. I am sorry you had to go through that but am happy to feel you are strong enough to carry on. Even on days, you feel like hiding away you keep on fighting and for this tremendous capacity of hope you exude into the world, you will surely be blessed. Just remember its okay to feel & acknowledge the heavy emotions, we cannot transmute or alchemize them if we keep them hidden in a bottle. Still, you have done yourself so proud!

Oracle: Guide

Our Gentle Creature waits patiently holding the lantern aloft. Their job is to guide others through the foggy night. It may sometimes be a lonely job to serve as the light carrier, but it is a necessity that cannot be shirked. The hardest part of being a guide is that jot all will see or appreciate the illumination for what it is. With this card, you are being asked to be a guide or to answer the call. One way or another your journey is being redirected. Are you heading into the fog ignoring the sparkling flame? This is a time to really dig into your inner self. It can be that both these things are important after all, it is a poor guide who cannot be led. W ouldn't it be sad if this gentle creature were left to hold the lamp?  Surely there is someone maybe you who can help them by carrying that sweet yellow star for a while? We all need to both guide and to be guided.

I do so hope this reading brought comfort to your soul and a little more understanding to your subconscious. Take each day as it comes and try to look for at least one silver lining in the everyday. 

~Much love, Fae🔮🧚🏻‍♀

#tarotblr #channeling #cartomancy #divination #tarot #timeless tarot #tarot reading #pac #pick a card #♡ messages channelled from the divine ♡ #tarot cards #tarot community #oracle #guardian angels #guardian spirits #self healing #healing energy #faery tarot #healing tarot #super blue moon tarot reading #super blue moon

[who-knew-a-sheep-can-write]

Metal Moths: Bigby Wolf x Reader

Oh babe, I feel it. My messages are always open if you need to talk to someone, I'm always available to help out anyone I can.

Contains: Self-Depreciation, depressing thoughts

Something was off.

It didn’t hit him until he was gnawing on yet another cigarette bud that was burnt down to the filter did it suddenly click in his mind. It had been bugging him for the past few days but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It wasn’t unpaid bills or reports he had neglected to file, nothing like that of the sort. It felt… social? That kind of thing always stumped Bigby as he wasn’t really the social type, always avoiding the Remembrance Day bullshit and shying away from whatever events King Cole puts on to raise even more money for Fabletown.

He dropped his pen when he suddenly realized what exactly was missing, back straightening up quickly, his knees smacking against his desk that was too big for his comically small office that almost caused the piles of papers and folders filled to the brim to scatter across the semi-clean floors.

When was the last time he saw you?

Regret pinched at a nerve between his shoulders as he tossed the cigarette bud into the nearby trash. He ran a hand through his hair and scratched at his neck, leaning back in his chair as he ran through what he could in his mind of the past few days. He knows he saw you this week, that was for sure. He hadn’t seen much of you the past few days thanks to some fucked up case that practically pushed him down the rabbit hole, but he knew you had called the Business Office only for Bufkin to answer and take your message. You were asking for Bigby to come to your apartment, but he couldn’t make it.

He really wanted to. Honestly, he did. He would rather take the brunt of another silver bullet than do anything to hurt you, but unfortunately, this slipped through the cracks of his fingers like fine sand.

He stood up, wincing when a few folders slipped from their place on his desk and scattered the contents across the floor. He’d deal with it later.

He slipped out of his office door and trekked through the oddly empty halls. He strained his ears and sniffed at the stale air of the Woodlands, scoffing at the horrible air fresheners Snow had installed to raise the appeal of the damn place. It didn’t do much, the barely there floral scent did nothing to cover the decades of cigarettes, blood, sweat and tears these hallowed halls carried. It only distracted his nose from catching your scent to see if you were even home, the voice in the back of his head scolded him, asking him why he didn’t just call you from the old rotary he still had in his office.

But he caught your scent when he turned down the hall that contained your apartment.

Something was wrong.

Your scent wasn’t the usual ambrosia to his nose, the one thing he would always somehow find in the crowded city of Manhattan like a needle in a haystack. No. It wasn’t sweet like caramel or warm like coffee, but… dull? He didn’t know how to describe it, but he knew how it made him feel.

And he felt bad. He felt something bad looming over him and he felt something bad bubbling in the deepest pits of his guts.

He slowly approached your apartment and strained his ears. No sound came from inside, but he could hear the faintness of your heart beating away deep inside. It was slow, kept to an odd rhythm of neither rest nor active.

He knocked, knuckles lightly rapping at your chamber door. The key to your apartment was on his keyring, but he didn’t want to use it. He wanted you to get up, he wanted you to walk over to the door and open it, he wanted to see you upright and standing before his eyes to quell the worry that made the beast inside of him start to prickle with life. There was silence on the other end of the door yet again besides your heart beating, but it picked up upon him knocking. He even heard you take a quick breath in.

He knocked again, the worry about to bubble over into slight panic as he sniffed again. He couldn’t smell any blood whether it would be dry or fresh, but he could smell something else. Something salty. Were you crying?

He heard the sheets rustle, you had to have been tucked into your bed, curled in the sheets. His heart yearned for you to open the damn door so he can take care of you.

“(Y/n),” Bigby called. No answer. The silence was deafening to him as he heard his blood roaring through his ears. The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention, he felt the beast clawing at his spine for control he would never relinquish. He knocked again, a little louder this time. “(Y/n), are you in there?”

He heard your feet meet the floor inside, the covers being thrown away from your person as the bed creaked under your shifting weight. He took a step away from the door, eyes pinned on the doorknob as he heard the wooden floorboards of your apartment creaking as you slowly padded over. Were you… stumbling? It sounded as though you were, steps uneven and a little heavy for your usual gait.

Ironically, he waited for you at the door like a dog.

And when you opened the door finally with a heavy click of the lock turning, Bigby felt the panic snuff out inside of him when he saw that you were actually standing before him.

You looked like you had been dragged through hell and then some. Dark circles around your eyes, your irises were barely focusing on him and your under eyes were so puffy from crying. How long have you been crying for? Your cheeks were tacky with dried tear tracks and your lips were a little swollen from worrying at them with your teeth, your bottom lip even had a split in it from where you bit a little too hard. You were wrapped up in clothes that needed a good wash, the collar of the baggy sweater you were wearing was soaked from you probably wiping your tears away not too long ago.

Seeing you like this made the knife twist even harder in his gut.

“Hey Bigby,” your voice was so soft and so hoarse, it almost didn’t belong to you.

Your words were trembling, vocal chords strained from crying for so long. How long had you been like this? How long had he failed to realize something was wrong?

“Can I… come in?” Bigby found himself hesitating.

He had to. If he didn’t he didn’t know what would’ve come out of his mouth, and he’s a walking trap for accidents to happen as a lot of people would put it.

It was your turn to hesitate. You glanced tiredly over your shoulder back into your pitch black apartment before stepping away, giving him just enough room to allow him to squeeze past you before you closed the door behind him.

“Mind the mess,” you murmured as you sank down onto your couch.

Your curtains were drawn shut, blocking out the evening sun and the rows of neon lights that were slowly turning on for the night. There was the scent of something stale and bitter lingering in the air, it had Bigby wincing just a bit. It wasn’t pungent like cigarettes or food left out a little too long, but it was something else he couldn’t quite place.

He eyed you warily, stepping close to you as you stared mindlessly at some little spot on your rug that overall needed to be vacuumed. Something was haunting your mind and Bigby would be damned if you kept suffering alone in silence. You never let him be affected by this kind of stuff since you both had started seeing each other, and he’d rather be shot up with silver than let you pull a Bigby move.

