#Rage against the calamity

[averagechickenenjoyer]

Literally @bugcatcherwill

[bugcatcherwill]

I apologize in advance, but the second I saw this tweet I knew what to do

[mystic-hunter]

I did it again! Another chapter of this little fanfiction of a fanfiction. Go read Rage Against the Calamity by @bugcatcherwill. It's been really fun reading the story and writing my own story. Little thing though. This chapter was going to be longer but it was getting to long. So I've already started work on a 3rd chapter.

I was the first to rouse myself awake.  This was not surprising.  I got out of my bedroll and put my doctor's mask back on.  My mind went to the rumors as I began my daily preparations.  It had been a few days before since the duelist had heard them and relayed that information to us.  This did not come as a shock to me.  Especially given the letter I had received that set me and my little group on this adventure.  But even before I should have seen the clues.  Accepted the facts.  The many autopsies I conducted on the monstrous creatures.  It made way too much sense now.  I was blinded by magic when I should have kept my eyes on science.  Well the past is the past.  Nothing to be done about it except reevaluate and retheorize.

But in my deep thoughts I failed to notice the other early riser of our group The Duelist was overlooking the northern cliff we camped out on.  He had his specially designed Hawkeye Binoculars on.

“Hello Duelist.  What do you see on our path today?”

“Ah Magpie I should have known you would be up.  But to answer your question… nothing.  We should reach the lab by this afternoon with any luck.”

“Good.  Well I believe everything is packed and ready to go when our other two allies awaken and pack their personal effects.”

And so we waited.  When everyone awoke and was ready we once again started to move across the yellow and orange trees of Akkala.  Soon I saw our goal at the top of the hill.  Ferrous broke into a sprint to get there faster.  As the rest of us ran to catch up we saw something interesting.  There was already a Sheikah at the door.  Lab equipment adorned his form.  He spoke in a questioning and stern tone, “What business do you all have to be in this little corner of the world?”

It is at this point I take out a letter emblazoned with the insignia of the Sheikah from my coat pocket.  I quickly push to the front of the group and hand the letter to the man, “You sent this letter to me Doctor Robbie.  You said you had something of great importance to discuss and could use my knowledge of anatomy.”

At the mention of the meeting and letter the man immediately softened his tone, “Ah you must be Magpie then?”

“That is correct.”

I was able to catch the looks of my comrades as we were ushered inside by Doctor Robbie.  They all had either confusion or anger plastered on them.  Only Ferrous was unreadable given the mask and hood they wore.  I could tell they wanted to ask questions but were rushed in too quickly to get words out.

Immediately We all were face to face with a whole small group of monsters.  A red bokoblin, a blue moblin, a green lizalfos.  I swore I even saw a glimpse of a hinox through the back window.  It was clear this was more than a simple house call like the letter I got insinuated.  Although there were two missing.  The wizzrobes I read about were missing from the little group.  Before I could linger on that any longer though, the lizalfos immediately ran up and greeted us with the butt of a spear in front of me, “Hello there!  My name is Zayl.  Who are you?”

The spear in my face immediately put some of my allies on alert.  Specifically Ferrous, who’s hand started crackling with a black lightning and Duelist, who had half drawn their rapier.  I simply hooked my arm around the spear and responded, “You may call me Doctor Magpie while I am here.”

Ferrous’ hand lowered but still crackled with energy as they spoke, “Magpie.  We have to talk.  First of all, what the fuck?!  Second, HOW!?”

“Please let us not swear so freely in the presence of patients.  To answer both your questions,” I took out the letter again, “I was called here by Doctor Robbie as he needed a professional anatomist and medical doctor to help him with some and I quote ‘unique’ patients.”

This time Duelist spoke, clearly upset, “Magpie I hope you know this was a complete breach in our trust of you.  You lied about why you wanted to come here.”

“I never lied.  I said I got a call to collaborate with a fellow doctor and was needed in North Eastern Akkala.  Where was the lie?”

Duelist simply grumbled as he turned to leave the building.  He will come around.  I know it.  I then turn my attention back to Zayl and the other monsters, “So I will be upfront about why I am here.  I was called by Doctor Robbie to do some medical check ups for all of you.”

They all seemed to be off put so I corrected my statement, “There will be no use of a scalpel or cutting open of you unless I find something truly wrong with you.  But I highly doubt that will be necessary considering my glancing diagnosis.”

Doctor Robbie cut me off as he got everyone's attention, “alright folks I think we should let the good Doctor do his job shall we?  So Doctor!  Who shall you look at first?”

“I think there is no better place to start than this one in front of me,” motioning to Zayl.

“Excellent.  Alright so you can use the little back room to do your work,” as he pointed to a small room in a small corner of the home.

Zayl spoke up clearly distressed, “Wait um when you said no cutting open were you serious?”

“Of course, I am a doctor not a tyrant.  My job is to heal.  Well let us have a look at you.  The rest of you.  Do not be afraid of my little posse.  They do not mean any harm,” and so I took Zayl into the little back room.  It was well lit and had a simple high seat for patients.  “Please sit up on here if you would not mind Zayl.”  It took its place on the seat, “You do not have to say but I am curious as to what happened to your tail,” I could tell by it grabbing its tail and cuddling it close that it did not like the topic, “Understood.  We will leave that question forgotten then.  Now open your mouth please.”  It did so without fuss.  I took a look inside and did my normal routine.  Even with the difference in species it wasn’t all that different in terms of health.  Slightly stained but clean sharp teeth made to hold fish after being grabbed by that long tongue.  “Okay.  Now please change your colors to your surroundings please,” again Zayl did so without fuss.  Its skin goes from the vibrant and slightly shiny green to a dull brick-like texture that matches perfectly if it were not for one eye trained on me and the other constantly zipping to other parts of the room.  It is stressed out.  I should wrap this up quickly.  “Alright.  One last thing and then you can take a break.  Please grab this with your tongue but do not swallow it,” as I threw an empty bottle up in the air, there was a flash of pink flesh and I saw the bottle dangling from Zayls tongue.  “Alright that should be about everything for now.  We will pick this back up when you are more comfortable.”  Zayl seems to let out a breath I did not even realize it was holding.  It quickly gathered itself and left the room.  This was going to be a challenge if Zayl was supposed to be the most outgoing. This was going to be much harder.

I also hope I wrote everyone well enough! I mentioned I got stuck on Zayl's cadence and speech pattern so I do hope I did good. I always did think it would feel uncomfortable in a doctors office given the tail thing.

[jesshq]

I found this bokoblin here I’m currently defrosting it then after I broke it free I left it be, to survive with some fruit

He reminds me of one of the main characters from a great Zelda fanfic I been reading lately and how it met link in the it’s prequel ^^~

It’s called rage against the calamity the story I been reading and it’s by a fellow tumblr user @bugcatcherwill

Keep up the amazing work on rage against the calamity @bugcatcherwill

Can’t wait to read what happens next

[doumadono]

Silent Waves, Silent Wounds - Touya Todoroki x Reader

A/N: today's episode broke my heart and made me cry uncontrollably. With a nice prompt set for this week's challenge in a community I'm part of, I decided to combine the two. I just hope my Touya will survive. Gif was made by @gamergirl-niffler

MY HERO ACADEMIA

Touya's first breaths of freedom were laced with the sterile scent of antiseptics and the distant echoes of calamity.

Beneath the flickering streetlights of Musutafu, shadows twirled across the damp pavement, casting the world in veils of half-truths and murmured secrets.

It was upon a night cloaked in despair that Touya Todoroki, shrouded in the remnants of his shattered past, escaped the suffocating confines of what should have been a sanctuary. The hospital, ostensibly a bastion of healing and hope, had morphed into nothing but a prison, all under the malevolent gaze of All For One.

In a moment fueled by raw desperation and a primal urge for freedom, Touya, with hands trembling and heart pounding against the cage of his ribcage, ignited the very foundations that had ensnared him. Flames, hungry and unrestrained, licked upwards, clawing at the structure with a ferocity. Fire roared through the hallways, a fierce, unforgiving inferno that consumed everything in its path — medical charts, synthetic bed linens, the false promises of recovery.

As the inferno raged behind him, Touya stumbled into the cold embrace of the night.

The city loomed large and indifferent, its countless lights flickering like distant stars, unreachable and cold. Each step was a battle, his body a map of wounds both fresh and long endured, scars that told tales he could barely remember, tales of a mere boy who once dreamed of heroism but found himself ensnared in a nightmare of his father's making.

He moved through the shadows, a spectral figure haunted by the echoes of his past and the uncertain horrors of his future. Tonight, the world was both his enemy and his ally, hiding him from those who would seek to drag him back to that hellish place, yet offering no comfort from the relentless grip of his solitude and sorrow. His face, marred with scars that told stories of a tragic past and unresolved pain, was not one that people usually turned to for comfort.

As he navigated through the dimly lit streets, his eyes were cautious and wary of the stares that followed him like specters.

It was then he saw you - a girl sitting alone on the curb, your sobs cutting through the muffled sounds of the city like a siren’s call. You were young, perhaps no older than he, with tears streaking your cheeks and your shoulders trembling under the weight of your unseen burdens.

Despite his fears and the fresh pain of his own memories, something within him stirred - a remnant of the hero he once aspired to be. Hesitant, he approached you, his voice barely above a whisper after he cleared his throat, trying to sound normal, even though he knew it was no longer possible. “Hey, are you okay?”

You jerked your head up, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and surprise as they landed on his disfigured features.

For a heartbeat, Touya thought you would scream, run away, or recoil in horror.

But then, something remarkable happened - your expression softened, and your initial fright melted into a sad, understanding smile. “Not really,” you confessed, wiping your tears away with the back of your shaking hand. “My dad… he drinks too much. And my mom, she doesn’t really care. She threw me out tonight. Said she’d had enough of me being useless.”

The words struck a chord in Touya. Abandonment, pain, a longing for something better - themes that resonated deeply within his own life. Sitting heavily beside you on the cold curb, he offered you a timid smile, one that seemed almost out of place on his scarred visage. "I’m sorry,” he said, his voice a mixture of warmth and a chilling detachment born from years of conditioning under his father’s harsh regime. “I… I know what it’s like to feel like you have no one.”

You studied him, your reddened eyes lingering on his scars with a curiosity born from your own pain rather than judgement. “What happened to you?” you asked gently, perhaps too gently for the horror that his story contained.

Touya looked away, his eyes tracing the patterns of light and shadow on the ground. “I don’t remember everything,” he confessed. “But I know I was trying to prove something to my dad. It didn’t end well, as you can see.”

You sat in silence, the world around you bustling with life, yet oblivious to the shared moment of grief between two strangers.

People passed by, their glances sharp and sometimes filled with a disdain that neither of you were unfamiliar with.

Sensing Touya’s discomfort, you made a decision. “Let’s go somewhere else,” you suggested, a spark of resolve lighting up your tear-stained face. “Somewhere away from prying eyes. I know a nice place, if you'd like to join me.”

Touya nodded casually, “I think I’d like that. I have nowhere to be anyway.”

Without another word, you stood, holding out you hand to help him up. Your touch was warm, a stark contrast to the coldness he had come to expect from the world.

Together, you walked through the deserted streets, your steps in sync, until the city sounds faded into the background, replaced by the soothing rhythm of waves crashing against the shore.

Beneath the expansive canopy of the night sky, the beach lay deserted, bathed in the ethereal, silvery glow of the moon. The ocean before them transformed into a shimmering tapestry, each wave weaving threads of light across the dark canvas of water. It was here, with the cool sand cradling your steps and the vast, relentless sea stretching into infinity, that you discovered a fleeting sanctuary — a momentary escape from the ravages of your tormented existences.

As you settled onto the sand, the ocean's eternal murmurs surrounding you, Touya found himself unexpectedly comforted by the raw, natural beauty of the scene. Yet, he was taken aback when you revealed that it was not just chance that brought you to this tranquil haven in the dead of night.

“I come here often, especially after fights at home,” you confessed softly, your eyes reflecting the moonlight like fragments of a broken mirror. “The sound of the waves… it calms the storm inside me. Maybe it can do the same for you.”

