#Army of the Tread

[artsy-1diot]

autism creatures part 2

(heres part 1 for those who didn't see it and want a creature of one of the 1.3 managers :3)

[myremnantarmy]

"𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘛𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘖𝘯 𝘔𝘦."

[mabelsguidetolife]

I have to put on my clothes QUIETLY when i’m going to walk my dog on a trail because she flips out if i’m getting dressed in pants, a good shirt, a jacket/flannel, and my service boots

[beeapocalypse]

AH i havent talked abt the frontierists here have i. very secretive sect of alamanni humans looking into Dreamed Realities (pocket realities born by dreams- the purposeful creation of them by eldritch deities Is possible but is also considered way blasphemous. near every dreamed reality by alamanni folk is born of essentially the most advanced form of maladaptive daydreaming possible and is unintentional. way hard to discern between them and real vivid Normal dreams). humanitys predecessors (taught the secret of intentionally dreaming up new lands by a select few eldritch beasties seeking refuge from the rest) sought refuge in a dreamed reality to get away from both the incessant typically deadly curiosity of the vast majority of eldritch deities and their incredibly shit living situation (forced into subterranean living bc of the whole corpse of the existence dragon and all of its curious parasites hanging up in the sky staring down at them, resources running low over the years with them unable to leave for more bc of the venettes- already sentient animals transformed into more human shapes by the eldritch in an attempt to get closer to that hidden race) and their shed mortal bodies upon successful exodus became the first humans so theyve got this tiny innate knack for intentional exploration that other alamanni folk dont. through the gathering of just abt every bit of still surviving texts on dreamed realities (WAY sparse, both thru the passage of time + the fact that those first eldritch deities desperate enough to part with such secrets were long killed by their more pious fellows), the frontierists understand the mechanics of it all Just enough to be able to deliberately enter and explore this 'final frontier' which they seek to put to page and Conquer

[kharmii]

Tacked on a second chapter on the AO3 Trumpet’s Trauma file just because I didn’t feel like retyping out my million tags, and many of the tags apply to this second story. It’s another R-18 adult rated explicit short story about Meta Liberation Army Drama. If you didn’t like the first one, don’t read this one or vice versa. 

I couldn’t possibly be into the Meta Liberation Army without doing at least one fan fic where Skep gets extra creepy with his puppets and surveillance tech.

[sukiyurii]

Scared to Dance Alone

Sevika x Reader (f!reader) (fluff & angst) SFW!

You get hurt on a mission and Sevika feels her worst fears come to life.

men dni

One second, you have the sole of your boot pressed menacingly onto the back of a brawler’s neck, one that had been protecting the newest chem-baron Silco had sent you after. Sevika is on the other side of the room, her metal claws pierced into another man’s abdomen as she interrogates him harshly. The next second, there’s an agonizing pain that splits across your skull and your world begins to spin as you collapse to the ground, body thudding loudly against the splintering wood. 

You feel your head knock against the floor before the lights go out, leaving you limp. You lie on the floor, completely unaware of the bustling commotion around you as Sevika is quite literally tearing those men apart, sparing them no mercy as she sends their bodies through the tables. She hauls you up, keeping an arm tucked beneath your knees and the other around your waist. She shakes your body gently so that your head lolls over onto her shoulder, providing as much support as she can.

She treads through the streets, keeping an angered expression on her face. Bulldozing through the crowds, shoulder-checking people left and right as she runs as fast as her body will take her through the smoked-out streets. She keeps her arms tight on you, but her hold is as gentle as possible. She crashes through the door of your shared apartment, kicking it shut as she steps inside. Unfortunately, unless you were bleeding out, no shitty medical center in all of Zaun would be able to take you in. 

She opts for gently laying you down on the bed and peeling your jacket away from your knocked-out form. She grabs a rag and dampens it and snatches the make-shift first aid kit from the bathroom before rushing back towards you. She pulls a rickety chair to the edge of the bed and sits down on it, loud boot clanking against one of the legs. She grits her teeth as she swipes the wet cloth over your rosy cheeks with an uncharacteristic gentleness, washing away the dried blood and dust.

Her hands move swiftly as they rub at the injuries and grime, pushing your baby hairs away from your sweaty forehead. She leans forward to press her lips against your forehead and mumbles a quiet “I’m sorry,” against your skin. “I really need you to wake up for me, yeah? I really fucking need you to get up,” She continues, desperation lacing it’s way into her voice. “I can’t do this shit without you, c’mon,” She pleads, sniffling as she swallows back the tears that threaten to break free. 

Long, horrific, silent minutes pass as she stares down at your unconscious form, tracing the back of her knuckles across your features. She keeps a wary smile on her face as she simply just watches you, encapsulated by your beauty. “Please, just fucking wake up,” She repeats, finally letting out a soft cry as the tears slowly roll down her cheeks. She reaches up to wipe the stray tear from her cheek, ultimately smearing the blood spat that was already on her face.

You’ve both gotten scuffed up plenty of times, gotten your fair share of punches and blows that knock your bodies over; (more so you than her). However, she has never seen you like this. This lifeless, this hurt, this broken. She has watched you take on armies of men, put down countless guards and goons. But she has never seen you so… withered, before. 

It’s as if her worst fears have crawled from the depths of her brain and painted themselves right before her eyes. She feels like a failure, that she had one job to do and she fucked it up. She always manages to, right? People get too close, then they get hurt, and then she does the one thing she knows she can do. She fixes it, and she will fix it over, and over, and over, until her fingers bleed and she can’t stand upright anymore.

You stir slightly at her movements, eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks. You hum out quietly and reach for her hand, weakly grabbing onto it. “Vika?” You say quietly, lazily prying your eyes open. She immediately tightens her fingers around yours and sits up straighter, eyes lighting up at the sound of your breaking voice. 

“Hey, pretty girl,” She murmurs, stroking her thumb over the backs of your bloody knuckles. “Can’t keep letting me do all the work, you know that I hate dancing alone.” She continues, soothing the cloth over your hand. You chuckle quietly at her poor attempt of lightening the mood, which quickly falls into a weak cough. “Easy, easy,” She comments, smoothing her hand over your chest. 

“How are you feeling?” She asks, watching your behavior closely as she looks for any signs of discomfort. “Mm… I’m okay, other than my head,” you reply, giving her a weak smile. She nods at your words and strokes her fingers through your hair gently. “Can you stay awake for me while I go get you some ice?” She questions sweetly. Once you nod, she presses another kiss to your forehead and departs for the kitchen. 

You really do have to fight to keep your consciousness, clinging onto anything and everything you can until she returns. Once she does, she gently pulls you up by the back of your head and places an ice-pack wrapped in a rag onto your pillow. She lowers your head back onto it, soothing her thumb over your temple.

“Had me real scared, y’know that?” She says, sitting on the edge of the bed as she pulls her boots off. You listen as they thud against the floor, keeping your heavy eyes on her. “I didn’t mean to,” You reply, staring up at her with big eyes as she crawls onto the bed next to you. “I know, baby, it’s not your fault.” She responds, settling on her side, scooping you up into her arms. 

She holds the ice-pack against your head with her mechanical arm, using her flesh arm to push your shirt up and softly stroke her fingers over your bruised back. “Just stay with me, let me take care of you.” She says, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, then your nose, and finally your lips. Her lips feel like a ghost against yours as she remains mindful of the cut on your lip. 

“I love you, so much,” She whispers, and your breath hitches at the words. It’s not rare for her to say it, but it’s not common. She finds vulnerability in general very, very hard, but she will always show you in other ways. She does it mainly through action, whether it’s buying you an outfit you saw and just had to have, or by dropping off the newest pound of gold that you both had stolen off of one Silco’s rivals. You grin at the scowl on his face, chuckling as his lips curl into a snarl at your boastful behavior.

Her love and devotion to you is violently undeniable, no matter how hard she tries to hide it. Anyone with half-decent eyesight, or none at all, could never miss the way her eyes almost sparkle as she looks at you with a reverence no one, or nothing else would ever receive. The love she feels for you is unprecedented, something that could never be replicated. You softened the heart of the most feared woman in the entire city, you have completely undone her. 

“I love you, too,” You repeat, brushing your lips together gently. You pull away to hold her jaw, pressing your foreheads together, “Thank you for everything, for always bringing me back home,” You continue, tucking your body closer to hers as you chase the comforting warmth. “We also need to get you into the shower, you’re filthy.” You chuckle, reaching for the discarded cloth behind you, gently working it over her bloody cheek. 

[borathae]

↳ Index [Day 05 - Dragon Cock]

Pairing: Soft Dom!Yoongi x f.Reader

Genre: Dragon!Yoongi, Fantasy!AU, Secret Love!AU

Kinks: dragon cock, cunnilingus, magical spit, vaginal fingering, vaginal penetrative sex, he tries so hard to be gentle with her, breeding, creampie, multiple orgasms, praise, strength kink, size kink (he is a lot bigger ‘cause dragon yk), giddy aftercare

Wordcount: 5.5k

a/n: i love him i love him i love him!! he is my beloved pookie and i’ve only known him for one day! also, click this link if you wanna see his delicacies :) i’m serious, do it :)

You lived in Bailemon, which liked to consider itself a town, but it was very far from that. It was small, perhaps even small enough to be considered a village instead of a town. Not many outsiders visited Bailemon because it was far from big cities, nestled between two high mountain ranges and hidden in a dense forest. The roads were passable, but not good. People here lived from the forest and from the little mountainous farming they were able to do during the warmer months.

Your town – or village – had a village square where each second day, the farmers and merchants gathered to sell their goods. In autumn, there was a festival of fire held on the square to ward off the evil spirits of winter. Bailemon also had a place of worship, which was considered holy beyond comparison. It was said that on its grounds, evil cannot tread and in times of danger, one should run to it for shelter.

The people in your village were superstitious, they believed in ghosts, dark magic and demons. You knew their superstition to be justified. This world was dark. The nights during the cold months were too long not to bring forth evil. But you also knew that stuff like holy grounds were nothing but lies to make life in the village easier. Evil walks where it pleases, it takes what it wants and leaves no room for escape.