“(Y/n),” he crooned softly, “what happened?” You didn’t answer at first, you just sat on the edge of your couch with your head in your hands and rubbed at your exhausted face. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come see-”

“It’s not your fault,” you pulled away to look up at him. “You’re the sheriff, you’re busy. I shouldn’t have been calling and bothering you, especially with that fucked up case that got slapped on your desk.”

“(Y/n), sweetheart, you’re not a bother to me.” He walked in front of you and crouched down, taking your soft hands in his calloused ones. He ran the pads of his thumbs over your knuckles and made direct eye contact with you. Fuck, seeing you like this, it really made him want to tell Snow and Cole to fuck off for a few days so he can stay here and help you. “You’re never a bother to me.”

“I just,” you hesitated as you pulled your hands away from his warm ones, “I feel like I’m… too much,” your gaze fell to your lap.

“Too much?”

Bigby placed one hand on your knee, his thumb rubbing soothing little patterns at the bend. Your skin was a little cold, he could feel it through the heat that radiated off of him constantly.

“I just- I don’t know. I… I feel awful that I called and I’m sorry that I did. It’s not fair to you. I really didn’t help with that and you-”

“Let me stop you right there.” His voice never rose in volume, it never got harsh. It was deep and rumbling like rolling thunder in the distance. He squeezed your knee to get you to look back up into his big brown eyes. “I love you. I’ll never stop loving you. I know I suck with words and all, but I really do care.” He could see your eyes getting all watery in the corners. “You’re never gonna be too much for me to love you.”

And with that, the tears finally shed as you collapsed into Bigby’s awaiting arms.

#the wolf among us #twau #bigby wolf #bigby x reader #bigby wolf x reader

[rainiishowers]

Obey Me As Incorrect Quotes Tumblr Posts

A/N: I thought I'd add a little spice to my incorrect quotes, that's the only reason. They may be worded differently for different reasons If you recognize any of these you get one of my home made treats ---- Diavolo: Being happier has been triple legalized! Fun times are coming soon!! MC: Is.. Is that a threat?? Diavolo: Yes!! ---- Satan, in one of his moods: What's a mob to a king, what's a king to a god, what's a god to a non believer, what's a non believer to a poisonous dart frog?? Asmodeus: What's a poisonous dart frog to a king? Mammon: What's a poisonous dart frog to another poisonous dart frog? MC: A friend :) ---- Solomon: What do you call a bunch of chess players bragging about their skills in a hotel lobby? Luke: What? Solomon, sing-songy: Chest nuts boasting in an open foyer~ ---- *Lucifer heavily sighs randomly at dinner* Mammon: What's up? Lucifer: The word heck is a combination of "Hell" and "Fuck" yet it is treated as the lamest word when really it's double as bad. MC: Just like how shucks is a combination of "Shit" and "Fuck" and then there is the fact Goofy has been saying it all the damn time ---- Asmodeus: Rules of fashion: You think it's pretty? Wear it. MC: Okay, but I dunno how I'm gonna wear you. Solomon: You clearly haven't read Silence of the Lambs Lucifer, sarcastically: This went to a great place. ----

Diavolo: You heard of alphabet soup, not get ready for.. Diavolo: Times new ramen! MC: I said this to Lucifer once and he left the room just to scream. ---- Luke: If brains are biological computers, why don't we lag? Mammon: You can't tell me you never walked into a room and forgotten why you were there or lost a train of thought for a moment Beelzebub: One day I was walking home from RAD with Belphie and momentarily panicked because I thought Belphie wasn't with me/ ---- Mammon: If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be? Beelzebub: Salads. Because anything could be a salad. There's fruit salad, potato salad. What's stopping you from making pizza salad, or even ice cream salad? All you need to do is cut it up and there you go, it's a salad. Asmodeus: It sounds like you thought about that before Beelzebub: I have, yes. ---- Mammon: Finding a needle in a haystack isn't hard, just burn the hay. Leviathan: Find the hay in the needlestack though. Mammon: Big magnet. MC: See this is why I think y'all are sleeping on Mammon, he thinks of things like this ---- Belphegor: Humans are so funny sometimes. I remember when I was younger, there was this vacant lot in the human world. Whenever one of us broke our toys but didn't want to face the wrath of Lucifer, I took them and buried them in the lot. Some dude tried to develop the land, but got scared at the amount of rotten toys and convinced everyone the land was haunted. Mammon: We should use this opportunity to buy the land.

#obey me shall we date #shall we date obey me #obey me crack #obey me crackpost #obey me brothers #obey me side characters #obey me dateables #tumblr posts

[my-owl-baby]

Chapter three; The Warning Ahead

Pervious chapter; New Adventure

Summary: Speaking with Alfred, the king of Wessex the conversation was surprised to you. After the battle, you headed to Winchester meeting someone unexpected to be there knowing you.

Warnings: torture, mention of killing, killing, violence, harsh language and cursing

Word:5,256

A/n; sorry for the late update, I've been busy with studies and keeping grades up.

Taglist: @namelesslosers @dixie-elocin @cemetarybpys

"Lotus flower is a meaning of rebirth and healing...do you think you'll heal from this?" He pause for a bit looking at a drawing of a lotus flower his own daughter made.

"It can also be use to medical use, another meaning is strength and resilience...it has a lot of meanings doesn't it?" the man sigh looking at young man on the ground coughing.

He continued to stare at the young man, before getting up holding a sharp knife to his hand.

"Now now, this can all end if you just write a letter to your dear friend" Pointing the sharp blade at his chin, lifting up his head to face his.

"Fuck off ass hole" the young man bleed from his shoulders to his waist cuts everywhere, burn mark at the bottom of his leg, bruises were formed by all the hits he took in.

"I don't like hurting your pretty little face, but...you give me no chose" he mumble, grabing his face to hold still. The young man struggled at his grip seeing the knife closer to his cheek making a cut to his jawline.

"It would've been easier if the both of you just appeared together at the same time, but no God had other plans didn't he" he sounded frustrated, placing the knife on the table as he walked back and forth talking to himself.

It was silent for a few moments, only hearing the man chained up panting. He was lossing much blood but he was made sure not to die since he would be useful.

"Jon, just give up" Jon looked up at the man smirking down at him. It wasn't anything good.

"Now that I think about it, a word has gone around in Wessex that a man killed seventeen Danes on his own, I think it's been couple weeks now" he chuckled.

Jon only stayed silent not wanting to give in to his mind games. "It might be Y/n though, am I right? She strong enough to kill hundreds of men isn't she?" His smirk haven't left once as he spoke of this topic.

He's trying to push the young man to his limits telling him this every day and night, he did grew tired of hearing the same thing but it always came with the same response.

"Leave...her alone, she not a toy to mess around with in your own games. I don't even know WHO THE FUCK-" Jon lost his temper this time, which gave the man hope.

Cutting him off with a kick to the stomach, his body is weak without food only getting water wasn't enough for him. He fainted right after the kick.

"I'll send men since you won't write a simple letter, maybe she'll come and save you" He pause taking a sip from his cup the ale that was inside is rich and flavor smelled like a lotus flower.

"She'll be the knight and you'll be the princess trapped in a castle" is the last thing he said, leaving the room to get one of his men to be off and find you, himself.

You sat down around haystack not knowing what to do now. They lock up Skade somewhere, it bother you what she might know something, if she did then it would cause a mess.

