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nosyp · 1 month ago

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A Favor to the Devil

A/N = Errmm... I tried decorating it.... let me know what y'all think (i personally think it's kinda weird😭) Anyway, this story was way darker then I envisioned it so I'll probably make a lesser dark version later on. But momentarily, deal with whatever this is. 🙏 This is for @sakisakichacoreakin (sorry it was so late).

Warnings = smut🔞, debts, favors, manipulation, dark themes, dubious consent, toxic relationships, power imbalance, marking, p in v sex, threats, spit play, choking, aftercare

Pairings = William James Moriarty x fem! reader x Louis James Moriarty

Summary = Drawn into the Moriarty brothers' dangerous world, you're trapped in their dark, obsessive game with no escape.

Word count = 3.4k

Read story below 👇 (Please read warnings before reading)

The rain was pouring outside, drops of rain slamming onto the ground with a loud thud, dispersing particles in every direction around it. The steady rhythm of the water droplets created an almost hypnotic beat, the sound reverberating against the walls and filling the air with a damp, heavy scent. The precipitation put a thick coat of water along the roads. It was as though the world had been submerged in water, each droplet joining the others in a relentless, natural rhythm. The air was humid, moist. That’s how you knew something was coming.

You didn’t mean to come in contact with the dangerous William James Moriarty, nor his brother. But alas, the fate was sealed, and now you were heading to their residence, the very home where they stayed, hung and spent time in. There was nothing friendly or welcoming about it, as expected from the blonde Moriarty duo– William James Moriarty and Louis James Moriarty.

You stood outside, in the cold rain, hesitating and rethinking your decision. The door felt so close… so alarming... You could feel the presence of the two brothers from the outside, despite being across the street from the building. Swallowing your pride, you clutched the handles of your umbrella, and walked towards the other side of the road, vehicles stopping at the sight of you.

The umbrella somehow started to get increasingly heavy, not from the rain, but from the pressure mounting on you. The temperature outside was freezing cold—the rain unrelenting, pouring down for hours with no sign of stopping. You could feel the weight of the moisture, the quiet anticipation hanging in the air as the distance between you and the door decreased. Each splash from the droplets felt like a cold, sharp sting against your skin, but it was the tension in the air that really weighed you down, making it harder to breathe.

You hadn’t intended to cross paths with the family at all. After listening to all those stories and rumours going around the town, you feared —no, terrified— of them. Every detail, thing, or story you’ve ever heard about them was cruel.

At first, they’d lure you in with promises of an end, a solution to all your problems, wrapped in the guise of salvation. They offered it so easily, like a gift you couldn’t refuse. But if you even dared to reject it, they’d hang that offer over your head, a constant reminder of what you could’ve had, taunting you until the end of your life. It became your burden, a silent threat that weighed on your every decision.

Then, once you’d finally break, they’d start to take advantage of you. They’d use you and use you til you were soaked dry of all your dignity, independence, and worth. And that was the exact cycle you fell into.

You had a dirty little secret, a secret nobody would or should know. That secret was something you’d wanted to take to the grave with you. Never let it out of your own space. But somehow it reached the pair of brothers.

—

Flashback

“Y/N, I believe you have… a problem.” a blonde says, crimson red eyes piercing right through you.

Hearing that voice, you turned around, only to be met with your future tormentor. It was midnight, almost pitch-black outside, the street light flickering serving as your only source of light. You couldn’t see him clearly at all, but you could see his silhouette and that was enough for you to confirm his identity.

“H-huh…?” you said, stammering. Surely, giving him a great first impression of you.

He wasn’t alone. No, he never was. He always had his brother, Louis, or one of his lackeys following him around. You didn’t doubt his strength, nor his power in any way, shape or form. But you know anything that had to do with him wasn’t any good.

“Well I have an---------” he says, voice ringing in your ear… before your memory started to blank out.

—

The devil couldn’t reach you, so he sent William James Moriarty.

Your heart was pounding as you extended your hand towards the door knob. The entrance to their house was dark… terrifying. You’d much prefer to be anywhere else than here, even drowning in a sea of piranhas is better than whatever bullshit he put you through.

Trembling, your cold fingers wrapped around the door knob… before turning it and pushing it.

Click.

The door revealed nothing but a pitch-black void, a suffocating darkness that seemed to stretch infinitely. The air was thick, pressing against your chest and making it harder to breathe. You could feel it, even before you saw them. It was as if they were already inside, their eyes trained on you from the shadows, waiting.

Your hand shook as it lingered on the door handle, the cold metal burning against your skin. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to turn around, to run, to go back. But you couldn’t. The moment you’d stepped into their world, was the moment your whole life would change. And there was no escape from it.

The door creaked as you pushed it open, the sound sharp in the silence. A low murmur stirred from the darkness, the sound of a presence moving toward you. The faintest silhouette of William appeared, his pale blonde hair catching the dim light, his crimson eyes gleaming with something dark… something cruel.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice smooth, almost too calm, as if everything was under his control. You could feel the venom in his words, the subtle threat dripping with every syllable that spilled out of his mouth.

Louis followed, his steps echoing softly behind you. The younger Moriarty’s gaze flicked over to you, piercing through your clothes, through your skin, straight into your soul. There was something predatory in his stare, something that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

“You didn’t think you could come here and leave unscathed, did you?” Louis’s voice was a low, guttural whisper, a promise of suffering that hung in the air like a fog.