You lived in the village with your aging parents, taking care of them as their only surviving child. You had a brother once, but he walked into the forest one day and never returned. People say that evil spirits got him, but you know that this was a lie because you looked for him. At least you tried to because you never found him nor traces of evil spirits. You are convinced that it was simply a pack of hungry wolves which took him from your family. Or perhaps he ran away to somewhere warmer and happier. You wouldn’t blame him.

As the only living child of your parents, it became your duty to tend to them in their growing age. You earned money forging swords for the Queen’s army and went hunting whenever food ran out. You also helped the farmers shoe their horses and ox and sometimes scared villagers came to you asking for yet another lock for their front door. Your family lived well thanks to you, even if work by the forge was hard and difficult.

If you weren’t sweating by the scorching fire or hunting in the forest, you walked it in search of berries and mushrooms or to train with your sword. The reason however why you walked the woods most, was the dragon living high up in the northern mountains.

Dragons. Yes, they were as real as evil spirits and wicked demons were and your village was under the protection of one.

Dragons didn’t look as one might imagine a dragon to look like, at least not always. They could morph their enormous dragonic bodies into human-like bodies and walk among people. Their eyes, however, always remained a fiery yellow and their canine teeth were always sharp and pointy. They were also taller than normal humans and had scales down their necks and torsos. Some even had scales on their hands and sharp claws which sliced deeper than any blade ever could. In the lands of humans, dragons were considered gods.

The festival of fire was held because of the dragon living in the mountains. A brave soul is sent to his lair to ask him for his presence each year. Then once the dragon comes down from his high home, he lights the fire with his hot breath and with it, wards off the evil winter spirits. Once the fire burns bright, the villagers begin dancing around the fire in pairs, thanking the dragon for the fire and his protection while he sits on a wooden throne, overlooking the dance. He is always alone during these festivities, drinking wine and eating meat, except for when one of the many willing women – and men – try catching his attention. He never reciprocates. 

Marrying a dragon was considered a gift from the gods and not many were successful. Dragons were a distant people – perhaps that is why they became so rare these days – and scarcely engaged with humans except for when they were needed. They lived longer than any human ever would and because of their bigger bodies, many who tried to be intimate with a human, ended up hurting their beloved counterpart. So for the safety of humans, of whom the dragons were very fond, they stayed away from them.

That doesn’t stop you however from regularly walking the path to the dragon’s lair. Sword strapped to your back and with a thick dress warming your body, you walk the steep and stony path. You put your parents to sleep already and locked the cottage. The priest spoke of evil spirits dancing on the wind tonight and you didn’t want to risk anything. You knew that they were safe in your house because you placed dragon ash by each window and door. It was the only thing which truly kept evil away and it is a regular present the dragon gives you.

You take a deep breather once you reach the mountain plateau in front of his cave. Marks of his dragon body landing dig deep into the grey gravel. Small autumn flowers grow in its deep crevices. The dragon placed a pot of flowers next to the cave entrance. You have to chuckle each time you pass it because of its peculiarity. It looks so out of place and yet fits his character so well.

“Yoongi!” you call out the dragon’s name, voice echoing in the big cave. You venture deeper into the cave, leaving the cold autumn air behind. “Yoongi, are you home?”

His lair consisted of two caves. One big and deep and one smaller. The big cave was in the front, welcoming you with endless darkness as it dug deep into the mountain. It smelled ancient and wet in here and there was always a faint sound of water trickling somewhere. Yoongi can fly in it when he is in his true form and hide on the ceiling when he doesn’t want to be found. The smaller cave was where he lived however. You have to take a sharp turn to the right for it and walk through a corridor-like walkway. The ceiling shrinks in height until it was but six meters.

“Yoongi, are you in here?” you try again, entering his true lair. Your voice doesn’t echo anymore. Lantern and torches light up the walls, a fireplace warms the space, expensive rugs cover the stone ground and golden furniture fills the room. Gold, jewels and crystals are scattered all around the cave in heaps or stuffed into big treasure chests. It feels homely here and tonight it is empty.

“Where the heavens are you?” you murmur, looking around the lair. An especially golden cup calls your attention. You bend down to inspect it better, fluttering your lashes at your own distorted reflection. It brings a chuckle to your lips and you straighten up, “how silly I looked.”

You ghost your fingers over a set of earrings next. They sparkle like stars in the sky. They are so beautiful.

“Careful, they’re worth more than your entire village.”

“Oh heavens”, you startle, pulling your sword in instinct and whipping around quickly. The blade graces against your stalker’s throat without cutting them.

“Don’t strike me down just yet”, Yoongi says, lifting his hands.

“You scared me”, you say, touching his chin with the tip of your sharp sword.

The right corner of his lips curls into an amused smirk, revealing glimpses of his long fangs.

“I could tell”, he says blithely despite the sword against his throat.

You put pressure on his chin, forcing his head to tilt up and for his amused smirk to grow. His fiery eyes flicker, a deep growl rumbles in his chest. 

“I could have cut your head off”, you say. 

“And yet you didn’t.”

You flip the blade to its side, forcing him to gulp because of the sharpness against his skin.

“Careful now”, he rasps.

“Mhm”, you decide with a cock of your brow, pulling your sword back. You twirl it once then put it back into its sheath, features warming as you laugh.

His golden eyes soften and a smile curls his lips. He closes the distance, placing his big hands on your waist and bending down to kiss your lips. You rest your hands on his strong chest, getting on your tiptoes to reach him better. He breaks the kiss, rubbing his nose against yours gently. His breath smells fresh and feels warm.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“The cottage was too cold.”

He laughs, “this is the only reason?”

You snicker, dancing your hands to the nape of his strong neck to trace the scales. You shake your head, “no, I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“You did?”

“Mh-hm very much so.”

He draws a giggle to your lips. He smiles, tasting it with a tender kiss. “Come here you”, he mumbles and deepens the kiss. He lifts you off the ground for it just enough that you didn’t have to stand on your tiptoes any longer. 

You break the kiss to talk, even if he disagrees with a low growl. His golden eyes gaze longingly at your lips.

“Where were you before I called for you?”

“Deep in the caves, digging for gold.”

“I see and were-”

He interrupts you in laughed words, “will you kiss me or do I have to steal it from you?”

“No. No, I will kiss you. I got the message”, you laugh, pulling him into a deep kiss.

Yoongi purrs deeply, holding you tighter against him as his lips fall into a passionate dance with yours.  

You met Yoongi in the year your brother died. You knew him long before that, but up until then, never talked to him. You simply watched from a distance as he lit the fire and then sat on his throne overlooking the dance. You also watched him refuse countless suitors and return to his cave alone once the festival ended. Other than that, you never engaged with him. You had always found him interesting, because dragons are gods after all and he looked so very beautiful in his human form. His hair was as black as soot, his eyes as golden as flames and his scales were an iridescent of black and gold. He didn’t possess sharp claws, which made his touch so very gentle and tender and his lips were soft and pouty which made his kiss so very addicting.

You talked to Yoongi in the year your brother died. You spent too many days to count in the dense forest in search for him and it happened that one day, you got lost. You tried and tried to find your way back, but couldn’t. Night replaced the day and you already saw yourself freezing to death when he came. At first you thought him to be a bear, but then he asked you if you were lost and you knew that you were saved. You told him about why you were in the forest and he offered you comfort in your painful times of grief. He allowed you to talk about your brother as he walked you back to the village, he even allowed you to cry and assured you that your tears were not “entirely silly”. Once he led you back to your cottage, he gave you a bag of dragon ash and told you to spread it on each window and door to keep the rest of your family safe and you thanked him with promises of praying to him in the worship hall tomorrow. Back then, you thought that you were blessed and lucky to have an interaction with him, but you never could have imagined that this one time interaction became a regular thing.

Ever since that day, he began waiting for you by the forest road, offering you companionship in your search for your brother and like this, your walks in the forest became a regular thing until one day, you took his hand and he took yours, never wanting to let go again.

The people in the village didn’t know about your relationship with Yoongi. It was your wish to keep it secret because you knew that they would ruin it. They would force you to marry him, to bear his children, to become their goddess. You didn’t want this life, you wanted to take care of your parents and help the people with your smithies, not be someone to worship.

Yoongi didn’t mind that you wanted to keep him a secret. He liked it. He had many treasures taken from him because they were precious to him and if it was revealed that you were the most precious treasure of all, it would kill you and him in the process. He cannot lose you, not ever. Not when he walked the earth alone for so long, not when his fiery heart finally had someone to burn for.

Yoongi was lonely before he met you. He had other dragons to talk to, but he enjoyed the company of only a very, very few. He also had lots of suitors, which could have made the nights easier, but Yoongi wasn’t one for meaningless fucking. Yoongi craved connection above all. He craved intimacy and trust and conversation. He craved someone to care for and someone to see him as another living being not as a god. You give him all of this and more, but Yoongi knows that even if you didn’t give him any of that, he would love you. He loves you without reason after all. He loves you simply because it was right.

You break the kiss for air, vision just a little blurry as you look at him. You are eye to eye when you are in his arms, hands running along his scaly neck and strong shoulders. A black tunic sits on his torso, allowing his higher body heat to reach your palms. Even in the iciest nights he will warm you. Sometimes in winter, when your parents were already sleeping and the village was quiet, Yoongi sneaks into your cottage through the window (which is always hilarious because he is very big in comparison to the small frame) so he could warm you as you fell asleep. He is always gone the next morning, only having left behind a fresh bag of dragon ash and a few gold coins you could spent in the big city on food.

“You are so warm”, you say, making his eyes smile.

“You are such a delight.”

Your eyes race between the other’s, you and he feel breathless. Your fingers run up to his slightly pointy ears, scratching him behind them.

Yoongi purrs, tilting his head back as his lids flutter. 

“If you touch me like this…”

“I know.”

It is a silent understanding between you and him. Yoongi sighs your name and pulls you into a kiss. His fangs clash with yours before he naturally fixes his roughness, kissing you oh so tenderly. Tenderly, but also incredibly hungry. You moan, fingers twisting his black locks and legs closing around his waist. He answers you in a guttural growl, fingers grasping you harder.