Touya hesitated before his voice broke the silence. "I'm like these waves," he murmured, his voice tinged with a haunting sadness. "Crashing again and again, with no control, no end. I don't even remember why I started… what I was trying to prove." His gaze was lost to the horizon, where the dark sea met the darker sky, his face a mask of sorrow sculpted by the silvery light.

"It's hard, isn't it?" you said softly, pulling your knees closer to your chest, feeling the chill of the night seeping through your clothes. "Feeling like you're caught in a storm with no shelter in sight. I sit here, night after night, wondering if the screaming will ever stop, if there will ever be a night without tears, without all this emptiness."

"Does it help? Coming here, hearing the waves?" Touya asked.

"It doesn't stop the pain," you admitted, "but sometimes, it makes it bearable. The sea doesn't judge, doesn't demand. It just is. And for a little while, I can just be too, without worrying about the next wave that might knock me down."

"I wish I could remember what peace feels like," he confessed, his words blending with the whisper of the wind.

You reached out, your hand brushing against his, a small gesture of comfort in the overwhelming vastness of your shared solitude.

"Maybe we can't go back to who we were," you suggested, your voice a tentative whisper against the symphony of the sea. "But perhaps we can find new reasons to look forward to the sunrise."

Touya's hand trembled slightly under yours, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he gripped your hand, his hold tentative but needing the connection. "I'd like that," he said, a flicker of a smile ghosting across his lips, as fragile and fleeting as a wave’s crest as a single tear rolled down his cheek. "To look forward to something, to hope for something better."

[darlingofvalyria]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.

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

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

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

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

Even then, you plotted every step you took.

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

Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.

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

"Where are my daughters?"

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"... Yes. Nothing."

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

"D-Dragonstone?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was your brother. No one else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will ask you how high."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."

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

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

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

Whale? No.

Dragon. Dragon bone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That night, you took your first flight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No more.

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

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

"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You weren't stupid.

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

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

And for Jace, you had banished him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. There's getting a calm bath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did not mean...

Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?

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

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

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

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

"Huh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't let up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His throat bobs.

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

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

"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.

"Hm?"

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

"And?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Precisely what I thought, milady."

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

Game, set.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You curdle, you keep, you poise.

"My love?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It will be him.

Your plan moves, your web is perfect.

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

TAGGED: @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata @xxvelvetxxxx @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @bunbunbl0gs @yazzzmints @bellstwd @hiraethrhapsody

[violent-viscera]

okay, so most definitely an unpopular opinion considering the amount of caitlyn fans/stans (in addition to fans solely bc of caitvi) but i wanted to articulate my thoughts on her s2.

firstly, i loved the idea of her character in s1. along with jayce, i understand that they were both fundamentally flawed due to inherent, latent prejudices that they held against zaunites. they often misspoke and stepped out of line when speaking to ppl like vi and viktor just on the basis of their privilege of being born piltovan.

but it was interesting to see how their good hearts and intentions led them to being forced to face their troubled and unfair prejudices. of course, i didn't agree with how they viewed zaunites, but i was rooting for them to become spearheads of change and reform.

anyway, i digress to where i am now where i am feel incredibly disappointed by the writing of her character.

i love a good villainess and was actually quite excited to see where her fascist arc would take her. it would be such a diametric, polar opposite of her character in s1 where she was slowly beginning to see piltover's role in the systematic oppression of zaun.

it would've been compelling to see her become completely lost to her grief and rage and the message behind how the repercussions of cataclysmic calamity that she and jinx cause as mirrors of one another would've been interesting (ie. jinx shooting a rocket launcher at the council in her loss of silco vs. caitlyn gassing innocent civilians in a bid to discover jinx after losing her mother)

but again, the writing didn't do much for me in the way of caitlyn or her mother in s2 in so many different ways.

i understand that there are nuances and complexities in difficult mother-daughter relationships and i understand caitlyn has every right to grieve. but her grief is not parallel to the grief of vi or jinx or any other zaunite when most of the misfortune that befell zaunite deaths can indirectly stem from the choices made by ppl like cassandra and the council.

yes, cassandra built systems to ensure that the grey did not completely suffocate zaunites. but this still by no means absolves all her other sins in her complacency in the oppression of zaunites–not to mention her attitude towards zaunites or anyone else that she deems "less than"

caitlyn's villain arc was watery and diluted at best. it was initially really interesting to see count caitlyn and her cape step up to the plate under ambessa's encouragement, but by the next episode she was already wavering and uncommitted. it seemed like a pointless route to entertain with how brief it was. and as others mentioned, caitlyn was being a cruel asshole without the direction of ambessa with the usage of chemical warfare.

caitlyn's choices had very little repercussions throughout the season. she hits vi with a rifle and turns her back on her and is basically instantly forgiven. she performs chemical warfare and her guilty conscience is the only real consequence she faces. she loses her eye in a fight, yes, but it is also a battle she invited when she accepted tutelage under ambessa to sustain a fascist regime. she makes it blatantly clear that she accepts vi bc she views vi as an entity separate of the rest of the animals of zaun and there isn't really any content that implies these views have changed or that there will be any reform imminent for enforcers/piltovan-zaun relations aside from reluctantly allowing Sevika a spot on the council

i dont even want to get into how vi become completely a shell of the amazing, compelling character she was in s1 and how the heart and soul of the show (the sisters' rs) was essentially abandoned to make caitvi happen rather than rly considering the optics and pragmatism of having an oppressed, falsely imprisoned, vulnerable zaunite being with an enforcer without due sensitivity and consideration of what needs happen to make caitvi happen in a sensible fashion.

i just feel like by the end of the show, caitlyn ends up right where she started where she's a privileged piltovan living her cushy life with no repercussions. there was no real reason to write her as an empathetic character, struggling with what she knew as a piltovan vs. what she sees when she is with vi down in zaun, bc in the end, the empathy did nothing to change how she treated zaunites or how her enforcers operate on the day-to-day.

and i actually think if the writers didn't try to play caitvi off as being a healthy, beautiful representation of a lesbian relationship instead of toxic one marred by power imbalances, it would've been a compelling and tragic message.

TLDR: i think many ppl have expressed their disappointment in how vi (and jinx) were written in s2, but i also think the writers did a terrible job in writing caitlyn as well.

[phyx-m]

Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 31: The Flower In The North

Content warning: Sukuna POV, blood, mentions of wounds, mentions of mass death, cannibalism.

🔗 Songs for this chapter:

The Arrival - Jan J. Močnik Sanctified - Nine Inch Nails

* * * * *

Chapter 30

* * * * *

Seven years ago…

The sky warns of a coming calamity, staining the northern horizon red.

A fire scorches the land, rolling over thatched roofs, devouring trees, destroying homes, swallowing lives. It moves like a living thing, yet the ground it leaves behind is dead. Bodies lie together in mounds, scattered like refuse, littering the soil, choking the grass in every direction.

Some manage to drag themselves free from the burning wreckage and crawl. But they struggle, mouth agape and wailing in agony, their charred skin peels away from the bone like melting tallow.

From his seat, crossed-legged on a cool patch of green, the King of Curses watches. He watches them struggle. He watches while he eats. And as he eats, he waits.

It has only taken him hours, leading into the summer night, to lay waste to three villages in succession. Soon, this nameless village in the north will be nothing. Soon, it will vanish, and he will destroy one final place before returning south, his retribution complete.

Clutching at the mutilated corpse of a woman with his lower hands, Sukuna lifts the meat and rips off a chunk of fat. He’s been gorging all day, yet hunger still leaves him empty. Dissatisfied by the lack of resistance and bored with the idea that this would all end here today.

He tears off another bite.

Blood crawls its way down his chin, and the maw on his stomach opens, the tongue rolling out to catch any stray pieces of stringy flesh and bits that don’t make it down his throat.

Bite and swallow.

Swallow and wait.

On and on and on.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

The desperate slap of tiny feet against the ground catches his ears. He pauses, fingers flexing around the soft mound of the body’s torso. His apathetic upper eyes remain fixed ahead, but he dips his chin, angling his lower pair toward the noise disrupting his meal.

Two children rush out from the cloud of smoke, coughing, and hand in hand, they skid to a halt under his scarlet gaze. Their soot-streaked faces glisten, tracks of tears falling from their wide eyes round like moons. Behind them, the fire roars, casting shadows that stretch unnaturally long, as if they belong to adults instead. Trembling and alone, they freeze, hoping to slip past the monster unnoticed.

The King of Curses only stares, chews, and then swallows. One child sniffles, then blinks, shuffling on burned feet. The sting of smoke pulls more tears to their eyes while the other openly weeps, tugging urgently at their companion’s hand.

Tch. Pathetic.

Sukuna doesn’t move. He simply eats and watches, blood bubbling up from his mouth and dripping down to the grass.

“What the hell are you looking at?” he mutters, his words lost, muffled by the stomach lining lodged between his teeth. “Leave.”

The children don’t wait; they take it as a sign to flee and bolt, their footsteps retreating into the collective dim. Sukuna doesn’t spare them another glance but listens to the frantic murmur of their escape, the sniffling and sobbing.

“Noisy fucking brats,” he huffs, their cries fading into the distance. 

Children were always obnoxiously loud in his presence, always crying and trembling and screaming like little pests buzzing at his ears. Their inquisitive stares and nascent ideas about his “ugly mask” and extra limbs irritate him like an itch.

Canines tearing into another bit of flesh, he watches the massive fire rage before him, painting his skin in colours of a sunset—fiery reds, molten oranges, and streaks of gold dancing across the night.

He keeps eating.

Eating, chewing, swallowing, watching, waiting.

Seconds stretch into minutes, then minutes into an hour.

The blaze grows, the masses of bodies blacken, and soon, they foul the air into a thick putrid stench.

Impatience settles over him. This was taking too long. A fire of this scale, the magnitude of slaughter impressive enough that it should have dragged a vulture from its nest.  

Still, he’s forced to wait. But when the moon squats high, and half the woman’s body in his grasp has been consumed, Sukuna pauses. His bare chest and sirwal soaked in gore.  

The scream of a horse fractures the night. He lifts his head, ears tracking the sound.  

Then comes another shrill whine.  

And another.  

And another.

And another.

These are uneasy shrieks, cutting through from beyond the treeline to his right. There lies the untouched forest, free from his carnage, its shadows providing the perfect cover for cowards.  

His smile twists into something ugly.  

The snake, Kasai Takuma, has finally arrived, and his reputation precedes him. Sukuna knows he’s there, with his other clansmen, refusing to come close, choosing only to observe from a distance.  

They’ve likely never laid eyes on anything like him before. Few ever had. And when they do, it’s always the same.

Disgust. Disgust at the impurity of his body. Revulsion at his abnormalities. An ill omen to be titled and cursed. A language of violence—one he knows very well.

Rolling the torso off his lap, Sukuna stands, sliding a hand through his hair before he stretches, his neck cracking. All four of his eyes turn skyward to the inky black curve of the world, tinged bright where it dips toward the earth.

He inhales a breath.

If Kasai is here, then his estate is unguarded, which means his family—his wife and two daughters are alone. Perfect. Let a hand reach out in the dark and strip this man of everything, beginning with the woman carrying his next heir.

His feet are already moving.

Using the play of shadow and smoke for cover, Sukuna picks his way unnoticed through the mess at his feet. He slips away to where his mount waits, tethered in silence and from there, he rides off.

* * * * *

The clop of hooves on mossy ground is a dull beat that accompanies him as he guides his horse through the forest north toward the compound, taking only the backroads. Gaining information on the snake had been fairly easy, especially given how guarded Takuma has been about certain aspects of his life. Still, knowing a man capable of inhibiting another’s body with a simple switch of his brain has proven useful. Though, Sukuna doesn’t doubt he’ll owe a debt one day.

After some time, he reigns in his mount to a stop. If he plans to descend upon the estate, he prefers to keep the animal at a distance, away from the chaos to come.

Dismounting, he tethers it to a low-hanging branch of a tree, giving it a pat before turning away. Ahead, through the brush, a river glimmers silver and winding through the verdant dim. Sirwal already ruined, Sukuna walks toward it and pushes in. Bare feet sinking into the soft silt of the riverbed, he exhales, savouring the coolness lapping at his legs.

