#DESIRES :// HOW MUCH IS A LITTLE TASTE? ( ally a. ) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sehaedazokla · 2 months ago

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he that dares

part four

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems.

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

chapter warnings: canon-typical violence, blood, assault, attempted sexual assault, grief mention

word count: 8.2k

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Cregan Stark grows restless as the days pass. In the late afternoon he finds himself sat in his chambers, taking a moment to organize his thoughts.

The castle is abuzz with a low hum of anxious rumor and bated breath, given the increasing number of arrests as more and more turncoats are revealed. To round them up and sentence them is his duty, and a task he does not take lightly. It is impossible to, when he sees the young Prince Aegon. A boy of one and ten whose situation dances about like the familiar ghost of Cregan’s own past.

Yet the vultures circle high above his head, close enough to hear the flapping of wings, only kept at bay by the army of Northern wolves. The Southern nobles bide their time, allowing him to retain power for now. But the more men that are arrested, the more fear begins to spread. Festering in the castle like an open wound. The glares he receives when he walks the halls are more venomous than ever.

His informational network has been firmly set into place. Sooner rather than late, the scorpions will be dealt with and justice brought to both Aegon II’s poisoners and the final remnants of those who might wish to see the young prince dead instead of upon the Iron Throne.

As Cregan sits in front of the hearth in his room, his jaw tenses. The storms of his eyes stare down into the flames as they splutter and dance atop the thick logs they burn upon. A poisoned leader and a young heir. Is it fate that has him once again in this circumstance? Only this time, he is not child. Justice will be carried out properly, and swiftly. One of his fists clench tightly, his expression growing darker.

How deeply he longs to return north, to smell the pine and feel the crunch of snow beneath his boots. To breath freely, in clear air, rid of the stuffiness of the Red Keep and the general oppressiveness of the capital. The Lord of Winterfell is quite glad to have spent his time far from here, away from the choking toxicity that seeps through the walls and penetrates minds and bodies alike.

He rubs a hand over his chin as her visage flickers through his mind.

Perhaps it is no surprise to Cregan that Lady Tyrell is as she is when she has spent so much time here. She has roots planted firmly within the weeds and she blooms beautifully in the muddy and trampled wreckage left from the war. So much so that even when presenting with lies and deception, two things Cregan has little taste for, she has ensnared his attention beyond what he can excuse as primal attraction.

It would be a lie to say that he does not find his eyes trailing her figure, absorbed by her lips and their fullness. Any man with eyes and a cock would do the same, Cregan thinks. No, it is the little flicker of truth that he sees from time to time, beneath the honeyed words. He cannot help his own curiosity, and the desire to see more burns in his chest brighter than the fire in front of him.

One of his arms comes to rest on the side of the plush armchair. Everything in the castle is so ornate that it is almost nauseating. Longing for the simplicity of Winterfell echoes about his body.

Lady Tyrell remains the sole noble who consistently seeks out his presence, regardless of rumor or what she sees. The woman is frighteningly persistent and quite smart; if she were not so determined to manipulate him to her whims, Cregan might want her as an ally. It would be a relief, to have one amongst the vipers who is not trying to sink their fangs into him with the intention of poisoning him. Lady Tyrell certainly wants something from Cregan Stark, but at least she does not want him dead.

He believes it so, anyways.

With the twisting of a wry smile onto his lips, Cregan finds himself with the distinct thought that if the lady wished him dead, he might just be so already considering how much food and wine he has consumed in her presence. Still, the lack of clarity regarding her true intentions claws at the back of the lord’s mind. His hand comes to rest under his chin as he considers what he might do to shed light on the truth of the matter.

It is not an impossible task. While Lady Tyrell has forced their repeated proximity for her own interest, Cregan has learned more of her just as she has learned more of him. And she is not the only one who is accustomed to the intricacies of political power dynamics. Cregan’s eyes narrow, pupils reflecting the glowing firelight.

The hour draws rather late as Lady Tyrell flips through the pages of a thick tome within the castle library. Hair falls carelessly into her face but she cannot find herself bothered enough to brush it aside, her bottom lip bitten slightly as she focuses on the words. A single lantern rests on the long wooden table, illuminating the pages as she lifts her hand to turn yet another. Her brows draw together as she continues.

The library has remained rather empty since the war began. The delicious irony of this is far from lost on her. Yet it serves as a relatively untouched sanctuary in which one can gather their thoughts or simply have a moment of peace. The tall walls of books extend out in a vast hall of knowledge, the shelves turning into each other at different points to create soft pools of shadow one might easily hide themselves within to escape the world around. The long wooden tables are dotted with carefully covered candles, many of which remain unlit. The large windows have the thick fabric of their curtains drawn closed, as the sun has recently set.

Reading serves her in more ways than one; much is to be learned from the pages of history and so much of it is wholly ignored. Lessons that have already been learned throughout time, forgotten. Only to be learned again a hundred years later, and the same price paid. She is cautious to consume as many historical texts as might be possible, lest she fail to find valuable insight that might change her fortune. With a sigh, she lowers her chin onto her hand as her elbow rests on the cool wood of the table. There is no need to be proper when the only other visitors to the library are aging maesters who pay her little mind as they shuffle through books as thick as the one before her now.

This is why her back stiffens at the sound of approaching footsteps. Heavy boots and a pressure to each intentional step that has her holding the edge of the cream page in her hand so tight it wrinkles beneath her fingers. The library does not seem so sacred any longer.

She need not turn to know whose presence has interrupted her solitude. The steps come to a stop behind her chair and the lady is met with the scent of pine and the faintest hint of woodsmoke. With delicate fingers she releases the page crinkling in her grasp as the man behind her walks around to the other side of the table. He lacks hurriedness, languidly making his way to the chair across from her and pulling it out, a soft scraping sound echoing as he does.

Her face remains innocently neutral as he sinks down, all heavy limbs and a low tilt to his chin, into the chair like molten lava in the blacksmith’s workshop. With a gentle touch, she brings together the worn pages of the wide book to close it, and one hand lingers delicately atop the cover. A sweet surprise catches in her eyes as her eyebrows raise.

“I cannot say I was expecting you, Lord Stark.” Slowly, Lady Tyrell opens the conversation with an amiable cadence and tender softness about her face. She wonders briefly how he knows where to find her, but before the thought can fully take form in her mind, Cregan dips his head.

“I was told by your handmaiden that I might find you here if I wished to speak with you, Lady Tyrell.” The Northern depth and slowness to his tone still sends chills down her spine. The library is far from cold. At his words, she blinks slowly, lashes brushing against the top of her cheeks. Her pause is not performative, but genuine surprise at the revelation that he was purposefully seeking her out – going so far as to knock on her chamber door to call upon her.

Adelin has been smart to send Cregan directly to the lady, even without warning. This is hardly an opportunity she will pass up upon.

“And found me you have.” Delicately sweet words fall between them with the parting of her lips. Her hands reach up to push lose hair from her face, before she takes a deep breath and settles further into her chair. She does attempt to keep the intrigued glimmer from the depths of her eyes; it is only that she has been pursuing him with such ardent fervor that it delights her to see this take a more interesting turn. How repetitive it can get, her faux gentle smiles and his polite northern reservation. The heated looks down each other’s bodies go poignantly ignored in her head.

Cregan beholds her wordlessly, head tilted back and chin lifted to observe her coolly. There is a simplicity to her gown today as well, as it had been during their private dinner. The gentle swell of her breasts can be seen more prominently in this dress, even if the lord has found the other ones dangerous enough. “Aye, I have.”

She knows well when something is wanted from her. And here sits the Lord of Winterfell, who she knows for certain has not sought her out for the darling pleasure of her company. Taking a breath through her nose, her shoulders rise, the low neckline of her gown drooping slightly further with the movement. “Might I be of some assistance, Lord Stark?”

Cregan’s grey eyes glimmer at the quickness of her saccharine reply, the direct yet demure way she demands his cards on the table immediately. There is no sound from the rest of the library, the castle’s inhabitants seem more occupied with other matters for the evening. His hands come together on the surface of the table and her eyes drift down, catching a glimpse of the veins on the back of them. “I have a matter with which I would very much like your thoughts upon, my lady.”

Taking another slow breath, she nods thoughtfully and her gaze falls to the single candle upon the library table. A sheepish hesitance flutters across her face as if brought about by butterfly wings, and she presents him a tiny smile. “It would be my honor to offer my opinions, my lord, but I fear I know little of warfare or the ending of it.”

Round doe eyes cast themselves upon his face, decorated with the gentle glow of humility.

“It is you of all people who might offer insight,” Cregan’s hands tighten against each other slightly as they rest between them. His broad shoulders lower, his stern expression folding to become impossibly more serious. A moment of leisurely anticipation stretches between them in the pause he takes, his gaze seemingly searching hers. It is with utmost delicacy that she maintains her passive, pastel pleasantness. “It is a matter of a proposal, my lady.”

Her blood pounds in her ears. Tension spikes through her head, sharp behind her eyes and heavy on her shoulders. Cregan opens his mouth to explain his reasoning further, his eyes gazing slowly about the library as he speaks. But the Lady Tyrell pays his following words little mind, frozen like a doll left out in the cold by a little girl who had been called in for supper. All slow blinks and that eerie, easy smile upon her lips.

“I have grown so keenly aware of my lack of allies at court…” His voice is a distant drone, she pays no attention to the heavy raise of his brows and the weary sigh that droops his figure. While he speaks, she finds herself lost in the maze of her own thoughts, spinning around lost and confused. The walls of her fears loom over her, draped in thorns and ivy, at the prospect.

It should not be as shocking as it is. They are the same age, both young and unmarried, both in need of something from the other. And yet – is this not the physical manifestation of all that she has been dreading since the passing of her betrothed? To be married off to some lord she barely knows, subjected to a life at the hands of a husband who is just as likely to treat her callously and cruelly as he is to respect her, no matter how handsome he might be? Her mother told her to win his favor, not marry him. But in truth, if this is what is takes for peace to be achieved then she is wickedly selfish for considering a mad dash for the door.

Her mouth has gone dry and her fingernails dig so sharply into the fragile skin of her hand that she fears she will draw blood and stain the book cover below it. She continues to smile.

“Would it not serve our houses well?” Cregan’s voice drives a swift dagger through her turbulent thoughts, and she readjusts herself in her seat. Her hands fall to her lap and she agrees demurely, forcing her smile wider when she dips her chin.

“I cannot say it is not…a kind offer, Lord Stark,” Lady Tyrell murmurs with delicate, plucking cadence. She swallows, hoping to rid her tongue of its dry heaviness. The library, its calming atmosphere of scrolls and books and candles, has suddenly lost all of its usual comfort. The shelves about the hall loom ominously above her, trapping her beneath their massive structures. Cornering her here with this man and his propositions. “House Tyrell is honored by your consideration.”

Cregan watches her carefully. Studying her for a glimpse of masked pride and pleased simpering. This is what she wishes, is it not? Power and wealth through an ambitious match.

She reaches up to twist a strand of hair out of her way with a purposeful breath, wisps of lashes aflutter once more. Her beating heart is a weighty stone inside of her chest. “If it is what you wish, I would hardly feel the need to present my opinion upon the matter, my lord.”

“It is only that you know your sister so much better than I,” Cregan tells her with a raise of his thick brows, a hand coming to rest on his chin as he leans back in his chair. His gaze remains cast to a bookshelf, as if lost deeply in thought. “Perhaps you might have some insight upon the nature of such a union.”

There is a heartbeat where not a single thought occupies her mind. Lady Tyrell merely looks upon the man in front of her with empty, unblinking eyes. Her smile twitches at the corners, the edges of her cheeks rounding at the movement. It feels as if her hands are beginning to grow numb, as if an hour has passed before her dry lips part with disturbed slowness. “I beg your pardon?”

It is all that she can manage to breath, giving her a moment to collect the wild frenzy of thoughts. Where there had been silence only a moment ago, floodgates have been shattered to splinters as the torrent of words spill into her brain like the ocean itself has descended upon her mind. If she could sound alarms, she would. Their blares would better suit the panic in her heart than the silence of the castle library. The nonchalance of Cregan’s tone is not lost upon her.

“Your sister – the Lady Cassia. I have been told she is quite beautiful, and of a very agreeable countenance,” The Lord of Winterfell talks as if he is simply commenting upon the shade of blue in the sky or the taste of red wine at dinner. It has been some time since she has been this shellshocked. This utterly thrown by anyone, this completely caught vulnerable and off guard. She knows her smile no longer reaches her eyes; it barely remains upon her face at all.

The obvious question is to ask him why he would not simply wish to marry her – she knows well she has not imagined the way Cregan Stark rakes his eyes down her figure and about her face. Like a man starved. But far be it from her to understand the whims of men, Northern men even less so. She gives another slow blink. He is waiting for her to say something, she realizes. With a swallow, she does at least attempt to carve something resembling pleasance onto her features.

“She is but five and ten, my lord.” Her lips hesitant around the words, betraying a slight nervousness that makes her blood spike with irritation and worry. Rapidly, she attempts to pull for excuses she can offer to prevent him from marrying Cassia. The task proves rather difficult given the quickness with which she must accomplish it. She can feel fear dulling her senses, which only sets the feeling alight further. The jumping of the candleflame between them nearly makes her draw back.

“The age of marriage, is it not?” Cregan easily provides an answer with a heavy shrug of his shoulders. Lady Tyrell knows his words to be true, but it does not stop her eyes from darting about. She lowers her chin, trying to bring a semblance of composure to herself. There is too much to think of at once; she needs time to consider.

But in her head, she knows with a sinking feeling what her mother would say. Her eyes grow dull as she realizes that if Cregan follows through with this proposal, her mother will happily send Cassia off with this stranger if it means securing peace and the future of their House. His words cannot leave this room. The realization rises with a crushing swell in her chest.

“I do not believe she would be a suitable match, in truth.” There is a sharper edge to her saccharine tone than has ever been present, and she does not meet his eyes as she usually does. She imagines her sweet sister, who adores flowers and the fields of Highgarden and the sunshine, whisked away to a castle surrounded by snow and ice and dying trees. “Cassia is a delicate girl. I cannot imagine she would fare well in the North.”

Cregan finds it a refreshing change of pace to see her squirm for once, the delicate balance of her performance shattered by his words. Yet he still has not found the answer he is looking for.

“She would adjust, in time,” Cregan offers politely, his red hair shifting slightly to frame his face. She takes no note. “If it is for the sake of peace. Especially if she is as agreeable as is suggested.” A slight smile spreads to his face.

Her eyes flick to his with the sharpness and severity of a sword.

And she holds his gaze for quite some time. For the first time since their meeting, she looks at him without performance. Lady Tyrell meets him upon the battlefield of their game free of armor and weapons and nauseatingly sweet illustration.

Her eyes are piercingly jagged, wider as they bore into his own, and her lips are parted. A loose strand of hair falls into her face, catching stray candlelight in a haunting glow. She is just as beautiful, Cregan realizes with a start, when she is staring him down as if she intends to have his head on a spike by the end of this conversation.

Lady Tyrell will have just that before Cregan Stark lays a hand on her sister. He will spend his final moments in agony if he believes he will take Cassia anywhere, if he thinks he can demand her. She will not be threatened by the prospect of war or the destruction of her House. The Lord of Winterfell would soon see just how many men she would let burn before she sacrifices her sister to be taken by a man who wants a quiet and submissive bride to use as he wishes.

“It would seem I misread you, Lord Stark,” It is chilling to hear her true voice after Cregan has grown so accustomed to the gentle manner in which she presents even the few biting words she has allowed pass her lips in his presence. There is a haunting emptiness to the phrase and in her eyes that takes him aback. “It does not happen often.”

Her brows lower darkly, a shadow passing over her gentle features. There is a barbarous sting in her tone that pulls to mind images of snakes, still yet poised to strike. Disgust curls at her lip, the look she gives Cregan as her eyes rinse over his figure dripping with poisonous distaste. “Here come the carrion birds, whispering of frost-bitten savages who will wet our gardens with blood. I watched and I waited and foolishly drew the conclusion that as great of an irritation as you are, you are not a conqueror. Not a man who would seek a young girl as a spoil of war.”

She does not blink one time as she speaks. Eyes wide as saucers, thinly veiled anger simmering beneath her skin. “Do you think I will allow you to sit across from me and demand I hand my only sister to you because it will bring about peace? Because it will ensure the enduring security of my great House? I imagine you did.”

A huff of cold laughter quite nearly twists its way past her lips. The pumping of her beating heart feels akin to nails being hammered into her chest. Anything else she would gladly sacrifice to fulfill her mother’s wishes and win Cregan Stark’s favor. But never this. “No, my lord. You shall not have my sister, nor peace.”

With the screech of a chair scraping against wooden paneling, Lady Tyrell pushes her chair back and draws herself upright, body as tight a strung bow. She glares down at Cregan with such ferocity that he briefly wonders if she might try to fight him then and there in the castle library. But she merely glowers at him, scoffing with disgust as she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Find your submissive bride among the many Houses that will happily offer up their daughters as lambs to slaughter. You will not lay a hand on my sister in this lifetime.”

His eyes catch sight of the way her hands are trembling.

She spins with such a violence that her skirts billow out in an angry storm cloud about her, the heels of her shoes echoing in the silent library. Never in her life has she been so utterly fucked, so desperatelystupid and brash. Her shaking hands ball into fists as she stalks towards the library door. Fear prickles at every nerve in her body, the immediate regret washing over her in a chilling wave.

The sound of a chair tipping over makes her jump, her shoulders jerking and her hand hesitating on the gold doorhandle of the grand library. She does not know whether to freeze or run, unsure if Cregan is getting up to strike her for her insolence, or to simply leave. It was idiocy to speak to him as she did, she of all people knows this painfully. She turns her head over her shoulder, palms shining with sweat, catching a glimpse of him as he approaches.

Anxious helplessness claws its way up her throat, stifling her breath at the sight of his imposing figure drawing nearer. She does not have enough time to open the door, he will reach her before she leaves. Neither can she imagine she has much time to scream. As breath evades her further, she parts her lips to murmur a shaky apology against the thrumming of her rapid heartbeat. But his voice carries out into the space between them first.