This is also why you walked the difficult path. Not only did you want to see him, you wanted his body and touch. You craved it like fire craves wood to burn.

Yoongi walks to his bed with you, laying you atop the big mattress. He climbs over you, caging you under his big, strong body. You open your legs willingly, hands slipping from his hair to grasp the sheets instead. 

The kiss breaks because he broke it. His hot breath graces your skin. He cradles your cheek, thumb caressing your temple.

“My treasure, I”, he begins, fingers dimpling your soft thigh possessively, “I need you. I need you so much, I can scarcely breathe. Will you have me?”

You nod your head vigorously, stomach fluttering in what was to come. 

“I need to hear it, please.”

“I will. I will have you”, you allow him, parting your legs. 

Yoongi moans your name and kisses you, pulling you up into a sitting position to take off your sword. Your fingers are busy with his shirt, undoing the knots and bows. You break apart for just a moment, taking off your clothes. You cannot bother to be dressed. 

A moment of calm after the undressing, used to stare at each other. You are both kneeling on the bed, facing each other. He is panting, growling deeply each time he exhales like a dragon ready to spit fire. The sound makes you wetter each time he does it. His torso is muscular and his scales hug his form as if he was wearing armour. They are mostly around his chest and upper back and fade out on his lower torso. His legs and crotch are free of scales, skin golden and sun-kissed and looking so human. You touch him, tracing the scales first before making your way down to his legs. 

He lets you, eyes mesmerised by the plumpness of your breasts and the curves of your bared body. He reaches out, sending his fingers on a walk along your landscape. 

“You are so beautiful”, he speaks softly, eyes gazing at the goosebumps his touch draws to the surface. 

“You are just as beautiful”, you tell him, caressing the silken skin of his stomach.

You reach his hips. His skin is so soft there and sensitive to scratches. You give him exactly that, making his cock twitch between his thighs. 

Yoongi’s cock wasn’t human and the first time you saw it in its full size, you understood why so many dragons ended up hurting their lovers. It was the cock of a dragon, made for dragon. If he was in his true form, you are actually unable to take it because of its enormous size. If he was in his human form, it shrunk with him, but it was still insanely big in comparison to human cocks. His cock curved slightly in the shape of an S. He wasn’t smooth as humans were, instead his length had an engorged tip with a textured shaft, which stimulated even your deepest spots. When he released inside you, his base swelled up, keeping his cock lodged inside you until your quivering walls had enough of drinking his nectar. 

You were scared at first and Yoongi, feeling just a little insecure that you couldn’t like his cock, told you that you could still escape if you so wished to do. The fear in his voice drew you closer to him back then and you assured him that you could make it work because you wanted nobody else to fill you than him. He took your virginity that night and for not one second, you felt pain or discomfort, lying in his arms afterwards while his fingertips drew shapes of adoration on your skin and he whispered how much he adored you.

The memories of countless shared nights draw you closer to him and your hand to his cock, tracing his textured shaft. Despite his many pumps and crevices, his skin was soft to the touch. He was hotter than humans and it made his length feel incredible inside. It is best described as a feeling of burning from the inside in the most pleasurable of ways and once he releases inside, oh, once his hot cream fills your belly to the point of bloating, the heat is so intense that you often end up screaming in ecstasy. 

You close your fingers around his base tightly and drag them up to his tip. The pressure is enough to squeeze droplets of precum out of his slit, eliciting a deep growl from him. 

He frowns, exhaling a hot swirl of breath on your face. It wasn’t painful, simply insanely arousing. His fingers dimple your hips as he grabs you. You wobble slightly from the intense touch, hand trembling around his large cockhead.

“You are playing with fire”, he lulls, eyelids heavy in pleasure.

“I like it hot”, you taunt, twisting your fist around his tip. 

“You drive me insane”, he gets out and slaps your hand away for the sole purpose of pushing you into the sheets. He pins your hands above your head. “One day it will end in your punishment.” 

You moan, writhing under him. You wouldn’t mind being punished if it meant that you could feel his touch.

“Stay like this.” 

You whimper, nodding your head in obedience. 

“I will be gentle, I promise.” 

He lowers his lips to your neck, kissing a path down to your heat. He is hasty in his kisses, letting his impatience shine through this way. Dragons, so he told you, are a greedy people. Once they lust for something - or in his case, someone - they would do anything to claim it as quickly as possible. Stuff like taking it slow and preparing you are foreign to his people, but he does it for you. He is so good in being patient, but sometimes his greed shines through. Tonight for example when he kisses a greedy and hasty path down your body just so he could be between your legs faster. 

He places one kiss on each of your inner thighs, strong fingers gripping your flesh afterwards to pull your legs apart. His fiery eyes race over your exposed cunt, flickering hungrily.  

“You are so wet already”, he rasps. 

“I wanted you all week.” 

“I wanted you more, you have no idea.” 

Patience finally leaves him and he claims what he lusts for most, drawing a yelp of pleasure from you. You arch your back, legs shaking in his hold and fingers grasping his thick hair as he feasts on your cunt sloppily. 

Yoongi pleases you with his mouth for two reasons, he told you. The first reason is his insatiable hunger and greed. You are sweeter than anything he could ever taste and your cunt’s nectar makes his head blurry in pleasure. The second reason is the more important one. It is to make you ready for his dragonic cock. The spit of a dragon is relaxing to a human, it contains elements which not only heighten the sensitivity of their nerve endings, but which also relaxes the muscles so their holes could take a dragon’s cock easily. Yoongi confessed to you back then that the reason why so many dragons hurt their human lovers is because they don’t take time to properly relax them. They let their lust and greed control them and as a result hurt their humans.

Yoongi would never. Yoongi takes his time with you. He licks every inch of your dripping heat, buries his long tongue deep in your walls and pumps it into you until your tightened walls loosened up and you are gaping for his cock. He licks you to orgasm whenever he prepares you and you always shake in his grip, forcing his greed to grow to unbearable levels. Yoongi loves your orgasms as much as he loves gold. 

Tonight is no different, Yoongi draws an overwhelming orgasm out of you. You scream, legs trying to close on his head and weakened body helplessly shaking on the sheets. Yoongi growls into you, pushing his fingers deep into your loose cunt so he could feel your walls tremble. 

He keeps them inside you after your high ebbed down, curling them greedily while his soiled lips kiss up your body. He grabs your wrists and holds them together, big body draped over yours and fingers rubbing your sensitive insides. 

“You’re sweating”, he rasps, gazing at you obsessively.

“Please fuck me, please”, you beg, voice so close to a sob. His fingers aren’t enough. “I need your cock, please.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Please.”

“I will be gentle, I promise”, he says, slipping his fingers from your cunt to jerk his own cock. He guides it to your gaping cunt, rubbing it through your folds. “You are so beautiful, my treasure”, he breathes, giving you all his adoration by pushing into you. 

You gasp, tensing up under him at the feeling of his engorged tip pushing past your entrance.

“Are you hurting?” he asks, moving as slowly as possible. 

You shake your head, gazing up at him droopily. 

“Tell me if it does. You are doing so well, my treasure”, he whispers, fingers rubbing your swollen clit to make the breach easier. 

“It feels so good…” 

You can feel his large tip as it digs deeper and deeper, but what truly feels like heaven are the many pumps and crevices filling you. Your entrance is on pleasurable fire, feeling every texture inch by inch. His saliva made your walls sensitive to the very end, forcing you to feel his textured cock even deep inside. He curves so perfectly that his large tip presses against you deepest pleasure spot, forcing your belly to bulge just a little because he was so, so big. 

“I’m in. Does it hurt?” he asks, keeping still for your sake. His greed tells him to take you rough. It takes everything inside him not to give into his animalistic side. 

You spill tears. 

“No. No, I’m sorry I-” he panics, but gets stopped when you rip your hands free from his grasp to cradle his face instead.

“I love you, Yoongi.” 

He shudders, melting into your hands.

“I love you too”, he gets out and twists the pillow above your head as he begins pumping his cock into you. “Does this please you?”

“A-ah”, you let out, trembling in reaction. 

“Is it too much?”

“No, please…don’t stop”, you croak, rolling your eyes back as you fall into the pleasurable fire. Your lips part, making way for the endless noises of bliss he draws out of you. It feels so good. He feels so good.

“You are so beautiful. Oh, I need you. I want you. I crave you, argh”, he growls, twisting the pillow rougher as his greedy hips pick up speed. Your moans drive him wild, the view of your glowing face has the same effect on him than the view of fresh gold does. He feels high, head pounding as he feeds his insatiable lust with each heavy, deep thrust. 

Your body is so small under him, looking so fragile and breakable and yet you take him so easily. Yoongi rips the pillow, grinding his fangs as he growls. He buries his cock deeper in your gaping walls, forcing your back to arch off the mattress and for your voice to rise in pitch. He lets his tail grow just so he could wrap it around your waist and hold you in this position while he rubbed your pulsating clit and fucked your soft cunt. 

“You’re mine. My treasure, my everything, my beloved”, he chants, deep voice contorted in pleasure.

He is still in disbelief that you can take him so easily. So small, so fragile, so soft and yet you can house him entirely. The first time he laid with you, Yoongi barely went past his first two inches, moving carefully and slowly just so he wouldn’t hurt you. He would have been fine if that was all that you could ever take, but you proved him so wrong. He can be free with you. You can fully take him and it makes you moan so blissfully that Yoongi feels high just from the sound of it.

He is so blessed to have you. His treasure, his beloved, his everything. His tail tightens around your waist possessively, angling your hips so he could go so much deeper. 

You wail his name, fingers gripping his strong arms and legs dropping as they stop working. Only his tail holds you up right now while you shake under him.

“Are you?”

“Yes”, you wail, moaning loudly afterwards.

“I need you, I fucking need you”, he spits, cursing because you anger him in pure lust, “I’m going to fill you with my seed until you’re bursting. I will paint your walls golden, you will be mine. Mine forever, urgh.” 

“Please! Please make me yours, please!” 