"Y/n" hearing the baby monks voice you looked up at him, seeing he had something in his hands a plate of food.

"I thought you might be hungry" he handed you the plate. It was simple stake with greenbeans and carrots.

"Thank you" you mumble, he only bow before leaving you be. You weren't hungry but you forced the food down your stomach.

You grew tired with all this new adjustments in life, no longer picking at herds or whatever.

You layed back against a wall closing your eyes getting the rest you need.

Uhtred on the other hand was inside a barn or sort where the king stayed for protection.

"Theres two woman here that you have taken, why are they here?" Alfred asked, you were the first to caught his eyes. You dressed differently from the rest of them might be mistaken for a Dane at first sight more likely.

"They both have value." He started, Alfred wanted to know their value, did they both served bloodhair.

"And Sigurd will want them back. I refuse to call him bloodhair" the king stated.

"Only one is of bloodhair" Uhtred quickly said, getting the king more curious of his words.

"But the one lock up, Skade, she is a value to him" he spoke of sure of his answer.

"And what is she to him?" Alfred asked, Uhtred looked away for moments before he spoke not sure if the king would believe him.

"A wife...a lover?" Aethelwold questioned, which Uhtred didn't like.

"She's a... a seer... sorceress" he give a glance at the king waiting for a response back.

The king hummed in understanding "and the other one, who's she?" He asked.

Aethelwold only chuckled with a dirty thoughts in his own mind. "Probably his whore" he commented.

Uhtred only ignore Aethelwold and looked at Alfred and his son Edward. "She's the one who killed the Danes" he spoke proudly of you, like it wasn't never done before.

"She? How can a women like herself kill that many Danes" Earning a laugh from Aethelwold, Beocca on other hand made sure Uhtred wasn't lying.

"He's telling the truth, my lord king" Alfred looked at Father Beocca and Uhtred. His wife on the other hand found it unbelievable like Aethelwold said.

Edward on the other hand wanted to believe it if his father did.

"The simple mind of a Dane believes in signs, Edward...if a bird flew from their camp to ours, they would see it as a sign and follow" as the king spoke to his son of it, Uhtred grew annoyed but did his best not to tell Alfred anything.

Only glance at Finan before sitting down next to Aethelwold "Yes, lord, it can happen that way" Uhtred confirmed the king.

Alfred ramble about Skade value to bloodhair or Sigurd, saying there would be no battle without his seer.

"You are both right and wrong" Uhtred spoke, Finan listen closely of what they were both talking about as he drank his ale.

The King stated they wait then fight. Alfred stood up making some men around stand at well.

"I wish to speak to both women" confidence as he said this, Uhtred wasn't sure about Skade. He knew you wouldn't do anything to the king since you had no clue who the king was in the first place.

"Skade and..." he didn't get your name as he waited for Uhtred to tell him your name.

"Y/n, that's her name, mi lord" Finan spoke, earning a glance from a couple men in the room.

"And Y/n I would like to speak to them both" he said more like a demand then a request.

Uhtred got up, leading Alfred to Skade. Finan walked behind watching and observing as he also looked around for you but you were no where to be seen.

"What are they doing?" Sithtric asked, Finan took one looked around for you before he spoke.

"Alfred said he'd like to hump the witch, no word of a lie" he moved his body back and forth.

"He also like to speak with Y/n, where is she?" He asked looking at then group of men who shrugged.

Sithtric looked around as Osferth stood up. "I gave her some food not long ago" he said, beginning to walk to a corner of the estate. Finan chuckled as he teased the poor baby monk with dirty jokes of his.

Two followed behind Osferth as he found you asleep on the group of haystack. "We can't wake her" Osferth said, they both looked at her sleepy figure as Finan push pass Osferth words.

Finan clapped his hands infront of your face "Oye! Lady wake up!" He chuckled seeing you jump a bit from the noise, you groan rubbing your eyes as you tried your best to go back to sleep.

"The king would like to speak to you, Y/n" you heard Osferth voice and glance at him and his friends, a sigh left your lips as you got up collecting yourself a bit before you spoke.

"The king is also humping the witch as we speak" Finan added, you didn't find it funny as he chuckled at his own joke.

"Isn't he married?" You shook your head, taking some hay leaves out of your hair and clothes.

"It's a joke" Finan said, as he grumbled at your comment.

"Sorry for waking you, Y/n" Osferth bow, you told him it was okay. As the four of you spoke about things while waiting for the king to speak with you.

"Ah yess, Sithtric do you think the lady here is still a witch" he glance at you before looking away, he is always the quiet one to you, burley talks to anyone. He mentioned his wife and kid before.

"No...but I had my reasons to think that way" you understand the reason, you were a women in this timeline fighting and killing men.

"I understand, and I'm not upset nor bias at your own opinion" you said, he nodded surprised you weren't upset. To be true you were cleanse at the nunnery for the killing sins to stay.

"You are very understanding, lady" Finan chuckled handed you a cup of ale. You smell it, smelt like ass looking at him drinking his own cup.

"Smell like dirty piss" you comment setting it down on the ground.

"Drink it, it's good" Finan said, picking it up and heading it too you once more. You sigh looking at the ale and seeing it's dark color.

"Come onn, don't be a wuss" Finan said, you glare at the Irishman before taking a couple sips of the ale.

You almost gagged at the smell of it, the taste wasn't like other drinks you had "yuck" you pulled the cup away from your face. Setting it down, it made the three men laugh a bit from your reaction to it.

"I thought you drank lady" Finan said, chuckling as he chugged his drink down.

"I do...I don't drink ale though" you mumble, looking down at the cup. Soon the king left where Skade was chained up, now asking for you.

"BLOODHAIR! FIND ME LOVE ME, THERES A KING HERE ALONG WITH A WOMEN FROM THE FUTURE!" She yelled from the top to her lungs, you frozen she did know.

'Fuckkkk' you groan as she continued to yell for bloodhair.

"A women from the future?" Sithtric questioned, he glance at you and the others wondering what she ment.

"Lady Y/n, the king order to speak with him" Uhtred said, not saying anything about Skade yelling. You nodded sitting up, giving a quick look at everyone before you left.

The walk felt long, the silence was killing you along with Skade repeating the same thing over and over again.

It bugged you not only you were the only women, she been around with which would cause suspicion towards everyone.

"Lady Y/n, you okay?" Uhtred interrupt your thoughts, you looked up at him nodding.

"Your presence is very different from the other times we've been together." you continue to look at him as he stopped. You stopped, he looked around until his gaze met yours.

"Is Skade speaking of you?" You heart drop feeling anxiety coming up your whole body. Maybe running away would be wonderful right now.

He could tell by the expression on your face that it is true of what he said. Uhtred surprised by this news, he stayed calm lending a small smile towards you for comfort.

You did understand his intentions and clam a bit, your hands tied together. Your nails dig into your skin still feeling a bit worried about it.

"I'll make sure, we'll talk more" he notice the king walking towards the both of you.

"I see, thank you for speaking to me" Alfred said, looking at you with a small forced smile on his face.

"No, king Alfred it's an honor" you mumble bowing your head towards him, he released you from your stance.

"Seems like you and Uhtred are very much different" he glance at Uhtred, who rolled his eyes.

"I would like to thank you, for keeping the nunnery safe and it's a surprise to know a...Lady like yourself is capable of such thing" he told you, you did feel appreciated by his words it's rare when you get those words.

"Thank you, it's nothing really" you mumble, he accused Uhtred to leave, which he hesitated but left at the end.