“Please, my lady, a moment.” Cregan speaks the words quietly, his rich Northern tone softer than she has ever heard it. Her back presses into the great oak door as he draws nearer, stopping in front of her. She does little to hide the worry upon her face, her brows drawn together warily. There is a horrible guilt that has begun to spread in Cregan’s chest.

Confusion stirs in her gut as she looks up to find only a stoic concern in his eyes, his lips parted slightly as he searches for the words he wishes to say. A part of him wants to reach out, to try and comfort her, but he imagines it would do little but set her off. “Lady Tyrell, I did not wish to frighten you.”

His voice is scarcely above a hum in his deep tone, the quiet and tender manner in which he presents it only serves to deepen her misunderstanding. She gazes up at him with suspicious concern, searching for some sort of ploy or deception. A heavy sigh lowers Cregan’s shoulders, drooping his figure slightly. This is why he despises these ridiculous court games. “I have no intention to marry your sister, in truth. She shall be perfectly safe, I assure you.”

A shudder of a skeletal breath rattles its way out past her lips. Her eyes flicker, crinkling with confusion, as she regards him with wary unease. But there is nothing but seemingly genuine worry for her wellbeing as the Northern lord hovers hesitantly in front of her.

“I do not understand.” There is an almost petulant softness to her words as she looks up at him, clawing for an explanation so that she might regain a semblance of control as she remains pressed to the oak door, Cregan only a step in front of her. Gazing down with such eyes.

The man opens his mouth to speak but finds any explanation he can provide for his actions will only seem cruel. Cregan has been so blinded by the toxicity of the Red Keep and the politics played by the nobles that he had acted with prejudice against her, assuming her some power-hungry bird of prey, trying to sink her talons into him to raise her own status. But here in front of him is a girl who loves her sister, who would risk incurring his wrath to tell him directly that she would do anything to protect the girl. He does not consider himself someone who toys with people’s feelings. Perhaps the capital has had worse influence on him than he realizes.

“I only wished to determine your intentions with me,” The man quite nearly winces from how stiffly aware he is of the callousness of his actions, and how terribly he is excusing them. He tilts his head, a pained expression flickering across his face like the lighting of a tea candle. “I had believed you wished to marry me yourself. I could not determine whether it was for your own gain or your House so I…”

Lady Tyrell sees it quite clearly now, even through the dense fog of her anxiety. It is a good plan; she can give him that compliment at the very least. Had he used anything aside from her sister, she might have caught on. It is Cassia above all that is her weakness, especially after the death of Helaena. She is foolishly and vulnerably blindsided when the girl is brought up. Cregan Stark likely does not even know to the full extent. Truly, a masterful scheme.

But the anger burns hot in her chest, fueled by her fear, the flames wildly licking and spitting about in her lungs.

Her wide eyes look up into his as the realization settles upon her face like an unforgiving dawn. A heavy silence falls between them and Cregan finds himself longing to fill it, to apologize further for behaving in a manner unbecoming of his character.

“You must think yourself very smart, Lord Stark.” The lady’s tone is dangerously low and airy. That sickly sweet smile peels its way onto her face, an eerie ghost of the look she has given him time and time again.

Cregan’s heart plummets in his chest. All he had wanted was to know the truth. He has seen it, clear as day, the depth of the love she has for her sister. The bravery and ferocity with which she will meet him with in order to defend the girl, even in the face of the lady’s own fear. His head tilts, his brows drawing together in gentle apology.

“Lady Tyrell, if you would please let me-.” But Cregan Stark is not given the chance to do anything nor say anything. She turns quickly, hand gripping the golden doorhandle to yank the library door open with such force that Cregan steps back. Her body slips through the partially open door. It closes with a violent slam and Cregan is left staring at the wood, alone in the vast and silent library.

When she hears the muffled sound of a man’s footsteps behind her as she walks down the hall, she does not bother to turn around. The hour has grown late and most of the castle has drawn away to their bed chambers or to skulk in shadowy corners. She parts her lips to snap something rather barbarous about not wishing to be followed, but the words are lost in her mouth as she feels a hand grab her wrist.

After much heavy pacing, Cregan Stark finds his boots carrying him to Lady Tyrell’s bedchambers. He simply cannot allow the night to pass without the deliverance of proper apology. Despite getting the answer he had been seeking, the truth behind the nature of her character, there is no satisfaction in his chest. Far be it from him to engage in such deceptions, and yet he has offended and frightened her in a manner that is so deeply against that for which he stands. The capital will not turn his heart rotten nor dispel the sacrosanct honor he strives to uphold.

Guards are stationed outside of her door as the lord rounds the corner, the Tyrell rose blooming in vibrant gold against the silver of their breastplates. Her personal guards, whom had not been stationed there when Cregan had knocked upon her door earlier that evening. A deep unsettling wariness finds its way into his mind, and it only increases when the guards move to intercept him as he draws nearer. The flicker of torchlight upon the walls ripples across the shining armor as Cregan’s narrowed eyes flick between the two men.

Lady Tyrell can hear the muffled exchange of words through her thick door, her eyes jumping sharply to stare at the oak. Sharp anxiety shoots through her frayed nerves, but simmers to a hum at the deep rumble of a Northern tone. The fire in her hearth crackles as she sits on the floor in front of it, the plush rug beneath her partially balled up in one tightly closed fist. With an eerie stillness, she rises from her place upon the ground and steps slowly towards the echoes of voices, her bare feet soft against the cold wood.

When she draws the door inwards, opening it, all parties involved in the exchange turn their heads to meet her. She hovers at the edge of the frame, one hand curling delicately against the thick wood as the remainder of her body remains obscured. Her guards turn and the taller one, Leo, gives her a deep and apologetic dip of his head.

“I apologize for the disturbance, my lady, we were sending him away at once.” Leo assures her firmly, one hand resting atop the shining hilt of his golden sword. But her tired eyes fall upon Cregan Stark’s face instead. He is beholding her with faint surprise, his lips parted and brows low, his red hair loose about his face and falling down to brush the tops of his shoulders. His eyes rest on her lips – far from the first time such a thing has occurred, but it is not through half-lidded desire with which he stares now. It is shock.

A ripening cut pulls at her lower lip, ruby against reddening and swollen skin. Her eyes reveal nothing as he finds a stern and questioning expression twisting its way onto his face as he takes a slow step back. One of the guards moves to further push Cregan away, but with an unreadable neutrality, she shakes her head, loose hair spilling down about her face and over what little can be seen of her ivory nightgown.

“It is alright,” Her voice is hoarse, as if the act of speaking is foreign in her throat. Her grip tightens on the edge of the door before she draws it open further. “If Lord Stark wishes to speak with me, he may.”

There is no need to acquiesce to his wants, nor to prevent her guards from running him off. Performance is no longer required as she has already destroyed all of the time spent crafting a sweet disposition to charm him with. But now that her heartrate is steady and exhausted, the veins connecting to her heart too tired to thrum with the rush of adrenaline and anxiety, she can see Cregan quite clearly. There is nothing false about the firm worry he extends silently to her, a demanding question barely bitten back upon his tongue.

“But my lady--.” Leo begins with a start, concern in the man’s eyes for his lady. She shakes her head again, stepping back in an unspoken invitation for the Lord of Winterfell.

“I shall scream if need be. Do not go far.” It is a quiet order, a bitter amusement bubbling in her throat but stifled down by a rush of exhaustion yet again. The guards exchange a worried look but know better than to argue with her. Cregan stands as still as a stone statue, as she turns her back to him to walk further into her room. His stormy eyes trail after her, uncertain if he should ask her if she truly wants him to follow her inside. Yet his feet carry him forward before his mouth can form words, the closing of the door behind him. The sound echoes with a quiet tolling of finality that Cregan cannot identify.

Lady Tyrell’s chambers are expansive and comfortable, the large bed on the far side covered in satin and silk blankets and a mountain of fluffed pillows at its head. The warm oak posters of the bed spiral upwards, a sheer canopy of pink fabric shimmering softly in the firelight of the hearth. Two plush chairs stand before the hearth, before a thick rug that the Lady Tyrell stands upon. There are shards of glass at the base of her bedside table, shining like small knives as they catch light, and interwoven into puddles. A bunch of dried roses rests upon the floor, scattered haphazardly, their crisp petals soaking up the water that had once been in their vase.

Cregan’s eyes cannot be torn from her figure, and he imagines that would be the case even if the castle around them began to collapse in that very moment. Her hair is completely loose, messy strands falling in front of her face and down her back, and her eyes are dull and red-rimmed from the remnants of shed tears. There is a gaunt look to her skin, only strengthened by the small wound on her soft lips.

Even though it was her own decision to invite him into her quarters, she has to resist the urge to squirm under the heaviness of the Northern lord’s stare. It is too steady, too intense, and her eyes narrow in challenging response despite herself. When her lips open into with a callous twist, her voice comes out dry and rather cold. “Have you come simply to stare at me, my lord?”

“What has happened?” The heavy lowness of the phrase morphs it into a demand, rather than a question. Cregan’s hands are gripped in tight fists, his shoulders raised. The man is always serious, but the severity of his tone has her remembering just who this man is – the Lord of Winterfell, the Wolf from the North who has forced King’s Landing into submission and rules in all but title. Towering within her chambers, mandate weighty upon his lips. The storm clouds upon his face darken as she does not answer immediately. “I have only just seen you, but hours ago. Can I not take my eyes off of you for a moment?”

The growl in his normally politely resigned tone sends a chill down her spine. She does not understand the rough urgency of his voice.

If she asks after it, she will discover he does not understand it either.

Unconsciously, her fingers reach for her reddening wrists, her eyes lowering and gazing about the room while a syrupy swallow makes it way down her throat. Cregan’s eyes flick down, taking sharp note of the marks that blossom upon the skin of her arms. His anger burns hotter, and when he meets her avoidant gaze, it is clear that he wants an answer immediately.

Letting out a huff of breath, stopping just short of muttering something about brutish Northern impatience, she turns elegantly. Wrists wringing in her hands, she lowers her eyes and opens her mouth, shoulders drawn back gracefully even in the disheveled state of her appearance. “I do not know, to be perfectly honest, my lord.”

Her eyes find their way to the fireplace, willing herself to still her hands and folding them over top of her stomach. She smooths a wrinkled portion of her nightgown before continuing, her back partially turned to him. “I was not paying much mind to where I was going, the hour was late. A hand came upon my wrist and when I pulled towards someone, I screamed. He smelled of wine and strong spirits and my shouting must have made him panic.”

A slight wobble of her damaged lower lip makes Cregan’s heart plummet further. This is not how he wishes to see her, eyes dim and thinly veiled anxiety covered with a cloak of indifference. He has grown used to the pleased glimmers in her pupils when she believes him to not be looking, that bright intelligence reading his every move and word. The sound of the crackling fire fills the pause.

“He struck me when footsteps could be heard, and then ran. He did not say what he wanted from me. He did not need to.” The vacancy that occupies her stare is ghostly, and the burdening truth hangs between them weightily. Neither of them are fools. Her chin lowers, lashes against the tips of her cheeks when she pulls her gaze to the floorboards. The rug atop them is soft upon her feet.

Cregan takes in her bruising wrists and the cut upon her mouth, before his attention turns to the fallen roses and shattered vase. When she catches this, a bitter smile cuts through her thoughts and she lifts her shoulders slightly, hands clasped together as she walks towards him.

“That was my own doing. Perhaps not very ladylike of me.” Lady Tyrell muses with tiredly cool sarcasm, her brows raising. Cregan turns as she draws near, looking down at her with a cross between concern and frustration at her breezy nonchalance.

There is a dimple between his brows due to the severity with which he is furrowing them. With little effort to conceal his anger, he shakes his head slowly. “Who did this?”

“I did not get a clear look at his face.” A rush of an answer, a breath she lets out while she begins pacing in small steps, the wood panels creaking slightly as she glides to and from.

The fists at his sides tighten, pressure squeezing his fingers as he stares at her, looking every ounce the fearsome Northern lord that he is rumored to be. “Then I shall drag the men of this castle before you so that you might point him out.”

“There is no need for theatrics, Lord Stark.” She fixes him with a dry look, seemingly unimpressed by the severity upon his face and the intensity with which he speaks. His visage darkens thunderously at her easy dismissal of his words and he has to force back a sharper retort, attempting to be gentler with her instead.

“It is a matter of justice–.” He begins, but she is quick to interrupt with a wave of her hand. A gust of cool air blows in through her open balcony, sending the sheer curtains blowing about.

“Oh, spare me your monologue on justice and duty and honor for one night,” The words drip from a curled lip with soft irritation as she casts him a rather scornful glance, drawing her arms across her chest protectively. The fabric of her nightgown is soft against her skin. “If I wished to be lectured upon righteousness I would summon a priest instead.”

In exasperation, she gazes to the balcony with a huff, eyes falling upon the moon and stars that dazzle brilliantly in the dark night. The sound of leaves can be heard outside of her window, plants growing on the outside wall blown about in the wind. A foghorn blares in echoed low tones, drifting in from the harbor.

Cregan’s jaw clenches, tightening as he wrestles back the desire to meet her stubbornness with equal force. But as his eyes drop to her lip again, he remembers with a tightening chest that he had come here to apologize to her, not to bicker like children. Before he expresses this to her, his eyes soften. “I had come to apologize, my lady. For my actions in the library earlier that were callous and frightened you.”

Although she had been quick to direct her ire at him, the start of the quiet apology draws her pacing to a pause. It is the reason she had allowed him into her chambers in the first place, that genuine concern that he displays so openly upon his face, as he had in the library once he had seen the truth of her fear.

“I had believed you to be seeking power, to marry into my House for your own gain. Hoping to determine your intentions, I wished to know whether your loyalty was stronger to yourself or the strength of your own House.” Cregan does his utmost to explain himself in a quiet yet quick tone, lest she might decide to interrupt and throw him out at her whim. The look on his face captivates her attention. “But I was wrong to level your sister as a weapon against you. I did not know – how much you love her. I am truly sorry.”

Lady Tyrell’s eyes lose some of their harsh edge as she watches the rugged Northern lord express his regret so genuinely. Rare is it that she has been apologized to, rarer still that the apology is of such a truthful and straightforward nature. Cregan stands quite still as he anticipates her reply, the seriousness upon his face giving him the appearance of a man awaiting sentencing.

“Do you think I enjoy playing darling here at court?” It is a softly posed question, her hands tightening as she keeps them together in front of her. “That this is a hobby I do for my own amusement?”

Her voice is laced with a weary exhaustion that does not quite fit her age. Cregan has heard a similar tone leave his own lips many times before.

“The safety and security of my House – a house whom has no male leader at present – rests on my ability to hold my own in this twisted, toxic den of vipers. I am weak, I cannot fight. But what I can do, I have honed my skills in. I will not claim to be a saint, but I am not scheming for the sake of seizing power if that Is what you think.” Her voice quivers slightly but her eyes remain firm as she holds his gaze steadily.

“Yet you would risk the safety of your House for the safety of your sister.” Cregan points out quietly, his hand extending out as he speaks. Lady Tyrell gives a frustrated shrug, keenly aware of her own foolishness, and shoots him a withering gaze.

“We all have something we would sacrifice the world to protect. What your suffocating honor is for you, my sister is to me.” She has always been protective of the girl, who had been her only sibling until the recent birth of her younger brother. But since Helaena’s death, the paranoia and anxiety that gather her mind in their clutches are persistent and cruel. She fears, perhaps irrationally so, of all manner of terrible fates that might befall the girl. Waking from nightmares, clothes and blankets soaked in sweat and lungs burning as she gasps for ragged breath.

Cregan keeps his gaze upon her, a heavy sigh falling from his lips. For a lady which such a delicate frame, she seems to love with a strength rivaling any warrior and a determination that is as clear as the moon in the sky outside her balcony. It is obvious to him that she is willingly to do whatever it might take to defend those in her heart, at the risk of her own safety or peace of mind.

She stalks across the room, returning to the plush armchair by the hearth. Sinking into the soft red seat, she picks up the bandages that she had been attempting to wrap around her bruising wrist. The last thing she wishes for is for someone to see and ask questions. Adelin normally assisted in such manners, but Lady Tyrell had been in such a state that she had demanded to be left alone.

“Your apology has been heard, Lord Stark. You may leave.” She murmurs quietly, the fireplace casting a warm light upon her face and her messy hair. Stretching the bandages in front of her, the lady bites back a curse as she fumbles with the ivory cloth. Cregan watches her for a moment before a heaving sigh moves his broad chest, and he crosses the room to her with large steps. Her eyes jump up to him, slight worry and fear flickering like fireflies, but when he drops to one knee before her chair, she finds there are no words upon her mouth.

“Allow me, my lady.” The sternness to his rumbling tone makes it seem more like an order than an offer, but it is said with such politeness that despite the way suspicion swims in her eyes, she pauses. There they remain, the Lord of Winterfell on his knee in front of her armchair, the golden light from the fire bathing his features. As he looks up at her, she realizes that despite the gruff, masculine stature of his imposing figure, the brightness of his eyes and the soft nature of his red hair give him a fairness that she hesitantly describes as beauty.

The sound of a clock fills the darkness of her chambers, tick after tick reverberating into the silence.

Wordlessly, she hands him the roll of bandages. Cregan takes no time to gingerly reach for her wrist, taking it into his much larger hand. He holds it tenderly, intentionally drawing his mind away from the softness of her skin and the way his hand can wrap around her entire arm. The faint smell of vanilla fills his nose, and he feels his stomach jolt at the imperceptible breath she takes as his thumb ghosts over the pressure point on her wrist. He reminds himself to breath.

The ivory bandages are wrapped around her reddened wrist slowly, glowing in front of the firelight, the warmth carrying over to both of them. Yet Cregan’s body has already grown hot. Neither of them breathe a word, eyes cast down to the simmering points where their skin meets. When he finishes his work, Cregan’s hands jerk back slightly, as if he has been burned. Lady Tyrell’s lashes flutter slightly at the motion, and she draws her wrists to her with a small frown. He remains on his knee a moment longer, before rising to his feet and breaking the spell that has fallen between them. Cregan swallows thickly, his eyes cast to her wrist as she stares into the fire with an unreadable expression.