You didn’t answer. There was nothing left to say.

You were already too deep.

The door slammed shut behind you, the sound reverberating through your bones, sealing you in. You were trapped in their world now, a world where every decision you made was controlled, every move calculated, every breath you took was theirs to command. You could feel the weight of their gaze on you, their presence wrapping around you like a noose, tightening with every passing second.

William stepped closer, his footsteps slow, deliberate. “I wonder… How long will it take before you beg?” His fingers brushed your cheek, the touch cold but searing, sending an electric jolt down your spine.

Louis moved behind you, his breath hot against your neck. “Begging might be a bit too soon,” he mused, his fingers tracing along your shoulder with the precision of someone who had done this too many times to count. “But we’ll get there. In time.”

Your body was betraying you. The fear, the terror, the humiliation… it was all there, but so was the unbearable pull toward them. You knew they had you. You knew it before you even walked in the door.

And you hated yourself for it. But there was nothing you could do now.

You felt a shiver run down your spine as William’s presence loomed closer, his form now towering over you. His fingers trailed down your throat, a whisper of pressure, delicate yet firm. His eyes held a knowing gleam, a predator toying with its prey, and it sent a surge of heat rushing through you. You hated that you felt it.

"Do you feel it?" William’s voice was barely a whisper, a dark and sultry invitation. “The pull... toward us?”

You couldn’t speak. You didn’t know how to answer him, because deep down, you were starting to wonder if you even wanted to fight it anymore. The weight of everything—the fear, the disgust, the inevitability of it all—sat heavy in your chest. And yet, there was a strange allure, something magnetic, pulling you toward them like a moth to a flame.

Louis stepped forward, his hand sliding along your waist with casual ease, his breath fanning over your ear. “You’ve been running from us, haven’t you?” His voice was a soft purr, his tone dripping with amusement. “But now, here you are. Finally giving in.”

You tried to step back, but the movement felt like a joke. There was no space. No room to breathe. Louis was there, right behind you, a breath away from trapping you. And William… William was in front of you, his gaze predatory and intense, watching every subtle shift of your body as if he could read every thought you were trying to suppress.

"You don't get to decide, little bird." William’s fingers tightened, the grip around your throat firm yet not painful, just enough to make you feel the weight of his control over you. His other hand reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch unbearably gentle for someone who had already shown you the darkness of his world.

And you hated that, in that moment, you wanted more of it.

Louis’s hand slid lower, a playful caress along your side, before he leaned in, his lips brushing your neck as he whispered, “Tell me, Y/N... Do you want us? Or are you still pretending that you don’t?” The warmth of his breath against your skin was enough to make your pulse quicken, an ache settling deep within you.

You wanted to push them away, to scream at them to let you go, but your body betrayed you. The warmth in your veins, the strange heat that was blooming under their touch, made it impossible to think straight.

“You’re going to give in,” William murmured, his thumb brushing over your pulse. “Whether you like it or not.”

Louis chuckled softly from behind you, his voice low and dark, “And it’ll be beautiful, Y/N. You’ll see. You’re not leaving here the same.”

Your heart hammered in your chest as the reality of it all hit you. You were trapped. Completely, utterly trapped. And there was no escape from the Moriarty brothers. Not anymore.

William’s grip on your throat loosened, just slightly, but his eyes never left yours. “I hope you’ve been prepared for what’s coming, little bird. Because once you’re ours, you’ll never be able to escape.”

And that sealed your fate. Now you were their property.

—

In the blink of an eye, you found yourself trapped beneath William, his body pressing down on yours as his hands planted firmly beside your head on the bed. The bedsheets underneath you were soft, brushing your skin so gently with every movement. You didn’t doubt that it was made of the most-expensive silk ever found.

“Are you ready Y/N?” he asks darkly, but you knew it wasn’t even a question. More of a warning of what’s to come.

William lifts one of his hands to unbutton your sweater, while the other leans on the bed, the mattress visibly dipping to the side under his weight. He expertly uses one hand to undo the buttons, one by one. His body heat was radiating to you, providing you with a faint warmth.

That was until his demeanour changed. Before you could even react to the shift in his expression, he grabbed your chin with a forceful grip, tilting your head up to make you look into his eyes. His hand forced you to open your mouth and his eyes gleamed with something dark, something unnerving. Without a word, he let a thick stream of spit fall into your mouth. The action was sudden, almost cruel, leaving you frozen in place as a twisted smile tugged at his lips.

Then you felt Louis's hand grip the edge of your pants, giving them a firm tug. His hands then tugged a bit more, and he pulled them off with one swift motion. It revealed your underwear, it was a lacy, pink victoria secret underwear that you didn’t mean to wear. It was only your last pair, so you were practically forced to. But you probably wouldn’t can’t blame them for thinking it was for them.

“Oh… What is this?” William says, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

His long fingers land on your panties, tracing the lace pattern. “Was… this perhaps for us?” he asks.

Fuck no. But that’s not what you say of course.

“Y-yes…” you mutter underneath your breath, gaze looking in any other direction but his eyes.

Following that, he ripped your panties apart with just his arms. The sound of the fabric tearing was horrifyingly loud. He tore at your shirt after that, the fabric giving way under his hands like it was nothing.

Soon enough, your whole body was revealed to the two brothers. They had been ogling at you since you first met them, and you knew this was just going to make it worse.