Nature has always fascinated him. Years without a home taught him to depend on its offerings. Plants, animals, and flowers. They all possess a dual power—they can provide aid and comfort or bring suffering and death, their beauty often concealing their danger.

Stepping in deeper, the water sloshes lazily around his ankles before rising to submerge his calves. He glances down, watching the ripples spread outward, tiny waves shining with the refracted light of stars and the pustular moon peeking through the lush canopy above.

Among the reflections, his four eyes glow like coals shoved into a pit and left to burn. He blinks down at his distorted visage, then crouches, the movement pulling the scent of fire and blood from the fabric of his garment.

Cupping his upper hands into the glassy surface, he lets the cool liquid tickle his skin before lifting them. He takes a sip, washing away the traces of iron still clinging to his tongue. Swallowing, he dips his head for a second taste, his forehead brushing against the cup formed by his fingers.

A prickle spreads across his skin. He pauses, feeling it again, stronger this time.

His lower eyes slip downward, tracing the sudden goosebumps rising unnaturally along his forearms and creeping higher.

Odd.

Dropping the water, he runs a fingertip over the raised flesh. It’s not the chill of the river causing it.

It’s something else.

There’s a change in the air—a faint hum, a low buzz, a pressure steadily building, trembling, climbing higher and higher, eating away at him like a disintegration as though something bottled up is about to shatter into a thousand tiny, little pieces.

It commands his attention.

All of it.

Rare.

The goosebumps begin to crawl higher and faster, spreading up his arms, across his chest, down his back, and along his spine. A sensation like warm fingers gliding across skin. There’s only surprise when, for a heartbeat, all four of his eyes roll back. 

He clenches his jaw.

His focus sharpens.

The sensation intensifies.

It builds.

And builds.

And builds.

And—  

CRACK! 

The world vibrates with such a force it momentarily disrupts every thought inside his head.

The King of Curses quickly rises from the water, river droplets splattering off him, smacking loudly onto the surface. He tips his head. A bit of concentration, and there—a sense of direction. The source.  

In an instant, he moves. Fast.  

Feet punching into the undergrowth, he goes, almost entirely forgetting after all these years what he’s truly here for. But whatever the hell is causing this, he wants to indulge in it. He wants to crush it into the ground, to consume it entirely, watch it burn as bright as it possibly can, and then see it snuff out. 

Further and further, he moves north, trees rushing past, rocks, and brush, everything a blur. Following the energy’s pattern is simple enough. Whoever it is has no control over it. It's leaking off in irritating waves, pulling, subsiding, and then crashing down against him again and again.  

When it leads him to what appears to be the limestone barrier marking the edge of a compound, he slows. It’s gaudy enough, matching the description he was given as Kasai. But Kenjaku revealed nothing about a sorcerer being present.

Slipping into the shelter of a grove cut from dense foliage, Sukuna moves closer to the back of the estate, but his brow furrows. The source of the energy is barreling straight toward him. A falling star on a collision course.

His pulse begins to thrum in rhythm with it, the pressure nudging him forward, urging him. He only takes one more step before a girl, barefoot and covered in blood, crashes through the yews, forcing him to pull back into the bramble and mask himself.

A distant, urgent voice follows after her, another coming, another’s energy. Not one but two sorcerers.

Dipping into the shadows, Sukuna stays close to the trunks until he reaches a break and sinks low into the undergrowth, crouching on his haunches.

At last, he sees them. 

The bloodied one sobs uncontrollably, her shoulders shaking, while the other leans close, murmuring softly and running her hands through her hair. As he studies their features, the similarities become clear—their hair, the sound of their voices, the shared mannerisms.

Siblings.

Sisters.

Daughters.

Kasai’s daughters.

Tilting his head, he smirks. Fate, in all its befitting glory, can be such a cruel bitch.

Keeping his gaze on the sobbing one—which he considers the pathetic of the two, he watches as she suddenly pulls away from the other’s embrace. 

A few more soft words are spoken before there’s a swell in energy. The comforting one cups the other’s face, her thumbs tracing across her cheeks gently.

“No more tears, sister,” she soothes. 

Instantly, the pitiful one’s sobs come to an abrupt halt.

Interesting.

A single touch, a few words, and the other bends completely to her will. Such a subtle, devious skill and quite the weapon for a woman finding her footing in this world.

The sound of horses and men approaching in the distance calls their attention. Sukuna inclines his head. It appears he will have more than a family to slaughter now. He might as well take the entire clan down tonight.

Between the two girls, a few more words are exchanged, and there’s another throb of energy.

It’s clear that the comforting one knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s had months—years—of practice. Enough to perfect her methods because whatever she’s done, she’s left traces of herself all over her sister. Residuals of her will, twisting and breaking the girl’s mind, moulding her into an obedient, dutiful mutt. Something small. Something smothered.

A sibling’s love.

How traitorous a thing.

Red eyes piercing into the dark, the King of Curses watches the persuasive one retract her fingers and slip away, retreating back inside the barrier. She leaves behind the other—this crying, broken creature before him. And slowly, she begins to unravel further, descending into a pit of delirium.

“I killed her… I killed her…”

From where she stands below the moonlit trees, the first muttered confession spills out.

Disgust crawls across his face as he watches.

But then, it gets worse.

Her movements become erratic, her pacing uneven, hair falling over her features and hiding the tears he knows are there. Gaze tracking her, he follows the curve of her feet pressing into the grass, counting each time she turns.

One.

Turn. Pace. Turn again.

Two.

“I killed her…”

Turn. Pace. Turn again.

Three.

“I killed her…”

Madness licks at her heels.

So what if she had killed someone? Looking at her now, she seems incapable of such an act unless she’d been forced to. And that’s what he can sense all over her. She’s been manipulated—a girl who might have sought affection but was left with only a hollow imitation of it.

“I killed her… I killed her…”

He clicks his tongue, irritation rising as she becomes mindless.

This? This was what had drawn him here? A sick, rabid animal that should be put out of its fucking misery.

Turn. Pace.

All that untapped power trapped inside such a wretched, fragile girl, so easily controlled despite it.

Turn again.

She is undeserving. Untalented. Worthless.

Turn.

Sukuna stands.

Pace.

He takes a step.

Crack!

The branch at his foot splits the quiet like snapping bones.

She freezes.

And for half a heartbeat, so does he.

It falls silent.

Eventually, she turns, lifting her gaze to meet him directly. And finally, he sees you—your mouth, your eyes, your face. 

Everything.

Pulling free from the shadows, he steps into the grove’s clearing. Heel to toe, his feet whisper over the cool grass as he closes the distance, steady, unhurried, his four eyes never leaving your countenance.

At this moment, there are three things Ryomen Sukuna knows with absolute certainty.

First, you aren’t running. Whatever compulsion your sister has eating away at you, it keeps you rooted in place. Lucky for him. Second, even now, drenched in tears, gore, and blood, you are, against all reason… lovely. Third, a terrible chasm has just opened inside him, and it can only be filled by one thing.

“Fuga.”

Like a hearth breathing to life, heat bursts and takes shape within his palms, coalescing into a blaze that he twists and sharpens. His upper arm flexes, shoulder rolling back as he drags it tight into an arrow. His stance is solid, his grip firm, his aim locked on you.

There is no sympathy. Not for your father. Not for your sister. Not for your mother.

Especially not for you.

The arrow is drawn back further, his hand brushing the underside of his jaw, all four eyes fixed on his target.

A single breath in.

A single breath out.

Release.

And yet, a thread claws at the edges of his mind, snagging, pulling, refusing to be ignored.

He cannot release it.

The very idea sickens him, and his mouth pulls back into a sneer, his shoulders bunching as his muscles coil and strain.

He draws back again, further with more force so that the fire trembles, embers snapping and scattering like shards of glass.

Draw. Aim. Exhale.

Release.

But he hesitates.

This should be simple.

So why does his hand falter?

You’re the daughter of a man who has taken from him. A bastard who reshaped his world before he even entered it. Now, that same kindness will be returned.

He draws back again. Further. Further.

Through the sweltering blaze, your wide eyes meet his, their shining surface reflecting the glow of the flames.

Red, red, red.

He huffs.

Lowering his arms, the fire dies at his sides, leaving the air charged with lingering heat. His mouth twists into a faint pout, frustration of a different kind winding its way through his body.

“Perhaps taking its head is the answer,” he grumbles before walking towards you.

Muscles straining, he moves closer until he’s in arms reach, scarlet gaze mapping every part of you. Your robe is soaked in blood, clinging to your frame, spattered with viscera. Whatever you’ve done, it was messy.

Badum, badum, badum.

The pulse at your neck jumps, the only sign you’re growing nervous. Otherwise, you’re still—frozen in place, barely daring to breathe.

When he reaches you, he crosses his upper arms over his chest, tilting his head. Compared to him, you’re a mere wisp of a thing, this frail creature standing before him.

Slowly, Sukuna falls to his haunches, his knees spreading to cage you between them. His lower arms rest on his thighs while the upper pair remain crossed, looming above.

“So pathetically… small,” he murmurs while looking into your eyes, which are wide and unfocused in the murk. Perhaps a side effect of what your sister has done.

Cocking his head, he reaches out with his lower left hand, pinching your jaw and lifting your face for a better look.

“But look at these glittering eyes of yours,” he coos, mockingly. “So much emotion trapped behind them.”

His thumb brushes along your chin, skirting upward, avoiding the path of your tears. The touch is absurdly light—absurd because gentleness is foreign to him.

He has never touched anyone like this before.

You should be dead by now. Dead because that was the promise he made to himself long ago.

All of the Kasai family. Gone.

Wet lashes falling downward, Sukuna notices your eyes dropping to your hemline. Following your attention, he sees the bloody feet of yours. Where his feet are placed on either side, he can swallow you whole.

“Little indeed,” he smirks, brushing a streak of gore from the sleeves of your yukata before licking the blood from his fingertips. “Looks like your hands took the life of another, haven’t they?”

The truth is obvious from the deranged mutterings he heard earlier. I killed her… I killed her.

There’s a nod, the movement of your head stunted and small.

“Who?” he asks, voice silk-wrapped, as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, curving a finger down the cartilage.

To his surprise, you shiver and relax slightly, though your eyes still blink dumbly, and you shift on your feet as if eager to run, but he knows you can’t.

“Mother.” It’s only an utterance, and he barely catches it, sounding more like a plea than anything else.

Looming in the distance, the noises of the returning horses and men swell, making you spin your head in that direction.

A decision needs to be made. Now.

Sukuna’s gaze lifts. All he can hear is your racing heart, screaming to hide. His eyes dance back to you before nudging your attention on him again.

“What has she done to you, hm?” he mumbles, swiping his thumb along your temple. He watches your eyes grow heavy, comforted once more by such a small, insignificant touch.

Strange.

Someone with this much power is not meant to cower or be afraid.

You should be like him.

You could be like him.

If given a chance—but here, you never will.

A flower unable to flourish will wither and die, and he wonders what you might become if allowed to bloom. Not smothered. Not kept small. Somewhere else, perhaps. Elsewhere in time.

“Flower of the north…” he muses, rising slowly to tower over you. “So easy to crush, and yet so beautiful.”

With footsteps approaching, he knows the other daughter is coming. Her power saturates the air in thick waves. Fingers, he does not want touching him.

Peering down, he takes one last look at you before stepping away, leaving you behind.

For now.

But his plans have reshaped, folding into something new. In time—years, perhaps—he’ll find you again. And when he does, he’ll ensure that this decision to let you live will be worth far more than it is now.

* * * * *

Present…

“Why were you there that night?”

The wood of the verandah creaks beneath Sukuna’s weight as he steps outside. A cooler breeze has replaced the warmth from earlier in the day, its force rattling through the trees surrounding the shrine, lifting the edges of his sirwal and hair.

Ignoring your question, he continues walking, descending the steps into his private garden. Dry, brittle grass crackles at the soles of his feet. 

“Answer me!”

Your voice hits his back again, louder this time, not tampered down by the wind. Not tampered down by anything anymore.

“Sukuna!”

His name. Not my Lord.

He stops walking.