“Rest well, my lady.” He murmurs to her, before his heavy boots carry him with unnecessary quickness across the wooden floor panels and out of her door.

a/n: this was supposed to be a short chapter, but it is another monstruous piece and half of it was written on an airplane so please bear with me. i know the ‘who did this’ trope is low-hanging fruit, but i fall for it every time so here it is. i cannot believe i have written so much of this work so quickly, and i am even more surprised at the lovely interactions it has had. thank you for every like, reblog, and comment on this little story that i love.

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alpydk · 5 months ago

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Writing Prompt! (No pressure) Bit of a sillier one -

It's early on in their adventures and Gale is still reliant of magical artefacts to keep the orb sated. Tav gives him an enchanted item, not realising it is imbued with a curse that silences him for 24 hours.

How on earth will Gale cope without his practiced tongue? Will the other tadfools take advantage of this blissful silence? Will Gale literally explode from not being able to talk about the weave for a whole day?

Unspoken

---

I enjoyed this. Though I feeI I went completely off course from what you initially asked for... Hopefully it's still sufficient? It's not silly, it's literally romance and sweet.

1383 words - Comfort, Romance, M/M (it's pride, and I wanted to try.)

Tav rested his head on Waltimer, his brown bear companion, as it slept in the shade of a grand oak. A gentle breeze caused the coarse bristles to brush against his face, a tickle that made him smile. He could see the dance of the leaves above him, smell the scent of blooming flowers around him, taste the salted air blown up from the coastline. The tadpole meant little at this moment to the monk as he closed his eyes, feeling the slow beat of his heart at peace against his friend.

The movement of the bear was enough to cause Tav to open his eyes and be on guard, the unspoken agreement between him and his furred friend keeping them both safe. A few meters away he saw Gale, walking pained towards them both, his hand gripped to his chest, the orb demanding its daily claim. Gale had spoken often to Tav of his condition, the silent monk providing comfort to one who loved to talk so much. The wizard would gesture as he spoke, a smile on his lips, his eyes expressive for the words that Tav missed when distracted by an unexpected movement. Tav had waited to be caught out, but Gale spoke with little need for comment or critique. He was happy enough to receive an expressive nod, or a gentle hand placed on his arm in comfort, and from there he’d talked further about his life and his potential death.

Tav let him approach, watching the way Gale’s body moved, how his shoulders seemed weighted down by the world. The monk signalled for Gale to sit beside him as he sifted through his bag, quickly pulling out a small ring and handing it over without question. This had become such a regular occurrence as they’d trekked down the Sword Coast together. Gale would appear pained, and in silence, Tav would hand over a magic item, watching as his companion absorbed it into his body. The wizard would then thank him, explaining in detail about Mystra and the folly that had been committed. Gale was frighteningly honest, something that Tav wished they could learn from.

It was shortly after the ring had been absorbed that Tav noticed the change in Gale’s behaviour. The way the delicate hands of the weave rose to the often-smiling lips, how the deep brown eyes widened in panic. Words came out at random, as if Gale was testing the various things he could say, and Tav gave a confused smile, trying to read the behaviour in front of him. He noticed how Waltimer seemed to tense, suggesting something was wrong with the situation; the large animal shifting position to provide a physical comfort to Gale.

---

Gale felt the ache die down in his body, now more manageable than it had been in the previous hours. He was thankful for his friend, the way he had watched them diffuse situations just with their presence and caring eyes. To live a life and never hear your voice, such a tragedy. Gale had tried to ignore the stirrings of his heart over his ally, the way their hand had often drifted to his arm in times of hardship, the way they had listened and never judged him for his actions. The orb stirred with the longings of desire he buried deep down. He went to thank Tav for the item, only for his voice to catch in his throat, and he smiled awkwardly, trying to laugh off what was surely a hiccup. As the sound of his laugh failed to reach his ears, he tried to a voice a few more words. Hundur sauce, Sol Invictus… Hello? None of the words emerged, his lips moving but only being met with silence.

He saw how Tav watched him, but never questioned what was happening, as if this was some poor joke only affecting his own senses. He didn’t want to worry, and yet the adrenaline flowed readily, his stomach forming a tight knot, his breathing coming out shaky. Gale felt as the bear moved around, pressing its frame into him, the weight acting as a firm blanket trying to calm him. He heard the wind whistle through the leaves of the tree above them, the way the grass scrunched under the weight of the Waltimer, the twittering of distant birdsong. His own voice gone allowed the emergence of surrounding music; one he’d listened to very little.

---

Tav pulled himself closer to Gale, placing a worn hand on the cotton of the wizard’s robes, trying to figure out what was wrong. As the wizard looked away, Tav placed a hand under his chin, lifting the bearded face to him. He felt the soft hairs under his fingers, saw the loving eyes he’d fallen for the day he’d pulled Gale from the portal. How he wished he could run his fingers through the locks of silver tinted hair, feel the flesh of the neck in front of him upon his lips, hear the…

Tav saw as Gale peered up to him, his lips moving before halting. Only half a silenced message given before being surrendered, believing it pointless to continue. The monk signalled for Gale to continue; now aware it was to do with the ring given. As Gale’s mouth continue to move, Tav focused on the shape of his friend’s lips, on the way his tongue positioned itself behind his teeth as he mouthed the words, as he gave the unsaid message that the ring had been silenced and he now could not speak.

All Tav could do was smile in response, shaking his head that this was but a minor issue, his thumb brushing lightly on Gale’s cheek in comfort. He could smell the sandalwood of his robes over the scent of the surrounding wilderness, could see the aged creases around the soft eyes in front of him, feel the energy around them building as their bodies leaned in towards one another. How Tav longed to kiss the lips that had spoken so many words, lips that, for now, trembled in anticipation. He looked to Gale for confirmation, knowing that this was probably not the best time; the silence spell, the orb, the tadpole all just hurdles in the way of romance.

---

He reads lips…He can hear me even when I cannot. Gale felt the thumb on his cheek, heard the waves crashing on the cliffs in the distance, heard the steady breath emerge from Tav so close to him. The wizard had initially feared the silence spell, the loss of a sense so important as speech, his charisma dwindling further, but as he saw his friend’s eyes gazing into his own, he knew it mattered little.

Their mouths met; a softness he had not expected from someone not versed in the act of talking. He could hear the quiet sigh of his companion, the grumble of the bear behind them both as their hands roamed delicately up one another's bodies, the sounds of their lips upon one another’s. The orb gave a sudden thud, forcing him away, their longing for each other requiring a postponement. He saw how Tav smiled before looking away, more than one unspoken secret being given away on this day.

Gale tapped the monk’s shoulder and mouthed a few words, to which Tav nodded with a shamed look in his eyes. Deaf… How did I not realise? The wizard placed his hand on Tav’s arm, as had been done to him so many times before. He felt nothing had changed between them and his fear of silence now quietened down as the sounds of the world around him built up.

---

The two lay together, their bodies leant into the comfort of Waltimer, for the remaining hours of daylight. Gale with his eyes closed, listening to the various sounds of the world, Tav with his open, watching the rise and fall of his companion’s chest. The sunlight drifted through the treeline, placing warmth upon their smiles, the cicadas sung their summer tune, the birds slowly falling quiet as the shadows crept further with the setting sun. Both felt the comfort of the other next to them, their hands entwined, the scent of each weaving together, their feelings building through muted gestures.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 gale #gale of waterdeep #bg3 fanfiction #gale dekarios #gale bg3 #galemance #ask prompt #bg3 pride

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badassbbpirates · 1 month ago

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Crackship I'm surprised nobody considers: Laffitte/Charlotte Perospero

Now in canon, Laffitte and Perospero have never interacted (and we don't know if they ever will, considering how we have no idea where Perospero is since his defeat in Wano).

But hey, if people can ship Katakuri/King the Wildfire, though they've never met, there's no reason why this can't also be a crack ship!

I mean, there's a lot of potential with them, especially since they have similarities:

They're both very sadistic when it comes to dealing with their enemies, what with Laffitte's history as the "Demon Sheriff" and how Perospero mostly kills people by encasing them in or turning them into candy.

They also seem to be one of the brains of their respective crews, if not the smartest out of them.

They both think very highly of their leaders, evident in how Laffitte threatened to kill Pizarro when he joked about taking Blackbeard's place as captain, and how Perospero couldn't believe that Big Mom was allying with Kaidou, which to him could mean she was giving up her chance to be the Pirate King and he didn't want that to happen.

They both look killer in lipstick and seem to have a kind of flamboyance in each of their attitudes. Figured that was worth mentioning.

Oh, and both of their favorite foods are candy! Laffitte's favorite is lollipops specifically, and Perospero likes candy in general. That's a small thing but it's something I couldn't help but notice!

I can't help but imagine an odd scenario where Laffitte happens to meet Perospero and knows of this fact and becomes a little excited and maybe even a little overly curious about his powers...

Laffitte: Oh! So, you're a candy man, hm? Does that mean if I were to, say, lick you, you'd taste sweet like a lollipop?

Perospero: If you as much as touch me, I'll give you a licking!

Laffitte, gets what Perospero means, but pretends he doesn't: Oh my, you will, will you? Oh, you are very bold with your desires!

Perospero: I MEAN'T I'LL KICK YOUR ASS!!!

So yeah, there's a bit of potential with this ship, and I'm a little disappointed that's there's barely any content for it.

(There's actually one fic on AO3, but it's in Russian and I don't know if the translate function on my web browser translates it right. Here it is if you want to check it out: link)

#one piece #laffitte #op laffitte #one piece laffitte #charlotte perospero #blackbeard pirates #big mom pirates #charlotte family #one piece ships #one piece pairings

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muppetears-stuff · 2 months ago

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It's so amazing to realize just how broken every clique is. They're divided, even within each other. Because they all want something different, they're forced into their roles because they were born into it, like the preps, or their friends are that way, so they have to be too. It is not fun being the odd one out, especially in bullworth. There's so much happening with the fear of being ostracized in this game that shines so fucking well but it's so so subtle,,,,

One of the prime examples I CAN think about is the preps

Justin especially, I talk about him alot but it's obvious he doesn't wanna be a prep. He has many other interests and is genuinely a good student, sure his tastes are expensive and he's just as stuck up as the other preps but we can't be for sure for sure that he isn't faking it like the rest??? He seems to be at his happiest discussing Greek culture and compliments Jimmy, sincerely, on his features being "pleasantly Grecian."

He loves sports and comments on wanting to ally with the jocks and that he doesn't understand why Derby opposes the idea. He doesn't fundamentally understand why everyone's so divided. Why can't they enjoy themselves?? Sure, they're slummish and dumb but they're real, and they love doing what they do as much as anyone else, and Justin wants a taste of how that feels. Freedom.

I love love love knowing that clique members wanna be a part of different cliques or want to he friends with someone from a different clique or want to date someone from a different clique and they aren't allowed to because of how that would ruin their reputation, their cliques and the person/people they want to be with.

Jimmy was a godsend, and I think a lot more students should have helped him. Like one from each clique that had the desire of wanting to befriend other people from different cliques, they could be little spies. But it also shows how devoted they are to their clique members cause they've been through this too much and can't risk it if it doesn't work, and it almost doesn't!! I LOVE THIS GAME!!!@

#bully scholarship edition #i am overanalyzing stupid shit again #/pos #just watched the outsiders and had thoughts on the parallels between Peanut and Johnny and Ponyboy but ya know #this shitpost instead of a completely unserious character😭

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merbear25 · 1 month ago

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Kintober list - Could i humbly request Caesar clown for the Public dex ( 10 ), rhe scratching/bruises ( 13 ) and the mutual masturbation ( 16 ) ?

Not necessarily all of them if it's too much...~

With a female x reader

I decided to combine the others with public sex (transport). Thanks for sending this in. Hope you like it 💜🧡

A late night train taking you to a rendezvous point and with you your supposed colleague. How could either of you pass up an opportunity to delve into the complexities of your attraction to one another?

CW: NSFW, MDNI, public sex (train/station), mutual masturbation, light abrasion (scratching, bruising, spanking), vaginal penetration, non established relationship

Opportunist (Caesar)

The last train that went to the outskirts of the city. Some of the windows were cracked to compensate for the air conditioning that was on the fritz, allowing the slightest breeze of the passing summer air brush against your foreheads.

Darkened branches scraped across the sides of the carts on either side. Their full leaves barely left room for the moon to peek through. Its rays flickered on the face of your supposed ally, illuminating the golden orbs that were burrowing into you. Despite the unusually undivided attention, the heat building in your chest and cheeks from it hinted at something deeper you’d been trying to hide.

You shifted in your seat, absentmindedly trying to shake his gaze off of you, and yet you only further lured his eyes to you. Each way you wiggled and fidgeted made your clothes crease in ways that gave a taste of what laid beneath them.

“The wind’s shifted,” he pointed out in a low tone. “Why don’t you come next to me? Take full advantage of it.” He patted the empty seat, his eyes remaining on you.

As obvious as his underlying intentions were, baking in the final days of the summer heat wasn’t anything you’d take willingly.

That moment of hesitation was something he found all too amusing. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

You waved your hands denying what he said, even if you weren’t entirely sure why your stomach was in knots just from being in close proximity.

He leaned down a little and whispered, “Or maybe it’s just nerves?”

Your eyes betrayed you. Them widening in size and darting to the side made him chuckle.

“Hmm and what do you have to be nervous about?” The question hung in the air, purposefully teasing you because there was no clearer reason.

He walked his long fingers up your thigh, tracing the creases in your pants that hugged your hip. His soft hums meant to soothe had the opposite effect: your breaths quickened and your hands gripped at your sides in anticipation.

The light touch of his fingertips on your zipper caused you to gasp—slight friction accompanied by a devilish grin. He pulled his hand away and draped his arm over your headrest, savoring the faint whimper of confusion on your quivering lips.

“You know, now that I think about it, this may be the first time you and I have ever had a chance to get better acquainted.” His words swirled around you, luring you into the belly of the beast. He readjusted himself, tempting a glance from you. With his eyes held on your expression, each shift served as an appetizer for the main course.

His long, lanky arm drifted past your breast. Even though it was barely a graze, it was enough to fan the glowing embers of desire. The former tenderness had grown more assertive, rubbing the sensitive lips between your legs.

The shockwaves running through your lower half and wrapping around your sensitive bundle of nerves: you instinctively gripped at his pant leg. A sharp inhale sounded from him. Leaning in more closely to quietly encourage you to explore more of him, he took a chance by plunging his hand under your jeans. Gliding between your slick folds, the warmth could be felt even under his gloved hand. The tangy scent of your arousal practically danced on his taste buds.

As your hand was trembling from the jolts of pleasure, he gave you some help: springing his hardened length out, guiding your hand to it, and showing you just how tightly he preferred it.

His dominant exterior began to shake the more your soft hand stroked him just like he showed you. He buried his face in your hair. The sweetness of your hair products brought on images of you in the shower when you were drenched, vulnerable.

Muffled moans from the formerly intimidating man sent shivers down your spine. Your pants and his murmured sounds of bliss swarmed both of your thoughts.

By chance, your eyes met the passing letters above the door alerting you of the next station. Abruptly, you jumped up from your seat to button up your pants, leaving Caesar slumped over from his sensual incense having been snatched away.

Shooting you a displeased and grouchy expression, he rolled his eyes and covered himself up in a huff.

The station appeared to be far from wherever this meetup point was—a thick forest lined the brim of a ravine and ran on both sides of the track. The one light above the turnstile flickered, giving a faint hue of the bench on the platform.

“Tsk, being interrupted by the state of a place like this?” He grumbled.

“Maybe you’re right. It would be a shame to let our fun go to waste.”

A smirk pulled at his mouth, while he took the liberty of sitting himself down, eager to jump back into the action.

“Well, if you’re still so hot and bothered for me…” His voice was ragged from the increasing want building within.

There was no one around but the crickets that chirped in the background, but even still the thought of getting caught put you both on edge. His hands roamed on your bare skin, and the faint trails of cloud-like gas wafted over you, giving you a tingling sensation and making your pupils dilate.

“Let’s not get caught up in the unknown peaking in on our fun.” His silky voice placed you further into a trance, leaving him the sole object of desire.

Your hips quaked as you eased yourself down on him. A thin layer of protective material formed around his full length, granting both of you peace of mind to explore this moment to its entirety.

The slight bounces were met with his bucking hips, leaving your head spinning and your body aching. It wasn’t long before your walls, which were so firmly wound around him, eased their grip and allowed you to lose yourself in the haze of euphoria. The coolness of the gas washing over your delicate skin pricked at each of your most sensitive nerve endings, leaving shivers of heightened ecstasy cascading down your body.

Caesar’s grunts and groans paired nicely with his fingers digging into your skin. His thumbs pressed into your hips, forcing out a cry dripping with desire and pain. Your nails raked down his chest from a meek attempt at coping with the swirling twinges shadowing the euphoria.

He cursed under his breath before slapping your ass. The sob you let out softened his features just a tad. Each hand he landed on your backside was planted harder and harder, causing your nails to dig into his already scratched up and reddened skin.

Your increasing enthusiasm as you rode him to that sought after peak was driving him mad. The deep guttural groans were now slightly lighter, and the stern look of irritation when getting off the train was softened to one of wanton need to take that plunge over the edge together.

The sensation of your body gripping around him and the sweet sight of pure and utter bliss rapturing your body left him no choice. A strangled moan was instantly followed by the rush of cum pouring out of him. Your senses heightened by the lingering effects of the gas sent uncontrollable jolts of an elated climax throughout your form.

Your nails dug into his flesh that was beading with small droplets of crimson. Heady gasps lessened to raspy huffs, while the both of you allowed your bodies to drain of any remaining lust you had for each other.

The impromptu exploration of the now crossed line of business and pleasure was not meant to be seen as a way into each other’s hearts. Physical attraction was placed above any emotional connection that may or may not be there. That being said, the fluttering of your heart when he gave you a meek smile of satisfaction wasn’t something you could easily ignore.

Trekking to your final destination with your weakened limbs proved to be a hindrance, though the light conversation with your seemingly unphased companion helped pull you through. As he yapped about this thing and the other, you couldn’t help but be swayed into what ifs and being left to wonder if he’d eventually feel the same way about you.