In a flash of a second, William was tapping his tip onto you… it was dripping with precum and was a flushed red. He pushed it in slowly, letting you adjust to his girth before starting to thrust in and out of you.

Thwap Thwap Thwap

The sound of his skin slapping onto yours echoed around the room, repeating repeatedly in and out of your ears. The heat inside you grew the more he went on. “Mh- Mhh!” your moans silenced by your unwillingness to let him win.

Louis's hand closed around yours, pulling it up with a deliberate motion. He moved your hand to wrap around his cock, making you stroke him while William was still thrusting deep inside you.

The pleasure began to build relentlessly, an electric current racing through your veins, each pulse sending waves of overwhelming dopamine flooding your senses. It was almost too much, but you couldn’t pull away… couldn’t stop.

“M-mmh!! Wi-William!” a moan escaped from your mouth, voice filled with plead. Plead for… more…? Or for less…?

Your mind spun, thoughts colliding in a chaotic whirlwind. It was like trying to catch fragments of your sanity in the storm, each one slipping through your fingers just as quickly as you could hold onto it. Which was… for a fleeting moment. Like a flash.

The room was dark and it felt like the walls were closing in on you despite you not being able to see them. Everything leading up to this moment was… destiny.

A destiny you could not escape. Them.

Louis’s hands guided yours to help you pump his cock, your hand matching his pace. While William’s rough thrusts hit your cervix over and over again, sending you into a spiral.

“F-Fuck!” you let out.

It felt like your high was coming, a slow burn that built with every touch, every pulse of pleasure. The world around you faded, everything but the electric buzz coursing through you … becoming distant and unimportant. Your breath quickened as the overwhelming sensation crept closer, the tension tightening in your chest.

That was until… William suddenly stopped and his face started huddling in your neck. His lips pressed onto your neck and started nibbling on the spots, leaving behind dark marks, staying as a reminder of who owns you.

His assault on your neck didn’t last too long for it to become unbearable but enough for it to feel traumatizing. He slowly lifted his face from your neck, his breath still warm against your skin. For a moment, he was unnervingly quiet, and the silence only made you more uneasy. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, calculating, as though you were a puzzle he had yet to solve.

Then, without warning, a cold sensation dripped onto your skin. The suddenness of it made you freeze in place, your breath catching in your throat. He had spat on you. The shock of it, combined with the lingering heat of his presence, made your mind spin, unsure of how to react.

“Louis, your turn.” William says in an authoritative tone.

Louis' eyes widened for just a split second, a flash of something unpredictable flickering within them before his expression returned to its usual calm composure. His lips curled into a faint, dangerous smile as he leaned in closer, his face hovering just inches from yours.

"You like that, don't you?" His voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight of his words hung heavily in the air between you, making the tension in the room feel suffocating.

The proximity of his face, the almost imperceptible warmth of his breath brushing against your skin, it was like he was daring you to do something, to react in any way, to surprise him. But you were frozen, unsure whether to fight, flee, or give in.

Louis’ gaze never left yours, the tension between you both thickening as he leaned closer. His breath was slow and deliberate, each exhale warm against your skin. You felt his lips hovering dangerously near, but it wasn’t his kiss you had to fear. It was far from that.

Then, without a word, he tilted his head, and his eyes locked onto yours, full of knowing intent. The air around you both seemed to still as you watched him, his lips curling slightly. And then, slowly, a droplet of his saliva escaped, slowly oozing from his mouth as it landed against your lips, a cold and unexpected touch.

The sensation was jarring, different from anything you’d expected, and it made your heart race. For a moment, the world seemed to pause as you processed what had just happened, feeling the weight of his gaze, the unspoken power behind his actions.

"You think you're in control?" His voice was a low growl, each word dripping with something darker. His hand reached up to gently put back his spit into your mouth, fingers light against your skin.

"You belong to us now, little bird," he added, the words like a sharp whisper in your ear. "And you’re going to learn just how much you do."

Then, William started drilling into you again, cock pulsing in and out of you in an endless cycle. Your walls tightened around him, pulling him in more, eager to reach your high, your climax.

And it finally came, you came. All over them. Leaving a huge giant mess of your fluids and theirs. The bed was soaked with all your cum and sweat, cum still oozing out of your wet pussy.

When everything slowed and the storm of sensations faded, Louis and William remained close, their hands soft against your skin, grounding you. Louis's touch was gentle as he cupped your face, his fingers brushing away the sweat that clung to your forehead.

“You did so well,” he murmured, his voice laced with tenderness.

William finally pulled out, leaving you feeling empty but more relaxed. And he, ever the silent guy, placed a warm hand on your lower back, rubbing soothing soft circles as if to remind you of the safety and care in this moment. “Breathe,” he whispered, his tone steady and calm.

The overwhelming tension began to ease as they helped you to sit up, one of them handing you a glass of water. You drank greedily, still catching your breath, and felt yourself starting to come back to earth.

Louis pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulled away, his eyes searching yours for any sign of distress. “How do you feel?”

Safe. Protected. But those words seemed too vulnerable, so you simply nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“You’re alright,” William said, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “We’re not going anywhere.”

They stayed with you, no longer in the dominant roles they'd just held, but as calm anchors, ensuring you had everything you needed to feel grounded once more. The storm was over, but the connection remained, deep and unspoken.