Yoongi lets out a dragonic growl, ripping the pillow apart and throwing his head back as your pleas break him. His big balls empty themselves in your trembling heat, giving you so much pleasure that you orgasm again with screams of his name. There is so much of his seed and it doesn’t want to stop, filling you up past your limits so it squirts out of you with each angry thrust. And Yoongi keeps going until his base swells and he genuinely cannot move his cock anymore. 

He drops his head into the crook of your neck, huffing and puffing demonically. His cock is still releasing into you, making you sob because the pressure of his engorged base and swollen tip against your overly sensitive walls makes you orgasm again. 

“Yoongi, I can’t do this. I can’t, it feels too good”, you plead, walls clenching around his swollen cock as they drink his golden seed greedily. 

“I know, my treasure, I know”, he soothes you, “I can’t stop. I’m so greedy, I can’t stop. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t do this, Yoongi. Yoongi please”, you beg, barely able to breathe. While dragon’s spit relaxes, their seed gives a human a rush of pleasure. The first time it happened, you cried because it was so overwhelming. You still need to cry often whenever he breeds you and tonight all that holds you back is the loving embrace of his tail around your waist. It feels so good but also like too much because you cannot stop orgasming.

“Not again, ah please Yoongi!!”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s almost over, I promise. Please hold onto me, it’s almost over”, he soothes you, massaging your engorged clit to make it easier to bear. 

Your stomach is so bloated from his seed, you are sweating so much. He can feel one more load building up. 

“I need you to breathe for me. One last time, I promise”, he lulls and rolls his hips into you. 

You writhe and scream, scratching down his neck with all your might. You don’t draw blood because his scales protect him, but he still feels it as a pleasurable tingle. 

Yoongi lifts his head to look at you. It lasts one second because then his eyes roll back as the view of your ruined, drugged body sets him off. 

“I love you”, he wails, bursting into you one last time. He makes you orgasm with him, walls tightening to the point of milking him dry. 

This is what you both needed. To be so connected. 

He drops his head back into your neck, fingers slipping from the ruined pillow to pet your head instead.

“My treasure, oh my treasure, my golden beloved”, he croaks, kissing you gently, “I’m sorry for being so greedy, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. I’m so happy”, you get out, body laying limp and ruined under him. His swollen cock is still inside you, keeping every droplet of his golden seed in you. It warms you so much, makes you feel so good.

“You are? You’re happy?” he asks.

“So happy.” You hug him with your weak arms, barely able to close them around his broad back. “I’m yours.”

He whimpers, seeking your closeness by hugging you against his chest with his strong arm and his tail. 

“Oh my most loved treasure.” He kisses a slow path up to your face, cradling your cheek with his unoccupied hand. “Will you stay the night? I promise to fly you down to the village by morning.” 

“Yes, I’d like to stay. I couldn’t possibly walk tonight. Not after how you ruined me.”

A shy giggle slips from his lips. You open your eyes, meeting his giddy gaze. His cheeks are flushed, his dark hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead. The view of him makes his cock feel so much better inside you. You are his. So entirely and willingly his. 

“I couldn’t help it. I missed you so much and, and you are so tempting. Did I hurt you?”

“No, it felt so good. You still do”, you say, clenching around his swollen cock. He shudders slightly, drawing closer to you.

“I promise my cock will soften soon, you just feel so good. I’m trying, but he wants to bask in you longer, I’m sorry.” 

“I hope he doesn’t soften soon. I don’t want this to end.” 

He blushes, but needs to seek more reassurance still.

“Please forgive me for the way I acted when I bred you. I acted like a greedy animal.” 

“Mhm, you did. Because you are a greedy animal. My greedy dragon, mine”, you say caressing his soft cheek.

He leans into your touch, eyes lowering in adoration. You giggle, scrunching your nose cutely. He smiles, brushing some messy strands of hair out of your forehead. 

“I love you, my little human.”

“And I love you, my strong dragon.”

[hcneymooners]

⋆ you used to be alive, now you're almost mythic.

warlord!ambessa x dragon rider!f!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: despite being arranged to marry your brother, ambessa chooses you as the next reigning consort of house medarda. in the wake of her assassination, you begin to unravel.

cw: dark content. please tread carefully. heavy angst, heavily inspired by house of the dragon but still understandable if you haven't watched it, warlord!ambessa, dragon rider!reader, consort!reader, arranged marriage, wife!ambessa, age difference, older woman/younger woman, non-graphic suicide, mental illness, grief, very morally grey characters including reader. notes: i'm in my luteal phase and began to rewatch hotd and this happened. you must suffer with me. i'm returning to my roots (grief and insane family/romantic dynamics). i wanted to explore the effects of ambessa's death on reader and what it means to love someone who is sometimes well-intentioned but almost always corrupted.

୨୧ you meet on a clouded day, you in your house's emerald silks that catch like seafoam in the bitter wind. ambessa towers over everyone else, battle-scarred and beautiful in ways that make your chest ache. she is supposed to wed your brother and you are meant to be afraid—this is the woman who burnt three kingdoms to ash, who feeds her enemies to her dragon. 

୨୧ instead, you find yourself fascinated by her hands, how carefully they hold the marriage contract as she chooses you instead.

୨୧ the rumors spread quickly: the gentle noble daughter and the warlord, what a terrible match. they whisper that she must be cruel to you behind closed doors. 

୨୧ they don't see how she braids your hair each morning, how she teaches you to wield a knife ("don't be stupid, [name]. you know who you've married. you are an easy target. you must not abide."), how she watches you with such careful control when you’re naked before her for the first time.

୨୧ her wedding gift to you is perfect. you and ithoa the dark are evenly matched—the dragon is massive and obsidian-scaled but gentle-hearted, prone to curling around you protectively during storms. ambessa jokes that you've made her soft.

୨୧ you remember your first flight together, how the wind tore the breath from your lungs and ambessa's hands steadied you, warm against your waist. 

୨୧ the first time you saw her truly fight, it was like watching a dance. she moved like water, like shadow, like death itself. afterward, when her enemies lay bleeding into the earth, she looked at you with such fear in her eyes—fear that you would finally see the monster everyone claimed her to be. and she was one, you weren’t blind, but she’s yours.

୨୧ in some ways you are worse than she is.

୨୧ you help clean her of blood and kiss each of her knuckles. you learn fealty tastes of copper and salt.  

୨୧ you wake sometimes to find her watching you in the dark, her fingers tracing patterns on your skin like she's memorizing you. "what are you thinking?" you ask, and she says, "that i never thought i could love something so much. it terrifies me."

୨୧ you understand—love like this is dangerous; it sent half your bloodline mad.  

୨୧ there are nights when the nightmares come, when she thrashes and calls out names of the dead. you learn to weather these storms, to hold her until she remembers where she is. you whisper against her temple, “bessa, come back to me." and she does, she always does.  

୨୧ "my advisors say i've grown weak," ambessa confesses one night, her head in your lap as you card fingers through her silver-streaked hair. "perhaps they are right."

୨୧ you think of how she still trains daily, how her enemies still fear her name, how she commands armies with an iron fist. but is she is weaker. she's learned to love too, to show mercy when warranted. you lie.

୨୧ you tell her, "you've only grown wise," and she kisses your palm like a benediction.  

୨୧ the politics grow more heated. you notice how mel watches her mother with increasing worry, how the peace treaties remain unsigned. you find ambessa in her war room late at night, maps spread before her, and you know what's coming. you love her enough to pretend you don't.

୨୧ you know something is wrong when ithoa screams. it's a sound you've never heard before, something ancient and terrible that makes your bones vibrate. you're running before you can think, your feet carrying you through corridors that seem to stretch endlessly.  

୨୧ you find her in the war room. there's a cup rolled beneath the table, a dark stain spreading across the maps she was studying. she looks peaceful, almost, except for the way her fingers are curled like claws against the floor. someone has closed her eyes. someone has touched her. someone has taken her from you.  

୨୧ your knees crack against the stone as you fall. there's a sound coming from your throat that doesn't sound human, a keening wail that matches ithoa's grief. you gather her into your arms—she's still warm, still soft, still smells like herself. 

୨୧ there is a constant ringing in your head.

୨୧ for one terrible moment, you look at mel standing in the doorway and your mouth forms around the word "dracarys." you feel the heat building in your chest, taste ash on your tongue. ithoa's answering roar shakes the castle foundations. it would be so easy—one word and everything burns.  

୨୧ but your father taught you mercy, didn't he? or maybe your mother did. taught you when to hold and when to release. 

୨୧ your mouth fills with blood from where you've bitten your tongue holding back that deadly word. mel's face is wet with tears as she falls to her knees beside you, reaching for her mother's other hand.  

୨୧ "i'm sorry," she sobs, "i'm sorry, i'm sorry." you want to tell her that sorry isn't enough, that you want to murder her with your own hands—no poison. instead, you keep screaming, high and shrill until your voice breaks, until guards have to pry you away, until they force dreamwine down your throat to quiet you.  

୨୧ the funeral is a blur of red and black, but you wear green still—your final act of defiance, of remaining true to yourself as she always wanted. ithoa's keening echoes across the kingdom, a sound of such profound grief that even the oldest dragons respond. she hasn't eaten since ambessa fell.  

୨୧ when mel approaches, you see the cost written in the shadows under her eyes. she loved ambessa too, in her way, even as she plotted her death. "i understand," you tell her, voice hollow. "it had to be done. she wouldn’t see reason. she was ruining us.”

୨୧ you see how she flinches at your words, how desperately she wants absolution you cannot give.  

୨୧ "you are still my daughter," you add softly, and watch her composure crack. she reaches for you but you step back, the space between you as vast as the void in your chest. “but my blood does not forgive.”

୨୧ you turn back to her before leaving. you say, "learn from your mother. do not apologize for the kill. if they see weakness they will eat you alive. stand on her bones. build on them."

୨୧ you start to forget to eat, to sleep. your ladies whisper concerns about your wandering the castle at night, how you speak to shadows in ambessa's voice. ithoa grows more restless, wilder—they say grief-maddened dragons are dangerous, but you understand her rage. you are two halves of the same coin. 