Seeing that they brought Skade up near the wall, she continued to yell for her bloodhair.

"Lady, Y/n I would like to ask you something" he stated, you wonder if it was about Skade as he looked at you straight in your eyes.

"Would you consider being apart of Edward, next heir to the throne...his protector" he asked, he thought you might be a good fit someone who fought so many Danes with no problem. All on your own. He thought of you better then Uhtred, better then anyone he ever met.

You weren't from here, asking to be called someone protector was like asking to save a whole country no matter the cost of it.

You hesitated of course, it was like going back to your old life. "You may have time to think about it, but it's a big opportunity" he said, interrupted your thoughts. You nodded before bowing to him once more before he left.

You walked back where Uhtred and everyone else is. "So did the king ask for a hump?" Finan asked, looking at you. You only shook your head disagreeing with his words before sitting down.

"BLOODHAIR COME TO ME, LOVE ME...THERES A KING FOR YOU TO SLAY AND A WOMEN FROM THE FUTURE" Skade yelled, the more she kept yelling those words the more you wanted to shut her up.

You walked toward Uhtred and his group near a pit of fire. "When can we bound her mouth shut?" Sithtric asked, obviously annoyed with Skade yelling for her lord.

"Let her sing" Uhtred said, Finan noticed your presence. He gave you a small smile before chuckling at Osferth comment.

"That is not singing" the monk said, he glance at you, your eyes were focused on Skade only.

Soon a man came calling Uhtred name causing all of you to turn around looking at him with curiosity.

You sat down near the sleepy Finan already falling asleep with no problem. "Are you allowing that women to wail all night? And may I ask who she speak of women of future?" He continued to bicker, those words met inside your ears.

You looked at him and back at Skade, you already wanted her to shut up along time ago. She cause suspicion the men in here about you. But they don't know it's you at least not yet.

"For a little while longer, yes" he pause glancing at you before he spoke up.

"I have no idea what the witch speaks of" he said, you didn't pay no mind to it any longer. You cover your ears. Along with your eyes shutting them so you can have a good rest.

You felt a tap on your shoulder, opening your eyes you saw Osferth in your view. "You okay, Y/n?" You only nodded, he place a cover over your body, keeping you warm. He passed a small smile before sitting next to you.

"It's annoying" you mumble glancing at Skade at she repeat the same words over and over.

Osferth chuckled agreeing with you, he is glad you didn't denied the cover he place over you.

You notice Uhtred talking to a short man, couldn't make out more details. You were too tired to even care about it.

Osferth continued to talk to you about certain things about how he lived, but never once mentioned his birth father.

You fell asleep on his shoulder, he notice and smiled to himself biding you goodnight as he stayed still not wanting to wake you.

"Ahh, the bastard of Alfred seems you found yourself a whore" Aethelwold sneer, causing Uhtred and Osferth get defensive.

"This lady is not a whore, Aethelwold...she's a warrior can murder you without a thought" Uhtred spoke, glaring at Aethelwold, who only chuckled.

"She's no whore, and she has a name it's Y/n" Osferth said, not trying to be loud to wake you up.

Aethelwold change the subject to something else before he left, leaving Uhtred and his men at peace.

Morning soon came quickly, you feel the light in your eyes waking you up. You yawn noticing you slept on Osferth, who slept peacefully.

Placing the cover over the monk so he could stay warm for the rest of his sleeps. "Good morning lady" you turn around looking at Finan, he only chuckled before handing you food.

"So what did you and the king speak of?" He began to ask, you both sat down at a near table.

"Mmm" you thought about it remembering he asked you to his son protector. "He only thank me for keeping the nunnery safe, and...asked for a hump" you added a joke in.

Finan got the joke and laughed out loud, you didn't think it was that hilarious but you only chuckled at his reaction.

"It's the first time I notice you smile" he mentioned, pointing at your face. You began to eat your food looking at him.

"It suits you" is all he said as he chugged down his ale, you rolled your eyes remembering the joke you said and chuckled to yourself.

"And what about you and the baby monk?" He questioned, you gave him a questionable look confused about what he ment.

He only chuckled again "he's taken a liking to you" He began, you continued to think about it you notice of course but tired not to think much of it.

"Maybe hump him" you gave a glare to Finan, who only chuckled drinking his cup of liquid. "It's just a joke" you rolled your eyes, yawning a bit from tiredness.

"The food here taste like a pigs ass" you mumble, playing around with the food on the plate.

"It's delicious food, be grateful" Finan spoke taking your plate as his own as you watched him eat it then spit it out.

"Osferth makes the food better" he mumble, you chuckled at his actions causing him to curse at you.

"That's true" you spoke, you both continued to speak to each other about certain things, Finan now saw you as a fellow friend he can talk to. Maybe you did too but the creep of worried wonders behind you, waiting to take over.

"Where's Uhtred?" You asked, looking around for the Dane man.

"He went to give food to the witch maybe ask for a hump" Finan said, only joking with it which you catch on.

Bells soon rang, making you and Finan go up the stairs to see the commotion. Seeing a group of horses along with Danes and yelling women.

"So uh...is that Skade...lord?" You asked not knowing anything, but seeing the man at the very front guessing he was leader.

Finan nodded, looking back to see Uhtred and Osferth awake by the noise.

Sithtric walked over to the both of you before he turned around calling for Uhtred.

You see Bloodhair pull a women by her hair, it upseted you of course "can I shoot him" you mumble, only Finan chuckle.

"No, hold down. Follow me" Uhtred spoke, you only sigh following him along with Finan.

It was chaos, you burley paid any attention too to what was going on around you, only wanting to hurt the man for hurting the women.

"I'm getting Skade" Uhtred said, you only waited by the gate, hearing all the women screaming.

"Are you okay?" You looked at Osferth, who peak through the gate.

"Yea im fine, just don't like the situation" you sigh, grabing a bow and arrow trying to make use of them if needed.

"It'll be over soon, lady" Osferth said, he ment it and you only nodded to his words before taking a deep breath for what was to come.

"They are killing women, lord" Osferth said, it only worried you more, of course you didn't know them but they had a life as well. They were innocent ladies.

"The gates!" You step back as they open the gates revealing dead women on the ground and some yelling to be saved.

"Earl Sigurd" Uhtred called out the man, at least you knew his name now. You followed behind "kill one more hostage, and I shall let every man here see her nakedness and then I shall spill her guts. Just one more" Uhtred said, you stood near Finan with your arrows and bow. You felt Sigurd eyes on you for a moment before Sakde spoke up.

"Do it, Lord, I'll see you in the next life" causing Skade to be pulled closer to Uhtred.

"Kill them all! Attack!" Uhtred hit her on the stomach.

"Damm, all this for her?" You mumble, looking at the dead women and seeing Sigurd face trying to get a good look at it.

"Yea, she important to him...he miss his humps" Finan whispered to you, only for you roll your eyes and chuckled a bit.

"You shall give me back my women and I'll take her as well" you notice him pointing at you. "She's the woman from the future" he chuckled knowing the power he held if he had the both of you.

"What? Lady is this true" you stayed quiet, only quiet. Maybe killing the Dane right now wouldn't be so bad.

"Yes lord! She the on-" Skade got cutoff with a hit on the stomach by Uhtred.

"You won't be taking any..." he continued but you zone out, you felt eyes on the back of your head. They know your secret.

They argue back and forth, until Uhtred started pulling Skade back behind the gates.

You followed behind slowly.