#william james moriarty #william james moriarty x reader #yandere william james moriarty #yuukoku no moriarty #louis james moriarty #louis james moriarty x reader #yandere louis james moriarty #dividers by @cafekitsune #kinda experimenting #watch me take a break after this <3 #got lazy on sum parts srry

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meowzfordayz · 2 years ago

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when you’re going through an episode — mitsuri, shinobu, kyojuro, sanemi, giyuu

Author’s Note: it’s difficult to accurately capture the scope of bipolar disorder in a comfort fanfic, so just know that these preferences barely graze the surface of what it means to have bipolar, and that it’s more complicated and nuanced than fixing a bad day w/ a hug. 🖤 Update: was just informed that BPD stands for Borderline Personality Disorder. 😅 Apologies for my misunderstanding/mistake, but hope this still provides comfort! 🫶🏽

when you’re going through an episode — mitsuri, shinobu, kyojuro, sanemi, giyuu

Kanroji Mitsuri x Reader, Kocho Shinobu x Reader, Rengoku Kyojuro x Reader, Shinazugawa Sanemi x Reader, Tomioka Giyuu x Reader

Word Count: ~1,000

CW: bipolar disorder

Emergency Request Fulfilled: I’ve been so depressed, stuck in the bpd episode for like a week. I can barely will myself to leave my bed

Could you maybe do some female demon slayer characters (Mitsuri, shinobu, lady tamayo, female muzan, etc) taking care of a reader also going through a bad depressive episode?

Emergency Request Fulfilled: hello, i am requesting for an emergency request of maybe the hashiras (esp rengoku) comforting their bpd lover while theyre currently going thru a bpd episode

my bpd has been really bad as of late and my episodes r exhausting me, i just want to be comforted. feel free to write whenever, i adore your writing sm!! thank you

~faqs~

When you’re going through an episode…

… Mitsuri’s talked with you previously to ensure she’s as educated and prepared for your episodes as she can be, but having an outline of how to support you is never quite the same as actually executing it. It’s difficult for her to not take your disorder personally, because she prides herself on being joyful, enthusiastic, and positive; she can only handle gentle rejection so many times before she needs space. That being said, she feels safe enough to communicate her own fears and disappointments, so ~space generally entails you shooing her out of the house for ~an hour to treat herself to bubble tea and sunshine before rejoining you back in the pillow fort (which she always makes because she knows it helps you feel just a little lighter; if it means guests can’t use the living room for an extended period, then oh well). Sometimes she’s successful in coaxing you along with her, fingers interlaced loosely with yours, her smile wide as ever; other times she’s sure to return with your go-to order, plus a few photos of pretty flowers that reminded her of you.

… Shinobu does her best to listen. Whether you’re waking her up at 2am Shinobu, I had a nightmare, calling her on her lunch break I haven’t gotten out of bed yet, or showering while she sits on the toilet lid I’m so tired, thank you for waiting for me; it’s a simple gesture that goes a long way. She knows she doesn’t have to have profound replies, just as she knows how important and special it is that you feel safe enough to let her into your head, especially when she knows how low you’re feeling. It also helps her—gently—interrupt you when you start catastrophizing or spiraling, counter your self-directed negative perceptions, and gauge your overall mood. She rarely offers advice—she knows she’s your partner, not your therapist—but she’s grateful she gets to bring a calm, logical presence to your weighted, preoccupied thoughts. When you smile faintly, eyes almost shining, couch cushion sinking as you scoot yourself closer to her warmth; that’s when she knows she’s on the right track. “I appreciate you,” you murmur, words sweet and apologetic on her skin. “And I appreciate you,” she chuckles quietly, body shifting to accommodate you curling into her, ��You make me happy too.”

… Kyojuro does everything with an extra hint of softness. He understands maintaining a sense of normalcy can be helpful, but his chest aches at the exhaustion in your eyes, the halfhearted grip of your hand in his, how you laugh for his sake when he tries to make you smile — not because he actually succeeded. From washing your hair to feeding you bites of lunch, he goes out of his way to ease the process of simply being; to spark joy in the state of living. He knows satisfying basic needs are vital to getting through your episodes, just as he knows eating, bathing, going for a walk can be some of the hardest to do. Tough love isn’t his preferred method, so he opts for: making airplanes sounds while directing a spoonful of dinner toward your mouth, insisting he can’t reach his back to wash it, so, “Please join me in the shower! I need you!”, and claiming his hand feels lonely, “Could you hold it during my walk? I fear holding my own hand does not nearly suffice.” He doesn’t mean to belittle or baby you, but he’ll try anything to see you smile or even roll your eyes — to get to say I love you too.

… Sanemi doubts his ability to care for you. Make no mistake: he loves you, and doesn’t resent you in the slightest. He does, however, feel completely out of his depth. He understands in theory that loving someone isn’t all ease and sunshine, but in practice? He’d do anything to feel your smile on his lips, to have you snuggle further into his chest as he holds you, to hear you chat about your day, your favorite color, how you almost got caught in a downpour — anything, to know you’re ~okay. It takes a while for him to accept that ~okay comes in waves, and that silence on your end is not inherently rejection of his affection and effort. Telling him, “Even if I can’t express it in the moment, knowing you’re here beside me always makes me happy,” definitely helps reassure him that he can do something for you—by simply being him—and caressing his cheek when you think he’s asleep, murmuring, “Thank you for being patient with me, I love you,” reminds him all over again that I love you.