୨୧ sometimes you wake thinking she's still there, reach for her warmth only to find cold sheets. you wear her old shirts to bed, press your face to the fabric searching for traces of her scent. sometimes you go back to the war room, press your face into the cold spot where her body had rotted, and try to find her.  

୨୧ you only reach her in your dreams.  

୨୧ you sleep in her chambers still, surrounded by her things. sometimes you wake to phantom touches—her hand in your hair, her lips against your shoulder. you find yourself talking to her, telling her about your day as if she's just stepped out for a moment. "you would have laughed," you say to the empty room, "you would have loved this."

୨୧ ithoa refuses to leave the castle grounds, her massive form curled around the tower where you sleep. her grief manifests in physical changes—her scales losing their luster, her eyes clouding over. her handlers whisper that she's dying of heartbreak. you understand—you're dying too, just more slowly.

୨୧ you find yourself holding her things to your chest—her favorite knife, still sharp enough to draw blood when you clutch it too tightly; her riding gloves, worn soft with use; her journal, filled with battle plans and, in the margins, little notes about you.  

୨୧ “[name] wore green again today," she wrote once,  “she is my only redeeming quality.”

୨୧ sometimes, in your last days, you remember that morning in the garden. how the sun caught in her hair, how she looked younger when she smiled. "if i die," she had said, practical even then, "don't follow me too quickly." 

୨୧ you had kissed her quiet, tasting sunshine. "you can't ask that of me," you'd whispered against her mouth. "you've never asked impossible things of me before—don't start now."  

୨୧ she had laughed, then grown serious. "you're the best of me," she said, touching your face with those deadly hands that were only ever gentle with you. "the only good thing i've ever done." you had wanted to argue—she was more than her reputation, more than her wars.  

୨୧ but she kissed you again and you let it go.

୨୧ now, you think she would understand. after all, she never could deny you anything you truly wanted. and this—a reunion, a reclaiming, an ending that is really a beginning—this is all you want.  

୨୧ "fresh air might do you good," your lady's maid suggests, and you smile distantly toward the misty bridge.  

୨୧ "yes," you agree, fingering the vial in your sleeve. "i think i shall walk tomorrow, at dawn."  

୨୧ you don't tell her you've already sent your letters—one to mel (forgiveness, finally, because you know now how duty weighs), one to your house (explanation, though they never understood), one to the maesters (instructions for ithoa's care, though you suspect she'll follow you as dragons sometimes do).  

୨୧ dawn breaks cold and clear. you wear blue, the color of loss in your house, and ambessa's favorite ring. it is heavy and should keep you under the waves. ithoa waits by the bridge, her dark scales catching the first light.  

୨୧ the bridge stretches out before you like a body. ithoa's eyes follow your every movement, understanding in her ancient gaze.

୨୧ you uncork the vial with steady hands. you pray. the poison doesn't taste of anything at all. you think that's funny, somehow—that death should be so subtle when life with her was so vivid.  

୨୧ as your vision starts to blur, you swear you see her standing at the other end of the bridge. she's wearing her armor, but her hair is up the way you always loved it. "little dove," she calls, holding out her hand, “you’re late, and i’ve missed you."

୨୧ they say a dragon's cry can be heard for leagues. they say ithoa's mourning shook the mountains themselves.  

୨୧ they say that when they found you floating in the water, you were smiling and still beautiful, one hand stretched out as if reaching for someone just beyond sight. it almost looked as if you fell, that you’d leaned too far, if not for the vial. they place flowers in your mouth, in the bloated pockets of your waterlogged skin.

୨୧ mel won’t let them burn you. you sink into the earth, and your flesh becomes land. she puts your bones in her mother’s grave but keeps a tooth. it’s diamond, a replacement for one lost to illness, and it sits in the center of her diadem.

୨୧ your last thought, as the world grows soft around the edges, is of ambessa’s hands, how the scars hurt her the most there. the pain was chronic, aggravated by any extensive movement. still, she bent them to hold yours because you were always scared in the beginning.  

୨୧ through the water, the sky seems so wide. you aren’t scared now. you're going home. you're going home. you're going home.  

୨୧ maybe it is not a good place, where you’ll arrive, but it will not matter.

୨୧ the afterlife is white and quiet. it presses against you. you’re slick, weeping, and bare. there’s a birdsong in your head. 

୨୧ you turn, crouched low like a dog, and she’s there.

© hcneymooners.

⚚ special taglist: @sugrcookiiee @icespiceluva  @16novvs @tnash-tammy @dyk3miffy @iwasholic @absandsevikasgirl @blackdykegirlblogger @fortluocha @neganwifey25-blog @rottngrl3 @fruitfulfashion @ambessaswifey

[yandere-romanticaa]

There's something so oddly sweet about the "childhood friends to lovers" pipeline in fiction, but with Aemond Targaryen it takes such a deliciousy dark turn that my mind couldn't help but to linger on it.

Aemond can still recall every single harsh word his family has even thrown his way, how he can still feel the way his eyes would get wet but he had to hold it all in, because he could not afford to let himself to show even an ounce of weakness, not even to himself. Countless hours were wasted with him staring off into the distance somewhere, admiring the noble beasts which were flying high above in the sky, far away from the reach of anything and anyone.

Those were the times he was most envious of not having a dragon of his own. The green little beast known as jealousy would take over, causing him to want to step off the deep end.

Just as he felt the skin of his knuckles threatening to rip due to his tight grip, a warm pair of hands would make their way to him and hold onto him gently, as if he actually mattered somehow in the grand scheme of things.

Most of the time he would just stand there and let you embrace him, his heart doing cartwheels in his chest as his luscious blonde was carried by the wind. Although, if he had a particularly rough day, he would sometimes simply melt into your embrace. Cheek against cheek, Aemond could feel the worry radiating off you in spades.

It was dreadful how absolutely euphoric that made him feel.

You were his only real playmate growing up, causing him to become dreadfully possessive over you. It got so bad that Aemond outright forbade Aegon and Haelena of all people from even looking at you, let alone actually seeking you out. None of the other children in court were safe either as rumors spread fast that they ought to steer clear far away from you, lest they wished to suffer Aemond's thorny wrath.

The little paradise Aemond had cultivated for himself was not meant to last. One the same night he finally claimed his dragon, you had vanished along with your family.

He still remembers how excited he was to share the news with you, how he wished to tell you that once he was skilled enough he wished you to be the first person who would fly with him on his dragon.

No one else had the right to that privilege, absolutely no one.

But, things didn't go to plan. And truly, when do they ever?

Aemond had lost a lot that night and gained just as much. He had claimed a dragon, Vhagar, one of the largest and strongest dragons there were. In just one evening he became a one man army, there was nothing that could hold him back.

He can still feel just how tight the chair was he sat on as the maesters stitched his damaged eye, how hot the cracking fire next to him was, just how loud everyone was being... It was all irrelevant. The moment he could, he was going to seek you out and tell you everything, share each and every detail he could about his dragon...

... Until his mother told him the news.

Your family relocated due to some personal reasons and as Alicent went on and on about that, little Aemond felt his world shatter in a heartbeat.

He would rather take ten thousand cuts and stabs to his eye than ever face the pain he felt once he learned of your departure.

"It's for your own good too..." he can recall his mother saying, her voice sounding a little defeated.

"You shouldn't tie yourself to one person like you already have... I worry about you, Aemond."

That dark and stormy night, Aemond had made two vows to himself, vows he was going to sign with his own blood if he had to. The first was that no matter where in the world you were, no matter how far your family may try to take you, there would be no distance he would not tread, no man, woman or child he wouldn't slay just to hear the sound of your voice, to feel your soft skin, to be with you.

And the other was that he would make due on his promise of giving you a ride on Vhagar. He was in your debt for even trying to claim the mighty beast, it was only fair.

Aemond Targaryen took those two vows and kept them under lock and key, hidden deeply in his dark, which grew darker and darker. At the rate he was going, he would turn into a more terrifying beast than the actual dragon he had. Although, even dragons had their hearts.

You just happened to be Aemond's.

And he was going to come to you one day, soaked in the blood of his enemies, his arms open wide as he makes his way to embrace you once more.

[marxistlesbianist]

It seems to me that the propensity of socialist orgs in the US to sink into covering up sexual abuse scandals emerges from the method of volunteerism that is basically universal in political organizing here. At a queer community center I used to be involved in, there was a long-standing member who had to stop going to events because their abusive ex-boyfriend ingratiated himself in the organization. My friend who is still on their board tells me that the people involved would mostly like the man gone, but begrudgingly put up with him because he is one of the most consistent volunteers, contributing far beyond what the survivor was themselves physically capable of. This is, of course, liberal nonsense, of the specific type that arises when the goal of hosting a pride event in the suburbs each year takes precedent over community empowerment. In short, it is opportunism. And whilst I haven’t personally witnessed an ML group mishandle a sexual abuse scandal, from the accounts I have read/heard, I suspect the mechanism is similar.

What I see “leftists”—including many self-proclaimed communists—in the US fail to grasp is that it is necessary for a revolutionary organization to always be building within the masses the social base for its action. A revolution cannot be made by a mere handful of dedicated individuals, and any organization running entirely off of the work of such few volunteers is treading on dangerously unstable grounds. Of course, dedicated individuals are still going to be important for an organization, but more important is a connection to the masses which allows such individuals to be found. In crude terms: everyone must be replaceable. This is for many reasons, not the least of which is that you have to be able to recall from power anyone who commits sexual abuse.

Ultimately this means that the actions of an organization shouldn’t go far beyond what the masses are themselves currently capable of accomplishing. Disruptive protests and union efforts are methods of struggle which are readily accessible to the masses, whilst education campaigns and community survival programs simultaneously increase the fighting capacity of the masses and also to deepen the party’s ties to the people. Even when the movement reaches the point of full revolutionary war, this can only be accomplished if the masses are at the point of being able to support a people’s army. Small guerrilla cells in communities with low class consciousness are perhaps able to frustrate/disrupt the capitalist state, but not overthrow it. When Newton and Seale founded the Black Panther Party, the tactic of armed patrols was decided upon as a means of demonstrating to the community how they could use the weapons they already possessed.