"Lady Y/n!" You looked at who was calling you it was Finan. "Come on, we don't have time and you have explaining to do" he grabbed your arm pulling you to the barn where Uhtred went.

Lord, we need to change our plan." Uhtred began, you stayed close to Finan but not too close. He glance at you here and there, you were anxious about what was going to happen to you.

Alfred finally spoke up "is that so...did you know about Y/n being from the future?" He asked quite annoyed.

The king of Wessex looked at you "yes, lord I did but that's not important" Uhtred tried to change the subject but it failed.

"I need to speak to her alone...out everyone we'll speak about Sigurd later" he demanded. Finan didn't say anything to you only left along with the other men in the barn.

Uhtred stayed "I told everyone to leave" Alfred spoke to him.

"Yes lord, but I must be sure she safe" Uhtred said, sighing as he glance at you. "So allow me to stay" Alfred didn't want to argue no longer.

Knowing he had someone from the future in his presence was one in a million chances, he wasn't going to miss the opportunity to ask what he would like to know.

"Fine, lady Y/n come sit" he pointed at the haystack, you didn't argue sitting down along with Uhtred next to you.

It was silent for awhile "so what time are you from?" You looked at Alfred before you spoke up.

"My king...I don't think it's right to speak of the future, it'll only ruin what should happen" you explain not wanting to tell him anything it would cause a change into the history and different life situations if you get back home.

"I understand...but I need to know dose England become?" You sigh knowing, he probably won't give up on asking you.

"I won't say much but...indeed England is real in my time" you said, you notice how he seem pleased with your answer before a smiled formed on to his face.

"That's all I needed to know" he spoke, wiping a few tears away.

"Don't speak to it too, no one," you said, he agreed along with Uhtred, who agreed to keep it a secret as well.

No one spoke to you, only Uhtred who check up on you. You either got mumbles on how you were a witch and trying to feed the king with lies.

You didn't bother with it, while riding your horse you took a smoke to relief yourself from all the dislikes you were getting.

"We battle soon" Uhtred spoke, all his men cheer as they seek for victory but you only seek for your bed.

"She a witch, the smoke from the stick feed her power" you heard, you wanted to tell them how stupid they were.

"Oye! Shut you Damm mouths! She not a witch if she was she would've curse you at this very moment" you heard Finana voice, he moved his horse to be close to you.

You were sure he was distance of you but maybe you were wrong. "You know, Osferth still wants to hump" he began, you only giggle giving him a light push.

He stayed your friend after the truth. "He probably finds me as a witch as well" you mumble, groaning at the mess that happened because you joined them.

You glare at Finan who laughed at you "He doesn't believe in those, but he is a bit hurt from the bum that you didn't tell us" you put your cigarette away throwing it on the ground.

"I'm not sorry though, I burley know any of you plus you wouldn't know how to handle that information" he hummed agreeing to your words.

"True but we're your friends, lady" he patted your back reassuring you. You didn't argue more to him, he might be right being with them from a short time did bring you close with them.

You both continued to speak normally as usual it did make you feel a bit better.

You did know the route you were heading is a battle waiting to be win. You had your gun with you along with your pocket knife. You did had your arrows and bows but you knew it wouldn't be enough.

"Ready for battle? I never seen you fight only when you shot those men" Finan said.

"I'm ready, if I'm not ready I have to be either way" you explain, he hummed finding your words either true or false.

Battle field was clear something you weren't use to since it would be either in the trenches or buildings all over.

You brought your pocket knife near you, knowing with the long swords and spares they have might be a little difficult for a easy kill.

"So Sigurd and his men are following us for battle and we brought more back up to kill all of them" Uhtred explained to you briefly. You understood what he ment, but you didn't know who the other people were.

"Shield wall!" Uhtred yelled, they all put their shield infront of them, making a wall. You found it pretty cool seeing this.

"We stand our ground! They will come onto us and we will take their head from their shoulders" you didn't really find those word as motivation, but it was the vikings time. What did you not expect.

You stood far from where the 'shield of wall' is, shooting arrows would be best, knowing the position they were making.

Seeing the Danes come running towards them, you began to shoot your arrows, one after another you made sure an arrow didn't go to waste.

You saw Sigurd and his men leaving the battle, 'maybe I should follow' you thought, killing the Dane himself would be all over. You decided to aim an arrow at least at one of his men, you succeed without a problem.

The battle soon came too an end, you didn't get much action as you would pleased.

Riding your horse back to Winchester, with Finan proud of the win of the battle right beside you.

"We won! The God had gave us hope once more" he said happily.

You only rolled your eyes, you notice a man riding a black horse at the top of a hill you all passed.

"Who's that?" You looked back the Finan, who looked the direction you pointed.

"Where?" He asked, you looked where you were pointing not seeing the man with his horse in sight any more.

"I must be exhausted" you mumble.

"She alive and well" the man wearing a coat, he waited for you in Winchester. Once you saw coming inside people started to cheer for their safety and win from the Danes.

You sigh quite hungry from all the trips you had to do because of today battle. "Excuse me" you heard someone, you looked down notice a man from not that long ago.

You stopped your horse, you stayed quiet looking at him. "Yes?" He stumbled into his bag trying to find what he wanted to give you.

You got off your horse unsure about this guy "you can call me Dr. H, I'm a..." he pause pulling out the letter and handing it over to you.

"I'm a medic" he said, you glance at him and the letter he gave you. "It's a warning, Y/n, be safe" he bowed leaving deeper into the crowd.

"What? Wait!" You said trying to follow him but lost track of the guy. "Odd" you mumble, wondering why someone would writing you a letter.

Then it click you, Jon it might be your best friend. You heart started to beat quickly as you open the letter.

Dear Y/n,

I would like to introduce myself, My name is Sir Iker. But you call me Sir I.

Cutting to the chase, we have your friend, Jon right? Of course he wouldn't stop asking for you when we first found him.

Anyways, come to end of the shore near in South. If you don't come here in the time span of 8 weeks then say goodbye to your friend.

You didn't know if it was a prank or serious, you looking at the paper once more front to back looking for clues but nothing.

"Lady?" You jumped a bit, you turned to see Finan. He notice your expression on your face, were you about to cry.

"Are you alright" you stayed silent, thinking about what going on. Maybe they brought you here now they could take you back to your timeline.

"I'm...fine just something unexpected I thought of" you tried to laugh it off, he didn't want to push it if you weren't ready to speak on the matter.

"Of course, do you wanna meet Uhtred children?" He chuckled, you looked surprised.

"He has a family?" You started to follow Finan.

Deep down you might have to leave them, it wouldn't be a problem you have 8 weeks. Two months you'll have to keep count. Putting the letter in your back pocket 'I'll save you'

#ewan mitchell #ewan nation #ewanverse #osferth fanfic #osferth x you #osferth #osferth x y/n #osferth x reader #the last kingdom fic #the last kingdom fanfiction #the last kingdom fanfic #the last kingdom #tlk uhtred #uhtred #finan #sithtric #tlk fanfic #tlk fandom #tlk

[riolu4]

After a few days into the Trollstopia the Day before the night of every harvest moon, Ever Pop Trolls except the other Traits And Poppy speech About the Day and about The Giver all of the Holly Darlin asks "so How is the The Giver?" Ever Pop Trolls Look at not Knowing what to say, "what what what You tell me no one knows Who is he?" Holly Darlin says surprise "yay every year Poppy Try to find out but fails" Smidge said Holly Darlin "That is no Good, Annie Applecore Haystack Wiggins and Slim Stuck 'Em We have I Giver to thank." Poppy Look at Branch that Look not surprised at all.