… it’s difficult for Giyuu to support you without feeling low himself. He feels so strongly for you, and is almost too close to provide the steady, neutral responses that seem to help you most. He can always hold you, can always kiss your forehead, touch your knuckles to his cheek, but he can’t always listen — he can’t always bend without breaking completely and utterly for you. Which isn’t to say you’re over reliant on or demanding of him; it’s just hard for him to know how much you’re hurting without taking that hurt into his heart and making it his own. He wants to be there for you, but navigating his boundaries and your needs definitely takes time, practice, tears, and forgiveness. “I want you to be yourself around me,” he murmurs, body spooning protective and cool behind you, “But I’m not the best when it comes to certain parts of you.” Nodding slightly, you clutch his hand to your chest, eyes closed as you reply, “And that’s okay. You can’t be good with all of me, and I’m not great with all of you either. But we both try, don’t we?” “Of course.” “That’s enough for me.” It’s enough for me too he thinks as he kisses the back of your head, grateful for the feeling of your smile grazing his fingertips.

#preferences #modern au #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #kanroji mitsuri #mitsuri x reader #kocho shinobu #shinobu x reader #rengoku kyojuro #kyojuro x reader #shinazugawa sanemi #sanemi x reader #tomioka giyuu #giyuu x reader

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theconstitutionisgayculture · 20 days ago

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Sorry, I just have to complain about something.

I have a casual acquaintance with this guy from NC, and I think he's pretty cool. He's more than ten years younger than me, but we have a lot of similar interests and viewpoints, and he strikes me as a genuinely kind person who's very easy to get along with. I always avoid politics with him because I assume most of Gen Z is left leaning, as per the usual with the youth of our culture, and I never wanted to find out about his political views and consequently lose respect for him.

I ran into him today, having not seen him since before Christmas, and I was eager to catch up a bit, but unfortunately, the first words out of his mouth were about how he's been distracted by the inauguration, alarmed specifically that Elon Musk gave a proper Nazi salute during his speech, and that he's afraid for the future of our country.

I am so put out with the TDS. I have been a libertarian and a middlest for a long time, and I used to pride myself on my ability to find common ground with most folks. But more and more, over the last ten years, I have come to feel like I have to close myself off from people, and often young people in particular, because they are constantly revealing their inability to think for themselves and their utter lack of tolerance towards what are, in my opinion, perfectly valid viewpoints and concerns.

Long of it short, I would rather not automatically assume that young people, in spite of how intelligent and reasonable they may seem when first met, are not worth getting to know, but I am genuinely bothered by their penchant to assume that everyone thinks the way they do, and that anyone who doesn't is evil.

I think often about something you're fond of saying, which is that if a person can't accept me for who I am, they are not a true friend. There are still people I love and am hurt to think of losing whom I believe would want nothing to do with me if we honestly discussed politics, but as the culture wars drag on and intensify, I also notice how much resentment towards them has blossomed in my heart.

I am looking forward to four years of Trump and truly hoping that, in time, America can heal.

It is sad, I agree. But there are signs of hope. Young men are trending conservative, and Trump won the young male vote. He won gains in every demographic, some of those gains being historic numbers in groups that haven't gone right in nearly 50 years. There's growing backlash to far right policies in deep blue states like California and deep blue cities like Chicago. Divisive, evil ideologies like DEI and wokeism are on the decline. The media is rapidly losing what little influence, and viewership, it has left. For the first time since the early 90s, everything is trending in the right direction in the US. And not just the US, either. Right wing populism is on the rise all across Europe, too.

This isn't to say that you should live and die by political trends. It's just to show that things are changing. Your friend is going to wake up one day and find that his circle has shrunken to just himself and a few miserable people who see Nazis and death squads around every corner. It will be up to him to decide if he wants to cling to irrational fear that everyone else has long since thrown off, or keep wallowing in that misery because it's comfortable and familiar. And no one can make that choice for him. Just like no one can make any of the screeching pearl clutchers on the left see reality as it actually exists. That's a journey they need to make, or reject, on their own.

Your choice is a more difficult one. You can observe the world through eyes that aren't covered with ideological blinders. You can see all the good parts of your friend, as well as the bad. And you need to decide if holding onto that friendship, if betting that those good parts will win out in the end, is worth dealing with all the bad and hiding a part of yourself from your friend. If the enjoyment you get from being his friend outweighs always needing to be on your toes in case he finds out you hold an opinion he can't handle. That's a choice only you can make.

But while you're thinking about that, consider this. This young man considers you a friend. That seems to mean he thinks you agree with him on everything, and that anyone who disagrees with him is evil in some fundamental, visible way. If you talk to him about your beliefs, that may force him to come to terms with the fact that someone he likes can also have "evil" beliefs. It may ruin the friendship, but it also might be something he desperately needs to find out. A black man named Daryl Davis once dissolved an entire KKK chapter just by making friends with its members and showing them that their beliefs about black people were wrong. I'm not saying you, or anyone else, needs to be Daryl Davis for young leftists, but personal relationships can be a powerful tool for change.

Just something to think about.

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pinkestlittlebutterfly · 1 year ago

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Servamps are immortal, and lead lives that span far back into what we consider the fogs of history today. Every now and then, however, they leave tracks along the paths they walk, whispers of their presence that can be traced through the centuries, leaving an imprint on the world to this day.