#kinktober 2024 #one piece #caesar clown #x reader #one piece x reader #one piece imagine #op #one piece x you #caesar clown x reader #one piece caesar clown #one piece smut #op x reader #op x you

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yanderes-galore · 2 months ago

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Samarie (FAH:T) With a friend darling (Romantic/Platonic) 🪲 [Shiny Bug Anon]

She's going to be creepy either way....

Yandere! Samarie with Friend! Darling

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Stalking, Overprotective behavior, Breach of privacy, Clingy behavior, Violence, Murder, Blood, Delusional behavior, She watches you sleep, Forced companionship/relationship.

I feel you two were friends before the festival.

You were also a student at the Vatican with Samarie and Marina.

Samarie could either be attached to both of you or just you.

She considers both of you her beloved friends, even if Marina doesn't fully reciprocate.

Yet... you reciprocate, don't you?

You're her friend, aren't you?

Samarie scares you at times, but she is indeed your friend.

She and Marina are the only ones you can really consider allies.

Samarie often hides herself away from other contestants, unless they're you.

Since you two are both friends and have been despite how isolating dark priesthood is, Samarie feels no need to shy away from you.

Which makes me think Samarie would follow you around due to how close you two are.

At first it's from a distance while you go to explore the town.

Then soon she's adamant on following you closely in your party.

Samarie's behavior doesn't differ much between platonic and romantic.

If she truly just views you as a friend, she follows you to make sure no one harms you.

She's obsessive, even if you're just friends.

Ever since you two were both at the Vatican, she's followed you around like she can't be without you.

In fact, following you and possibly Marina is why she's got on that train in the first place.

Now she continues her obsessive following.

I imagine Samarie is a very disturbed woman.

So regardless of her feelings, she stalks you as though she could lose you any second.

If she saw you romantically, she most likely felt that way before the festival.

Her following you would change to her being too nervous to confess.

Although, both motivations lead her to do... horrendous things for your attention.

The festival is the place for it....

This festival would actually only encourage her behavior.

She seems like she'd remember everything about, she's done it ever since you first met.

Every little thing is engraved in her mind.

Samarie has always felt you two are drawn to one another.

She'd follow you anywhere no matter how you feel about her.

You could be genuine friends or maybe it's one-sided, a delusion in her mind.

That doesn't change how she feels about you.

No, the woman would still do just about anything to have you notice her.

Samarie would watch you sleep, she'd cling to you, she'd follow you...

She'd kill for you most of all.

Samarie can't help but be attached to her dear friend.

When you rest in a bed, Samarie is close by.

Even if you didn't catch her following you, she still gently strokes your arm and hair as she watches you rest.

She wants nothing more than to be your companion.

Which is why she's upset you took in nobodies as your party members.

Your party members may notice her presence lurking in the shadows, often warning you that she may try something.

Samarie views them as stealing you.

They're turning her dear friend against her!

Which means, before they hurt you...

She needs to get rid of them.

Imagine Samarie carefully picking off contestants to get your attention.

At first she hesitates, wondering if you'd truly be happy with her if she did this.

But the moment she gets a taste, killing a contestant who was thinking you're a weak link they can pick off, she continues.

Your friend was already quite... deranged before this festival.

Now she's just giving into the dark influence of this place, letting herself go.

What better way to keep her dear friend to herself than a little murder.

You no doubt have separated from her by the time she falls down this rabbit hole of dark desires.

By the time you meet again, she's holding a knife, and her clothes are drenched in blood.

Throughout your journey you keep noticing contestants in your party... disappearing.

In fact, when Samarie disappeared before all of this, you thought she was picked off.

But now she's in front of you, proving that she's become a monster.

She may be human, yet is just as bad as the other monsters here.

She's confused why you look so scared, so angry.

Do you not like what she's done?

She's done this so you two can win!

She doesn't even care about Marina anymore.

Look at what she's done to garner your attention!

You're her dearest friend, the one who's been with her since the start...

She loves you, loves you in her own twisted way.

She'd do anything to make you hers... forever....

Even if it means the rest of your party has to die...

Even if it means she has to kill you both to keep you as hers... forever... friends forever....

#yandere fear and hunger #yandere fear and hunger termina #yandere funger #yandere samarie

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rebelsandtherest · 2 years ago

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ok so i’m going to preface this ask by saying that the name alfred is given to the first born males on my dads side, so it’s a name near and dear to my heart, that said, there’s an angle i’ve never (or in all likelihood missed) seen between alfred and arthur. and i crave your opinions.

growing up i knew that the name alfred became popular in the victorian period since the english started looking into history and saw king alfred and decided he was pretty great. so i wonder how arthur felt, to see and hear his estranged sons name so often. of course he’s glad that his country’s putting some respect on king alfred, but i can see him calling someone named alfred by their last name to avoid saying it out loud. “alfred, lord tennyson.” “who?” “lord tennyson.” “not a fan.” the man’s conflicted and petty.

or it could be the opposite, it could remind him why he chose the name to begin with. imagine him overhearing a man in a pub proudly boasting about how fast his little alfie is growing, showing off a picture he keeps of the lad. and arthur can’t help but smile to himself and feel a wee bit envious. a few situations like that, and he’s tentatively writing formal letters that go unanswered. a few decades and a great rapprochement later he can finally say alfred out loud without tasting bile.

or he could be so far up his own ass that he doesn’t even notice the trend in names. idk. definitely drunkenly hums ‘what’s it all about (alfie)’ in the 60s.

Ooooh man this is a good question! Thanks for sending in the ask.

This became an immensely long reply with a bad history lesson included (because I'm relying on my ADHD memory and hoping it doesn't scramble itself between my brain and the keyboard), so... sorry about the length.

Anyway.

I think the Victorian revival of "Alfred" as a name would have affected Arthur in a few ways, but within his context, I imagine that those moments would be relative sporadic.

So a few things:

First: The name itself is Anglo Saxon—the original ash (Æ) was replaced with an A to fit contemporary English spelling, and it would have been pronounced a little different obviously, but it is remarkably unchanged for an early medieval name over 1000 years old. So Arthur is probably used to hearing the name at least once in a blue moon, and I doubt anyone was much confused when he gave the name—even if it wasn't in vogue at the time—to his firstborn.

Second: The Victorian age for Arthur was absolutely chock-full of wars, particularly wars overseas. Victoria was called empress for a reason, because she had a penchant for stealing other people's land and sovereignty. So whether Arthur was enthused by the nonstop action or not (I'd wager he was, most of the time), he was incredibly preoccupied and probably didn't have time to mope about his son, so if the name ever made Arthur think about Alfred, it would be a short-lived reverie.

Third: The Victorian era was a historically interesting time for UK-US international relations. Your average USA citizen probably didn't spare much thought for English subjects an ocean away, but, on the whole, white Americans remained enamored with England as the "mother land", were keen on trans-Atlantic commerce, and eager to prove themselves as equals to their allies in Europe. This didn't exactly work.

Even so, Britain and the USA continued to host a bizarre mix of cultural proximity and mutual contempt. Bad blood had gone stale by the beginning of Victoria's reign, but stale blood bred an enduring sense of pettiness, especially on the British side. Though the two nations' diplomatic and economic relationships were strong and well-maintained, events like the USA's rather embarrassing showing at the 1851 Great Exhibition in London were devoured by the British public in a feeding frenzy of schadenfreude that solidified a kind of national desire to dunk on Americans whenever possible.

While Brits still relish dunking on Americans, the early Victorian need to put America down as an economic and cultural peer began to shift, at least in some ways, in the second half of the 19th century. The American Civil War devastated the English economy, particularly of the northern half of the country which depended immensely on American cotton to fuel its textile industry. The entire war, its fallout, and notably the end of slavery in the USA, were all topics that British citizens would have seen daily in their newspapers, a source of interest and immense anxiety. By this point, Britain as a whole had forcibly been made aware of how, like it or not, the state of the USA's government and economy affected their daily life in ways too large to ignore.

Whilst America quite literally murdered itself over the problems it'd decided to ignore for a century, Britain and Europe were all deep in the industrial revolution—hell, it started in England, hence the textile mills. England and the young German Confederation were both heavy hitters in the game, and improvements to seafaring technology as well as Britain's relentless expansion across the globe was continuously bringing in new wares from all around the world for European industrialists to copy and mass produce. European trade and industrial competition was booming.

Meanwhile, America remained intensely focused on itself, and understandably so. With the absolute disaster of Reconstruction, westward expansion, industrial revolution, and lest we forget, a bloody parade of genocides and land wars, the USA had plenty to be worried about within its own (expanding) borders. It was not isolationist in the true sense, but was not exactly competing for European attention at the same levels at it had earlier in the century.

However, when the USA eventually gathered itself to take more of an international presence, it would do so in a way that would take the entire world by storm. The sheer speed, size, and production volume of American industries began to challenge their European competitors. If you were white and well-connected or just immensely lucky, this was the age when the American Dream was born. The US military had undergone immense expansion since the Civil War, and they went from having a young navy only just big enough to form a blockade to having a navy large enough to send a top-of-the-line fleet around the world with literally no other purpose but to flex in front of their allies (and enemies) not even 50 years later.

.....This has been a very long winded way to explain that, while the Victorian Era was the heyday of Arthur's imperialist dreams and victories, it was also the very nascent stages of Alfred coming into his own and more or less forcing himself back into dear old dad's life. Coming hot on the heels of Victoria, The American Gilded Age, the Progressive Era, and the Great Rapprochement were all just around the corner. These shifts of history—to say nothing of the quickly-approaching storm clouds of World War—would bring father and son back together and force them to mend their relationship, at least as much as they could.

I think, in the early Victorian age, when 'Alfred' came into vogue after so many centuries, a part of Arthur would hear it with a sinking feeling in his gut, because he was certainly old enough to have seen the future on the horizon. Maybe it wasn't clear, or concrete, maybe he couldn't put it into words. But he would know, in some instinctual sense, that Alfred's star was rising in more ways than one, and that he'd would need to brace himself and his empire for whatever came next. So sometimes, when he heard the name, some indistinct prophecies would flash before his mind's eye, filling him with ominous dread that he couldn't have named.

Sometimes, if he'd been drinking or just in a sentimental mood, he would hear the name and reminisce on both the King Ælfred, and the golden son who bore his name. He would wax poetic about his firstborn and all that he'd accomplished in his life—daring even, perhaps for the first time in his life, to praise Alfred's tenacity, conviction, and strength during his fight for independence. He would of course be mortified by the drunken memory the next day.

Sometimes, it takes him off guard and he turns his head, fully expecting Alfred himself—a toddler, a child, a teenager, a young man—to step through the door and greet him. It lasts only moments, and the empty feeling that follows usually sends Arthur directly into some mentally or physically taxing task, to avoid uncomfortable emotions.

But I think more than anything, the re-emergence of the name would make Arthur feel old. So very, very old, when he continuously, despite repeated embarrassments, pronounces the name in the way he learned as a boy, with the long-i ash sound that his people forgot to pronounce somewhere along the last century or ten. The very same pronunciation mistake he couldn't seem to stop making all those years ago, when Alfred was small, still learning English and fully convinced a boy could have two versions of a name.

The same pronunciation that, even today, would make Alfred's head twitch up, looking for his father.

#long post #sorry for the long read if you made it to the end you have my gratitude #hws england #hws america #bad history lesson rofl sorry #please someone correct my history if you need to

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jomiddlemarch · 2 years ago

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touching each forehead, breathing a soul into each immeasurable other

“The problem with wanting,” Aleksander paused, touching her cheek very lightly as if it were a choice and not the consequence of how they had come together, touching her cheek as if she would not recoil and so to spite him, she did not recoil, “is that it makes us weak.”

Candlelight trembled around them, the sense of his shadows as powerful as their actual presence. Alina held her breath, her eyes focused on his lips, curiously more sensitive to him through the tether than she might have been should he have been standing before her in the flesh. He would kiss her next, she was sure of it, and also as uncertain as she’d been when the Fjerdan assassin had tried to murder her in the field twelve miles out of Os Alta. He must and he wouldn’t, not if she listened to the words he said, if she heard the timbre of his voice within her mind like a bell tolled across the sea as a warning of a storm. Or a fire.

She would taste smoke when he kissed her, the fragrance of destruction, of autumn leaves bright a second time in an early evening.

He leaned closer—and pressed his lips very gently to the center of her forehead, a gesture without any carnal desire, the tenderness given as a blessing. He kissed the scar above her brow, whose provenance remained unknown, an injury survived. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the look in his, and he kissed her closed eyelids, even more delicately, first the left and then the right, his hand still cradling her jaw. Next he kissed the apple of her cheek, the slight roughness of his beard against her more compelling than any profession of adoration. He murmured something, some word of endearment in Ravkan so old she could only just recognize it as the most distant echo of the language she spoke, his intonation grave and pure. He kissed her temple and spot beside her mouth where she dimpled when she smiled, each caress filled with a tremendous warmth and the most generous affection that asked her for nothing, praised her for everything, that conveyed respect and delight without any demand or condition.

“I don’t want you,” he said.

“You don’t,” she said, as evenly as she could. He saw the self-control she mustered to keep the remark a statement, not a question.

“I love you,” he replied. “That is something beyond want, beyond need.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said. He would argue now, that he had given her ample evidence of his uncompromising devotion, had shared himself in degrees unfamiliar to anyone else living, had made love to her with a near-abandon and sought her with an unflagging determination; he would make excuses for the stag’s collar and the Fold, excuses for himself and excuses for her. He would argue and she would stop him with her mouth on his, taking the words from his tongue with her own ravishing.

“I know, moya dusha, I know and I carry that, the way I carry the wounds on my face, my hand,” he said. “I hope you will stop needing to believe and will begin to feel. To know that whatever mistakes I have made—and there have been too many—that I have loved you throughout, so thoroughly I could not always have recognized it, as I could not always be aware of the blood in my veins, the thoughts that I would dream when I dared to sleep.”

“A pretty speech,” she said. She tried to sneer and failed, the words uttered with more despair than she would have liked him to have noticed.

“A pack of lies is what you mean, but I cannot find a way to make the truth truer,” he said. “I would ask you to consider, for your own safety, those you have decided to join forces with, their motives, their actions and the consequences thereof—”

“Because you’re so much better? So much kinder and gentler?” she snapped.

“Marie, Pavel and Polina are not here to speak for themselves, but they died for you and the Little Palace, at the hands of the ones you call allies,” Aleksander said. “You have told me yourself of Orestev’s choices. Nikolai is the best of the Lantsovs but true only to himself, absent when the people have needed him most. It may take more to kill you than an otkazat’sya, but Grisha, Summoners such as we are, are not true immortals. I have trusted the wrong people myself. I have paid the price in my own blood and in the breath of those I loved most dearly. I would not have that for you. Become a Sankta if you will—don’t become a martyr.”

“You’re not being fair,” she said. He touched her cheek again, brushed back the hair coming loose around her face. No one had ever looked at her with such an expression before, knowing and care inextricable, Alina herself precious.

“I’m sorry I haven’t made a world for you where that matters,” he said. “I tried, Saints know I’ve tried but I failed. I didn’t want this for you—”

“I’m not a child,” she said.

“You are my beloved, whatever I am to you,” he said. “I’ll leave you now, but you have only to call for me and I will answer.”

“And if I don’t call? If I never call?” she asked.

“I will still wait for you. Waiting in a world you live in is nothing to me—I waited so long in the world before you came, when you were only a hope, not Alina,” he said, smiling at her. His dark eyes shone, perhaps with tears. The tether made it difficult to ascertain, though she tasted salt in her own mouth. He began to retreat, the space between them opening, his image losing definition.

“Don’t,” she said, her impulse made into a word, a gesture with her palm outstretched, the one that would take his injured hand. She hadn’t stopped herself, finding, when she considered it, that she didn’t want to.

“Don’t go.”

#darklina #alina/aleksander #season 2 #canon au #romance #fix-it fic #alina starkov #aleksander morozova #sab #shadow and bone #kissing #soft!thedarkling

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disventurecamptakes · 4 months ago

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Welcome back Mod Jake ! :>

If you don’t mind answering: How do you feel about the current remaining contestants (as of Episode 15)?

Hi anon, thank you! These might not be thought out super well but here are my basic takes:

Jake: The blorbo from my show! I feel like the build up to Jake’s character arc was dragged out in the first 12 episodes or so, but for the last three I’ve really enjoyed him— Tom was really holding him back clearly. His friendship with Aiden one of the highlights of the season for me. It’s nice to see him become more honest and emotionally mature and happy after everything he’s been through. If he doesn’t make the finale I’m going to sob.

Ally: Hot take but I like antagonist/morally gray Ally for the most part. The idea of a character who is so online that they become too insecure to function, who ends up pushing people away and becoming hated in their quest to be loved, is really interesting. And frankly sometimes characters have to become worse before they get better. However, within the context of the show’s pattern of either having the female characters work as support for the male protagonists or villainizing independent female characters, I do see why people find it frustrating.

Grett: Grett’s another character who had some weird build up (up until episode 13 she just felt like “Yul’s poor sad meow meow girlfriend” to me tbh, I felt like she wasn’t doing much) but I do like what they’ve done with her in the last few episodes. She’s clearly been through a lot of hardship and it’s nice to see a character come out on top of that. I also loved her friendship with Gabby, it was really cute and I wish it would’ve lasted a little longer, it’s nice to show Grett reconciling with her past by improving for the future and treating the person she was the worst to with kindness, as opposed to Yul who was terrible to her and left even worse. I would’ve written her a little differently but she still deserves to win imo. Also she slays always.

Riya: What did they do to my girl?? I loved Riya’s arc in season two, I thought she and Ellie had two of the best villain arcs in the series and I thought Riya was one of the best season two characters. But they really flushed that down the drain by making her comically evil and forgetting her motive. In season two Riya was a villain but she was sympathetic; she gradually lost sight of her morals in a quest for affection and fame, alienating her closest friend (Rosa María) and ultimately putting herself in mortal danger, which caused her to somewhat see the error of her ways. In the beginning of season three I think they tried to carry this over, showing her inner conflict in earlier episodes like episode 3. But by episode 14 they’d just…totally lost what made Riya human— a desire to fit in to what other people think of her (whether that be movie star or villain), close relationships with Connor and Alec, guilt, a sympathetic past, everything that happened in the season two finale— now she’s just evil because she’s evil, full stop. It’s really disappointing, because having her try too hard to lean into her villain persona and ultimately snapping out of it would’ve been so much more interesting, and I feel like if that’s what they plan to do later then they’re building up to it terribly tbh.