When an organization commits ultra-leftist errors, it risks isolating itself from the people not just ideologically but materially. The org leaps beyond where the people can/will follow, and, divorced from the motive force of history, inevitably stumbles and falls. The way to avoid this, of course, is for an organization to take proper stock of its present manpower, and to set actionable goals with an eye toward expanding their social base—the predominant method in US orgs, conversely, seems to be a sort of opportunistic ultra-leftism, where the active capacity of the masses is overstepped in service of symbolic/electoral goals which on their own do nothing to advance the political power of the working class.

Which . . . fuck. Typing that last sentence out really fills me with frustration and despair. What gives me the slightest bit of hope is reading about how these tendencies have manifested in the history of every attempted communist revolution, with the successful ones demonstrating not how to avoid such errors entirely, but how to overcome them!

[mosswiind]

neve gallus isn't actually a mean lady

Heavy spoilers ahead, tread carefully if you do not want to see spoilers for Dragon Age: The Veilguard, specifically related to Neve Gallus and Lucanis Dellamorte.

Neve Gallus isn’t actually a mean lady. 

Since the release of the game, it has become clear that most people have chosen to save Treviso, under the logic that there is no army or meaningful defense against a dragon. This is a fair decision. What is unfair is choosing Treviso because “Minrathous should be able to defend itself against a dragon.” 

The dragon attack was never the main event with Minrathous.

It was always a Venatori takeover. This isn’t even metagaming, this is literally text presented when Neve and Lucanis are making their cases for their respective cities. 

If you save Minrathous, Treviso is blighted. The Crows lose a number of key people. The market is a field hospital full of civilians with the blight. The fallout is awful. There are many, many casualties on your conscience. 

If you save Treviso, Minrathous does not fall. The city is not top-down blighted. Infrastructure still functions in some places.

However, the Shadow Dragons are demolished, the sitting Archon is killed, and the well-established large Venatori presence results in hundreds of literally visible civilian corpses. There are cartloads of bodies on every corner. There are gallows erected in every neighbourhood. The number of slaver cages grows exponentially. The Viper, one of the primary symbols of hope in Dock Town, is blighted.

There is blood everywhere. Blood that is on your hands for making the choice to save Treviso. 

The point of this decision is that there is no good or obvious option. Both options are devastating, especially for the companions impacted, who are both hometown heroes. Both are understandably very upset that the team they are a part of prioritized the other. 

Most people choose to save Treviso. Most people have only seen Neve upset. 

Neve is, understandably, a very guarded person. She has been a solo private investigator for most of her career. She lives alone in her little Dock Town apartment. She has contacts, sure, and some friends, but due to her line of work, connections are a liability that cannot go deeper than professionalism without putting people in harm’s way.

She has always, and will always, put Dock Town first, a priority that does not change based on Rook’s relationship to her. She does this because the Templar order, the Magisterium, and infrastructure of Minrathous have made it abundantly clear that they do not care about her impoverished hometown, or any of the people in it. 

She is upset with you because you followed the same logical flow chart as all of the other people who should have helped.

I would be fucked up about it, too.

And after all of that, Neve is still open to repairing the relationship and tentatively exploring a romance with Rook. 

Lucanis, on the other hand, is gregarious, charming, funny, and while he is a wildly different character to Zevran, for many people he seems to scratch a similar itch - a hot Antivan man who wants to hang out with you. He has strong feelings about making sure everyone is fed and cared for. He is a supportive friend. He looks out for the other members of the team. He is an objectively good man, and makes it obvious, especially if you already dig his vibe.

But, and this is a huge but, in the wake of a Minrathous prioritization, Lucanis disappears for the same amount of time.

His return is triggered by the same quest.

His comments about not being chosen are the same amount of venomous and sad.

He believes he is unable to count on Rook and the team until a similar point in the story. The second he arrives back in the Lighthouse, it becomes clear that he is no longer open to even considering a romance with Rook.

Neve feels like she is the only person looking out for the Minrathous underclasses, because based on the text, that is almost true. There are the Shadows (her affiliates), and the Threads (her contacts), and one Templar who isn’t in the Shadows (shoutout to Templar Rana). It is made clear by the text. 

If you choose to support the poor and enslaved population of Dock Town, Neve still has to do damage control, just like Lucanis does. She checks in with unhoused civilians and provides instructions for those who are unsafe to connect with the Shadows. 

A Neve who is not hardened by Rook’s calls is kind, sweet. She goes on a mission to track down the unpublished sequel to Bellara’s favourite serial. She then successfully tracks it down, and delivers it, complete with the author’s artistic renderings of several characters. She helps Taash with their gender identity, supporting them and providing them with other safe people to talk to about it. She and Davrin make plans to set up shop together, to solve more problems. She is brusque but professional about Emmrich’s necromancy, but also gives Manfred a nickname. She regularly gets chastised by Davrin for giving Assan too many treats.

She’s self-proclaimedly not a lover of animals besides cats, but if you pet a cat while on her personal quests, she approves. She also explains that she probably would love animals more, but if they’re “larger than a cat, they’re probably demonic.” 

If romanced, Neve expresses genuine fear that Rook will get hurt. She is concerned for her heart, but not because she doesn’t love Rook. She is not afraid that Rook will leave her. She is afraid that proximity to her will get Rook killed. 

Neve is, contrary to apparently popular belief, a nice fucking lady. 

All of this is to say that there is an obvious, glaring difference between Neve and Lucanis, and I don’t know if you can play spot-the-difference between them, but Neve is a brown woman, and Lucanis is a white/white-adjacent man. It probably isn’t conscious on most peoples’ parts, but the Dragon Age fandom has a long history of deprioritizing women, especially women of colour, in their cast lineups. Off the top of my head, see Vivienne, Isabela, and Josephine.

I have seen Neve called a bitch, a whiner, a baby, an asshole, for being justifiably upset that her city is in the exact state she told y’all it would be, in favour of “the obvious choice,” Treviso.

The response from the community has been “but obviously Minrathous could defend against a dragon.” 

Yes! You’re right! It can! As I said earlier! But not quickly or effectively enough to prevent any public emergency level confusion that can be taken advantage of! Which was literally always the point!

You can pick Treviso for whatever reason you like. Being a Crow, loving Teia and Viago, loving the Venice vacation vibe, wanting the cuntiest casual clothing, preferring Lucanis. I don’t actually care what you do. 

But please, please, please, shut the entire fuck up about Neve being the only complainer in the party. 

She’s just doing what she’s always done. She’s the hero Dock Town has, will always have, and the hero Dock Town deserves. 

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Found | Platonic Yandere Demon Queen

Thinking about how society treats pregnant women. It’s a freshly new concept that pregnant women have autonomy and independence. More often than not when women are identified as pregnant there’s a trend of infantalizing. In a backward sense of thought a woman dealing with carrying life is reduced to a tired, stressed, and moody woman that must be appeased. Cravings demand she want pickles and ice cream. She’s got it! Don’t have this meal have this one, it’s better for your baby's health! Oh listen to Fur Elise it’ll calm you and make your baby smart! Tantrum at 3 in the morning? Don’t pay her any mind. 

Not all of the people caring for pregnant women do this negatively. Many times the concern of friends and family can ease the entire process. What’s more not all of the typically overreaching behaviors are unfounded, during a pregnancy there’s so much happening with the body the brain can be especially fragile. 

All that being said when the Demon Queen announced to her generals that she was expecting, immediately her subordinates silently moved to support their Queen on a much….deeper level. 

“My Queen I have some unfortunate news.”

“Speak General Mordecai.”

“The….raspberry jam reserves are no more.”

“I see…then break out the grape. It’s not my favorite but it’ll be due until we can get a new shipment.”

“That’s the thing….there are no grape jams left either.”

“…AAAAAAAGGHGHGH”

It’s a small dangerous line her generals tread on. Between receiving demands for jams to attacking the human kingdoms it’s left many exhausted. But there’s hope as the 10th month of her pregnancy concludes. Her army and its leaders will be assured further tantrums that result in heads being cut off will only be because she is dissatisfied with their work rather than her paranoia about her changing shape. 

But alas nothing is ever easy in the demon army, when the emergency messenger wyverns fly to the top-ranked generals with grave news. 

“The Queen’s child is….dead?!”

Children are a gift….miracles that can last as long as the tallest tree or end in a second faster than you can blink. Unfortunately, the Queen’s miracle was exactly an hour which meant a month of devastation for everyone. Of course, a mother’s grief is immeasurable and tragic but a the Demon Queen was a mother is even worse. Every day her generals stomached the thick and violent aura that oozed from their leader for meters long. Even the humans felt it; their crops drooping as if sharing her sorrow. Other forms of magic degraded at the glum influence her power held. 

In a moment of respite, the highest Demon General and the Exalted Hero came together. 

“This can’t go on….the magic this world has is sure to dissipate with this much despair.”

“I…agree…but grief isn’t something to be done away with, so simply.”

“I do have…one idea.”

“I don’t trust your judgment, Hero.”

“Sometimes neither do I, but I wouldn’t be the hero if I didn’t try!”

“.....Your optimism is nauseating. After this, I’m going to intensify my efforts to smite you.”

“Wow, thanks.”

The Exalted Hero’s glorious plan could only be enacted by the Demon Queen’s highest-ranking general. Strong enough to withstand the toxic magic-draining aura she exuded with little trouble. Her pride long out of reach as she rotted in the opulent and soft expanse of what would have been her nest.

“My Queen, would you like to overthrow the village on the outskirts of town? It’s been long since we’ve terrified the humans you and I.”

“...YoU DArE IntErRuPT mY BrOodING!?”

After sustaining some minor injuries a broken horn he stood by her side as she annihilated the entirety of the outer village of humans, sending a pillar of purple fire. Of course, only a few foolish humans attempt to intervene before she quickly snaps her fingers and their heads go flying. The humans are so full of non-magic that they are unburdened by her presence and she finds little enjoyment in making them writhe before dying. Her first officer knows this has done nothing but stave her boredom as the few who remain scream in agony or attempt to run. Without calling attention he steps away, picking a random home currently on fire. He steps inside hardly caring for the gaggle of gasping humans crawling helplessly around. It isn’t until he sees the singed doll on the ground does he fully inspect the home. Going deeper within as he hoped he finds precisely what he’s looking for.