Sometimes this is intentional. Hugh was always conscious of images, and took great care to construct the picture painted of him and his kin in fables and stories and whispers on the street. To be a vampire is to be noble and elegant and a little bit prideful; it’s black velvet capes and charming, fanged smiles and hunting for virgin blood at night, for a dash of purposeful fear to keep away unwanted attention. He’s quite proud of how far his legacy carried.

Sometimes the traces left are accidental. Kuro would never know, but there is a little patch of land in England, a cluster no bigger than a few, tiny villages, where old, weathered grandmothers still tell the young children the bedtime stories of their youth, of a cat and a wolf that walked together at night. The tales have warped over time, embellished with charming detail of the adventures they would have had together, but if Kuro were to listen in, he’d remember those walks with bittersweet fondness.

Sometimes remnants of a Servamp’s life are plentiful, proof of their presence brought into tangible form, to be found and locked away centuries later in the dimly lit cellar of a mansion shrouded in secrets.

Lily spent his immortal life among the noble and eccentric; men with money and time to invest in the beautiful things in life. He mingled with poets and painters, had his fair skin and gold hair woven into songs and sonnets still read to this day, and captured on canvas whenever he did not quite manage to escape another artist looking for a new model. He has been Adonis and Antinuous and Troilus; and once an artist whose advances he rejected named his painting Narcissus. Lily still gets annoyed whenever he lays eyes on it – it was not him who spent hours staring at his face; and he has never had much love for his own beauty.

#servamp #servamp kuro #servamp hugh #servamp lily #i was taking myself very seriously when i wrote this #but my dear friend puff rightly pointed out the inherent hilarity of lily being labelled narcissus by a wounded painter #especially since the guy can't even see himself in the mirror #so the painting is rumored to be cursed but the curse is just lily's bad mood whenever it gets brought up

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neofeliis · 1 year ago

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You Cannot Have Her

Astarion/Tiefling!Tav

Notes: Durge Spoilers. Remember when we straight up stop living in front of Astarion and the game thought "how twee" was an appropriate way to react? Yeah. I needed to fix that. Enjoy.

-----

This wasn’t his place to step in. Like she had given him the grace, the push, to face Cazador now was the time for her to face her abomination of a father. Which thus far, she had been doing beautifully. All despite his own anxiety on the matter, watching her face off with Orin brought a swelling of pride in his chest. He knew she could do it, he had seen her do far more wondrous things. What was one more bloodthirsty monster amongst all the rest?

That wasn’t to say his stomach didn’t lurch with nausea every time the Slayer landed a hit. All the logic in the world, all the knowing she had this, was not enough to stave off the fear. And maybe it was just the aura of murder that surrounded them, but he was clenching his fists so tight he felt himself draw blood. The blade hilt in his right hand shook, clattering quietly at his side. Duel be damned, if she downed, he was going in for her.

Astarion would tear down the world for the tiefling thrice over if he needed to. He had been prepared to do it if it ever came down to it; he had decided that sometime along their way.

What Astarion had not been prepared for, in the wake of his swelling pride at her rebuking Bhaal, was for the god to be spiteful. Wasn’t that just the cruelest joke of all? For his bitterness to have been so thoroughly rewritten by her hope for the future, that he would forget the most fundamental truth of all. A truth he had buried deep in his heart.

The gods were nothing but spiteful, and would never take scorn in stride. How ironic, how cruel that the gods would choose now to answer. To intervene. To show their faces. All those years screaming into the void and this was the one that answered a call.

“You refuse me?”

He should have known, gods damnit he should have listened to the chill that crept up the back of his neck. The unholy terror that something was wrong. Everything slowed around him, the edges of his vision blurred and darkened, seeing only Tav and the animated corpse that spoke to her.

“Accept your inheritance, or I will reclaim it.”

Astarion opened his mouth to speak a warning at her back. Where she stood so tall, so confident, but he knew her so thoroughly by now. He saw how she twirled the ring on her finger, so subtly at her side. Her biggest tell that fear gnawed at her heart. Of course she was afraid. Standing before the god of murder? Refusing him?

But she was not afraid enough for what he felt coming. Something he couldn’t articulate as words failed him. His throat dry, his mind so chaotic he couldn’t find purchase on a full sentence if he tried. Something is wrong, something is wrong!

Reclaim it? Reclaim what? She was Bhaalspawn, everything that she physically was, was his. It was by his design, his will, that she existed at all. He made her to be an abomination, a feral creature devoted to bloodshed, and she had spent the greater part of their adventure resisting every bit of that fate. The most wondrous creature he had ever known in his days, lived and breathed by the grace of the murder god.

The realization hit him so hard he saw stars, and a wave of vertigo made the room tilt.

Despite his panic, Tav stood firm. There was a split second, where she seemed as though she might look back to her companions, to say something, but she stopped herself.

She refused Bhaal, and her birthright, a second time.

“You reject my blood, and so I will reclaim it.”

That’s when they all felt it. A shift in the cold, damp air. Heaviness dropped like a hammer as the tiefling doubled over, clutching at her chest, mouth open in a choked cry that died on her lips. In a final act of desperation, she hurled a glance over her shoulder at her companions, wild eyes flitting between each of them before finally landing on Astarion’s panicked face. The look in her eyes, the fearful resignation there shot Astarion through like an icy spear.

She knew. She knew this was a possibility. Tav knew the God of Murder would be cruel enough to take back his power, but if it was to keep the world–keep him–safe from her Urge, she refuted him anyway.