Connor: I really liked Connor in episodes 1-7, I thought he was a good straight-man and foil to Riya and Alec, I thought he was just pleasant and I liked seeing his growth from season two to now. But these last few episodes have simultaneously made him very unlikable while also making him essentially the main character, for some reason. The nepo baby plotline wasn’t built up to at all and it really undermines the successful businessman thing he had going, which made him feel more mature and intelligent; plus making him a union buster on top of that is just poor taste, like wtf. Having Jake as his right hand makes Jake more likable but it just makes Connor seem pathetic having this dude constantly go “nooo Connor pull it together remember that speech you gave us? really cool”. Like yeah Connor rallying the heroes together that one time was good, a little corny but ultimately good for the plot, but other than that all he does is be passive aggressive (or just aggressive) with Riya and Alec and be sad. Also making his feelings for Riya just disappear?? What?? He was in love with her, they understood each other in a way that no one else did in season two, his love for her humanized him a lot and vice versa with Riya’s feelings for him. Why remove that entirely? Sorry if I’m being harsh but I’m honestly really disappointed in how Connor’s being handled, he and Riya and Alec were a highlight of the early episodes and now they’ve been reduced to like the TD love triangle 2.0. But like, fanon love triangle, where Courtney is ridiculously evil for some reason and Gwuncan are just poor sad babies who did nothing wrong. Also if Connor makes the finale I’m going to be so annoyed. He doesn’t need three million dollars, he’s already rich.

Alec: Alec has gone from one of the most calculating and clever villains in the show’s history to a groveling little baby man and I don’t like it. On one hand I do like the idea of Alec growing a conscience after all he’s done to manipulate the game, and I do think it would be cute if that came from his relationships with Riya and Connor. But on the other, he’s become too pathetic imo. Alec’s defining traits are his intelligence, apathetic tendencies, and level-headed demeanor, and they’re really stripping that all back to make the audience sympathize with him when we already could’ve done that easily based on what’s already there?? The Riyalec kiss scene was really good at this; it showed us Alec’s and Riya’s deepest insecurities and regrets, then showed us the two understanding each other and finding comfort in that. Shipping aside, I genuinely think maintaining a positive relationship between them, friendly or romantic, would make them both feel more human while also allowing them to both remain as antagonists because they both would enable each other. They just took all the edge away from his character for like, mid yaoi crumbs. The way Riya is written vs how Connor & Alec are written actually feels reminiscent of how some m/m fics will demonize the fuck out of a character’s girlfriend or female friend or etc to prop up the male characters as sweet angels who’ve done nothing wrong, if I’m being honest.

Overall, I loved Aleconniya until episode 14 but I just want all three of them gone at this point because their writing is really far off from their original characterizations and it’s overall just not very good. But I do enjoy Jake, Grett, and Ally for the most part and hope they make the finale. Sorry this got kinda long, thank you for the question anon!

#disventure camp #disventure camp jake #jake hamilton #disventure camp ally #ally amber #disventure camp grett #grett clark #disventure camp riya #riya sharma #disventure camp connor #connor blake #disventure camp alec #alec çelik #writing hate #character hate #mod speaks

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chiss-ticism · 1 year ago

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I think if I were to break Percy down to his basics, he'd best be described as such:

(Art beautifully crafted by @/belthegore!)

Internally, Percival is an, admittedly violent, hopelessly idealistic Cainite who happens to be shackled irrevocably to the horrors of nights past.

He yearns desperately for the approval of his peers (especially those of his younger brothers, sisters, and siblings in Caine), wouldn't hesitate to put himself in harms way for them, and has exactly zero compunctions about killing in the name of the Dark Father. While not exactly squeamish about the wanton violence the Tzimisce, Toreador Antitribu, and any number of other Cainites perpetuate -I'm looking at you Brujah Antitribu-, he doesn't quite get it either. Murder most foul is a common enough event for him, but only when the shedding of that blood is called for.

While not overly vocal about his criticisms of the self-perpetuating rot within the sect, his job description not exactly calling for the analyzation of his personal political beliefs outside of personal conversations held over candlelight- simply that his charges are well taken care of, his staunchly held beliefs weren't exactly something he'd be shy about sharing.

Dominique Touraine, someone who had more than a healthy influence on his personal ideology had this to say at a Sabbat rally in France:

“Breaking the Blood Bond is viciously hard work. Sundering the emotional, social and supernatural ties between neonate and mentor requires extraordinary temptation. So we dangle before young Kindred the purest bait yet discovered: absolute freedom. We peddle the opportunity to act free from restraint, and that lure draws young vampires to the Sabbat like flies to honey. We tell them freedom means complete recklessness and utter irresponsibility. This has great appeal after the oppressive weight of years of domination by siblings, mentors, elders and Antediluvians in the Camarilla. So the young see the Sabbat as a chance to lead explosively violent lives with no one else to check their basest impulses. But the crucial phrase is no one else.’ We all have to answer to our own inner voices about which desires to act upon. To me, freedom does not mean utter irresponsibility, but complete responsibility. It’s a chance to explore self-control and self-identity far from the stifling restrictions of the Camarilla courts. Eternity is a long time to spend not knowing who one is and what one stands for. Most Sabbat members who have tasted the freedom that comes with inner guidelines and living by a personal code of ethics have found it infinitely more satisfying than slavish devotion to the whim of the moment. Our whims are not our will, and caprices are greater tyrants than the lords of the Camarilla. Only by living a vision greater than ourselves are we truly free. " (Whose Who Among Vampires: Children of the Inquisition. P. 68)

Where they differ in ideology is in the Camarilla's right to exist - Percy, through experience and through propaganda, has been radicalized too far for that to ever coherently ring true in his heart or in his mind - but where they connect is in the expression of personal freedoms. To his eye, gorging oneself in excess (be it in violence or in the partaking of blood) with little regard as to how that effects the rest of your allies is exactly the reason The Sword of Caine faces as many problems as it does on a night-to-night basis, even before the advent of the Second Inquisition. If they could just see past their short-sighted ambitions and take responsibility for their actions and the consequences therein, actually dealing with the threats at hand would be that much more feasible. They sully the good name of the Dark Father with their indolence, yet they'll be mourned all the same...

Externally, however, is another thing entirely: He's stilted. Mildly off-putting to Kine and younger Cainites who don't know any better (which, admittedly, does hurt his feelings. he doesn't hold it against them, though, as they'll learn in time). He doesn't blink often enough. His smile, those made earnestly, is almost a mockery of anything you'd want to call human - far more likely to send a chill down your spine as he seemingly eyes you with the intent to maim (sort of like how primates don't smile jovially, but with the intent of Biting You). His face is chronically deadpan.

His unbeating heart is a large one and, odds are, he has your best wishes in mind (lest you be Camarilla, Ministry, Baali, a Hunter... so on so forth). You just have to get to know him a bit before you can recognize the signs of his undead affection :) please just don't ask him to die for you. He actually might.

#Percy Tag #My OCs #That's where my Ventrue veer off from one another despite both being knights/paragons of their respective sects #In embodying the tenets of their clan factions:#Eliza will kill for you (in the name of protecting her [mortal] family)#Percy will die for you (you are his family)#And Eliza's the one on Humanity lmao :)#vtm #ventrue antitribu

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scummy-writes · 2 years ago

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You best bet I'mma hop on this NSFW A-Z. I'm so excited that you're doing it honestly.

Could I pleeeeeeease request D, K, and P for darling Theo and Will?

I appreciate you and your work and I hope.you have fun working on these!

🩶 Ally

Thank you, Ally!! You are very sweet!! I hope this is fun 🙇‍♀️

These are from this nsfw abcs list.

Theo

D for Dirty [How do they dirty talk? What do they say?]

Theo has a dirty, rotten mouth when the two of you are tangled together, in a rush to feel the heat of each others skin, clumsily making it to the closest surface he can pin you against... in those moments, his mouth is at your ear while he teases you with his fingers, refusing to give his hondje what they want the most. I think he'd stray towards the territory of calling you a slut if the mood is right, talking a little down towards you about how desperate you are for his cock, how tightly your cunt squeezes around him, and how your inner walls want to milk him dry...

I think that'd be surface level, and he'd go further if you'd like him too, but I think he'd focus a lot on 'breeding' themes. ("That desperate, huh? You want me to fill you up that badly?", "we're not stopping until your cunt is dripping with my cum", etc)

(A lil basic, sorry!)

K for Kink [What’s their secret kink?]

I want to say watersports a smidge but thats not everyones cup of tea- sjekf I think he likes being spoiled, but he's often too stubborn to say so. I think if you were to spend a day fully focusing on him, after a long day of work, he'd be a bit reluctant at first, but melt quickly.

Give him a lot of focus on his neck as you slowly undress him, scolding if he seems to try and flip this back on you. Back him up to the bed, 'force' him to lay down as you give his nipples and abdomen a lot of attention... get him to the point of his cock straining against his pants, not taking it out until any 'hondje' comments are replaced with stubborn 'please's. Getting a low groan from him as your hand finally wraps around his cock, teasing his frenulum...

I think he'd enjoy getting spoiled like that.

P for Position [What is their favorite position(s) and why?]

You on top. Riding him, sitting on his face, grinding against his cock, he loves it all. I think he enjoys the thought of being your personal dildo at times, especially since he gets a nice view with plenty of pleasured sighs to hear. If you're a bit on the shy side, I think he'd take a lot of pleasure knowing you're horny and desperate enough for release to push that aside and fuck him for what he's worth.

If you're more on the confident side, I think he'd enjoy how smug about it you are. Especially if you talk down to him.

Shakespeare

(I've never written anything related to shakes and I typically avoid doing so! I apologize for these likely sounding meh)

D for Dirty [How do they dirty talk? What do they say?]

I feel as though he would go for the 'overwhelming' type of dirty talk, aiming to fluster you with the compliments he'd give you. It'd start with some teasing comments, about how much of a 'seductress' you are for tempting him to bed by wearing that, continuing towards how much you've caught his eye today. From wearing a new scent that drove him mad on the inside, to how many times he wanted your taste on his tongue that day.

I think during sex, he would dole out compliment after compliment, anywhere from how wonderful it feels to finally have his aching cock enveloped by your warmth, to describing how beautiful your desire is to him in that moment.

K for Kink [What’s their secret kink?]

I have to go for the likely obvious and say semi-public sex. I think there are a few key, and risky, places that he'd like to have his way with you, especially behind the stage... the risk of being caught would be a turn on, making the quickie the two of you have even more riling.

But, he wouldn't actually give a chance for others to see you in such a state.

P for Position [What is their favorite position(s) and why?]

I can't think of many, but spooning comes to mind. I feel like Shakespeare would enjoy making sure you can't shy away from him, while also taking his time and enjoying your body to the fullest. I think spooning would let him keep his mouth by your ear, murmuring why he loves running his hands over this and that sensitive spot of yours, asking if you're really so close to cumming again, and just a lot of the type of talk discussed in 'D'.

#might be a little basic! im sorry!#i donut think of Will that often so i apologize #ikemen vampire theo #ikevamp theo #ikemen vampire Shakespeare #ikevamp Shakespeare

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superfallingstars · 1 year ago

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Snape ask Nr. 33 please!

33. Top 3 songs you think will show up in Snape's most played? (from here)

Oh ho ho you’ve read my bio and opened the can of worms that is my music taste. Thank you for everything, I owe you my life, etc.

It’s like genuinely so hard to choose only three songs so I will also use this opportunity to share my full Snape playlist. I tried to pick songs that were both lyrically relevant and that he might actually listen to/enjoy aka the same criteria I will use to answer this question!

So let’s go!

This is something I’ve wanted to post about for a while now – that is, does the Snapedom know about this song? Aka the song about being obsessed/in love with a girl named Lily? This is the ultimate Snape song, it’s so perfect that I kind of can’t believe it exists. I doubt this song actually got radio play in 1995 (considering how many songs are on this stupid album, which I say with love but it is true), but I love the idea of Snape hearing this song by chance (perhaps on the radio at Grimmauld Place?) and proceeding to have a crisis about it.

This is also a Lily song lol. Lyrically it is about a woman who dies and the narrator holds himself responsible for it (howfitting). “What can I do if she dies? / What can I do if she’s lost? / Just the thought fills my heart with pink frost.” Gah! Also, musically, I think Snape would like it – I feel like an alternative 80s goth-ish vibe fits him really well. He would totally cry to this and have an all around terrible time <3

It's so hard to pick only one more, but I’m going with Bauhaus (because I am a goth ally). Seriously though, I think these lyrics fit Snape really well, especially regarding his upbringing, in the references to the general monotony of daily life and “factorytown.” Plus, you can tell from the title, this song also expresses a desire for success. Basically it just feels right.

Ok I can’t restrain myself so I'm doing honorable mentions, sorry, but these are more specifically geared toward what I actually think he would listen to. “You Should All Be Murdered” by Another Sunny Day is a jangly little 80s/90s tune with some rather, er, hateful lyrics, and “Is It Any Wonder” by The Chameleons is a dark, dreamy song with this lovely melancholy and regretful feel. I could picture him listening to either one of these on repeat, singing along, whistling while he's walking down the Hogwarts hallways, etc

Alright I have to stop myself from writing an essay, as this post is long enough! Thanks so much for sending this ask, I’m always down to talk Snape and/or music (in relation to one another or also not, it doesn’t matter, tell me what you guys think/please talk to me, ok byeeee!!!!)

#sorry this sat in my ask box for a little while i kept revising it because i have Thoughts. but again thank u for sending this ask <3 #my posts #answers #music stuff #hp #snape #severus snape #pro snape #professor snape #snape fandom #snapedom #hp playlist #asks

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wonder-in-wings · 8 months ago

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TIMING: Late-February LOCATION: The Woods SUMMARY: Metzli (@muertarte accidentally preys on a fae that’s fleeing from Parker (@wonder-in-wings, who’s confronted by the vampire's drive to be a better person. CONTENT WARNINGS: Domestic Abuse (implied), Emotional Abuse (referenced)

The smells of the forest overwhelmed Metzli a little. They hadn’t visited in well over a week, making their stomach twist with hunger. There were many patrons that looked good enough to eat at MuertArte, but given their new sense of morality, Metzli found it harder and harder to even consider a human. Sometimes they missed the taste, when they got very hungry, which was more often than it used to be thanks to that pesky guilt. They growled quietly to themself, taking a deep breath and surveying their surroundings. If Metzli wanted to keep control, they needed to find food quickly, and they had to maintain focus to do so. They marched on their path quietly, keeping their footing away from the patches of snow still on the ground. It felt like hours had passed by the time Metzli caught the sound of nearby prey.

Their face grew dark and tense as the leaves and twigs crunched ahead of them, marking every step their dinner took. Food, they thought, steeling themself by sheer force of will. Giving away their position would prove costly, but they knew the area well enough that a well-timed pounce from their position would suffice. Their keen sense of smell was not only often their ally, but their enemy too, especially when hunger clouded their mind. Carefully, after a few breaths, Metzli waited several minutes, listening and inhaling. Eventually, whatever lay among the shadows came to an abrupt halt. Did it trip? They wondered, nearly losing focus.

A familiar scent traced through the air, though the vampire was unable to fully process. Capturing a meal on an empty stomach didn’t allow for much thought outside of bite, kill, and drink. Is this meaning of grocery shopping with hunger? Metzli blinked the distraction away, wasting no more time and peering just above the brush. Eyes turned crimson in an instant. The sight of blood sent the smell of it careening into Metzli’s nostrils, sending their entire mind and body into a mild frenzy. Never mind that the animal was actually a person. And never mind that they were calling for help in the middle of the woods. None of that mattered once Metzli overpowered them with a tackle and elbow to the face, leaving their neck open for fangs to meet flesh, and for blood to meet tongue. — —

There was a critical malfunction, Parker decided as he skulked through the forest that evening, one hand swiping at his irritated eyes while the other was stemming blood flow from his nose. It wasn’t something he did, despite feeling a burning in his skull of several angry family members shouting at him about how he hadn’t moved correctly, how he was impatient, how he had done this, that, the other thing, all wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. ��You let it get the drop on you!’ His father’s voice, as usual, was the loudest as it rattled inside of Parker’s head, not helping how he felt like it was spinning as his bloodstream pumped whatever toxic pheromone the entomid had sprayed directly into his face through his system as expediently as it could; fortunately, his upbringing and hunter genes had made him more resistant to certain strains of toxin and poison than the average person, but unfortunately he was still caught unawares, in the exact wrong spot at the wrong time. Not holding his breath, uncharacteristically. He had grown sloppy during that month. Careless. The mechanics were still there, but so was the desire and the childish need to, well, hunt. He was a hunter. And as he followed the trail of the entomid, incessantly wiping his eyes with the heels of half-bloodied hands, he heard sounds of a struggle through his good ear. Turning his head sharply, his darkened surroundings blurred as he widened his stinging eyes as much as they’d allow him to, Parker tried to gather any information he could. His first thought was that an animal had gotten to his quarry before he had a chance to, but as he blinked again and again, his vision getting slightly clearer with each one, he was able to detect a more humanoid shape. Involuntarily, without thinking more critically, he started to advance on the duo. “Back off. I found it first.” He said, his normally-robotic voice low and humming with an aggression that indicated that he wasn’t afraid of getting into a fight over his prey… another very unusual thing for him.

— —

The blood that pooled over the vampire’s tongue was unusual. Instead of a savory and iron-filled flavor, there was a rush of sweetness. As if the veins Metzli had pierced had produced an ichor they had never known existed. It filled their belly just the same, but it invigorated them with a sensation they couldn’t comprehend. Not quite. They shuddered, a shaky breath escaping them as they pulled away to see what they were consuming. No. They weren’t a what, but a who. And they were continuing to plea desperately, if a little weakly.

A mixture of distress and regret covered their face, and with what little will they had left, Metzli launched themself backward. “S-sorry. I-I-I…” They stuttered, vision going blurry with the development of tears in their eyes. Monster, they said in their mind. Monster, they said again. Quickly, it turned into a cacophony of voices saying the same thing. They shook uncontrollably as they crawled backwards and away from the innocent person they’d hurt. Their path quickly came to a halt, and it was only then that Metzli realized someone was speaking and a ringing in their ears had stifled all else. They turned and rose to their feet, blood-stained face meeting a familiar one.