He always did like the way his name sounded coming out of your mouth. There’s always a hesitation to it, as if you’re unsure how to wield it. And when you do, it always comes paired with an emotion—pleasure, submission, anger. Like now. 

It’s refreshing, really, to have all the pretenses stripped away. With niceties gone, everything laid bare, he can see what you truly are.

Finally.

He turns.

In the doorway to his chambers, you still look so small compared to him, just as you did the first time you met. But now, the pale fabric of your yukata, swallowed by the dim and streaked red where he cut you, gives you a fierceness you didn’t possess then. And in that, he has given you a gift you aren’t even aware of. He tore you from your family, and look at you now—sneaking into his chambers in the dead of night, seeking his ruin. Once, you were nothing. Now you’re finally coming into your own. 

“To kill the Kasai lineage so I could taste your father's suffering,” he states calmly. “That meant ending you, your sister, your mother, and the unborn maggot growing inside her.”  

There’s a pause.

A gust of wind hurls itself between the two of you. 

“Why?”  

Your voice is quiet, trembling at the edges, but his gaze slides from your lips to your eyes, catching the moment the last traces of affection for him empty and die. 

Good.

They were only a useless collection of emotions anyway.  

Your hate and violence—that’s what he wants. And now, he’ll have them tenfold. Unlike before, when you buried them under restraint. There were always flashes of fury, but nothing like what he’ll see now. You’ll leave this world not sobbing, not pleading, but fighting. And he’ll be the one to give you that ending.

“Because your father deserved to have his life stripped away,” he replies coolly, crossing his upper arms over his chest. “He was a sickness that killed the land and left others to rot in lives they did not choose.”

“So all of this…” You step onto the verandah, your hands curling into fists, your left tightening around the tantō you retrieved from the floor. “...this union…”

He watches you take a breath, then blink as confusion and desperation start to ease into anger.

“What the hell do you want from all of this!?”

“You!” Sukuna snarls loudly. 

Your mouth curls into a nasty smile before inclining your chin.

“Me?” you grind out.

“You. You were the one thing keeping me from taking everything apart that night,” he growls, striding toward the steps where you stay rooted at the top of them. “Not because I couldn’t kill you, but because I wanted to. I wanted to rip you apart, scatter the pieces, and let the earth swallow you whole. But I couldn’t. Something in you clawed at me, wrapped itself around my lungs, and squeezed. And don’t misunderstand,” he spits, eyeing you up and down. “It’s not affection. There’s a power in you begging to be unearthed. A fire smothered by hands that keep you small, blind to anything beyond the obedient bitch you’ve always been."

He knows you won’t believe him if he tells you about your sister. Force-feeding you the truth never works. But your reaction to Yuna’s name always amuses him. The first time he mentioned her, your energy flared—briefly, beautifully—before you fled instead of fought. That was when he chose a different tactic: to learn you, find your weaknesses, exploit them.

“You’ll show me that tonight.” He gestures to the space between you two before he turns and saunters into the garden. “I’ll be the one to drag it out of you.”

Laughter hits his back, and he turns to see your head tipped back, howling like a damn animal as you slowly make your way down the steps.

“All I got from that nonsense,” you say, pausing to catch your breath and stifle your laughter, “is that you’re fucking insane!”

“Am I?” he snaps, anger flaring in his eyes. “Look at yourself! Seven years ago, two months even, you were nothing. Weak. Small. But now, standing in my chambers, staring me down, demanding answers. You’ve grown. I took you because I wanted to see what you could become, away from that wretched family of yours.”

But the truth, still buried deep where he can’t fully face it, is that he’s been drowning in you for months, maybe years. And it’s been far too long.

He knows too much now. 

He knows all the little things you like. How you light up when he stares at you just a moment too long, when others might feel discomfort, but you’ve grown to revel in it. How you study him, your eyes tracing his form when you think he isn’t looking. How badly you want to touch the right side of his face, your gaze always drifting there, trying to decide what it is. He knows how much you crave his touch. He knows how nervous you’ve become around him, your hands fidgeting as if to distract yourself from desires you refuse to admit.

A distraction.

That was it.

You are a distraction.

Ending your life will finally bring air back into his lungs. Because he’s been submerged in you for far too long, tangled in your human emotions—emotions he should have left alone.

Once you’re gone—after all, it was you who took both your parents—perhaps he’ll finally hunt down Yuna. Then again, he wouldn’t be surprised if that serpent slithers her way here once she hears of what happens tonight. Because he knows what she’s been up to—carving her own path, gathering alliances, likely manipulating her way into the three major clans and climbing even higher.

Eventually, she’ll come for him. They all will.

And once again, you are the distraction he doesn’t need or want when that happens.

Tap, tap, tap.

The sound of your footsteps pulls his thoughts back. Padding softly down the stairs, then muffled by the grass, they carry you closer until you come to stand before him. 

Sukuna’s top lip curls back, and he steps forward, closing the space between you in a single stride. Toe to toe, his upper arm rises, fingers trailing to the wound along your jaw. Not wanting his opponent to bleed out too soon, he presses two fingers against it.

Four eyes crashing into yours, he slowly swipes along the wound, feeling you tense under his touch and the sting of his healing.

“As I said,” he whispers, his hand falling to his side, flexing once at the lingering sensation. “You die here tonight.”

He crosses the garden, putting distance between you before turning back, anticipation threading through his body.

“Either you let the vow kill you for refusing, or you show me, just once, what you can do. Besides, you should be honoured by this privilege.”

You say nothing, and he waits, staring at you. Staring at the tantō he’d given you, gripped so tightly in your hand that your knuckles have turned—

He squints.

From knuckles to fingertips, a web of vein-like discolouration climbs up your hands. A sign your energy is spilling out in erratic bursts, and you don’t even understand how to control it.

He chuckles.

What would happen if he let you touch him with those fingers of yours?

Heartbeat pounding in his teeth, Sukuna feels his blood sliding through his veins, thick, like molten iron.

Oh, he’s going to enjoy this.

“Well?” he croons, flaring his eyes and rolling his neck casually. “Let's get this over with. I’m eager to see you drip red for me again.”

Gaze leaping to your face, he watches for any sign of anger dancing across your eyes. There’s still so much of it buried there, aching to be unleashed.

He can help with that, using the intimacy he’s pried from you as a weapon. Like a flower—beautiful on the surface, until the petals are stripped away, leaving nothing but the bare stem.

“What was it,” he asks, his voice almost tender, “that made you start to lose your heart to me?”

A muscle feathers along the curve of your jaw, lashes flickering for a second. He can tell you don’t particularly like this question, and it makes his grin widen.

“Was it when I protected you? Took that polearm into my body?" He tilts his head to the side. "Or was it something else? Something much more intimate?”

The question lingers in the air.

The moon spills over you like milk, brightening the shadows in your pretty eyes as they lock with his. Slowly, you lift your chin.

Defiance suits you.

“No,” you say, simply, widening your stance.

His grin sharpens. He’ll drag your anger out one way or another. But he’ll enjoy playing with you first.

A sudden gust of wind tosses your hair wildly across your face, momentarily obscuring the creeping darkness in your features. But he catches it—a subtle twitch at the corners of your mouth, pulling at the bow of your lips, the one he’s always found himself watching.

A smile.

Interesting.

You are such a fascinating thing when faced with your own death.

His teeth flash viciously in response, his four eyes devouring you.

You.

His flower.

His possession.

His property.

His wife.

His to kill.

His.

Always.

Mine.

His upper right arm swings up aggressively, but before he can react further, you turn abruptly. Yukata snapping in the breeze, you give him your back, take a step, and then—

You’re gone.

Running.

His brow crashes down, eyes narrowing to angry red slits as your figure bursts through the wilting foliage, racing toward the forest.

That fucking forest.

He tosses back his head and laughs, the sound manic and crazed.

Are you really going to make him chase you?

How nostalgic—one last tumble through those woods.

“Keep running!”

You foolish girl. Idiot girl.

“Stupid girl!” he snarls through his teeth, taking a step forward. His energy uncoils in a violent wave, vibrating and reaching for yours, which he can feel fraying and unravelling in panic.

He grins as adrenaline pours through him, his strides lengthening as he follows. You disappear past the lumbering treeline, falling into the dark maw of the night, but your residuals alight the ground like a map.

You always were easy for him to find.

Always.

And as the King of Curses slips soundlessly into the forest, he knows this time will be different. When he stands before you again, in this final confrontation, there will be no hesitation. Unlike all those years ago, when he held back, this time he will burn you, slice you, consume you.

He will steal the very last breath from your lungs.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Stricken 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, violence, ostricization,and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you were scarred by a storm years ago and its bringer has come to upheave your life once more.

Characters: God of War!Thor

Note: I did this finally.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You always know when a storm's coming. The hairs on your arms stand and your skin burns hot. The smell of rain is tinted by another scent. That of burning flesh and ash. Your scars raze as if struck again and for a moment, you cannot hear or see. 

Slowly, the scent of rain returns to you and the noise of the patter, sometimes more a hammering, as if to remind you of its bearer. The thunder is his war cry. The lightning his wrath. You do wonder why then it should’ve come down on you. 

You keep your hood up, your chin low. Though you hide, the villagers know who you are, they know of your misfortune. The calamity wrought into your flesh in veined scars. Your face is marked with the storm, zigzagged with lines as your left eye is struck blind and white. 

Yet it isn’t your name they whisper as you stop at a stall to buy grain. It is his. The Prince of Asgard. The might God of Thunder. The monster who made you like this. 

The air is thick, roiling with unspent moisture, and the clouds threatening in a grey ripple. You should have come yesterday. You should not have waited so long.  

You trade your coin and move on, gathering the small rations you can afford. You’ll return to your hovel, gather what you can from the garden, and check the traps for rabbits. It should get you through, though the frost does eat away at your harvest.  

As you have it, between the chirping of your disfigurement, there is worse creeping from the north. The snows have fallen heavy and whole lakes have frozen to the silt. You do not believe all you hear but you know better than to disregard the nip in the air. 

Your basket remains like but you’ve spent your limit. Your cloak shifts with your movement and you shrink lower as you near the group of adolescents feigning at battle with sticks. Their audience glimpses your passing and you hear their voices mingle with laughter. 

“It’s that crone. The burnt one,” comes a bit louder than is meant. 

You don’t stop. You don’t show that you’ve heard it. There is nothing to be said.  

“Cursed, by Thor’s hammer,” another chortles, “it is said he was forging and struck the blade too hard. In his wrath, he sent a storm. A mongrel like her drew it upon herself, broken like the sword.” 

Certainly, that too is a story to be met with skepticism. One cannot guess at what the gods do in Asgard nor why they bring only misery and chaos to Midgard. You cannot disagree that the storm was no favour to you. A curse, certainly, though the meaning can never be known. 

You move along, leaving behind their whispers and their sneers. Off to your solace, to your safe. Out of the path of any wandering soul or any blowing storm.  

⛈

A storm rages without. Water swirls and batters your small abode, built against the wall of a cave on a carpet of peat. You cover your ears as the winds whistle and wail. You quake beneath your cloak, eyes locked shut as you cower away from the tempest so much as your own memories. 

The blinding white flash and the scalding hot pain. Your fingers creep up to your chin and feel the rigged scars. You can never forget, no matter how you try. You can never be as you were. You are marked, you are damaged, and as the villagers have it on their tongues, broken. 

Even your family would not have you. You remember your mother’s wail as your father drove you off like some beast. ‘The gods have smited you themselves. You cannot remain or you will wreck ruin upon us all.’ 

Days of walking and tears, like the very storm that scarred you, a haze through which you trod until you could go no more. Until your head would split and the burnt flesh began to weep. A woman found you on the forest floor, rotting away from the corruption spreading through you. 

You don’t remember much of her. Only her touch and how she healed you. She bid you off with the cloak you wear and some food for your travels. Then you were alone and thus you remain. Not even the thieves will steal from you, nor the criminals darken your door. A curse is worth no piece of gold, no drop of blood. 

The pounding of rain relents. A chill creeps beneath the slats of your door and seep into the walls. You fill the earth with what kindling you have, the clay chimney puffing smoke up through the center of the roof. You hold your hands out to warm but find little comfort. 