A bloody aura surrounded her, dripped from her in sinister rivulets, moving as a living thing that crawled out of the crevices of her armor. It dripped from her fingertips, it ran over her cheeks, it coursed down her neck. Every bit of it that hit the cold stones raced back to the growing pool in which Bhaal himself called to it.

Everything in Astarion raged, raged against any possibility in which she would suffer like this. But his body felt unnaturally heavy as he lurched forward, trudging against an invisible mire to reach her. “Fight, this!” Speaking was a labor, even, his throat burning at the effort. His hands hit an invisible barrier that met him and thrust him backwards hard enough that he almost lost his footing. She was cut off from him, as her body lifted off the ground and arched backwards limply, the warmth fading from her face, he couldn’t reach her. The fucking bastard had cut him off from her such that none should interfere with the inevitable. Because who the hell was Astarion to a god?

The familiar feeling of inferiority caressed his mind like an old friend. Astarion was powerless, and in his desperation, he turned a pleading, disgustingly pitiful look to their other two companions. The man couldn’t know what he looked like in that moment, but if the desolate look on their faces was any indication, it wasn’t his finest.

They could do nothing, and the other two had seemed to acknowledge that much sooner than Astarion, accepting it even. No, useless! He grit his teeth and let out a feral snarl that he had not known in what felt like an age, and turned back to the scene before them. He would try once more to reach her, to the same result as before, but somewhere he found the strength to hold himself against the barrier now that he knew it was there. A pained scream, bereft of all restraint, tore from him now. Now he found his voice? What good was it now?

She still hung suspended, hung there for a near eternity, until the blood finally stopped and her eyes glazed over. The last drop against the slick stones, and then a beat of silence. The air stilled as an unnatural quiet fell over Bhaal’s temple, and the barrier flitted out of existence at the same moment that her body dropped to the floor. Discarded.

Astarion tumbled forward and dropped gracelessly to his hands and knees in the blood. For a moment, the cooling liquid he suddenly found himself in held all his attention. Was he distracted? Or was he afraid to lift his gaze?

Afraid to look up, slowly, painfully, agonizingly to the lifeless body that laid just a few feet from him. Her chest was still, her face blank. Something brutally honest scratched at the back of his mind.

A broken sound fell from his lips and he crawled the rest of the way to her, pulling her limp form into his lap. They had fallen in battle before, this wasn’t the first time by any means. Their well-stocked spellcasters were always ready and available to turn it back. To keep death at bay.

So why, then, did Shadowheart look so ghostly pale? So lost?

“What in the hells are you waiting for? Use your spell! She’s going cold!” Astarion snapped, his red eyes blazing with a desperate fury.

The cleric flinched, and gave an imperceptible shake of her head. She looked like she was trying to wrap her own mind around something he could not see. Refused to see. “There’s…” she started, her voice cracking, “Astarion, there’s nothing there. There’s nothing to call back.”

Fear rattled through him so hard he felt it in his teeth. “What, do you mean, nothing?” He paused on every word, either trying to restrain himself from wringing her neck until she figured it out or just hold himself together at rapidly fraying seams.

“To revive someone, there has to be a soul to call to. I can’t, I can’t find it. I can’t even sense her anymore,” Shadowheart replied gravely.

Red filled his vision. “Then look harder!” he roared, his voice bouncing off the walls of the dead temple. “You bring her back, Shadowheart! You bring her back to me or this was all for nothing!” Pain cracked his otherwise terrifying visage, and though the cleric flinched at his outburst, she stood firm where she was. Stood there, as her own grief started to manifest on her face.

No, no! You do not get to mourn her, because she is not gone! His mind raged, and he looked everywhere around them, for any solution in this empty space. His gaze landed on the stone skull that had glowed with Bhaal’s presence. Where else was he to direct his fury? “You give her back, you abomination! She was never yours to take; give her back or I swear on my miserable life that I will dedicate everything in my power to making your existence hell! And you best believe I am a professional on the topic!”

Silence.

Try again. “I will hunt you down, I will raze your temples, I will ruin you! Two hundred years of misery I will rain down upon your head!” The malice, the power in his voice cracked. A choking sob betraying the facade he was haphazardly throwing together. Threatening a god? In his own temple? For her, absolutely. “You cannot have her!

His echo faded, drifting off into dark nothingness, and silence fell once more. Nothing but his ragged breaths and the quiet crying of their companions behind them. Emptiness pawed at the door of his heart, knowing the way home. Knowing where it belonged. Eager to make itself at home again as the body chilled in his arms.

Something shifted as another presence entered the space. Instinctively, Astarion whirled on his knees with a snarl, clutching her body to his chest and hunching himself over her.

“Thou hast defied Bhaal, thy liege and father, and in doing so hast earned a place among champions and heroes,” the creeping, ancient voice filled the temple, as none other than their ghostly companion, Withers, strode over to them, as though he had been there from the beginning. “But alas, thy courage was in opposition to the divine cosmology that bound thee to the Lord of Murder. Thou art now faithless, godless, and doomed to wander the Fugue Plane for eternity.”

Another snarl rumbled in Astarion’s chest, lacking the power it had before. “If you have come to just prattle on your cryptic, dusty monologues you will learn very quickly how much restraint I’ve shown to your presence thus far, ghoul.”

Withers ignored the seething vampire entirely. All of his attention was on the body that lolled in Astarion’s grip. He prowled around them in a wide circle, assessing he tiefling. “I will not permit that,” he started again, and the vampire tensed thinking that it was a response, “though all the powers of life and death dictate that it should be so.”