An unexpected one.

“Parker? What…what—I-I…did not mean to do this. I-I-I-I…” Metzli’s voice cracked, and they began to back away in fear that Parker would perform his duty to protect, not yet realizing the person they bit was, in fact, a fae. They were too panic-induced to see past the fact that their victim was innocent, and they, as always, were a monster. Surely Parker couldn’t stand for that, even if he held the title of friend. The very thought twisted their gut, leaving them with shame and unable to say much more than a trembled, “I am sorry.” — —

Blurred vision wasn’t able to recognize whoever was attacking his target before their voice, which was recognizable to the hunter, effortlessly reached his mind. Almost immediately, Parker’s expression melted from simmering anger to obvious surprise, though he couldn’t have been sure if it was because he just happened into Metzli or if it was because he was trying to parse why they were apologizing to him. He shook his head as though that would relieve the irritation from the entomid’s spray, the action seeming to serve as a barrier as his own thoughts started racing. It was Metzli. This wasn’t a random stranger he had happened into during his prowl, nor was it an opponent he would need to fight for his quarry. He felt his heart starting to pick up its pace as discomfort tugged at his gut, though Parker wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone why. “Are you okay?” For some reason, that was what he asked first as he was able to pick up the obvious distress in their tone. “I’m… sorry, I didn’t realize it was you.” His hazy vision, becoming slowly more clear as the irritant was being flushed from his system, darted to the fae that was laying on the ground. “It didn’t hurt you, did it?”

— —

There was blood smeared all across their face and Parker was asking Metzli if they were okay? “I am okay. I-I am okay.” Taking a moment to digest it all, they paced in a small circle, using the sleeve of their shirt to wipe away what blood they could. That’s when they realized the situation they stumbled into. Metzli wasn’t the only hunter on the prowl that night, but while their prey was meant to be something more animal-like in nature, like a deer or a moose, Parker’s had been a person. For the moment, they looked more like an insect, but upon looking closer, Metzli couldn’t deny the humanoid body and the very human voice that begged for mercy.

That was the ugly side to being friends with a hunter. Best friends, even. Metzli had just chosen to see the side that had offered them a chance at companionship. The kind they rarely found. The kind where silence was cherished on both sides and fascinations could be shared without judgment or ridicule.

Still, Metzli could no longer ignore what their friend’s duty was, and it was their hope that they could convince him to let the poor fae go. After all, Cass, someone they cherished most in the world, was fae, and he’d managed to see them as a person too, hadn’t he? Whether or not he’d take their friendship to heart and listen though, was a different story.

They swallowed, and knelt next to the strange insect. “But they are not okay. They did not hurt me. I hurt them. I bite and I drink, and they are bleeding.” Fighting the urge to sink their teeth into flesh again, Metzli stemmed the bleeding and looked back up to Parker, eyes pleading. “I am not supposed to hurt people anymore. I do not want to.” They choked down a small sob, feeling the weight of their mistake unfolding into tears. Guilt caused a great deal of pain that sometimes bordered on unbearable. But it was a small price to pay when they’d destroyed so many lives. Metzli wanted to be different from before. They wanted to offer kindness and aide, everything they were always denied.

“Will you help me? I know you-you hunt them, but I-I…” The ball in Metzli’s throat tightened their voice. “I n-need…” They sniffled. “To help them.” Any attempt to swallow was futile, but they managed to choke out one more word.

“Please.” — —

A conflict of sensations tugged at Parker as his blue eyes opted to focus on Metzli’s form once more - the longer he looked at the nymph on the ground, the more he felt something… what was it, how was it described? ‘Your brain is broken.’ He knew that, that wasn’t what he was looking for. The Warden’s gaze lost that focus on the vampire as he absently wiped away the drying blood from his nose, trying to find the explanation, the reason, what it had been called.

He was a failure. He didn’t kill fae. But that wasn’t the reason why he felt a compulsion to harvest from them, was it? The wings were the only sign that he was competent, right? A trail of bodies was obvious, but what was a chorus of screaming falling on half-deaf ears? What was Parker, standing there in his militant stance, wanting to tell Metzli that he wasn’t judging them while simultaneously fighting the thing that he couldn’t describe tearing at him? The vampire joined the nymph at its side. He was able to interpret that their hands were over the wound they made in its neck in an attempt to staunch the blood flow from the opening created. It was still protesting, but faint, and almost… relieved as sticky, insectile fingers were lifted, shakily being placed over Metzli’s. A brief flash of seething rage enveloped Parker’s mind, keeping from him the gentleness needed to process what he was watching, what Metzli was asking– begging to do. He wanted to shove them out of his way, tell them that it wasn’t a human, that it thought of him and them as lesser. That’s how they all felt, right? He’d heard them over and over - the empty threats, the terrified pleading, deals, bargains, insults. All over the terror of being reminded that they bled, that they could break, that other things found value in them. He wanted to snap at them and say that they were wasting their time, their limitless time and that it was as good as dead anyway - or that it’d wish it were dead by the time Parker got his dextrous, skilled, dangerous hands on it. Pulled the wings from their sockets. Carved the gland that stung his eyes and nose from where it lay nestled inside. Metzli was his friend.

…Metzli was his friend.

And Parker was theirs.

Moments, both too fast and too slow were here and gone in an infinite instant. The anger was indeed brief, feeling it wrap its scarred, mottled claws around his mind, threatening to suffocate him. ‘Kill it.’ His father’s hands. ‘You embarrass me, boy.’ Easily replacing that anger with a deep, very rare fear of a memory that was there and gone in another infinitely instantaneous moment. Parker, suddenly visibly shaken from something that had long since been repressed in his mind, rather gracelessly fumbled for one of his larger pockets, pulling a gauze pad with a length of wrap from it and he staggered over to Metzli and the entomid, dropping to his knees as he handed the vampire the light medical equipment.

Blue eyes unfocused, Parker’s own trembling hands found what purchase they could around the entomid’s neck and started strangling it.

— —

There was a bit of relief that came with the proffering of what Metzli could only deduce to be gauze. The tears in their eyes made it difficult to unmuddy the collection of colors, even with their ability to see in the dark. Blinking them away to see, Metzli nodded in understanding and removed their hand from the insectoid’s wound to accept what Parker had offered. Unfortunately, doing so proved costly, and with a mixture of disappointment and surprise, Metzli yelped. A sound they didn’t know they could produce. It was so foreign that it gave them pause.

Move! Do something! Anything!

They didn’t understand why their body seemed to disobey their mind, but it did. At such a crucial moment, with so little life left in Parker’s innocent victim, all Metzli could do was stare. Seconds felt like hours, and they worriedly bit the inside of their lip until the acrid flavor of dead blood pooled over their tongue. The taste was enough to shock Metzli’s mind into moving, and they promptly dove to tackle Parker as they exclaimed instructions while the two of them rolled and wrestled for dominance.

“Hold your neck! Bleeding must stop!” Their voice was strained and desperate, mirroring the way their body moved and wrapped around Parker’s body like a boa as they came to a stop mid-revolution. By no means did Metzli wish to hurt their friend. If he was going to fight back like any hunter would, they wanted to get a head start on restricting his movements to keep their interaction as passive as possible. It worked, for the most part, but Metzli wasn’t sure how long it’d hold. They’d never had to test Parker’s strength before.

With a deep breath, Metzli held firm and planted their chin at Parker’s shoulder to provide themself some sort of access to his ears. “You do not have to hurt them.” Their breath trembled, “You can let them go. You can let them go and they can be free like me.” Metzli paused, adding something they felt was important. “We are still friends. You are my friend. Just-just see what I see. And feel. I am hunted too. I cannot let someone else be hunted like me.” As they’d done a few times before, Metzli leaned their head against Parker’s temple, offering their friendship in affection. “Will you listen? Will you please listen?” — —

Useless, blood-slicked fingers weakly pawed at his wrists, his hands as they started to bruise the flesh of the entomid’s neck, already inflicted with the piercing trauma of fangs in it previously. Parker’s mind wasn’t there, not in its entirety; the memory of something he couldn’t recall had scared him, slowly crushing the fae’s windpipe as he felt the sharp sting of a psychosomatic strike against him in a move unexpected by all of them, even him.

So when he suddenly felt the force of Metzli’s wiry body colliding against his, wrenching him from off the nymph, he realized that it was half-hearted. Parker wasn’t committed to killing the fae, otherwise he would’ve done so much quicker and more aggressively. Metzli pulled him off of the other body and while he initially felt himself pushing back against it, feeling a crash of panic at being restrained making him writhe away from them on the ground–

Then a deep breath, one that Parker, with his failed purpose, inability to change, fractured thoughts that deliberately went against what he saw on Metzli’s face and in their voice, matched. It wasn’t ropes, chains, or vines that were wrapped around him as he stopped struggling against the vampire. It was once a human, with their chin on his shoulder. It was a friend, one who said that even after his repeated murder attempts on the nymph they were still friends. The entire situation was new and… terrifying. This wasn’t Rhett, who let Parker do what he wanted uncontested, wondering why he didn’t just kill the damn thing. This wasn’t a family member, who observed him with reactions from mild disapproval to anger at his leaving something alive. This wasn’t one of the younger members of Wicked’s Rest that had fallen into some strange, almost familial pattern with him, one that was still young and impressionable for him to behave around. This was someone much older than him, with their arm around him and their head against his in that way they’d done before, urging him not to. That he didn’t need to. Blue eyes that glistened with tears darted in the direction the nymph was, but not really seeing it. He was focusing on feeling Metzli’s musculature, their room-temperature skin against his own that perspired with effort. Their breathing, their words, their temple pressed to his. “...Okay.” The two-syllable word didn’t make it through in one piece, splintered and cracked but it was accompanied by an erratic nod of his head in what he hoped was affirmation. “Okay. I’m… sorry.” An inhale of air sucked through stinging nasal passages. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” And once more, one for each person that looked at him, eyes boring into his scarred back in shame for his failure.

— —

Metzli wasn’t sure what emotion was choking Parker, or whether or not it had anything to do with their desperation. But what they were sure of, was that their friend’s mental state was careening into a sort of panic that they were familiar with, had experienced so many times, especially recently. They understood, better than most, and when the apologies came tumbling out urgently, that’s when Metzli knew they’d reached Parker, in some way.

“Hermano, it is okay.” Continuing to lean their temple against his, the vampire let their grip loosen slightly, allowing the hunter to relax into them. “Shh…It is okay.” Red eyes surveyed the area, and the insectoid seemed a little worse for wear, but after a few moments, Metzli watched with relief as they shuffled haggardly to their feet. They chittered and let out a sob, which Metzli could only gather to be a small expression of either gratitude or disdain. There was no time to truly decipher which it was before they limped away as fast as they could. It was only fair, Metzli thought. If they were in the fae’s position, they likely would’ve fought until they died, but fleeing was just as honorable. There was no shame in self-preservation. Not to them.

“Thank you,” Metzli breathed, “I know it is your job. I understand, but-but…” All the lives they’d ruined in the past tightened their chest, and it swelled until the tension caused tremors to rake through them. Guilt was a direct result of their morality, and if not for that, Metzli wasn’t sure what kind of person they’d be. Certainly not who they wanted, and certainly not someone better than all those who had hurt them. They wondered, just briefly, if Parker could ever make such a change. With love and patience, things they’d both been raised without, could he keep himself from hurting others? Could he undo those teachings? Fight with kindness when things didn’t make sense?

All there was to do was try.

“It hurts to see people hurt. It hurts to lose control. Had to-to…make it right. Very glad I did not hurt you. I-I did not want to. Hurting friends is bad. Hurting…hurting family is bad.” — —

The vampire eased their restraint and it took Parker a second to realize that it was the main thing keeping him from collapsing entirely, though under what weight, he didn’t know or understand. He didn’t understand why it took Metzli tackling him to get him to stop half-heartedly killing the nymph, why he had started in the first place and why he had no idea how to react when they said that he didn’t have to. The fae stood eventually, but that was the last the Warden cared to see, hear, or recognize anything about it.

Shaking hands weren’t sure where to go with their newfound freedom so they hovered anxiously where they were out of the way as the two were placed against each other. In a flood of thoughts that returned to him all at once, threatening to send him into a shutdown, one of them managed to stand out above the others in the slew of words, emotions, contradictions, smothering warmth, serrated teeth.

“I don’t know what happened.” Parker never was a particularly gifted liar, much preferring to simply leave things unsaid or give half-truths. He was similar to the fae he harvested from like that. “I heard what you asked. I heard what you… said.” A shuddery exhale heaved his chest. “I… was–” A pause. “I… didn’t mean to.” His heart pounded in his chest, too loud in his half-deaf ears. “I didn’t mean to… hurt you. By not– not listening.” He did hear. He did listen. What Metzli said, what Metzli wanted was incredibly important to him. But that’s not what happened. They had blood on their chin, he had blood on his hands. Why could Metzli, who was under intense mind control, change because they wanted when given the freedom to do so but he couldn’t? “Do you hate me?” The question was childish, but it was the only one he could ask in lieu of falling completely nonverbal as his heart threatened to rip itself from his chest cavity.

— —

Pain and neglect, it seemed, were languages that so many of Metzli’s friends seemed to know. Parker though, was just as fluent as them. It made their chest ache, empathy rising and swelling painfully, and they tightened the embrace again. That time, the pressure came from a place of comfort instead of restraint, and Metzli found solace in the way Parker let himself be held together by his friend. Learning to be well-versed in a new language was hard, after all, and it was Metzli’s hope that they could learn what they could do with that kindness.

Together.

“No.” They answered, unable to help themself in wondering where the root of that question came from. After some consideration and pondering on their own experiences from childhood, Metzli felt like they had an answer. They had been hated most of their life, to the point that they sometimes thought it’d been since birth. But given the small memory book of the first year of their life their mother had made, Metzli knew at least that version of them knew of love. Everything else just…somehow got lost in translation over the years. Not anymore, though. Parker would know patience just as they did, and one day he wouldn’t have to wonder if he would be hated for his outcome. Because that moment wasn’t the end, and Metzli had been told there was always room to learn.

Even when you’re over a century old.

“There is no hate in a healthy family. We will be healthy and I will love you and I will be patient. It will be okay. Take your time to feel this. We can sit here until you can get up again. Promise to help you.” — —

‘No.’

Parker was eleven years old at 2:30 in the morning. He could feel his mother’s arms wrapped around him in a gentle, comforting embrace. Applying pressure to the few parts of him that were receptive to it. She had said the same thing when he asked the same thing, with tears in his eyes that trickled down an otherwise-stoic face. A face that didn’t know what to do with those emotions, so it didn’t do anything. ‘Uncanny,’ his brother said. ‘Dangerous,’ from his father. ‘Broken.’

‘No.’

“I…” He lifted his hands, clutching Metzli’s outfit in them, but not with the strength of the hunter, the aggression of the obsessive, but that same clinginess of a child terrified of being separated from a parent, a brother, a relative, someone familiar. Someone to keep Parker from falling through the earth, pulled down by the words that his family had said, the weights that he carried with him. “You’re a good person, Metzli.” Words that had never been uttered by his father. Words he didn’t deserve, but words that Metzli couldn’t have deserved more. “I… It’s…” How to comfort someone who was comforting him? What had changed? “Um–” The sound tumbled from him before he could stop it and his shoulder twitched violently as though he’d been stung by something in retaliation. “H-here.” The Warden, if he could call himself that as he could feel his purpose reeling inside him, raising his temperature, frothing the iron in his blood, removed one of his hands from it’s small, frightened grip and reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a clean, white handkerchief. He felt ill, but not at the sight of the blood on Metzli’s face the latter missed during their first wiping as he leaned back and attempted to gently dab at it, to clean their face with its tear stains from the impulse that coursed through them as his had through him. Actions spoke louder than words, they always would, coming from Parker.

— —

There was something intimate and affectionate about the way Parker put in the effort to clean off the blood from their face. Regardless, Metzli was still learning to perceive actions such as those as something non-threatening. And so, they squeezed their eyes shut and flinched, ever so slightly, before they realized what Parker was actually offering. Their eyes widened and they closed their eyes with a swallow, apologizing. “I am sorry.” They took a breath, feeling like it tasted like regret. After how many times they’d been close and held hands, it felt wrong to have had such a reaction.

“I do trust you. Sometimes there is just difficulty with…” A breath shuddered out of them, and Metzli took that moment to gesture vaguely to what Parker was doing. They ran their hand up and down their thigh to center themself, landing it on their knee with a tight squeeze. Sometimes it helped to touch their own body and prove to their mind that they were real and they were okay. It seemed so silly at first, but the results proved to Metzli that it was much more effective than rocking back and forth.

“You are good person, too.” They finally said, breaking the silence. “Think it is just hard to always be good when you are taught to kill. This is way you know. I understand this.” Their eyes didn’t tend to lock with others, the intensity of that far too uncomfortable for Metzli. It’d been an affliction for them for as long as they could remember. And yet, for the briefest moment, they made the effort to lock their eyes with Parker, urging their words to seep into him in both voice and sight. “You let them go, and I appreciate this. There is good in you. Maybe is hard to find, but if you want to be better, then we can find it and be better. I will be here.” When they finally looked away, focusing on the grass instead, Metzli smiled warmly. Affectionately.

“And I will not hate you. You are family. Healthy families do not hate.” Squeezing their knee a final time, Metzli searched their pocket and retrieved their trusty fidget tool. With the tension so high, they thought it would be good to give Parker something to do with his hands. “We will sit here and talk if you want. Or have silence. Here.” They handed the tool over, clicking the joystick section they enjoyed the most. “This helps. Lo juro.”

— —

Every once in a while, there was a thought about what would’ve been different if Parker wasn’t what he was. It took the human mind, overwhelmingly on average, a quarter of a second to process the intake of information it was receiving. But Parker was faster than that, wasn’t he. It wasn’t called ‘precognition’ but the Warden’s reflexes, the millisecond they caught Metzli’s flinch, had him pause. It took him longer than a millisecond to process that they weren’t flinching because of him, though he had long since grown accustomed to that reaction from others.