You settle on your side beneath your cloak and stare into the flames. You shiver. It’s cold. Very cold. Typically, the rain chases away the chill but this is different. You can feel it in the ground. You curl up tight, clinging to your warmth, let your eyes close. Sleep comes but for lack of and not peacefully. 

Your dreams are a maelstrom. There a flames and ice, one after the other, sometimes together. Sharp pointed shards frozen and hanging, then licking tendrils of heat from below. You are lost in the land of sleep, tortured by a world built of your own fears and follies. 

You wake stiff and frigid. The fire has gone out. Not even smoke remains in the pile of ash. You move carefully, bones aching, scars tingling. You touch the hard ridging along your cheek and your fingers pulse from the cold. You can see your breath. 

How can it be? It was sunny before the rain. You get your feet under you and stand with a groan. Near the door, a strange dusting of white powders around the door, flecking in from beneath and around the edges. Snow? 

Were the tales true after all? You wince as suddenly your scars singe and sting. Ow. You recoil and cover your face with your hands, hissing and wheezing through the pain. It hurts terribly. Worse than even the first strike.  

You pull your hands away as your eyes water and you blink through your tears. You can see, at least in your good eye. There is no lightning, it is only in your mind. You shakily turn and search around. You cry out again as the agony surges once more in your head. 

Why? 

Your legs quake. Something is amiss. The frost has come and this meagre hut cannot withstand it. You take your rucksack and put what you can carry into it. Your water skin is strung across your chest and your pack upon your back. You wrap your boots with rags and your hands too. You haven’t the clothing for the cold but you will need to find something. Perhaps skin a hare or two. 

The door blows inward almost as soon as you touch it, another gust nearly bowling you over. You sway with the wind and cling to the crooked doorframe. You shove yourself out, just as quickly flattened to the wall by a flurry of snow. It dusts your face coldly and you pull up your neck scarf over your nose and pull your hood into place. 

You set off, hunched, reaching with your arms as you lift your knees over the treacherous heaps. You keep close to the rock wall. The thought of turning back stops you but it seems as foolish an idea. The hovel cannot hold for much longer. You need to get to the mouth of the cave and chance a sleeping bear within. 

You sidle along, slowed by the snow and the wind, the former soaking through your clothing as the latter whips around your hood. Suddenly, a roll of thunder, like war drums, churns in the air. The word dims and the furor sounds again; louder, closer. 

You cry out and lift an arm to shield yourself instinctively. You curl your hand into the rockface and holler even louder, closing your eyes as your memory summons another storm. No, it cannot be. Not again.  

A deafening boom shakes the ground and knocks you to your knees. You crawl along, keeping low near the ragged stone, those hidden beneath the snow jabbing against your palms. You whimper and whine, blinded by the thickening curtain all around you. 

Yet you never heard of the god raining down snow upon the lands. Only the slaking rains and the hot violence of his bolts. Never this. What sword has he broken this time? Perhaps it was his very own hammer.

The thunder overhead continues its horrid thrum as more pulses in the earth. Boom, boom, boom. You feel it beneath your hands. Your knees come down clumsily as you scramble through the piling powder. You open your eyes and still cannot see. The world is smudge in gray white and black, the sky flashing and darkening from one moment to the next. 

You cry out again as your scars burn. You push yourself back on your heels and grasp your face as you shriek. It hurts! So bad! Your eyes well and flow over. Your body trembles and collapses. You writhe in the snow, contorting with the agony as your flesh feels as if it is splitting. 

Beneath the incessant pounding comes a rocky noise. Like laughter it curdles in the air and chases after you like the steady boom, boom, boom. Closer and closer, louder and louder, the earth quakes in tandem with the cacophony. 

“I’ve found another,” the deep voice scoffs and snickers, “ah, Heimdall, you must see this--” 

The craterous voice halts and the air still. The snow drifts but the wind stops and the thunder relents, the world seeming to hum. You scratch at your face as the flames grow unbearable. You must be alight. It can be the only reason for such pain. 

The large figure, a blurry silhouette in your skewed vision, looms like a mountain. He steps over you, sliding a foot between you and the cave wall and flips you onto your back. You stare up at the sky, rolling in sheets of grey and black, the dark figure standing above, blotting out the clouds. You sob and plead. 

“Make it stop!” You beg as your hood falls back, “kill me! Kill me! It hurts.” 

He bends as your eyes roll back and he grabs your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face. He pulls you half off the ground, not a single grunt for the effort. You feel whoever, whatever it is, looking down at you; upon you. A rattle rises in his gritty throat. 

“And what are you?” He breathes. 

You feel another surge and babble, reining in your wild eyes as you quiver uncontrollably. You make yourself look at him. You shudder and shake your head. Shaggy red hair, a braided beard, and eyes so blue they jolt you. Ink marks one side of his broad face as he wears fur upon his soldiers beneath emblems of the godly lands. 

“It hurts...” you rasp, “I am dying.” 

“You...” he grabs your chin, holding you by your shoulder. His thumb extends up your face to touch the scars and you let out a shrill howl as the agony piques. You latch onto his thick arm and thrash. 

“It buuuuuuuurrnssssssssss,” you scream as your spine arches. 

“Hmm,” he hums and throws you into the snow. You continue your desperate wriggling, the fire softening but not leaving you completely, “Heimdall!” He calls out like a war horn, “get your skinny ass over here!” 

There’s a tinkle of coy laughter and lighter footsteps that land on the boulder above. Your eyes drift over and you see another shadow, this one hazier but smaller. A dusting of snow flies up beside you as the other man lands beside you. No, not a man. 

Heimdall? Son of Odin. 

“Oh, Thor, what trouble have you found--” 

“Another one,” the other growls. Not the other, Thor. The God of Thunder. The beast who marked you. “Father says they all must come.” 

“This one?” Heimdall muses as his voice spikes with humour, “why look at her. Pathetic—wait a moment... brother, is this your handiwork?” He squats to see you closer and snickers again, “why how very peculiar.” 

“Bring her,” Thor barks and spins on his heel, swinging his hammer, “we haven’t time--” 

“You bring her, brother. As you say, you are so much stronger--” 

“Just do it!” Thor snarls and a peel of thunder breaks through the clouds. “I need ale.” 

[wordbreaker]

The Taming of the Dragon, 1 ✷ Aemond Targaryen

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen / F!OC

SUMMARY: One evening, Aemong, in dire need of clearing his head, catches a Dragonkeeper on the beach tending to Vhagar. The Queen of Dragons doesn't seem bothered by the stranger's presence. Quite the opposite. Aemond is immediately intrigued. Even more so when he discovers that the stranger is a girl who comes from the North and bears the name Snow.

-ˋˏ following chapter ✶ ao3 ✶ my inbox ˎˊ-

         Aemond Targaryen was on the verge of going mad. Everyone around him, from his mother to his grandfather and even his failing father, had only one word on their lips: Rhaenyra. His half-sister, who lived in Dragonstone, haunted the Red Keep. Her ghost wandered the corridors and manifested itself on their lips. He no longer wanted to hear that cursed name, which brought with it bad omens and curses.

“She'll do anything to usurp the throne! Even if she knows Aegon is the rightful heir!’ Alicent Hightower shouted.

Her brown curls bounced with every step she took. Her incessant to-ing and fro-ing along the Small Council’s table was making his head spin.

His mother had summoned him—as if Aegon wasn't the first son—to this secret meeting where her, his grandfather Otto, Criston Cole and Larys Strong would discuss stratagems, politics, and manipulations: three things he had started to loath. His love for his mother and his sense of duty had kept him from leaving the minute she made that request.

His expression revealed his true opinion of this ridiculous spectacle which he was watching with a distracted eye. He had stopped listening a long time ago and was waiting patiently—as was expected of him—to be dismissed. These discussions had a way of boring him. They went round in circles, nothing more than paraphrases of a previous meeting. A constant déjà-vu fuelled by obsession and a thirst for power.

“Viserys will come round,” her father reassured her.

The Queen laughed, a mundane, almost inelegant, gesture that was incongruous with her status. Rhaenyra had the gift of unearthing his mother’s inner ugliness. She could turn the most important woman in Westeros into the common little girl full of rage she had once been.

“She has his favour. She is the favourite child! He won't change his mind, not even about his first son!”

And what a son! Unsurprisingly, Aegon was nowhere to be seen today. His brother had never taken to politics. He was probably busy fucking some whore in the Silk Alley or some maid in his rooms, happy to let Aemond take over the responsibilities he left vacant.

Although it pained him to admit it, Aegon was the first son and he belonged on the Iron Throne. Aemond would much rather see his brother sit there than his whore of a half-sister. Aegon wasn't evil, just a misguided soul that his mother and grandfather would set straight. He was sure of that. Leaving the kingdom in Rhaenyra's palms, on the other hand, was tantamount to condemning the inhabitants of the Seven Kingdoms. Her reign would only bring calamity.

He tilted his head back and looked up at the ornate ceiling. His fingernails beat against the wooden table as the minutes ticked by. Slowly. Much too slowly. He held back a yawn.

The tone had been raised, words had been shouted, orders, given, and in the midst of all this racket, Aemond felt like screaming. He couldn't care less about Rhaenyra, his uncle, and her brown-haired bastards.

Aemond didn't want to suffer what his birth had spared him—responsibility. The second son was merely the replacement, the forgotten one. He would only appear on stage if Death came too early.

He wanted to be left in peace until then.

A futile desire for someone bearing the Targaryen name. No ancestor of the blood of the Dragon had known peace and he certainly wouldn't be the first.

The sun had been down for at least three hours when Aemond finally escaped from the clutches of his mother and grandfather. He mourned a wasted day and headed for his rooms.

On the way, he came across Aegon, his eyes reddened, and his eyelashes still stuck with sleep. His fist itched. He felt a visceral need to bring it down on his brother’s face. Why wouldn’t he grow up? What would become of Westeros if his grandfather and mother succeeded in making him king? Aegon was an immature fool and Aemond was expected to pick up the pieces. What did he gain by doing so? No recognition, no respect, and certainly not power. He was asked to do it because it was expected of him. An unspoken rule he learned to obey from an early age.

Aemond Targaryen would forever remain the second son, obscured by the shadow of Aegon’s unworthy glory.

“Brother.”

Aegon nodded, but the sly smile on his lips threw off any semblance of politeness. Aemond remained unmoved. He would not play his game, not tonight, although a few insults came to the tip of his tongue. He clenched his jaw.

“I assume the council was as interesting as usual. I'm sorry I couldn't be there but, you understand... A pretty servant was waiting for me. Couldn’t disappoint her, you know?”

Aemond didn't reply. He had not even deigned to leave the castle, not even his rooms. His hands began to shake, and a stabbing pain seized his sapphire eye, as it did every time he was upset. Lazy bastard.

When Aemond was mastering the art of sword fighting, Aegon was swilling whole jugs of wine. When Aegon was thrusting his cock between the thighs of a whore, Aemond was immersing himself in the histories of Old Valyria.

They couldn't have been more different.

Aemond continued towards his chambers, his face tense. Behind him, his brother burst out laughing and tried to talk to him, but he quickened his pace. Tonight, he had no patience for conversation.

Soon, the large wooden doors of his rooms appeared at the end of the corridor. The relief he felt was dulled by a weight in his chest.

At the last moment, Aemond turned around and hurried back. He felt as if he were suffocating within the gigantic walls of the Red Keep. The vast corridors were no longer so. They closed in on him and whispered hissing words. They slipped into his ear and snaked into his mind to unearth his worries. Stories of legitimacy, inheritance, the throne and responsibility—everywhere he went, his duty followed and plagued him.

Aemond needed to see Vhagar. He usually avoided disturbing her in the evening. His dragon was no longer in her prime and slept more than the others. Tonight, he would allow himself to be selfish. The need was too great. He had to clear his head, or he would go mad like many Targaryens before him.

He continued walking until he came to a darkened alcove. Aemond slid his hand over the cold stones. Eyes closed, he savoured the sensation. Click. He pushed open the wall, revealing a long and abandoned corridor.

The secrets of the Red Keep were no longer unknown for him. Aemond had spent his youth wandering up and down the corridors of the building in search of them. The stories said that Maegor the Cruel had beheaded the architects, the masons, the carpenters... all the brains and hands that built this fortress. They took these secrets to their graves, secrets that only the blood of the Dragon could recognise.