In the Bunker

"Why are you not worried at all You Know what Happened to me The are Good" Poppy Said remembers what Happened "Yes I know that Why I have multiple Plans for it" Branch Side Look Bored "Yay But I find out Remember" Poppy Side Branch"Yay but You Didn't Find out until the last moment" Branch Gift wrap improve after Poppy Find out

With Holly Darlin

"KO Team Have 12 hours Before The Giver Gives the gift and Idea" Holly Darlin Said

Annie Applecore Said "let's ask every Pop Trolls village"

"Thee Good Idea" Holly Darlin Said "Let's do it"

After Asking every Pop Trolls Village.

"Ok how is the impossible 11 Hours and not Even close to figuring out who he or she is?" Slim Stuck 'Em Said annoyance in his voice.

"Ya like He or She Plan all of them" Haystack Wiggins Said.

" and we have Like 10 minutes Before The Giver he or she appears" Holly Darlin Said annoyance

Smidge walked to them "so no luck to Find out how The Giver is?"

"no Like he or she knows what We Thinking" Annie Applecore Said

"Yay he is a Good Plan is he" Smidge said

"What, how did you know he is a guy?" Holly Darlin Said stunt and confused

Smidge Nodd "Yes Me and Poppy Try to Find out Who is he before but fail every time but you stop last year" She Said.

Holly Darlin Annie Applecore Slim Stuck 'Em Haystack Wiggins Have the same Idea How Is he.

"Sorry Smidge We have to go somewhere." Holly Darlin Said hurry with the other behind

"ok bye" Smidge said not knowing what she Done

In the Cooper Pod with he's Family biology and adoption

The Find the Gifts and King Quincy and Queen Essence Open the Gift to see and a Book the open to see Cooper Photos the Parents Crying tears of happiness and the for They are thankful for The Giver.

After the night of every harvest moon

Branch Got inside the Bunker He hears clapping Branch Look around to see Holly Darlin Annie Applecore Slim Stuck 'Em Haystack Wiggins clapping, Branch looking pale "Well well Branch Or say The Giver" Holly Darlin Said Evil.

"And we have the perfect gift for you" Slim Stuck 'Em Said Evil

"And you Can't escape this time" Haystack Wiggins Said Evil

"And Not even your partner" Annie Applecore Said Evil Have Poppy By the rope

Branch Looking Scary at them "Now for the gift after next year We will help you" Holly Darlin said

Branch and Poppy Looking at them ".... WHAT!?!??"

"Ya, the what you hear We are going to help you" Annie Applecore said"you can't Do it yourself after all" Holly Darlin Said "Now They are more Trolls that ever" Slim Stuck 'Em Said "we cannot let our fellow Country Troll after all"

Branch and Poppy Looking Not knowing what to say.

After this year every year, there are more than one Troll that are The Giver.

Country Trolls are a surprise by Branch.

#trolls #Trolls AU #my au #Trolls Branch #trolls branch au #writing skits #writing prompts #plot bunny #short written #country Branch au Troll #trolls Holly Darlin #trolls smidge #trolls poppy #trolls Haystack Wiggins #trolls Slim Stuck 'Em #trolls Annie Applecore #the Funk Troll royal family #my Trolls Au #branch Different Tribe au

[titiro]

You can take the King away from the Hand, but you can't take the Hand away from the King

Day 5: Wanderer/Prosperity/Ground

“… We’re on New Life. That was two years ago, Martyn, get over it! It was two years ago! Third Life was two years ago!”

“Third Life never ended for me.”

---

“Oh, shite.”

As Martyn stares down at what had been meant to be a marker of his snowy kingdom, he could faintly hear laughter in his head. It sounds far too much like Cleo. Shut up, he insists.

Really, Martyn?

It’s not that bad, is it? Martyn hopes so, at least.  Yes, he convinces himself, it’s just because of the cobble. And the wood.

At any rate, he puts it to the back of his mind. He has work to do! So he gets right to it, building up the inside structure of his outpost, and as he steps away from his finished job, Martyn is quite pleased with himself, and brushes the whole incident aside.

But then, of course, his friends discover it.

“MARTYN!” comes the voice of Jimmy Solidarity, climbing up to his little frosty dollop.

“Tim?”

“WHAT IS THAT?”

“Wait, what do you mean?”

Timmy’s face screws up as he gestures wildly out across the horizon to the other patch of snow that can be barely seen from here.

“What do you mean, what do you mean—Martyn, you—“ He cuts himself off, mumbling to himself. “Yes, of course I’m fine, no I’ve definitely moved on, he says. He’s only gone and rebuilt Dogwarts and he says he’s fine—“

Martyn pales. “Oh.”

Jimmy grabs him by the shoulders and drags him over to sit by the haystack. One of the Colins nudges at him, ducking under his hand and waiting patiently for scritches.

Martyn lets out a shaky breath. “I—I wasn’t sure. I didn’t—“ He clams up, unsure of how to say what he’s thinking, looking over at Jimmy despondently.

“Wait, you genuinely didn’t… you didn’t do it on purpose?” Jimmy asks.

Martyn huffs. What’s he meant to say? That he’s haunted by the memories of the friend, the king whose service he swore himself to but can’t ever serve again? Or that he misses Ren? It’s the truth, at least.

“No,” he admits. “I really didn’t. Not until it was done, anyways.”

They sit there in silence for a while. It’s nice to hang out with Jimmy like this, with nothing else going on. They haven’t really had a chance to just hang out since… Martyn actually can’t remember when. But it’s Jimmy who breaks the silence first.

“You know, we all kinda thought you were just playing it up during Limited Life,” Jimmy says. “The whole ‘Unguided Hand’ bit you had going on with the…” he waves his hand. “…banner and everything.”

Martyn almost laughs. “It started like that, at least. But… it was just so weird without Ren, you know? I feel like an idiot saying it but genuinely, I. I did feel lost without him there,” he admits.

---

"No! I won't do it! You took me in when I was a lowly traveler, going across the lands searching the four corners of this world. I learned there was nothing in this world for me. Nothing but walls, corners, edges. And you know what? You showed me life. As much as I've taken it from you, you gave it back to me in bucketfuls. And I just... I'm with you. This is us now. This is us.

---

“I mean, I’m sure they’d let you on to visit Ren for a while,” Jimmy says. “Like, it worked last year. D’you want me to ask Tango? ‘Cause I could, you know. If you wanted?”

Martyn laughs quietly. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

also on ao3, written for @treebarkweek 2023!

#treebark #martyn inthelittlewood #jimmy solidarity #jimmy solidaritygaming #third life smp #trafficshipping #traffic smp #traffic series #third life #life series #new life smp #renchanting #treebarkweek #treebarkweek2023 #my writing

[azulsluver]

Twisted Tales In The Dark

The Sweetest One Of All         Halloween event!

tw. yandere, graphic violence, major character death (for reader personally), gore in general, self sacrifice, reader (sort of) develops feelings for the main character, stalking, rook being rook, peace was never an option, obsessive behavior.

❥ featuring the three vampires, Vil, Rook, Epel.

❥ thank you @silentsuperior for writing the first couple of sentences!

Unusual. It was all so distinctive. Feeling of pain arising within one, 

Your body drifts in and out of consciousness, and your airway is fresh and clean. You’ve never felt this comfortable, basking in the warm sun and the cool breeze to top it off. With a gentle noise of chattering and horse hooves hitting the ground. You think you can live like this.