It was enough time for him to somewhat recover the control he had lost over his emotions during their entire exchange, though. His breathing became more even, deeper. His hands had eased from their convulsive tremor to little more than a tremble as he felt the lingering desire to abandon the vampire in favor of chasing down his prey and putting it out of its misery waning… rising, falling. Parker wasn’t even aware that he had resumed gently tending to Metzli’s face as the latter apologized, but he was aware that he gave them a small shake of his head.

“I… understand.” He didn’t, not really. He and Metzli were very similar in many regards, but Parker had never been abused. An attempt to connect was there for him, but it always came up short, an uneven scale. Flinching was something discouraged from a young age, he could remember. ‘If you react, you’re showing them weakness.’ His father said. ‘You don’t do that though, do you boy?’ Blue eyes that stung with tears now absently looked at Metzli’s hand as it ran up and down the length of their thigh in a rhythmic motion. ‘Daddy’s little serial killer.’ His father smiled that day. ‘Someone could ruin you and you wouldn’t so much as blink.’

It took him longer than a millisecond to process that Metzli was talking to him, addressing morality, being a good person, going against what one was taught. The vampire must’ve been speaking from experience - non-killers could offer… one of those feelings (Parker didn’t know the difference between ‘sympathy’ and ‘empathy’) but the words were superficial at best until it was another weapon saying them. Parker wasn’t a weapon, though. He was a machine. Metzli’s words were comforting, terribly so, placing him in a place of warmth for a second as the two exchanged a rare instance of eye contact.

‘If you want to be better…’ Parker wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. He wasn’t sure if he ever did, as the two sat on the forest floor among the signs of their brief struggle, the pooled blood of the entomid clearly visible. ‘I will not hate you.’ Metzli’s voice repeating what he had heard in his head wasn’t like the rest of his family. It wasn’t even like the occasional quote from Rhett. It was… different, in a way that he couldn’t describe. Then they rummaged through one of their pockets, pulling out a tool that they offered to him. “Oh–” Folding the handkerchief neatly and setting it on the ground next to them for a moment, he adjusted his position to reach into one of his own pockets, fingers brushing past the smoothed stone that Rhett gave him and pulling out the tool that Metzli had given him for Christmas. Two of the buttons had seen considerably better use.

Holding the tool out until it lightly touched Metzli’s for a moment, Parker gestured that they could keep theirs, holding his up to his good ear and pressing his favorite button. Rhythmic. Controlled. As he should’ve been at all waking moments. “I’m…” And yet, putting his thoughts into words was as difficult as ever, arguably more so right now. “Not… sure what I want.” On the other hand, there was a list of things he certainly didn’t want; he didn’t want to make Metzli deal with his childishness and indecision, that was at the top of the list.

“What… do you want?” A pause. “Are you still hungry?”

— —

A warmth spread through Metzli’s chest at the sight of the tool they’d given Parker. It was worn from use, and the urge to roll their wrist happily quickly won out. They made a quick mental note to stock up on a few extra so they were prepared for when Parker’s current tool no longer worked the same. Because they were still going to be friends, and they were going to help each other. Nothing had changed, and nothing would. It couldn’t. Not if Metzli could help it, and they desperately wanted to.

“I want to help you.” The response was quick and instinctual, coming from a place that understood deflection. Parker was never meant to want, no hunter or killer was. That knowledge came from their own experience, and Metzli felt a twinge of painful empathy needle at the tips of their fingers. “Not hungry anymore. Let us take a walk.” Their eyes scanned the area with a worried frown for the fae, lingering in the direction they had escaped toward. They decided going the opposite way would probably be best. Parker still had his instincts about him, and Metzli didn’t want to have to restrain him again so soon. Though they were sure it likely wouldn’t be the last time.

Everything would have to be a work in progress, but it was work they wanted to put in. They didn’t want for much, weren’t allowed to really, but when it came to their loved ones, they wanted to show up for them. They wanted to love and show up, and extend help whenever possible. Because Metzli wouldn’t be what they were taught or how they were treated. With a little help, and of course, if he truly wanted to, maybe Parker could take a different path too. All he had to do was take the first step.

Metzli rose from their seat on the ground and offered their hand to Parker with a soft smile. “A walk will help. We can look for blackberry loopers. Have seen them here before.” Tilting their head in question, Metzli continued to smile softly, hoping Parker would take their offer. “Will you join?”

— —

His friend’s reply was too quick for it not to have been on the tip of their tongue, almost in anticipation for the question offered to Parker that he returned in an attempt not to sit there like a fool with no sufficient answer. At first, he didn’t believe it; optimism was something else he was discouraged from relying on, the household vastly preferring logic and low expectations. People were human. Humans weren’t like the fae in that they could say anything they wanted and it could be a lie but there wasn’t any way of Parker knowing that.

But he had learned very early on that Metzli, while human-adjacent at the very least, wasn’t a liar. They didn’t lie and they didn’t use words they didn’t mean. If they said they wanted to help, it wasn’t for personal gain, nor were the words pretty and hopeful but empty. When they said they weren’t hungry anymore, Parker didn’t understand how, but he understood that they wouldn’t have said that unless it were true. They stood and Parker’s sharp blue eyes followed the movement. He felt his head turn slightly, instinctively, wanting to look in the direction that that fae had limped off, but he didn’t. He didn’t… want to.

He… wanted to walk with Metzli. Enjoy their quiet, their walking, the clicks from their fidget tool. He wanted to walk in the direction opposite to the fae, what his family was urging him to do in his head, pounding his brain against his skull, twisting his stomach into knots with protest. He wanted to hold their hand for just a moment and wish that he could forget anything. And most importantly, that that moment, he wanted to help Metzli.

But he didn’t know how.

So for this moment, though he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to willingly forget anything he’d done before this moment, Parker tentatively took the vampire’s hand. He would follow them, go where he was told, do what felt right for them to do. He was smothering the shame that wrenched his insides, knowing that he would deal with the repercussions of tonight later. But for now, he longed to walk with his good friend with the smallest, most trepidatious idea in his head, an idea that was formed from the words of people who… might’ve actually cared. That his legacy as a Wright Warden might not have been the absolute. That if someone like Metzli, someone from a place much darker and no doubt with a history more violent than himself, could do it, then maybe he could, too.

Maybe he could be… better.

He… smiled. Soft, rather timid, but genuine. Unusual, new. “I’d… really like that, Metzli.”

#wickedswriting #writing // Better Together #writing with // Metzli #Silent Siblings // Metzli #domestic abuse tw #emotional abuse tw

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istumpysk · 2 years ago

Text

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: Daenerys VIII (Chapter 50)

The Yunkai'i had come at King Hizdahr's invitation, to sign the peace and witness the rebirth of Meereen's far-famed fighting pits. Her noble husband had opened the Great Pyramid to fete them.

I hate this, thought Daenerys Targaryen. How did this happen, that I am drinking and smiling with men I'd sooner flay?

Flay?

+.+.+

Dany scarce touched a bite. This is peace, she told herself. This is what I wanted, what I worked for, this is why I married Hizdahr. So why does it taste so much like defeat?

Because you are not made for peace.

Daenerys isn't content; by the end she'll decide the price for peace is too much.

While we go through this chapter, try to keep in mind the other prices Daenerys is more than comfortable paying.

Slaves, Dany thought. Khal Drogo would drive them downriver to one of the towns on Slaver's Bay. She wanted to cry, but she told herself that she must be strong. This is war, this is what it looks like, this is the price of the Iron Throne. - Daenerys VII, AGOT

"You warned me that only death could pay for life. I thought you meant the horse."

"No," Mirri Maz Duur said. "That was a lie you told yourself. You knew the price." - Daenerys IX, AGOT

I will have them all [the Unsullied], no matter the price, she told herself. - Daenerys III, ADWD

+.+.+

"It is only for a little while more, my love," Hizdahr had assured her. "The Yunkai'i will soon be gone, and their allies and hirelings with them. We shall have all we desired. Peace, food, trade. Our port is open once again, and ships are being permitted to come and go."

"They are permitting that, yes," she had replied, "but their warships remain. They can close their fingers around our throat again whenever they wish. They have opened a slave market within sight of my walls!"

"Outside our walls, sweet queen. That was a condition of the peace, that Yunkai would be free to trade in slaves as before, unmolested."

"In their own city. Not where I have to see it." The Wise Masters had established their slave pens and auction block just south of the Skahazadhan, where the wide brown river flowed into Slaver's Bay. "They are mocking me to my face, making a show of how powerless I am to stop them."

"Posing and posturing," said her noble husband. "A show, as you have said. Let them have their mummery. When they are gone, we will make a fruit market of what they leave behind."

Slavery was already happening within her walls.

A sports general manager once said it's a good trade when both teams are unsatisfied. A similar sentiment has already appeared in this novel.

By the time Jon Snow signed the parchment the Braavosi drew up, both of them were half-drunk and quite unhappy. Jon thought that a good sign. - Jon IX, ADWD

The peace between Yunkai and Daenerys is not supposed to feel like a win. Change doesn't happen overnight, it's a long arduous process, with many concessions.

Regardless of how frustrating this feels, dragons are never the better alternative. It's tragic people still need to learn this.

+.+.+

"When they are gone," Dany repeated. "And when will they be gone? Riders have been seen beyond the Skahazadhan. Dothraki scouts, Rakharo says, with a khalasar behind them. They will have captives. Men, women, and children, gifts for the slavers." Dothraki did not buy or sell, but they gave gifts and received them. "That is why the Yunkai'i have thrown up this market. They will leave here with thousands of new slaves."

Hizdahr zo Loraq shrugged. "But they will leave. That is the important part, my love. Yunkai will trade in slaves, Meereen will not, this is what we have agreed. Endure this for a little while longer, and it shall pass."

Dothraki not buying or selling is how she justified taking the Unsullied.

Anyway, I bet this is important!

One rider, and alone. A scout. He was one who rode before the khalasar to find the game and the good green grass, and sniff out foes wherever they might hide. If he found her there, he would kill her, rape her, or enslave her. At best, he would send her back to the crones of the dosh khaleen, where good khaleesi were supposed to go when their khals had died. - Daenerys X, ADWD

+.+.+

No queen has clean hands, Dany told herself. She thought of Doreah, of Quaro, of Eroeh … of a little girl she had never met, whose name had been Hazzea. Better a few should die in the pit than thousands at the gates. This is the price of peace, I pay it willingly. If I look back, I am lost.

Say her name.

Get ready for Daenerys to look back, and demand a refund.

+.+.+

The other Yunkish lords were hardly more impressive. One was small and stunted, though the slave soldiers who attended him were grotesquely tall and thin. The third was young, fit, and dashing, but so drunk that Dany could scarce understand a word he said. How could I have been brought to this pass by creatures such as these?

Peace was never truly an option.

+.+.+

The Second Sons were represented too. If Daario were here, this meal would end in blood. No promised peace could ever have persuaded her captain to permit Brown Ben Plumm to stroll back into Meereen and leave alive. Dany had sworn that no harm would come to the seven envoys and commanders, though that had not been enough for the Yunkai'i. They had required hostages of her as well. To balance the three Yunkish nobles and four sellsword captains, Meereen sent seven of its own out to the siege camp: Hizdahr's sister, two of his cousins, Dany's bloodrider Jhogo, her admiral Groleo, the Unsullied captain Hero, and Daario Naharis.

"I will leave my girls with you," her captain had said, handing her his sword belt and its gilded wantons. "Keep them safe for me, beloved. We would not want them making bloody mischief amongst the Yunkai'i."

All of these people remain hostages going into TWOW.

It's not looking great for Daario, but I've seen characters escape worse odds.

+.+.+

The Shavepate was absent as well. The first thing Hizdahr had done upon being crowned was to remove him from command of the Brazen Beasts, replacing him with his own cousin, the plump and pasty Marghaz zo Loraq. It is for the best. The Green Grace says there is blood between Loraq and Kandaq, and the Shavepate never made a secret of his disdain for my lord husband. And Daario …

Wow, sounds like a whole ton of motive! Is he good with poison?

+.+.+

Daario had only grown wilder since her wedding. Her peace did not please him, her marriage pleased him less, and he had been furious at being deceived by the Dornishmen. When Prince Quentyn told them that the other Westerosi had come over to the Stormcrows at the command of the Tattered Prince, only the intercession of Grey Worm and his Unsullied prevented Daario from killing them all. The false deserters had been imprisoned safely in the bowels of the pyramid … but Daario's rage continued to fester.

He will be safer as a hostage. My captain was not made for peace.

Is this about Daario or Daenerys?

+.+.+

Daario was war and woe. Henceforth, she must keep him out of her bed, out of her heart, and out of her. If he did not betray her, he would master her. She did not know which of those she feared the most.

Hard to say, which one results in mass death and carnage?

"Grapes are real. A man can gorge himself on grapes. Their juice is sweet, and they make wine. What do dragons make?"

"Woe." The Crow's Eye sipped from his silver cup. - The Reaver, AFFC

+.+.+

All of the entertainers were slaves. That had been part of the peace, that slaveowners be allowed the right to bring their chattels into Meereen without fear of having them freed. In return the Yunkai'i had promised to respect the rights and liberties of the former slaves that Dany had freed. A fair bargain, Hizdahr said, but the taste it left in the queen's mouth was foul. She drank another cup of wine to wash it out.

YOU COMMAND A SLAVE ARMY. YOU HAVE A BED SLAVE. YOU PROFIT FROM SLAVERY. MEN ARE FORCED TO WORK FOR NO COMPENSATION IN YOUR CITY. DOTHRAKI BLOODRIDERS AND JORAH MORMONT ARE YOUR BESTIES.

+.+.+

The tumblers who came next failed to move her either, even when they formed a human pyramid nine levels high, with a naked little girl on top. Is that meant to represent my pyramid? the queen wondered. Is the girl on top meant to be me?

Lol, probably.

+.+.+

Dany found herself face-to-face with Brown Ben Plumm.

He bowed low. "Worship. You look lovely. Well, you always did. None of them Yunkishmen are half so pretty. I thought I might bring a wedding gift for you, but the bidding went too high for old Brown Ben."

"I want no gifts from you."

"This one you might. The head of an old foe."

"Your own?" she said sweetly. "You betrayed me."

"Now that's a harsh way o' putting it, if you don't mind me saying." Brown Ben scratched at his speckled grey-and-white whiskers. "We went over to the winning side, is all. Same as we done before. It weren't all me, neither. I put it to my men."

Can't even give me Tyrion's head, what a disappointment this man turned out to be. He really is Targaryen.

+.+.+

"Never that," said Brown Ben, "but it's not all about the coin, Your High-and-Mightiness. I learned that a long time back, at my first battle. Morning after the fight, I was rooting through the dead, looking for the odd bit o' plunder, as it were. Came upon this one corpse, some axeman had taken his whole arm off at the shoulder. He was covered with flies, all crusty with dried blood, might be why no one else had touched him, but under them he wore this studded jerkin, looked to be good leather. I figured it might fit me well enough, so I chased away the flies and cut it off him. The damn thing was heavier than it had any right to be, though. Under the lining, he'd sewn a fortune in coin. Gold, Your Worship, sweet yellow gold. Enough for any man to live like a lord for the rest o' his days. But what good did it do him? There he was with all his coin, lying in the blood and mud with his fucking arm cut off. And that's the lesson, see? Silver's sweet and gold's our mother, but once you're dead they're worth less than that last shit you take as you lie dying. I told you once, there are old sellswords and there are bold sellswords, but there are no old bold sellswords.

This is a long-winded way of telling you he's not the treason for gold.

+.+.+

My boys didn't care to die, that's all, and when I told them that you couldn't unleash them dragons against the Yunkishmen, well …"

You saw me as defeated, Dany thought, and who am I to say that you were wrong?

She wasn't defeated. She chained her dragons, and negotiated for peace.

Not that it matters, she'll forever associate not using dragons with defeat.

+.+.+

"You don't never want to trust a sellsword, m'lady."

"I have learned that much. One day I must be sure to thank you for the lesson."

Oop.

Dany poured the oil over the woman's head herself. "I thank you, Mirri Maz Duur," she said, "for the lessons you have taught me." - Daenerys X, AGOT

+.+.+

"Ser Barristan?" she said softly.

The white knight appeared at once. "Your Grace."

"How much did you hear?"

"Enough. He was not wrong. Never trust a sellsword."

Or a queen, thought Dany.

That doesn't feel like a queenly attribute.

+.+.+

"Is there some man in the Second Sons who might be persuaded to … remove … Brown Ben?"

"As Daario Naharis once removed the other captains of the Stormcrows?" The old knight looked uncomfortable. "Perhaps. I would not know, Your Grace."

No, she thought, you are too honest and too honorable. "If not, the Yunkai'i employ three other companies."

Lol, casually plotting assassination.

Can you imagine Bran, Jon, or Sansa doing this? Of course not. We're in Cersei Lannister territory.

Poor uncomfortable Barry. Déjà vu, buddy?

+.+.+

"I am only a young girl and know little of such things, but it seems to me that we want them to be treacherous. Once, you'll recall, I convinced the Second Sons and Stormcrows to join us."

"If Your Grace wishes a privy word with Gylo Rhegan or the Tattered Prince, I could bring them up to your apartments."

"This is not the time. Too many eyes, too many ears. Their absence would be noted even if you could separate them discreetly from the Yunkai'i. We must find some quieter way of reaching out to them … not tonight, but soon."

Except Cersei wouldn't bother with this ridiculous act.

+.+.+

"As you command. Though I fear this is not a task for which I am well suited. In King's Landing work of this sort was left to Lord Littlefinger or the Spider. We old knights are simple men, only good for fighting." He patted his sword hilt.

In case you forgot, Barristan Selmy is a dimwitted bootlicking ham, and can't be trusted to do anything right.

"Soldiers, not warriors, if it please Your Grace. They were made for the battlefield, to stand shoulder to shoulder behind their shields with their spears thrust out before them. Their training teaches them to obey, fearlessly, perfectly, without thought or hesitation … not to unravel secrets or ask questions." - Daenerys I, ADWD

"Let us hope this dream was not prophetic. You are a clever imp, just as Varys said, and Daenerys will have need of clever men about her. Ser Barristan is a valiant knight and true; but none, I think, has ever called him cunning." - Tyrion II, ADWD

A pair of common freeriders would have served if all that Stannis had in mind was scouting, Jon Snow reflected, but knights are better suited to act as messengers or envoys. - Jon II, ADWD

Great reminder right before his POV takes over!