After the loss of his eye—thinking of Lucerys Strong made him cringe—Aemond had redoubled his efforts to find them all. These passages had offered him the ideal refuge to escape from the gaze of others during the most difficult period of his life. This tradition had survived.

Aemond didn't even stop in front of Balerion's skull—not when his own dragon, alive on top of it, was waiting for him—and he rushed through the corridors, down some stairs, up others, turned left and then right, down some stairs again until he finally reached a door which he pushed open.

The fresh air whipped across his face. Immediately, all his worries evaporated, although his hands continued to tremble—a vestige of his wrath. He inhaled the smell of the shore, a delicious mixture of salt and air.

Aemond made his way down the stairs and onto the beach. He relished the sensation of walking on the white sand. It crumbled under his leather boots. Aemond found this instability reassuring. Nature could be unstable too. The wind had picked up and was blowing thousands of grains around. These whirlwinds, small storms of matter, calmed him and the proximity of Vhagar finished off the hurricane rising in his heart.

With a slight smile on his lips, he walked over to the dunes where his dragon had taken refuge since he brought her back from Driftmark, eight years ago. A mountain of green scales stood among the other mounds of sand. It moved with every breath. Aemond could almost feel the warmth of her breath, the hardness of her scales, and could already imagine himself riding her, hair blowing in the wind, free in his mind.

His joy was short-lived. The gods did not like to see him happy.

Aemond stopped dead in his tracks. Next to the gigantic figure of Vhagar, a small silhouette stood out. It was fidgeting and tormenting the dragon’s sleep. The short distance between the two made him clench his fists. They were close, far too close. Aemond had forbidden anyone to approach his mount. He had never had to repeat his request before. Who would be foolish enough to approach a sleeping dragon? Those who had risked it were no longer around to tell the tale. They had been burnt to a crisp and their loved ones had had to mourn an unrecognisable pile of ashes.

The stranger must have been unconscious or just mad.

Aemond stomped over to them.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he growled rather than asked.

He knew he was protective of Vhagar. Everyone around him had noticed. He had exchanged her for an eye, and this suffering had only redoubled his murderous impulses: Vhagar was his. Anyone who dared touch her would face his rage.

The latter rose in his chest and accelerated his heartbeat. It coursed through his entire being, leaving no part of his body untouched. His nails dug into the palms of his hands. His muscles quivered, waiting for just one thing—for him to attack.

He stepped forward, ready to confront the stranger, who jumped and turned but did not reply. This silence made him even more furious. Who dared ignore their prince?

Moving a little closer, Aemond recognised the gleaming black armour and scaled helmet of the Dragonkeepers.

A breeze of relief blew over his heart, but it didn't completely calm the agitation that had been building up inside. At least this person knew what they were doing.

Worry and anger gave way to curiosity: what were they doing here? Aemond had never come across a Dragonkeeper outside the pit. They lived there to ensure the well-being of the creatures. Like monks, the pit was their sanctuary, and nothing could keep them from their duties.    

Normally, at least.

He couldn't see their face. Vhagar's massive form cast an equally colossal shadow over their body, which was further darkened by the night. It was only when he was close enough to smell the smoke coming from their uniform that he realised it was a girl and, worse still, that he didn't know her.

The last time he had ventured into the dragonpit, he had been only ten years old and had two eyes. Back when he was still Dragonless-Aemond, the place had seemed unreachable yet idyllic—the embodiment of impossible dreams. Eight years ago, he would have easily been able to name the seventy-seven keepers with the time he spent there. He came every day, waiting for the moment when a dragon would accept him as a rider.

The Dragonkeepers’ faces had clouded over with time, reduced to vague memories that the satisfaction of having claimed Vhagar had swept away. Far too large to fit in the pit, his dragon had made her home on the dunes of King's Landing and, in doing so, had made the dragonpit a bygone era of his childhood.

“State your name. Now.”

She dipped into a clumsy curtsy, perhaps the worst he had ever seen. She almost tripped on air and fell face-first into the sand. He winced. This girl was cruelly lacking in grace. No doubt the keeper’s profession had damaged her manners, which already left a lot to be desired.

"Lucella Snow, yer ‘ighness.”

His eye twitched.

A bastard from the North.

The shamelessness made perfect sense now.

These people were nothing but barbarians, made savages by the cold and their proximity with the Wildlings. They prayed to their strange, faceless gods, remnants of a primitive past, and still clung to superstitions dating back thousands of years which bore witness to their backwardness. Too limited for the political intrigues of the South, they retreated into their icy fortresses and only left them to defend themselves.

Northerners were strange and even the Starks, although not the worst of their species, were no exception to the rule.

Add to that the absence of a father to beat her and train her like a lady, which she could have become with a little effort, and you had the bastard in front of him. She was not unpleasant to look at, Aemond decided. Her pale skin, hidden under the ashes smeared on her cheeks, and the few strands of black hair sticking out of her helmet leaped out at him. If she had been born in wedlock, many suitors would have fought for her hand in marriage.

“And what on earth is a Winterfell bastard doing here?”

“I’m sorry, yer ‘ighness, but I’m afraid ‘am just a bastard frum White ‘arbah.”

Her accent struck Aemond's ears and made him wince. Syllables here and there disappeared as the vowels struggled to make themselves heard properly in this gibberish. Her voice was deep, deeper than his mother's or his sister's—the only women of his life—, and dragonfire smoke had taken the evenness out of her tone, leaving it hoarse.

He didn't like the way she avoided his question or her undeniable lack of politeness. She looked at him with jaded eyes as if he were the one who shouldn't be there. He thought he saw a flame dancing in her amber irises. A strange colour for someone from a Northerner. In these lands, eyes were only blue, grey, or black: bland colours for a land saddened by the blizzard.

“Winterfell... White Harbor... Northern towns all look alike.”

“I suppose yeh won't mind if I call you Velaryon, then? Yeh understand... Valyrians… They’re all th’same.”

His indecency irritated her. A mouth like hers belonged in a dilapidated tavern, not in a place like the Red Keep.

Northerners didn't belong here. They weren't like them.

“What is your concern here?” he asked her again.

Why isn’t Vhagar killing you? he thought.

Next to Snow, the Queen of Dragons looked peaceful. His companion was used to the presence of the keeper of the North, Aemond realised. The thought worried him. How long had this stranger been roaming around his dragon without him knowing?

The bastard pointed her gloved fingertips at a sheep carcass, no doubt ready to be charred by Vhagar, judging by the hungry look on her face. Aemond had not seen it until now.

The presence of this woman was upsetting his plans and troubling his senses.

“I’m bringing her food.”

Her 'r's rolled off her tongue.

“I already feed her.”

“Not enough. Obviously,” Snow retorted without hesitation, pointing to Vhagar's visible ribs. “Age tends t’work up their appetite. Ain’t tha’ right, sweetheart?”

She tenderly stroked the dragon’s muzzle, who let herself be petted under Aemond's hallucinated gaze.

His mount, reduced to a common pet.

His nostrils flared. He abruptly grabbed her hand and pulled her away from Vhagar, ignoring the grimace of pain on the Dragonkeeper’s face. Good. Perhaps she would understand that lurking around his dragon was not without consequences.

Vhagar, the Queen of all dragons, ridden by Visenya, had fought and survived Aegon's Conquest. She embodied the glory of House Targaryen and would not be touched by a commoner. A Northern bastard even less so.

Without a glance at her, he climbed the rope ladder and settled into the saddle.

"Sōvēs," he commanded.

Vhagar, lethargic, took her time shaking her wings before flapping them and taking flight. She sent grains of sand and stones flying. Soon, the beach was nothing more than a pale speck drowned in the thick clouds bathing in the twilight’s silver light. The icy air invigorated him, but he couldn't find the comfort he had come for. His thoughts remained stuck on the Dragonkeeper.

When Vhagar lost altitude for a moment, when the two of them broke through the cloud barrier and the beach was visible once again, Aemond saw that she had not moved and that her eyes were riveted on him.

Aemond didn't understand her expression but decided he didn't give a fuck.

[echoingspectrum]

𝐴𝑐𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝐴𝑙𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑖𝑠𝑚

𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑡: 𝑦𝑒𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑒 ( 𝑡𝑤𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 )

Stars are often portrayed as one's fate beyond the celestial atlas⏤guiding a mortal soul through the vast expanse of life, as though they roamed across the universe with its flickering light.

Naturally, we follow the path that our fate has destined. As we navigate through the twists and turns of our story, the stars serve as a constant reminder of the interconnectedness of all things. Even if the happenings are not what we wish to arise.

Storm clouds raged over the seas, casting dark clouds over the once tranquil waters. Howling winds whipped through the air. The turbulent waves crashed against the shore, mirroring the turmoil within Xianzhou.

A calamity has befallen the land, disrupting the harmony that once reigned. The people of Xianzhou now find themselves grappling with uncertainty and distrust as they struggle to rebuild what was lost.

But can it really ever be the same again?

On the shore of Scalegorge Waterscape, two figures emerged from the depths, their presence adding to the already prevailing sense of unease.

A distant noise could be heard, growing louder with each passing moment.

Whimpered in displeasure as you struggled to defend yourself against a formidable entity with the capability of annihilating you with the flick of a finger. But you forbid this apprehension to loom over you in fear.

With breakneck speed, you failed to gather your thoughts, and you felt your whole lung collapse under the weight of the impending peril.

A hoarse gasp escaped the margin of your lips as you fully comprehended the conundrum you found yourself in. The awakening hit you like a ton of bricks, leaving you paralyzed with fear and uncertainty.

Your heart beats fast as your eyes meet with his peircing gaze; they seemingly glisten with an intensity that could pierce through steel.

His stature and hand firmly grasp your neck, sending a cold sensation down your spine as the grip tightens around your throat, making it difficult to breathe.

"D-Dan…Fe⏤!"

Finding it difficult to find your voice in the midst of the suffocating grip, you were suddenly slammed roughly to a pillar behind you, the impact causing a sharp pain to shoot through your body.

Saliva and a drip of blood spewed out of your mouth. Drips of blood made their way to his chiseled features, though he remained unfazed by your insatiable pain.

"Give up." His voice, low and menacing, echoed through the room as he towered over you. Gripping your throat even further before launching you to the side with ease.

"GAH!"

Ungracefully, you crashed onto the sandy terrain of the shore, where the thundering skies witnessed your feeble pursuit.

Struggled to catch your breath, the taste of saltwater mingles with the mettalic tang of blood in your mouth. You squinted over to the entity⏤ to the man you desperately want to save, but he stood there, seemingly unaffected by the chaos surrounding him.

His eyes, cold and calculating, betrayed no hint of emotion as he glanced the wreckage of what he'd done.

The storm continues to rage on, matching the inner conflict in your heart as you fought against the overwhelming urge to confront him and his unforgivable sins.

You clutched onto your throat as a response to the oppressive grip he had on you. Coughing and panting for air, you mustered the strength to speak. Your voice is firm yet tinged with fear.

"D-Dan Feng!…" you called out. Heart thumping in your chest. "…why? Why did you do this?"

A question he wishes not to answer It's a haunting reminder of what he had done, a constant echo of his own guilt.

The weight of his actions hung heavy in the air, suffocating both of you in its presence. He hesitated, searching for words that could never fully justify his betrayal.

"Tell me." Standing across him, the turbulent waves surround him. You stood your ground, seeking answers you needed to hear. From him alone.

You block the dark noises that engulf your mind. The silence stretches between you, as if time itself is holding its breath. "I wanted to know if what you did was truly worth losing everything you had."

The roaring wind went silent as a breeze whipped through your hair as you waited for his response, the tension between you growing with each passing moment.

He closed his eyes, pausing to gather his thoughts.

The weight of his sins hung heavy in the air, palpable and suffocating. Reflecting on his choices, he knew he would never turn back from the path he had chosen.

But from what he's done, was it really all that wretched?

Even he has to sacrifice himself for the one he cherishes.

Was it worth giving up everything, including his own happiness?

"Yes and no." He finally spoke to you with great enigma, leaving you with countless questions after questions and after questions.