When he returns to the Queen’s side, the boredom on her face hasn’t changed and he’s sure in a moment he’ll be ordered to level the town but first–

“Mordecai you can begin the—”

“WAHHH!”

The cry of an infant has the Queen sprinting, breaking the sound barrier to the burning house. On the doorstep is a naked babe, face contorted as they cry something fierce. Dismissing the nearly charcoal human reaching out the Demon Queen picks the baby up, cradling them into her chest.

“You poor poor dear, what Mother would leave you unattended during such a tragedy?”

The crying calms as she rocks the baby, waiting for its grabby hands pulling at her enchanted armor just like her own child did for the hour she knew her. Barely feeling the clasp of burnt fingers wrapping around her ankle she shakes her boots and steps on the weed pulling at her.

“Mordecai I leave this mud heap to you. Leave no trace.”

“Yes, my Queen.”

“Oh and announce to the armies that my child has been found.”

The Queen’s teleportation and the dissipating fog of her magic-draining cloud made the general smile. Far away the Hero has to refuse the help of the orphanages, they so gallantly encouraged. While the general hated the hero with all his being, the plan was diabolically perfect. What grieving mother would resist an orphaned crying babe? This mother just so happened to be the Queen of Demons with despair deep enough to cripple the entire living world—and now she was happy again.

“All of my demons, behold! The heir to the New World!”

“RAAAAAAHHH!”

Lucky you. The human baby of the feared Demon Queen set to inherit the world their mother was set to conquer. Surely their only real obstacles will be navigating the demon hierarchy and even that will be limited. For now, the Demon Queen has a child and absolutely no one will threaten the happiness of her darling baby.

More? Who am I kidding I'm definitely writing more of this 🖤🖤🖤🖤

[undirmanjarpakdingo]

Bridgeton era LADS brainrot.

Slightly Yandere- but come on its Caleb.

Caleb is nasty with it sorry.

He's seething when he finds out. The letter crumpling in his palm with such cold anger, it makes his roommate take in a laboured breath. His grandmother had seemingly planned this, made sure she paid his commission for the army so he was out of the way. And once he was, the next second she pushed you in front of the queen.

He was so isolated on the field that he wouldn't even have known if it wasn't for your excited letter. Despite his best efforts, it seemed his grandmother wasn't unaware of his intentions.

You weren't related by blood, a matter that was known but hadn't been discussed in that sense before. Everyone overlooked it, brushing past the morbidly obvious thought, finding content in watching you two play pretend family. It was suffocating. The only person who had the guts to hint at it was actually lady Whistledown.

Dearest Gentle Reader, We often say, blood is thicker than water, this surely rings true in the case of young miss Y/n, and her surprising debut this season. A long line of callers flank the gates of their home, but their bright faces dull as they walk out, egos bruised and hearts shattered. It is because her tight lipped colonel is back from the ranks, here specially to see his dear MC's season through. Keeping aside the lingering glances between them that tread the line of what would or wouldn't be appropriate, one is left to wonder if his harsh protectiveness over young miss MC is out of familial love, or something else entirely.

The thought of it is was so scandalous it sends shockwaves through the ton. Yet it still isn't enough to ward off potential suitors.

The baron was painfully stupid, the viscount a raging misogynist even that Marquis his grandmother was so dead set on, wasn't worth you. None of them were. He was the one who knew you, saw you like none of them ever could. They would just take you away from him, from home. The thought of separation consumed him entirely. Twisting in his bed, he grew more and more desperate to somehow stop this charade.

But he couldn't just walk up and propose. It wasn't that easy, he had to find a way so that no one would have a choice but to accept his proclamation. The gut wrenching realisation made itself placidly obvious. He had to ruin your reputation. Make it so no one else could have you. He had to make sure they caught you with him, but you'll understand right? You have to, Its the only way! He would never hurt you otherwise. But it has to be done, your reputation has to be compromised. That way he can stay by your side forever, that way you don't ever have to leave home, never leave him.

It'll be fine. Caleb thinks, You'll be happy. You have to be.

[platinumshawnn]

A Union of Ice and Stone | Cregan Stark — prologue

pt i (next)

Synopsis: As the war between Targaryen kin looms, the young Lord of Winterfell, Cregan Stark, marches in favour of rightful heir, Queen Rhaenyra, gathering men for his army. His path leads him to the foot of House Arryn’s door and the Lady Lysara Arryn.

Content Warning(s): adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism and gender based harassment/discrimination, sexual content.

inspiration playlist

word count: 3.4k

Lysara's heart pounded in her chest, each step a struggle against the slick, rain-soaked earth. Her cloak, heavy with water, clung to her frame as she sprinted through the open field, heading south of her house, blinded by the unforgiving dusk that did nothing for her vision as she blindly navigated the grass by memory; she knew these fields like the back of her hand, every tree and bush, every dip in the ground that threatened to trip her as she bolted.

The high grass whipped at her skin, her dress drenched and weighing down her movements as she struggled for air, her lungs screaming for adequate oxygen that she was not successful in sucking in with each deep gasp she inhaled; suddenly she regret all those years of not joining her brothers as they trained in the yards, building their stamina, as her limbs burned with exhaustion but she could not afford to slow down as she was still within sight of the Arryn men who patrolled the boundaries of their land should they have come this way at any given moment — her head twisted to look behind her as she readjusted her tight hold on the skirts of her dress as the the fabric dipped momentarily, her eyes wide and terrified as she stumbled a step in the process when her toes caught the hem — if she had been caught now, surely that would be it. Her head would be on a spike somewhere on the gates of the Eyrie, on display for all those who cast their eyes upon it, both a warning and a promise — a show of strength from her cousin who did not need to try to succeed. Her reputation never failed to precede her. The thought of being caught now, when she was so close made her nauseous and sick at the thought of being dragged back — her arms flailed out in front of her in an effort to steady herself as her right foot shot out as she threatened to fall forwards, the pain radiating up her ankle and into her knee as her weight slammed into it, eliciting a gasp. 

Despite the radiating pain that caused her now to limp, she continued to run. 

The storm's fury mirrored the turmoil inside her, each thunderclap a reminder of the risk and imminent danger her current position placed her in. She had prayed that the rain would hold off, the clouds rolling in as she had retreated to her rooms for the night after dinner, but as some cruel reminder of how little control she possessed, it had downpoured the moment she had snuck out of the gates; scarcely sneaking past the guards that were planted at the front -- it had only taken her weeks of being practically held captive inside to bribe her way out, wanting to crawl out of her skin as she made promises she was not proud of -- but anything was better than staring at the plain walls of her room for several weeks again. 

She had tried for weeks to get out, but Jeyne seemed to keep on her heels as best she could, and if it was not her; it was one of her men -- one of her personal guards who hovered close every waking hour, always watching her from some corner of the room, ensuring she did not step out of line or try anything that she had not already been warned about time and time again. She was already treading thin ice, but there was nothing worse than being held captive in your own home; considered something of a traitor by your own people and no longer possessing the trust of your kin. She heard the whispers and saw the looks, she wasn’t stupid by any means -- but worst of all, she knew her father would have been disappointed had he been able to see her now. 

A loud burst of thunder sounded from above her as she tumbled forwards, her stocking becoming soaked by the grass that brushed her legs with each step as she neared the river that separated her from the only place she had ever known peace these past three years; a little patch amidst the dense forestry, concealed from prying eyes and shielded by the trees from the rain. She was so close…

Lysara's breath hitched as she reached the edge of the river, the torrent of water mirroring her frantic heart. The cold seeped through her soaked garments, chilling her to the bone, but she hardly noticed. All she could think of was Gareth, waiting for her on the other side, hidden amongst the thick underbrush where they had spent countless stolen moments together. The thought of his warm embrace, his whispered promises of love, gave her the strength to press on.

With a determined push, Lysara waded into the river, the icy water biting at her ankles. Each step was a battle as the current tugged at her, threatening to sweep her away, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself forward. Her muscles screamed in protest, but she refused to yield. She couldn’t afford to. 

Finally, she reached the other side, stumbling onto the bank with a cry of relief and clawing her way up onto the riverbank with desperate hands, the soil embedding itself under her nails. She didn’t pause to catch her breath, instead, she plunged into the forest, her steps faltering as the pain in her ankle flared anew. The branches snagged at her cloak, leaves brushing against her face as she pushed deeper into the woods. She could hear the river behind her, the rushing water almost drowning out the sound of her own heartbeat. Almost.

“Gareth!” she called out, her voice barely a whisper above the storm. Panic gripped her when there was no immediate answer. What if something had happened to him? What if Jeyne had found out and set a trap?

But then, from the shadows, he emerged. Tall and broad-shouldered, Gareth stepped into view, his dark eyes filled with concern as he rushed to her side and dragged her into the trees, whilst his eyes quickly swept the bushes behind her. 

“Lysara, what happened? You’re hurt,” he said, his hands immediately going to her arm, steadying her as she swayed on her feet.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, though the pain in her ankle told a different story, “I don’t have much time.”

She heard the unbelieving scoff as he knelt by her side, pulling the hem of her dress up enough to snake his hand underneath the fabric and gently brush his fingers along her ankle -- the soft gesture elicited a sharp hiss, flinching in pain as she leaned into him with a hand planted on his shoulder, “You need to be seen by the maester,” He scolded as he looked up at her. 

Her eyes widened, “Come, I can carry you back,” Gareth insisted, standing and beginning to wrap an arm around her waist to support her against him, “We can tell her I found you between the borders, I was on patrol and you were there…” 

Lysara shook her head, “No, you can’t.” 

“She’d understand, surely” 

“She’s not stupid, Gareth,” She snapped, her voice panicked as she attempted to tear from his hold, “Why do you think it took me so long to come back? She’ll kill me this time-- if not worse, she would have you killed on the spot.” 