A road bump had caused your leg to jolt. Your nerve system crackles and makes your body temperature drop. Your mind is now wide awake, staring into the mists of trees passing by.

As confusion consumed your emotions, you quickly took this time to backtrack on what could’ve caused this pain. Studying down at your leg and kicking in the air a few times. You realized you’re on a moving wagon, layers of hay stacked for you to lay on. A soft gasp catches your attention.

That was until you had a terrible vision. Oh, a rotten image indeed. Flesh departing from your leg so horribly, and the taste of vomit linger down your throat. You tried breathing through your nose, feeling departed from reality.

“Are you alright?” Such gentle words, your eyes travel to a fair maiden.

Her face is fair-skinned, with rosy cheeks and a nose. Hair tied messily in a braid, she stares at you curiously with her green eyes. Another person is by her side, not glancing back at you but at the road ahead. She leans over from her spot up front to look at you closer, you think you look like a fool compared to her.

“I’m fine, ma’am.” You slump back down on the haystacks, sitting by the side so you can talk to her properly.

“Oh, that’s swell. But please don’t be so polite, I’m not that old. My name is Antoinette. My father and I found you lying near a bark, I convinced him enough to heal you until you’re well enough on your own.” She smiles at you sincerely, a sort of smile that has your cheeks warming.

Brushing your hand over your hair, you shyly reply. “ I can’t thank you enough..” Your eyes wander around, nature looks beautiful during this season.

Antoinette gives you a short nod, turning back to let you have a moment to comprehend. Your fingers move on their own, flexing in and out for how heavy they felt. You try to figure out just where you are now.

For she, a maiden so fair in a far land has caught the unwanted attention of vampires. Thirsty for blood, per usual. Her story was pitiful, sacrificing herself to save her father from danger, for the vampire king had taken a liking to her. You’re not sure what happened to her at the end. For a horror story, it was mutual excluding the kidnapping.

You close your eyes as she hummed a tune, letting her voice drift you away to their home.

The wagon comes to a stop, lifting an eye open and you manage to see a lively village. Children are running around while sellers and farmers are advertising their stands. A little cottage house crossing a bridge away from the others, Antoinette helps you down.

Your leg is still in pain, swollen even. Didn’t your wounds heal faster?

….

OK, that's enough. Inside stood garnished with books and flowers, having your muscles feel less tense at the scenery. You’re guided to the kitchen chair, seated down as Antoinette fetches her apron. Her father had left to go to town, leaving you alone with her. You face outside the window, the view is possibly her garden. Flowers and vegetables grow on the right, leaving soft patches of grass on the left.

“Do you like it?

“Hm? Oh, yes. Do you garden as a hobby?” She chuckles, already chopping up some onions.

“Not really, we grow a little patch before winter comes. But I do enjoy it nevertheless, the flowers for example.” You watch as her hands move, slicing the onion in a snappy motion.

Standing abruptly, your legs carry you next to her. Not too close to make her uncomfortable. Do you need some help? Her face turns slightly red, handing you the knife. The smile on your lips was noticeable, the action causing you to dig deep into a forgotten memory.

“You must hold the onion like a paw.” “A paw?” You scrunch up your fingers, making a quick cut on the onion with even slices.

Antoinette stares in awe, you give the knife back to her.

“Practice will help, surely you’ll get better in no time.” You try to keep smiling, your lips cracking once in a while.

You lean against the counter, resuming your watch as she slowly cuts the onion; now moving to other vegetables like carrots and celery. You didn’t want to be a burden. A burden. You’re so much better than that.

“It is rude of me to watch you cook up a meal for a stranger, I wouldn’t mind being of help before your father returns.” She waves her hand.

“But you’re a guest! I promised my father to nurse you, so don’t fret over supper. I’m an expert.” She grins, taking a large pot from under the cabinet and filling it up with water.

You hum. Pretending you didn’t hear what she just said. Instead seizing the heavy pot from her hands and set it on top of the fireplace. She tsks behind you.

“Out of all my guests, you’re quite persuasive.” You light up the fire with a lighter you found on a table, giving a noise of acknowledgment.

She sighs in defeat. You both move around the place, adding ingredients and species to the soup until it was just right. It wasn’t too long until her father came home, an old and short man with a cute mustache. You prepared the plates and even suggested doing the dishes, which you got an earful from Antoinette.

You sat down on your seat, staring at the vibrant color the soup gave off. It smelled good, and you can’t remember the last time you ate. Picking up your spoon, you let the warm soup fill your tastebuds. The taste of flavors burst into your mouth, and you had to stop yourself from letting tears fall.

You shamelessly asked for seconds.

.

.

.

.

Time goes by fast, almost making you forget what your adjective was. You sat from the couch, a book in hand as Antoinette sat by the fireplace. Her back is facing you.

This is where it would happen. At night, her father would be abducted in his sleep. Just from his window since the yard was the opening. Then, Antoinette would follow. Running through the woods to find her father. With no luck. She’ll be captured by the king’s loyal henchmen, or whatever really.

You slam the book with your hand, getting up from your seat and heading towards the back door. Antoinette is startled but follows after you.

“Are you tired already? We have an extra spare room for you.” She slowly stops when seeing you heading in the back, not glancing at her.

You exit out from the door, passing by the garden and sitting against the wall. Your arms resting on your spread knees, eyes narrowed at the deep woods. The only light source was the fire from inside, but the moon showed what it could reach. You planned on staying up all night, making sure nothing happened to Antoinette and her father. Your hands would wander to the four keys you now have.

A blanket is thrown over your head.

Antoinette holds a candle with her, seating herself next to you. You grab a hold of the blanket and wrap it around her. It wasn’t the time to be going soft, the night is new and ready for danger. You knew your peace wouldn’t last long.

“Antoinette.”

“Yes?”

“Who did you help before me?” She looks up at you, unsure to be surprised or creeped out.

She hesitates for a moment before speaking.

“There was one man I remember, a funny bob cut hair but weirdly charming. I found him lying in a pool of blood, he was awfully pale as well.” You look harder at the trees and bushes.

“Did you know his name?”     “yes.”

She lays her head on your shoulder. Her Voice getting softer.

“He said his name was Hunt. Rook Hunt, a strange man indeed. I haven’t seen him in the last couple of months. So I have no clue where he went. However, I did meet a kind man named Epel. He stopped by my doorstep once to thank me for helping his friend, leaving a basket of apples as well.” The story was starting to irritate you. These cruel men sounded familiar in the book, for they were the ones who lured her to a castle just up on a hill.

Now that you have a view, the castle is large and gives off the worst vibe of “come here and you’ll die” vibes. Antoinette plays with your fingers, she’s seemingly into physical touch now you’ve noticed.

“The problem. Ever since that incident I’ve been seeing things. From afar, or I feel like I’m being watched.” She gives you a dry laugh, her voice slightly breaking. “I sometimes can’t sleep. Or else, I feel like they would get me.”

Antoinette buries her face into your shoulder. Soothing her as you pat her head gently. She shouldn’t be getting this comfortable around you.

An idea pops into your head. Well, not an idea but a memory. You read along the lines of the man named Rook Hunt, some weirdo who didn’t like garlic because Antoinette just so happened to get some from her garden at night. This would mean right now, but that’s ok, stories weren’t always implied to be the same.

You still kept your eyes forward. And you’re glad you did. The human eye couldn't see, but those green orbs stared back at you with the same intensity. A scowl on your face. Both you and Antoinette are clearly in a vulnerable situation, these superhuman vampires would kill you if they had the chance.