+.+.+

"Our prisoners," suggested Dany. "The Westerosi who came over from the Windblown with the three Dornishmen. We still have them in cells, do we not? Use them."

"Free them, you mean? Is that wise? They were sent here to worm their way into your trust, so they might betray Your Grace at the first chance."

"Then they failed. I do not trust them. I will never trust them." If truth be told, Dany was forgetting how to trust.

hehehe

+.+.+

"We can still use them. One was a woman. Meris. Send her back, as a … a gesture of my regard. If their captain is a clever man, he will understand."

"The woman is the worst of all."

"All the better." Dany considered a moment. "We should sound out the Long Lances too. And the Company of the Cat."

"Bloodbeard." Ser Barristan's frown deepened. "If it please Your Grace, we want no part of him. Your Grace is too young to remember the Ninepenny Kings, but this Bloodbeard is cut from the same savage cloth. There is no honor in him, only hunger … for gold, for glory, for blood."

"You know more of such men than me, ser." If Bloodbeard might be truly the most dishonorable and greedy of the sellswords, he might be the easiest to sway, but she was loath to go against Ser Barristan's counsel in such matters. "Do as you think best. But do it soon. If Hizdahr's peace should break, I want to be ready. I do not trust the slavers." I do not trust my husband. "They will turn on us at the first sign of weakness."

If this results in any of these sellsword companies joining her in Westeros, I'm going to die of laughter. She deserves every betrayal coming her way.

I will never understand the point of Meris of Tarth.

+.+.+

"The Yunkai'i grow weaker as well. The bloody flux has taken hold amongst the Tolosi, it is said, and spread across the river to the third Ghiscari legion."

The pale mare. Daenerys sighed. Quaithe warned me of the pale mare's coming. She told me of the Dornish prince as well, the sun's son. She told me much and more, but all in riddles.

Still waiting for a reason why Daenerys would be warned about Quentyn Martell.

+.+.+

"I cannot rely on plague to save me from my enemies. Set Pretty Meris free. At once."

No greyscale for Aegon. Only fields of fire.

+.+.+

"As you command. Though … Your Grace, if I may be so bold, there is another road …"

"The Dornish road?" Dany sighed.

[...]

"It would please me if he had turned up with these fifty thousand swords he speaks of. Instead he brings two knights and a parchment. Will a parchment shield my people from the Yunkai'i? If he had come with a fleet …"

PLEASE DON'T TEASE ME.

+.+.+

"Sunspear has never been a sea power, Your Grace."

PLEASE.

+.+.+

Dany knew enough of Westerosi history to know that. Nymeria had landed ten thousand ships upon Dorne's sandy shores, but when she wed her Dornish prince she had burned them all and turned her back upon the sea forever.

Look who's back!

Shoutout to @agentrouka-blog for reminding me that Nymeria and Brandon "the Shipwright" Stark share an amusing parallel.

Brandon attempted to sail across the Sunset Sea, and was never seen again. His son, Brandon the Burner, burned all the remaining ships.

+.+.+

"Dornishmen are notoriously stubborn, Your Grace. Prince Quentyn's forebears fought your own for the better part of two hundred years. He will not go without you."

Then he will die here, Daenerys thought, unless there is more to him than I can see. "Is he still within?"

"Drinking with his knights."

"Bring him to me. It is time he met my children."

A flicker of doubt passed across the long, solemn face of Barristan Selmy. "As you command."

Wait, is she testing him?

Oh man, is that why he tries to tame them?

+.+.+

A pair of Unsullied went down the steps before them, bearing torches; behind came two Brazen Beasts, one masked as a fish, the other as a hawk.

Perfect for when you don't want to be identified.

Kind of funny the show fashioned the Sons of the Harpy after her own city watch.

+.+.+

Even here in her own pyramid, on this happy night of peace and celebration, Ser Barristan insisted on keeping guards about her everywhere she went.

Sounds like she's hard to kill.

+.+.+

"The dragon has three heads," Dany said when they were on the final flight. "My marriage need not be the end of all your hopes. I know why you are here."

Oh my god, she's totally culpable. How did I forget this? I thought it was his own brain dead idea, I didn't realize she lead him on. That's so bad.

Anyway, remember how there are living, breathing humans who believe there are two other heads of the dragon who will join her cause, and ride alongside her? (Jon, Tyrion)

If you're going to be that gullible, at least pick the Greyjoy brothers.

+.+.+

"For you," said Quentyn, all awkward gallantry.

"No," said Dany. "For fire and blood."

One of the elephants trumpeted at them from his stall. An answering roar from below made her flush with sudden heat.

+.+.+

Prince Quentyn looked up in alarm. "The dragons know when she is near," Ser Barristan told him.

Every child knows its mother, Dany thought. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves … "They call to me. Come."

Feels like she's repeating these words every chapter now.

+.+.+

The dragons craned their necks around, gazing at them with burning eyes. Viserion had shattered one chain and melted the others. He clung to the roof of the pit like some huge white bat, his claws dug deep into the burnt and crumbling bricks. Rhaegal, still chained, was gnawing on the carcass of a bull. The bones on the floor of the pit were deeper than the last time she had been down here, and the walls and floors were black and grey, more ash than brick. They would not hold much longer … but behind them was only earth and stone. Can dragons tunnel through rock, like the firewyrms of old Valyria? She hoped not.

+.+.+

Quentyn Martell jumped back a foot.

A crueler woman might have laughed at him, but Dany squeezed his hand and said, "They frighten me as well. There is no shame in that. My children have grown wild and angry in the dark."

"You … you mean to ride them?"

"One of them. All I know of dragons is what my brother told me when I was a girl, and some I read in books, but it is said that even Aegon the Conqueror never dared mount Vhagar or Meraxes, nor did his sisters ride Balerion the Black Dread. Dragons live longer than men, some for hundreds of years, so Balerion had other riders after Aegon died … but no rider ever flew two dragons."

There's one for you Quentyn, all you have to do is claim it.

+.+.+

"They are … they are fearsome creatures."

"They are dragons, Quentyn." Dany stood on her toes and kissed him lightly, once on each cheek. "And so am I."

We know.

+.+.+

The young prince swallowed. "I … I have the blood of the dragon in me as well, Your Grace. I can trace my lineage back to the first Daenerys, the Targaryen princess who was sister to King Daeron the Good and wife to the Prince of Dorne. He built the Water Gardens for her."

"The Water Gardens?" She knew little and less of Dorne or its history, if truth be told.

Will the Water Gardens survive, tune in next time to find out.

+.+.+

She drew him away from the pit. He does not belong here. He should never have come. "You ought to return there. My court is no safe place for you, I fear. You have more enemies than you know. You made Daario look a fool, and he is not a man to forget such a slight."

That's true, but she's also projecting.

Her home was back in Meereen, with her husband and her lover. That was where she belonged, surely. - Daenerys X, ADWD

Compare that to this,

She was barefoot, with oiled hair, wearing Dothraki riding leathers and a painted vest given her as a bride gift. She looked as though she belonged here. - Daenerys III, AGOT

Lol.

+.+.+

"Tell me of this other Daenerys. I know less than I should of the history of my father's kingdom. I never had a maester growing up." Only a brother.

I did a double take. Is that Daenerys wanting to learn history?

Too late.

+.+.+

Hizdahr at least was happy, if somewhat drunk. "I keep my promises," he told her, as Irri and Jhiqui were robing them for bed. "You wished for peace, and it is yours."

And you wished for blood, and soon enough I must give it to you, Dany thought, but what she said was, "I am grateful."

She's talking about the fighting pits, but that's probably not all.

+.+.+

Afterward he nuzzled at her ear and whispered, "Gods grant that we have made a son tonight."

The words of Mirri Maz Duur rang in her head. When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child. Then he will return, and not before. The meaning was plain enough; Khal Drogo was as like to return from the dead as she was to bear a living child. But there are some secrets she could not bring herself to share, even with a husband, so she let Hizdahr zo Loraq keep his hopes.

That's the first time in history she hasn't misquoted someone.

Not sure where the author will take this, but I'm certain the dragons will be her only children.

+.+.+

Daenerys could only twist and turn beside him. She wanted to shake him, wake him, make him hold her, kiss her, fuck her again, but even if he did, he would fall back to sleep again afterward, leaving her alone in the darkness. She wondered what Daario was doing. Was he restless as well? Was he thinking about her? Did he love her, truly? Did he hate her for marrying Hizdahr? I should never have taken him into my bed. He was only a sellsword, no fit consort for a queen, and yet …

I knew that all along, but I did it anyway.

"My queen?" said a soft voice in the darkness.

Dany flinched. "Who is there?"

"Only Missandei." The Naathi scribe moved closer to the bed. "This one heard you crying."

"Crying? I was not crying. Why would I cry? I have my peace, I have my king, I have everything a queen might wish for. You had a bad dream, that was all."

"As you say, Your Grace." She bowed and made to go.

Take a shot every time someone creeps up on Daenerys. I think we've covered this enough, but if you're new here - it's foreshadowing how she'll be killed.

The rest is slightly alarming. No doubt Daenerys was crying. It's another moment where she appears to be on the verge of losing it.

Westeros. Home. But if she left, what would happen to her city? Meereen was never your city, her brother's voice seemed to whisper. Your cities are across the sea. Your Seven Kingdoms, where your enemies await you. You were born to serve them blood and fire. - Daenerys III, ADWD

It's also another hilarious Cersei parallel.

"What's that for, Mother? Why are you crying?"

Because you're safe, she wanted to tell him. Because no harm will ever come to you. "You are mistaken. A lion never cries." - Cersei X, ADWD

Dany looked at him helplessly. It was good that dragons did not cry. - Daenerys V, ADWD

+.+.+

"If it please you." Missandei sat down beside her. "What shall we talk of?"

"Home," said Dany. "Naath. Butterflies and brothers. Tell me of the things that make you happy, the things that make you giggle, all your sweetest memories. Remind me that there is still good in the world."

Missandei did her best. She was still talking when Dany finally fell to sleep, to dream queer, half-formed dreams of smoke and fire.

The morning came too soon.

Really sucks when you're woken up from your blissful dreams of smoke and fire.

That might be her last genuine tenderhearted moment in the entire series.

Final thoughts:

Time to break your chains, crazy.

WAKE THE DRAGON.

I will teach them what it means to put a lion in a cage, Cersei thought. - Cersei X, ADWD 🤭🤭🤭

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #adwd #daenerys viii

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countrymusiclover · 1 year ago

Text

29 - Sweet Vampire-Witch

Part 30

Gemini Runaway

Tag list ask to be added @dragonixfrye @secretdreamlandmentality

Strolling down the streets of the town with my hand intertwined with Klaus’s I felt like everything was going in the somewhat right direction for us. We were both immortal now and I was carrying his child, correcting three children. I hadn’t done anything more than put a daylight ring on my finger seeing that he had managed to find where Tyler had dropped my ring. “You’ve declared that you wish for little Lockwood to suffer. Any suggestions or can I make some hmm?”

“You’ve had a thousand years of practice. But I’m the one he killed me so I want to do this. I was thinking something with making her lose her mind or you messing with Tyler since you can compel other vampires.” Swinging our intertwined hands I smirked at him.

He tilted his head at me cheeky grin on his face until we stopped outside the Grill. “Splendid idea. Now are you hungry I think it’s time we have a proper drink together.”

“I can’t have alcohol, Nik. It’s not good for them.” I warned him until he raised a brow smirking at me.

“That’s not the type I am talking about, Raelyn.” He led me into one of the booths where I felt my fangs wanting to come out almost instantly by how many humans were around here. “Now I assume Caroline will want to teach you. But I say well if you are going to learn you should learn from the best. So you see the brunette over there by herself. Compel her to follow you then meet me in the back alley for the next lesson.”

“How do I know if I am doing it right?” I asked not sure how to start.

He reached across the table grabbing my hand before leaving the restaurant to watch from afar. “Believe what you are saying and you’ll be fine. You must do it yourself to learn in this new game of survival. If something goes wrong I’ll be shot in ear shot.”

Slowly walking up to the girl she downed a shot jumping when I was standing behind her when she got up from her chair. “Rough day I take it?”

“Yeah my boyfriend dumped me.” She grumbled through some annoyed tears.

Resting my hands on the table I bent down closer to her face focusing on what I was telling her like he told me to. “Awe. How about you and I go into the back ally and talk about it. But you won’t turn me down. You want to come with me no questions asked.”

“I’ll go with you.” She said in a slow manner meaning I had done it right where she followed me outside to where we met up with my boyfriend.

He was leaned up against the brick wall smiling at me and the girl I compelled. “Good job. Now listen to the heartbeat. It will tell you when to stop.” Nodding my head my fangs came out before I bit into the girl’s neck moaning when the blood entered my mouth. The taste used to be bitter but now it was the sweetest thing I had ever tasted.

The girl's heartbeat began to slow down to which I ignored. “Rae. Rae, let go.” He called my name thinking I would pull back but my fingers gripped her shoulders feeling her body almost collapse onto the ground until he yanked me backwards by my jacket putting himself in between the bleeding girl and I. “Raelyn!”

“What the heck, Klaus. You have shown me this is what we do. We hunt, we feed, we kill. Now give me the blood. I need more!” I vamped forward but he shoved me against the other wall across from us trapping me in between him.

He had his hands on either side of my head where our breaths could mix together as one with his eyes glaring down at me. “Yes that’s true, Rae. But you have to learn control.”

“Oh, do I. Because I've seen you kill people without blinking. So why should I have to be in control….when all I can desire is the hunger. The taste that I never imagined I would enjoy so much.” Shoving my hands against his chest I twisted his arm managing to get under his arm vamping back to the girl sinking my fangs into her neck hearing her heart barely beating.

Klaus grabbed me by my hair, spinning me away from her again, quickly compelling the girl and giving her some blood so she’d heal. “Forget my face and my blonde friend. Now leave.”

“Seriously Nik. Are you trying to teach me self control?” I snapped showing him my fangs.

He threw his hands up, dropping them at his sides heavily. “What I do and what you should do aren’t the same thing, darling. You are better than me. So I will teach you self control to keep you from becoming what I am.”

“So you’ll help me get revenge on the Lockwood boy but when I want to drink from the vein like we are supposed to do you back out like a coward.” I growled rising up on my toes since he was taller than me glaring daggers into him.

He bent his head down huffing when he rolled his shoulders. He wasn’t sure what to do with this new Raelyn. When someone becomes a vampire it doesn’t change who you are completely. Yet he never would have taken her to be a Ripper. “You’re not yourself, Rae. So this is what we are going to do. We will take our revenge on Tyler tonight. And I pray that it will bring you some comfort.”

We ended up at his mother’s house where I headed for the front door smacking into the barrier. “Damn it…let’s see if this works.” Placing my hand on the invisible barrier in front of us attempting to siphon the magic away so we could go inside.

“Rae, I don’t think it works that way. Oh and look our savior, Mayor Lockwood would you be so kind as to invite us inside.” He asked seeing that Carol had opened the front door seeing us there.

She smiled saying the words. “Klaus. Raelyn, of course. Come in”

Placing my foot forward I slumped my shoulders being able to step over the threshold. He followed behind me shutting the front door sending me a look. “Sorrow to bother you, mayor. But do you happen to know where Tyler is?”

“Unfortunately no. Can I ask what this is about?” His mother asked, sitting down on the couch in the living room.

Grabbing her suddenly by her throat she started choking with my fingers tightly around her. “This is revenge for what he did to me! I’m sorry to say this Carol but you are the only person he cares about bedside Caroline and I will never hurt my friend. So this is how we are going to do this, you are not going to mention this to anybody.”

“I won’t tell anyone ... .Raelyn, please whatever he did I am sorry for.” She tried to say.

Showing her my fangs I snapped in her direction. “There’s no apology in the world to fix what he did. He and his hybrid buddies kidnapped me and then killed me when Klaus came to my rescue. And on top of that he nearly killed the babies inside my belly. For those things he has to pay. Nik, would you mind getting me a fire poker?”

“What exactly are you thinking, love? I would suggest starting with the fingernails or something smaller.” Nik asked leaving the room at my request.

Turning away from the mayor I replied back. “A dark object spell I heard my mother mention once when she thought about dealing with my cousin Kai. Plus I read about it in one of the spell books that Kol gave me to learn from.”

“Raelyn.” Carol called my name where I turned my head around seeing her holding a gun with green darts inside of it about to shoot me.

She pulled the trigger once where I was thrown onto my back by Nik with the dart going in his back where he grunted. “Vervain….dart!”

“Let me at her!” I growled, talking the poker from his hands vamping her into the wall. She drops the dart gun with me holding her by her throat with one hand. “You shouldn’t have done that, Carol. I was going to make this less painful for your son but that’s off the table now. Torsion fou mort de l'esprit.”

She winced, beginning to cry when I pressed the poker against her skin turning the metal red in my hand spelling her. “Raelyn…..ah….please…I’ll give you anything!”

“You have nothing I want. Torsion fou mort de l'esprit….Torsion fou mort de l'esprit.” The mark on her arm once I pulled the metal away turned red

Carol collapsed to the floor when I released her twirling the metal in my hands smirking down at her. “What did you do to me?”

“Oh you see this mark well it is called an Insanity Hex.” Lowering myself down when I bent my legs resting my hands on my knees. My hair fell over my shoulders with Klaus closely watching now recovered from the vervain she shot him with. “It will make you go slowly mad and Tyler will be forced to watch since you can’t reverse the process so I am told.”

Someone vamped into the house where I glanced towards whoever it was making my face turn cold at night with a devilish smirk on my lips. “Hello Tyler.”

“Raelyn….mom. What did you do to her?” He asked stepping forward until I raised my hand causing pain to go through his head.

Walking up to him I grabbed his chin in my freehand showing him my fangs. “Don’t worry your punishment will come soon enough. Let’s go, Nik. We’re done for today.” Rising to my feet I vamped out of the house and into the woods.

“The lesson here, mate. Is never piss off a pregnant vampire-witch.” Klaus warned him slightly proud and disappointed in his girlfriend all at the same time when he vamped after her.

Comments really appreciated ❤️

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