What does he mean by that? Does his sanity hang in the balance? What has he done that he considers both worth it and wretched?

The enigmatic response only deepens the mystery surrounding his actions and motives.

"What do you mean by that?" You said, your eyes widening in bewilderment. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes as you desperately sought answers, but his enigmatic smile remained unchanged.

"I cannot fully explain it to you," he replied cryptically. "There are things I have done, sacrifices I have made, that weigh heavily on my conscience. Yet, in the grand scheme of things, they were necessary for a greater purpose."

"I chose this path." He took a step forward. This alerted you, and you took a step backward.

"Because I know the future will have you in it, even if it means I have to bear the burden of my actions alone."

His heart stops beating as he directs his gaze to the physician's eyes. Spheres swirled in fear, and uncertainty struck his heart like a dark abyss, smothering it with a cold embrace.

"What do you imply that she has a few days to live?" he whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of desperation and disbelief.

The physician's silence only deepened the sense of impending doom, leaving him to grapple with the devastating reality that time was running out for someone he held dear.

"My apologies, High Elder⏤ but I cannot provide false hope. The illness has progressed, and her condition is deteriorating rapidly."

The weight of those words settled heavily on him, forcing him to confront the painful truth that he had been desperately trying to avoid.

Dan Feng knew you have a weak heart⏤ yet you work for the Cloud knights ⏤ but he never anticipated that it would be this fragile.

As a long-lived species, the thought of losing you was unbearable, and he couldn't help but wonder if there was anything else that could be done to preserve you.

He already has, in numerous ways. And yet, different paths all lead to the same destination.

Life is such a fickle, unpredictable, and merciless thing in its ways. Like a flower dropping into a pond, its delicate petals floated on the water's surface, eventually succumbing to the depths of the void.

Despite his best efforts, Dan Feng couldn't escape the harsh reality that mortality was an inevitable part of existence. There was no escaping the cycle of life and death, no matter how much he wished for it.

It was a bitter pill to swallow.

But everything has a solution, and Dan Feng is determined to seek it. Regardless of the punishment, he will confront. He'll defy the natural order as to what it means to see your smile once more.

As a high act of treason against the laws of nature, Dan Feng would stop at nothing to find a way to bring you back from the clutches of impending death. 

He would challenge the very fabric of reality itself, risking everything he held precious in his quest for a second chance at your happiness.

Swiftly and painlessly, he knocked you to unconsciousness, blackening your vision almost immediately. Before your limp body sinks to the sandy shore, Dan Feng immediately catches your body and cradles you into his arms, to his warmth. 

Feeling your sweet weight against him, he realized this would be the last time he would embrace you before his trial began. 

As he held you close, his heart ached with the knowledge that his actions may have unintended consequences. Yet, fueled by love and desperation. Oh, how love can cause both great joy and immense pain.

His last whisper of endearment whisped through your unconscious self. 

A bittersweet taste lingered in the atmosphere. 

"I would rather break all the laws and face eternal damnation than to see you leave."

[bugcatcherwill]

Oh y'all are NOT ready for the new Bokoblin's name the symbolisms and double entendes are gonna go CRAAAAAAAAZZZZYYYYYYYYYYYYY

[mystic-hunter]

I wrote a little something something for @bugcatcherwill's Legend of Zelda fanfiction Rage Against the Calamity. Go check it out. It's really good and cute! Anyway have my fanfiction of a fanfiction featuring my OC's.

The atmosphere of the stable had changed. Even out by the most destructive mountain in Hyrule, the Foothill Stable had a different air about it.  No longer did our little group get the strange glances it did.  Now, people seemed to jump at the new rumor.  Whatever it was, I wasn’t really paying attention.  Out with the old and in the new I guess.  But because of these rumors more people were staying at this stable.  Meaning we would have to camp out… again.  Oh well, Magpie was at least a good cook, Eisen could set up a passable fire pit for me to light, and the Duelist was off doing… whatever he often did at stables.

But when the fire pit was set up and with the fire roaring from a simple snap of my fingers the Duelist returned to our little campsite.  Eisen, ever the talker of the group, was the first to talk in his thick accent, “So vhat information did you glean from your frittering with the common folk of the horse pens?”

“Well I found out something quite interesting,” Duelist said before sitting down in front of the fire, “Apparently there are rumors of monsters out and about-”

“Well that seems quite normal,” I responded, “What possible reason is there for such a simple thing to be spread around that people seem to forget our little group exists?”

“If you would let me finish.  Apparently these monsters have defected against the Calamity and they plan to destroy said Calamity.”

I couldn’t help myself.  I burst out laughing loud enough that even some of the people outside the stables gave me a look, “Seriously?  Monsters?  Working to destroy the Calamity?  Oh please.  Do I need to remind you that it is from that very Calamity they are spawned from?”

“I am well aware of that fact.  I am merely repeating what I heard inside.”

This time it was Eisen’s turn to speak, “But vhat veason could zey have to fabricate such a tall tale wizout palpable evidence to support zeir imbecilic claims?”

“I don’t know, nor do I really care.  If there are such monsters out in the world.  I would very much like to meet them.  I’ll believe these claims if I ever see it.”

Suddenly from the background was Magpie's small yet deep voice muffled by the long-beaked doctor’s mask, “Are you not yourself someone who fights using dark magic Ferrous?”

“The origin of my magic is completely different and you know it bird boy.”

“That is not the point I am making.  What are those monsters but more creatures with working organs and hearts beating in their chests?”

“Just get to the point already, goddesses!!”

“Why would a force such as the Calamity create monsters with more detail than necessary?  It does not have need to.  You know this.”

That… actually made a lot of sense.  Why make monsters with all the little things when you could just have all the empty space filled with nothing but malice?  Unless of course there’s a different reason for it all.

“You know, comrade?  I believe you are onto somezing wiz that line of zinking.”

Now the Duelist cut in, “So correct me if I am wrong masked one,” he said addressing Magpie, “what you seem to be getting at is you believe these wild ideas because they have a functioning form?”

“But it makes sense,” I cut in before Magpie could, “Why would you create all those organs if they are just simple creations of malice?  You wouldn’t have a reason to!”

“Why?  You have failed to explain your conjecture!”

“Because when you create a construct of magic.  Especially dark magic like the malice you don’t need to have a complete body.  That’s a loose explanation of the stal monsters and those malice eyes that spawn those bubbles.”

That seemed to shut the Duelist up as he contemplated it for some time.  Again he spoke, “So I guess we will have to start keeping an eye out for any beings that do not fit in now.”

“Why?  It’s not like they’ll want anything to do with us.”

“Not according to the rumors.  They apparently wish to build relations with the other peoples of Hyrule.  Plus it is not like we can say much about the composition of our little posse.”

Duelist had a point.  We are one of the weirdest traveling groups in Hyrule so we do have something in common with these supposed monsters.  Who would have thought that we would have anything in common with monsters.  But one thing was clear.  With everything that’s happening now.  If more monsters break free from the Calamity.  There will be dues to pay.  Not just for the monsters.  But for all of Hyrule.  I can’t even count the number of monsters me and my group have put down simply because they were there.  I would hate to think they actually had minds behind the veil of malice that could see our actions.  Cause what we’ve done is downright genocide.  No ifs, ands, or buts about it.  Welp… I’m not getting any sleep now.  But I guess tomorrow is a new day.

And that's it for now! Also have some art of my little guys.

I had so much fun writing this. Again thank you to @bugcatcherwill for allowing me to write about their guys even if this first chapter(?) really only mentioned them in passing. Maybe another chapter is in order to have them meet.

[itsjustelian]

BEEFLEAF THOUGHT (Mainly He Xuan thought but fuck it he's intertwined with Shi Qingxuan and therefore all He Xuan thoughts are beefleaf thoughts)

So so so, in my readings of tgcf and the wonderful mess that is all of the internet thoughts on it I've come to the personal conclusion that to become a supreme you have to have *big* feelings. Very big and very deep feelings.

Our big-brained, obvious example of this is Hua Cheng. Man's big feeling is devotion, love. He is absolutely besotted for Xie Lian. Would do anything for his God. We're so proud of him for it too.

But He Xuan? He's the only other real supreme we have aside from Hua Cheng (Jun Wu, I'm sorry, you're wonderful but Godhood fucks with a man) and the idea that his big feeling that turned him into a supreme was rage and hatred never sat quite right with me. It's not that hatred and rage aren't powerful enough emotions to make a supreme, and those being his emotions on the surface make him a wonderful parallel to Hua Cheng. But rage isn't really what fuels him. If it was, he'd have dissipated after the Blackwater arc. Taken his revenge and called it a day.

Yet, he sticks around. He *never* dissipates. He just sits at the bottom of the ocean for all eternity. Which doesn't sound like rage or hatred. I mean, you'd assume a calamity built on hate would continue his revenge path until all of heaven is gone and no one can have godhood because he couldn't. But he doesn't. He just... waits.

This isn't to say he wasn't angry, btw. He was absolutely angry, and he had every right to be. His desire for revenge had to come from somewhere, let alone the emotional payment to actually planning and pulling it off. I just don't think that was his greatest regret/feeling/desire at death. I mean, He Xuan had his whole life taken from him. All of it. His family, his fiancee, his passions, his work. Everything he worked towards and for got stolen from him by others. And while it's clearly very rage inducing for him (I mean he has a mental breakdown and kills everyone who's ever wronged him), the underlying feeling through it all was probably despair. He probably just wanted things to go back to how they were when his whole family was around and alive.

And this despair and longing doesn't just go away when he learns the truth of what's been done to him. He's still a person. He can't just throw away those emotions because new ones have taken center stage. But rage is a way easier feeling to work with than misery, so He Xuan defers to it. He jumps on the bandwagon of revenge against the people who wronged him once again and goes with it. And it gets him through Mt. Tonglu and up into heaven and right where he says he wants to be. Right up until he can execute his revenge. And then he just stops? And decides that he's going to be best friends with Shi Qingxuan for a few hundred years first? I'm no rage expert, but that doesn't sound very revenge like to me. Which leads very neatly into the point of this post, took me a while I know.

He Xuan's reason for sticking around is he wants to be loved.

I mean, look at it. He says he hates Shi Qingxuan's guts and wants him and his brother dead more than anything, but also spends hundreds of years hanging out with this person he hates so much when revenge is right there? He could have done it whenever. There was no logical reason I could wait to wait as long as he did. Unless he was enjoying Shi Qingxuan's companionship. And Shi Qingxuan clearly loved him (even just platonically. We love our friends in this house). And He Xuan hadn't had someone care about him that much since his death. It was probably insanely overwhelming and equally as wonderful.

And then he fucks it all by actually going through with the revenge but feelings are hard and he's clearly not great with them so oops. But but but, his great famous line during the Blackwater Arc is him telling Shi Qingxuan that they've used the wrong name. He, even if it's just subconsciously, wants Shi Qingxuan to see him as He Xuan, not Ming Yi. He, in some capacity, wants Shi Qingxuan to see and love He Xuan, not the mask he had on.

But then, after the revenge, he doesn't disappear. He straight up goes out of his way to return Shi Qingxuan's fan to them. To make something right. To return something to how it was before.

Except this time, he can't blame the people around him for the change. He can't turn his rage at the rest of the world because he's the one who ruined the only thing he wanted for himself. So he finally, *finally*, has to face this sadness and longing that's been plaguing him from the start. He got his revenge, he got all the anger out, and it still wasn't what he wanted. Because from the beginning, all he wanted was to be appreciated and loved and wanted and not have that torn away from him.

And he fucked it for himself in the end because lets be honest if he had a civil fucking conversation with Shi Qingxuan and didn't literally threaten their brothers life things would have gone SO MUCH BETTER.

Anyway, I'm crying now. If you read through my jumbled 2 AM thoughts all the way, thank you. I will edit this when it's not 3 am. and post it.

---

Editing me: wtf was I on? I don't remember half of these thoughts??? I'm posting it because somewhere in this hot mess is a point I'm trying to make, and I'm not going to deny 2 AM Elian the chance to share it.