You stand to your feet, holding Antoinette along. Mind racing with what would be the best scenario, the outcome. And you. You’ll have no choice but to face these demons for that fifth key.

In a blink of an eye, your face to face with the man who's been terrorizing her. His tall figure towering over you as his cape swallows you whole.

Thrown on the floor, a heel stomps on the back of your spine, keeping you from getting up. Antoinette is held by her wrist, you’re no longer outside. But in that forbidden castle you were just dissing. Your body twitches and struggles, looking back to see purple hair all up your face.

“Do we kill this one?” Now that’s just rude. Rook lets out a laugh, and Antoinette cries out for you.

“Now, now monsieur Crabapple…You’ll upset poor ange if you keep it up, just throw that thing into a cellar–” His eyes travel down to your waist, craning his neck in the process.

Rook throws Antoinette to Epel, making him stumble a few steps back for him to lift his leg off you. Your chin is harshly raised, Rook examines your features, squinting playfully at your angered expression.

"Tu as une magie si forte en toi ! et tu sens absolument divine aussi…” his nose brushes down your cheek, feeling a sharp sting.

You started to thrash in his hold, fear-stricken in you for how little it helped. Warm blood flows from the wound, his tongue greedily licking it up. As disgust washes over you, you can’t win in this situation. Antoinette watches with horror as she’s dragged away, being left with a freak lapping up your face like a dog. Your hands hold onto the back of his cape, grunting in frustration as he pulls away with a loud plop.

Ew, ew. You quickly wipe your face off, feeling 10x lighter which is scary. Rook’s face is coated with a light pink, he chatter’s to himself as a way to introduce himself. You’re far from interested in getting to know him, instead eyeing the many doors around you.

Mentally hitting yourself, you try to think of a solution.

“How about a game!” That was dumb. But it seems to grab his attention.

“Y-yea, a game where I can run around and you come and find me. Like, hide and seek!” You’re sweating horribly, a nervous smile breaks out.

Rook seems thoughtful at the idea, rubbing his thumb over your purple cheek before answering.

“It’s been so long since I’ve had a chase, oh tu fais battre mon coeur d'excitation!!” His grin shows his fangs, making you cower.

He lets you go.

A hand placed over his eyes, his smirk taunts you.

“I suggest you start running. Counting to fifty starts now~” You make a break for it.

The heel of your shoes echoed down the corridors, passing by sculptures and large paintings on walls. There was a one percent chance of winning this game. For the hunter of humans was the kings right hand man. With just a flick of his wrist could kill a man in seconds, you weren’t gonna risk it. You needed an advantage.

You burst through doors to doors until you stop yourself in a large kitchen. Empty, strangely enough. You look around for a place to hide. The plan must be perfect, or else you wouldn’t see daylight again.

He followed the doors and scent, with that mark on your cheek it was child's play. With your wound still fresh, it leads him to the empty kitchen. Your scent had disappeared, have you figured out already? Rook scans out the area, nothing seems to be out of place and he couldn’t hear your breathing. You’re quite good at this.

Rook glides his hand over the counters, his footsteps loud as he moves in a full circle. Should he pretend to leave the room and watch you come out, or maybe even stab each cabinet until you scream.

There was that smell that lingered the air again, Rook followed. His body reacting singularly by the smell, strong with how many more scents was covered. Some old friends.

Rook stops in front of a single cabinet, face shadowed with a thirst of sin. He was certain, you were in that exact spot. Shivering in fear perhaps? How he longs to see such dread. His gloved hands reach for the handle, swinging it open with eager intent.

A dust of yellowish white powder blinds his vision, he hiss in pain as he’s tackled down to the other side of the room. His nose scrunches up in disgust at the smell; garlic powder. With burning eyes, he couldn’t use his magic to sense you or where you went. All he can do was trust his instincts and the pressure of your aroma.

Rook was fast, he could detect your hits and where you planned and plunging the knife. You needed to agitate him more. With the knife in your hand, you make a quick cut on your wrist. Since he was so keen on reminding you how strong your scent was, you knew it would throw him off. And it did.

His body jolts, bumping backwards into a counter as you quickly press the knife down to his heart. If it was there. You held yourself there, hearing his breathy gasps and how your hands stained with his blood. Just to be sure, you push deeper.

Green eyes lit dimly in the dark, his vision clears. Your about finished by now, separating yourself from his needy hands that tried to hold you. Rook watches you intently as you found a cloth to wrap your wound, tasting his own blood drip out of his mouth.

“Quelle poursuite passionnante. Un humain comme toi a réussi à capturer mon cœur froid“ He chuckles to himself, your eyes meet.

You crease a brow at him, not liking the look he’s given you. Twiddling the knife, you stab it down onto his knee, making sure to hear the bone snap. He doesn’t react, instead smiling happily at your choice.

“Smart one aren’t you?”

“Rot in hell.” You get up, time was wasting. And you need to find that mirror along with Antoinette.

As you leave the room, you can faintly hear Rook’s humming.

It took some time but you found the room you needed, a large door. Your eyes widen at the scream inside, making you waist no time into using your body to break it open. Holding your composure as you stumble upon thousands of floating coffins.  A fountain oozed with a green liquid makes you grimace. But what caught your attention was him.

 Holding Antoinette by the throat, he stands tall near a large mirror. Your way home, or so you thought. Antoinette is bleeding by the neck, two holes punctured in her skin as she struggles to free herself. A gorgeous man you stand before him, a look as deadly as knives.

He drops her. letting her gasp for air as he takes long strides towards you. Your body is tense in action, ready to move if he planned on hitting you with a surprise attack. His gloved hand raises, flicking it slightly as the other man from earlier bows.

“Find Rook.” The purple haired man responds with a yes, passing by you in surprise.

You inched closer to see Antoinette but is stopped by Vil, his hand magically appearing a a silver key with royal purple gem stones. The design of an apple. Vil raises an eyebrow at your shocked face, taking a step back. He throws you the key.

“Leave.” Firm and full of authority, you glance over to Antoinette.

“What about her?” Vil frowns at you, placing a finger over his chin as he looks down.

“Or would you rather die here instead? Why worry about some girl, she won’t live long.” Antoinette steadies herself, her skin pale and sweaty. You stand where you are.

His eyes glower at you in irritation. “Fine, have it your way.”

Vil stands in front of you, his hand straighten as it aims for your head. You backed your head away but is damaged by the shoulder, a clean cut. His attacks are ruthless, having you scattering to the floor and up again. A kick to the head, able to protect yourself yet sending your body flying to the fountain. Your arms are raw from the pain, yet you’re lifted by the neck.

“Filthy, you’ll get my clothes dirty. Oh well, I’ll be sure to let poor Antoinette clear the stains off.” His hand once again aims for your chest. You shut your eyes.

Antoinette runs to the side, pushing you with force as you land by the mirror. Choking and gurgling the spit out for air. You raise your head up in horror, with his hand clutching the heart of hers. Beating and alive, you stare as she’s thrown next to you. Her mouth is foamed with blood and spit, eyes barley moving to take one last look of you.

Yet you thought you could have prevented her fate, with a kiss to her cold hand. Your body moves quick to the mirror, as your final goodbye to the one you failed. Vil stands by, poker-faced.

You couldn’t see them, but he can. The various marks on your body, it was best to let you go. 

#yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #twst #twst x reader #twsited wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #epel felmeir x reader #rook hunt x reader #vil schoenheit x reader