“If that is what it must come to, then I am willing to face it with a stiff lip-- but I will not allow you to stumble back like this, not in this weather.” He muttered, attempting to crouch to sweep her off her feet; an arm coming behind her knees. 

“Lysara Arryn!” The shout echoed through the trees, carrying over the wind and pinning the couple where they stood; frozen in fear. The colour drained from her face as she quickly shoved his hands away, pushing him in the direction of the bushes that concealed them; an effort to hide his presence, “Come out! You are found, girl!” Ser Harrold called. 

“Go!” She harshly whispered, eyes wide in fear as Gareth stumbled to his feet, “You cannot be found, hide!” 

Her hands planted against his chest, shoving him so hard he nearly fell into the bush head first, still reaching for her -- she could hear as the heavy hooves of his horse trampled through the trees; the leaves crunching under the stead’s weight, “We know you are here, as does Lady Jeyne! There is no use hiding!” 

His eyes continued to peer out at her as he ducked into the shrubbery; using her body to shield him then as her back pressed against the bush, whipping around as Ser Harrold and his men burst through the trees and into the clearing. He stood in front of the men who rushed forward to surround her, her breath heavy and panting, eyes wide and flushed cheeks as her fingers touched the leaves of the bush that concealed the man only a mere inches away from her, “Where is the boy?” He asked, approaching her. 

“What boy?” She quickly replied, feigning an innocent confusion. 

“Do not play me for a fool,” Harrold warned. 

A silence passed through them as she snapped her mouth shut, her bones tense with anxiety and clenching her jaw to keep from shaking as she spoke, “I know nought of what you speak.” 

“The Royce boy!” He finally snapped, “Where has he gone?” 

She lifted her chin, her fists balling at her sides, “Nowhere, I have not seen…” “Enough with the lies!” He interrupted her, dismounting his horse that whinnied. He released its reins to close the small gap that separated them, his gloved hand closing around her upper arm and jerking her towards him, “It has never been your strong suit, Lysara, so let’s cut the messing about.” 

She writhed against him, trying to free herself as he then tugged her upright and on her feet, earning a yelp as a jolt of pain tore through her shoulder, “I have not seen him, he did not show! I am alone, please!” She insisted.

His grip tightened, sure enough to leave bruises as he let out a frustrated sigh; dragging her through the dirt and towards his horse, “You probably hid him and gave him a head start, he is probably too far gone and back over the boundaries of his own land by now, you ungrateful little girl.” He grumbled, forcing her against the horse, her hands flying out to stop herself from going face first against its side, “Your cousin has tirelessly defended you time and time again and you continue to defy her but no more. You know, you are lucky it has been her who has handled you, should it have been my choice--” 

His hands closed around her waist, hoisting her up and forcing her over the saddle of the white horse that stumbled underneath her sudden weight; the rein pressing into her ribs uncomfortably, hardly allowing her a chance to swing a leg over and mounting in behind her -- she wanted to be sick and gag as he pulled her flush against him; his chest pressed to her shoulders as he tightly gripped the the reins in his hands, “You can’t threaten me, how dare you!” She exclaimed. 

His breath fanned d against the back of her neck, every hair standing in alert as she cringed away from the feeling only to be drawn back by a hand that gripped her nape and brought her back into him, “You are hardly a respectable woman, much less a daughter of Arryn— your father would be disappointed to see you’ve taken after your brother’s stupidity.” He said, releasing her neck with a shove forward. 

With a sharp jerk on the reins, the horse launched forward and turned, rushing back out towards where she had come from only moments prior — with a last glance behind her, her eyes settled on the bush where she knew Gareth remained; growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared from view. Only then did she relax, the feeling of dread finally sinking in as she leaned into the horse, her arms wrapping around its neck and closing her eyes. 

The journey back to the Eyrie was a blur. The rain continued to pour, soaking through her already drenched clothes, but Lysara felt numb to the cold. Her thoughts were consumed by the dread of what awaited her. Jeyne Arryn was not a woman known for her mercy. Lysara had defied her one too many times, and she knew that this time, the punishment would be severe.

As they reached the gates of the Eyrie, Lysara felt the weight of her situation settle on her shoulders like a leaden cloak. The men dragged her through the courtyard, up the stairs, and into the main hall where Jeyne awaited her. The Lady of the Eyrie sat on her high-backed chair, her expression unreadable as she watched Lysara being brought before her.

For a moment, there was only silence, broken only by the sound of the rain against the windows. Then, Jeyne spoke, her voice quiet and calm but her eyes bordered rage as she stared at her, “Have you no shame?” She asked, standing from her seat, “No honour? I spare your life, despite pleas to disinherit and banish you and this is how you repay me? Have I not been merciful in your favour?” 

“I am grateful, Jeyne,” She insisted, stepping forward as she tugged herself free from Herrold’s grip, “I am. I do not know what your men have told you, but I promise you, I have done nothing to imply otherwise…you and our house are where my loyalties have always been.” 

Her expression remained blank, but there, at the corner of her mouth, was a twitch of a frown, “Do you think so lowly of me as to be that stupid?” 

She stilled, her mouth hanging open and unable to respond, like a terrified animal as she stared back at her cousin, wide-eyed and stammering, “N-no, of course not!” 

“Then do not treat me as such,” She snapped, beginning to approach her, “Do you think I do not hear the whispers of where you disappear to? That you have disappeared off into the woods with that Royce boy, for hours on end, alone?” 

She stopped a mere inches away from her, a frown etched deep into her sharp features as paused to scan her cousin’s features and trying to gauge the guilty expression that tugged at her brow; silent and unable to protest, “You sully yourself for a boy who cannot provide for you-- for some second-born bastard who only seeks to use you as cover from his reputation like some sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. You are not a stupid girl, Lysara.” 

“I am not,” She echoed, her voice small among the room. 

“Then do not behave as though you are,” She argued. “I cannot protect you much longer-- the council grows restless every day and continues to press for me to wash our hands of you, every day, do you understand that?” 

Lysara lifted her chin, meeting her cousin’s gaze with as much defiance as she could muster, though inside, she was trembling. She knew there would be no forgiveness this time, “Then why haven’t you?” 

“Because you are my kin!” She finally exclaimed, exasperated as she spun away from her for a moment to regain composure -- Jeyne pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes squeezing shut and taking a few deep breaths before she turned to look at her again, “We have been close since our youth, I have even considered you to be a sister all these years, and even as I honour that, you continue to stomp your pretty little foot all over that. As though that has no value, as though that means nothing to you.” 

“It has not stopped you before-- from slaughtering your own kin in order to protect your name, so do with me as you will. Imprison me, kill me-- whatever you see fit, just as you did my brother then,” she said, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her. “But know this: nothing you do will make me regret loving him.”

Jeyne’s eyes flashed with anger, but she said nothing for a long moment. Then, with a flick of her hand, she dismissed her men, leaving the two women alone in the hall.

“Maybe you are a fool, Lysara,” Jeyne said quietly, the weight of her words heavy with disappointment. “But you are still my blood. I will not have you put to death, though you have earned it.”

Lysara’s breath caught in her throat, relief washing over her in a dizzying wave. But Jeyne wasn’t finished.

“You will be confined to your chambers until I decide what to do with you,” Jeyne continued. “And as for that Royce boy…he will be found and dealt with accordingly.”

“No!” Lysara gasped, stepping forward, but Jeyne’s glare stopped her in her tracks.

“This is not up for debate, Lysara,” Jeyne said, her tone final. “You have made your choice. Now, you will live with the consequences. Now go clean yourself, you smell of the fields like some smallfolk.” She spat, her eyes scanning up and down to take in her full appearance -- disheveled, wet, and muddy up to her knees. She refused to move yet, watching as her cousin turned to retreat back towards her seat. 

As Lysara stood in the center of the hall, drenched and defeated, the heavy wooden doors at the far end of the room creaked open. A cold draft swept through, sending a shiver down her spine causing Jeyne to pause and glance toward the entrance, her brows knitting together in surprise.

A young knight hurried into the room, his armor clanking with each step. He looked flustered, his eyes wide as he approached the Lady of the Eyrie. “My lady,” he began, his voice betraying his nerves, “I must report—Lord Cregan Stark has arrived at the Eyrie. He… he’s demanding an audience with you.”

Lysara’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of Cregan Stark, sharing her cousin’s visible confusion. What was he doing here? Her mind raced, a mix of fear and hope fluttering in her chest. Perhaps this was a twist of fate, an unexpected ally in her dire situation. But as she looked at Jeyne, she saw no relief in her cousin’s eyes. Instead, there was only tension.

Jeyne’s lips pressed into a thin line, her hand smoothing along the side of her skirts. “Cregan Stark,” she repeated slowly, as if weighing the significance of the name. “He is a long way from Winterfell. What brings him to the Eyrie unannounced?”

The knight shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. “He didn’t say, my lady. Only that it is a matter of great importance and that he must speak with you immediately.”

Jeyne’s eyes flickered toward Lysara , and for a brief moment, their gazes met. She felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. Jeyne was no fool; she would have already started to piece together the implications of Cregan Stark’s sudden arrival.

“Very well,” Jeyne said at last, her voice clipped. “Escort Lord Stark to the Great Hall. I will meet him shortly.”

The knight bowed and hurried out of the room, leaving Lysara and Jeyne alone once more. The silence that followed was thick with tension and unease.

She could see the storm brewing in her cousin’s eyes, a mix of calculation and concern as her jaw tensed, clenching and unclenching. Jeyne turned to her, her expression unreadable, but there was an edge to her voice as she spoke. “It seems our conversation will have to wait but rest assured, this matter with Gareth Royce is far from over.”

Before Lysara could respond, her mouth opening to speak, Jeyne swept out of the room; her long skirts swishing as she moved. She was left standing there, her mind spinning with questions and a growing sense of unease. Cregan Stark’s arrival was unexpected.

As she was escorted back to her chambers by two guards, Lysara couldn’t shake the feeling that this unexpected visit would either be her salvation or her undoing. And with Jeyne Arryn at the helm, she feared it would be the latter.