[anonymityisfunwriter]

There Is No Coming Back From This - Chapter 6

Characters: Stark!Reader, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Summary: "It's her time, Tony. And I hate that as much as you do, but there's some things you can't fix. There is no coming back from this."

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist | 'There Is No Coming Back From This' Chapter List

“You know we’re walking right into a trap, Steve.”

“I know.”

Bucky nods, turning the corner and entering the building. "Then let's do this."

"I counted 10 floors. They're gonna try to overwhelm us before we ever make it to her. If you're what they're after, they'll have no issue taking all three of us if they get the chance," Steve carefully calculates out loud. "We'll stay together. Keep as quiet as we can. Avoid guns if we can. The element of surprise can only help us here." 

"Got it." 

"We'll go floor by floor. Sweep the area then move on, but if my gut's right, they'll have her on the roof. They'll want to back us into a corner. Let's move."

Steve takes the lead, following his directive to a tee. Floor after floor, fighting through infestations of HYDRA agents all waiting for them. Sweeping each floor with no sign of you. 

Meanwhile, you stand at the very edge of the building's roof. Your heels dangle off the ledge, toes barely sitting on the ledge. An unfamiliar man holds you by your throat with a grip light enough to allow for airflow. 

"When I get down from here, I'm gonna kick your ass," you rasp against the man's hand. 

"Shut up," the man spits at you. 

"Are you really that scared of getting beat up by a girl? Put the gun down and let's see how big of a man you really are," you taunt, futilely swinging your fist at him. 

"I won't tell you again."

"I won't tell you again," you mock. 

Out of breath from fighting through dozens of floors of HYDRA agents, Bucky crouches in the doorway, watching as you egg your abductor on. "Does she ever know when to stop mouthing off?"

"I guess she did get something from her father," Steve whispers, silently signaling Bucky to take the opposite side of the roof. 

Bucky nods, flanking the man, "Drop the gun."

The man smirks at the sight of Bucky standing before him. "I knew you'd come."

"He said drop it," Steve barks from the other side, surrounding the man. "Drop it and give us the kid back."

"The soldier first."

"The girl first," Steve orders. 

The man's grip tightens, forcing you even further off the ledge. So far that you can't feel the ground beneath your feet.

Steve watches on as your legs flail in the air, trying to kick the man and take the pressure off your windpipe. 

Your eyes dart to just behind Steve, watching as several HYDRA agents try to surprise him. Steve doesn't even hear the sounds of the gravel shifting behind him, too focused on getting you back and out of harm's way. You take your hand off the man's grip, pointing to behind Steve, you choppily exhale, "Behind you."

"Let her go!" Steve demands. 

Your abductor languidly shrugs. Your eyes widen as you realize what's about to happen. He smirks at you, then at Steve, "Alright."

Your hearts falls to the pit of your stomach when he finally lets go, dropping you off the ledge of the rooftop.

You helplessly reach for the air, trying to grab to anything to keep you from plummeting to your death. Your fall is silent in the surrounding calamity. 

"Steve!" Bucky shouts. 

Steve dives for you, but before he can reach you, the HYDRA agents pounce on the two of them. It's a whirlwind, and yet there's nothing, not the dozen agents, not being hopelessly outmanned and outgunned, that can keep Steve's rage in check. 

And before Bucky realizes it, Steve storms towards the man that just dropped you off the building. He dodges the fists thrown, twisting his arm behind his back.

He pushes him closer and closer to the ledge with every punctuated word, "Do you understand what you did? You killed an innocent girl, an innocent child." Lost in his rage, he remembers you as a kid. He remembers Tony's words, reminding him that to you, Steve was as close to family as anyone could get. "You killed my niece."

His morality, his ethics, his beliefs are nothing but small voices in the back of Steve's head. He doesn't even feel guilty about the fear flashing in the man's eyes. With one swift kick to the chest, the man stumbles back, almost going over the ledge. Steve grabs the man's utility vest, narrowly keeping him from falling. "She didn't deserve that."

"Steve!" Bucky tries to stop him, but Steve's grip moves from the vest to the man's throat.

He dangles him over the ledge the way he dangled you moments before letting you go. "Should I kill you the way you killed her?"

"Steve!" you shout from below. "Could I get some help here? Maybe before you avenge my death?"

Bucky's eyes blow wide, scrambling towards the edge of the roof to look. And sure enough, your hand is clawed into the building's stone. "Oh my God..."

Steve tosses the man in his hands back onto the roof like he weighs nothing. He takes off down the stairs with Bucky right on his heels. Bucky stops for a moment, turning back to look at the man's face paled with fear. He smirks at him, reaching for his gun. He fires a single shot into the man's leg, doing nothing as he hears the man's screams of pain. 

With the odd, open shape of the building, they each take a floor above and below the side of the building where you held on.

Bucky reaches you first. He opens the door to the abandoned apartment, tossing the patio door open. He climbs over the metal gate of the patio, reaching over as far as he can.

It's not far enough. "I can't reach you. You're gonna have to jump." 

"I can't! I'll fall!" you shout down at him.

"Come on, kid. You're gonna have to trust me here . Swing a little and let go. I'll catch you. I promise, I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

You look up at him, and even from the distance, he can see the fear shining in your eyes. "Bucky..."

"I promise, kid. I got you."

With all the upper body strength you possess, you swing yourself slightly and let go. Bucky snatches your hand, hauling you up with his vibranium hand. 

"Thank you." You offer a small smile to Bucky. You theatrically dust yourself off, sighing in relief, "Whew... that was a close one."

Steve dashes into the apartment to see you safely on over the railing and with Bucky. 

The moment you see him, you cross your arms, tired and aching from dangling off the side of a building. "Damn it, Steve! Have you not seen any movie ever? You never tell the guy dangling a person over the cliff to let them go!" 

He ignores your swear words and sarcastic remarks, instead, he pulls you into a crushing embrace. "Don't ever scare me like that again."

"I'll try not to," your mumble into his shoulder. "This is nice."

He lets out a sigh of relief, pulling away to thoroughly examine you. "You're okay? You're not hurt? Shoulder dislocated? Hand broken?"

You gently pat your shoulder and shrug, "I don't think so, I feel fine."

He lifts your chin, jerking it in different directions to examine your face and neck. "Your throat's going to bruise. Can you breathe okay? Does it hurt to breathe? Can you take a deep breath? What about -"

You swat Steve's hand away, "I'm fine, really! I might have whiplash now, but I'm fine!"

He shakily exhales, bending down with one hand on his knee and the other over his heart, "Are you sure?"

"Are you okay? You look like you're about to have a heart attack!" You turn to Bucky, "Is Steve about to have a heart attack?"

"I don't know." Bucky shrugs, resting his hands on his hips. You look over at him silently imploring him to do something, anything. He sighs, rolling his eyes in acquiescence. He takes a step forward, leaning over to clap Steve on the back, "Deep breaths, Steve. She's fine."

You throw your hands up, "That's it? That's your big intervention?"  

"Oh, I'm sorry, let me go grab my emergency defibrillator," Bucky sarcastically remarks. 

Steve straightens his spine, once again fussing over you, "Are you sure? What if you're just in shock? Are you positive you're okay?"

You swat Steve's hand away from you, "Yes, Mother Hen. I'm fine, but maybe, just maybe, we might not want to hang out in the place swarming with the bad guys!" 

"Right! Right! Good idea!" Steve agrees, his shoulders still quickly rising and falling with his panicked breathing. "You've never leaving my sight again, by the way." 

"Why?" you scoff, a snort of laughter leaving your mouth. "I've got great odds. I've literally escaped imminent death twice!" 

"Alright, settle down," Bucky interrupts. "Don't let that go to your head." 

"It might just be adrenaline, but I feel great!" you exclaim the moment you exit the abandoned building and back into the town square. 

"Okay, but maybe we don't tempt fate?" Steve calls after you as you practically skip down the cobblestone pavements.

Though he'd never admit it, Bucky bites back a smile, quirking an eyebrow as you outpace the both of them. "Should we stop her?"

"I say we let her run it off." 

Bucky snorts, smirking over at Steve, "Says the man that almost had a self induced heart attack."

"Funny, very funny, jerk." 

"Punk," Bucky retorts. "So now what?" 

"We keep with the plan. Bus station to a bigger train station." 

"And then what?

Steve watches on as you continue on your merry way. He knows that adrenaline wears off. He knows that what comes next isn't easy. The three of you all running for an undetermined amount of time. He doesn't know how long this moment of lightness will continue before the loss seeps into your bones.

He'll let you have this short moment, the feeling of invincibility, the rush of surviving such bleak odds. And still, he knows what you and Tony both refused to admit, there was no coming back from this.

"We keep running." 

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist 'There Is No Coming Back From This' Chapter List

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[iridescentprose]

car kisses - steve harrington x fem!reader insert

author's note; just a short fluffy fic. i miss steve sm o-o

Steve's laughter echoed against your eardrum as you snaked your arms around his neck.

He was loosely holding onto your waist with one hand, the other latching onto the wheel of the car for dear life. You could tell your impromptu display of affection had startled him, because he was chuckling nervously now, something he often did when he wasn't sure how to respond with words.

You both had just received good news. Well, Steve had.

Amid all the calamity - smoke, fire, and raging beasts - things had started to settle down in Hawkins. Albeit, to the ordinary, the news Steve had shared with you was much more anticlimactic than your reaction let on, but for you and Steve, it was a monumental occasion that was deserving of you crawling into his lap while he was behind the wheel of his 1983 BMW.

The car careened to the left and right as you settled backwards in his lap, as if you both were lounging on the couch and not in a vehicle that was now going 25 miles per hour.

Eyes wide with surprise, Steve tried sitting up further in his seat to look past you at the wide open road. There wasn't a car in sight for miles, yet even if there was, your reaction would've been the same.

"You trying to get us killed, y/n?"

"No," you mumbled against his ear as you readjusted yourself. His free arm was insistent upon returning you to the passenger's seat safely, but he couldn't complete the mission without removing both hands from the wheel. Sighing in defeat, with a smile lacing his lips and a quirked eyebrow to match, his tight hold on your waist loosened as both your arms rested around his neck.

"I'm just happy for you. I knew that job was yours," you said, embracing his neck as the car swerved a bit. The hand around your waist eventually found its way to your back in a thankful pat.

"Thanks, but maybe we can cuddle when I'm not driving?"

You could feel the smirk of arrogance lacing his mouth without even seeing it. He was loving this, but at the same time trying to get you both home in one piece. The adrenaline pumping through your veins suddenly found its way to your cheeks. Steve was normally the one to initiate any sort of hand holding or cuddling, and yet, when a sliver of happiness - a sliver of hope - seeped its way into your system, you couldn't hold back the joy that was demanding to be set free.

Steve getting hired for a real job - not one involving scooping ice-cream or stocking the latest VHS tapes onto rusting shelves - was the biggest good news you had heard in quite some time. Compared to watching the local news and waiting for you, your friends,' and boyfriend's demises as Hawkins slowly turned into a fiery furnace - normal news sounded like a miracle.

Normal news sounded like Heaven.

Slowly you peeled back, your hands dropping to his shoulders. The car was still careening at a solid speed of 25 in a 45. All four windows were down, making it feel like you were going faster.

Sensing your excitement temporarily diminish, Steve tightened his hold on your waist, his grip on the wheel temporarily loosening, though he kept his eyes forward.

"You should be as happy as I am," you mumbled, your arms going around his neck again as he refused to let you sulk back to your seat.

"I am," he assured you with a smile that didn't erase the panic in his features. Amid the constant teasing and the attempts to make you bashful, he was always worried about your safely. In this case, his worries were obviously valid. He glanced at you this time, his eyes playing tug of war between the road and you. "But if I don't make it out of this car alive, it'll all be for nothing."

Playfully, you hit his arm and he laughed all while trying to keep the car from crashing. He kissed your cheek as you settled your chin on his shoulder again, the action tickling his neck. The car dipped into the shoulder before settling in the center of the asphalt again.

You gave him one final embrace before pulling back. Just as you were about to return to the passenger's seat, he pulled you closer by the waist. Between kisses you both laughed. With each swerve of the car, you both embraced the adrenaline rush that swelled throughout your veins, knowing it was nothing compared to the fear you both had experienced the past several months.