Astarion deflated then, his grip loosening ever so slightly. …What?

Withers stopped then, close, and raised his hand. “I, too, still hold some power, and I invest a portion of it in thee, who hath challenged the gods and now liveth to tell of it,” Something ancient and overwhelming crept into the room now, creeping along the stones like a morning fog. Cool and gentle. “Thy fight is not over, and it is thy fight, for one who can look upon Bhaal and oppose him can survive any crisis,” he clenched his hand into a fist and raised it as an old, powerful magic surrounded it. “So rise, Challenger of Gods, and prepare for battle once more. Death will not claim thee whilst I endure.”

Tav’s body lurched nearly out of Astarion’s hold, surrounded by the glow of Withers’ revival, arching backwards as the power coursed through her. Then, her eyes snapped open, and the most beautiful sound of a gasping breath echoed through Astarion, perhaps echoing through the entirety of Bhaal’s empty temple. The cold desolation in his chest melted all at once, and as she fought for air, his free hand cupped the side of her face and turned her wild eyes to his. “Breathe love, calmly, you’re alright. You’re safe,” he nearly whispered to her, his soul reaching for hers to soothe it into the quiet joy of being alive. It was comical, him trying to calm her when he himself was an absolute whiplashed wreck. But, she was alive.

She was alive.

He would repeat that to himself as many times as was necessary. A daily prayer, to the singular being in this terrible world he believed in.

Tav’s disoriented gaze found him at last, taking several slow blinks to clear away the delirium. “I was,” she croaked, feeling the world swim at just trying to articulate that much.

“Shh, you’re not, and that’s all that matters,” Astarion placed a shaky kiss into her damp hair, feeling her warmth returning to her. Everyone else around them, including the ghostly savior standing there looking like he likely had something important to say, all but disappeared. That could all wait. Here, now, this moment as long as he could greedily drink from it, she was with him. She was alive. “You won’t,” swallow, “leave me that easily.” The waver in his voice betrayed just how much he was afraid to believe that, how he didn’t just a few agonizing minutes ago. The possibility that he would have to live another thousand years knowing this was how it ended was enough to nearly cripple him.

As she curled a weak arm around his bowed neck, pulling as though she could somehow get closer, she seemed to answer his reeling thoughts. “I’m here. Don’t you dare let go.”

#bg3 #astarion/tav #astarion fic #one shot #astarion #listen this scene made me so angry i couldnt not rewrite it. have some angst.#astarion/durge

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galemancer · 1 year ago

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the dekarios folly

MAJOR BALDUR'S GATE 3 END GAME SPOILERS.

[ short monologue. — first person from gale's pov. — past and present tensing. — angst.]

In the pursuit of greatness, he lost who he was.

Godhood... is lonely.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50362192

---——-

Victory isn’t the first word that comes to mind at the mention of Baldur’s Gate.

We defeated the Netherbrain, but somehow victory is not the word I associate with it. There is no happiness, only temporary respite. There is no celebration. There is only defeat, because those memories are plagued by the loss of you.

I thought that you would be proud of me.

I thought that claiming this crown would prove worthy enough, man or god alike.

And yet, it seems I have fallen short...

Was I to forgo the opportunity to ascend to greatness? While I stand on the precipice of power, relinquish it? The gods refused to aid us no matter how often we cried, prayed, begged. A mortal with the power of a god to help mortal kind… I could have prevented the pain the Absolute wrought while the gods cowered.

‘Your hubris was your downfall once, Gale.’

Your voice resonates clearly despite all these years past, laden with hurt and fear. I can still see your face, stark as you attempted to keep me grounded. I couldn’t accept your inability to see the potential for good, and I wasn’t to be held back any longer.

I left you distraught, stunned on the docks as I departed. I remember the crease in your brow and the hurt in your eyes, the sparkle I’d fallen so deeply in love with dwindling. I remember my heart pulled back by your pleas, and I almost acquiesced. The restraint of your grip on my hand as I pulled away, silently begging me not to go.

But you let me.

And by the gods, I wish you hadn’t.

For some time after, I sought you in your adventures along the Sword Coast, Tara in tow. “Mr. Dekarios, is that you?” She’d call out, ears perked up in anticipation, saddened eyes turned hopeful as they followed the trails of my magic. She wished to talk to me, to scold me likely, and deservedly so.

In my absence she’d found a new companion, and there was no choice better than you. You were good for each other — two kind hearts to look after each other amidst the aftermath of it all.

She brought you to Waterdeep where you spent time with my mother. I could feel the hesitation in your voice as you spoke upon meeting her, the too familiar features sending you back to the dock. You told Morena the tragedy of her son whose hubris consumed him, under the guise of an ambitious wizard reaching his full potential. Even in my most grave mistakes you spoke of the good you saw in me.

I visited you in dreams, visions, every possible sign besides the blatant, and they remained unanswered. Could you see the glimmer of magic calling out to you by name? Was my existence in your life as this divine being one you wished to reject?

In your deafening silence, I found time to reflect on every decision leading here. The prodigal Wizard of Waterdeep spurned by Mystra herself. He who managed to piece together the Karsus Crown and in turn control the Karsite Weave, at the cost of losing the only real love he’s ever known.

It is sure enough to say that the realization of my own folly proved devastating.

Now every waking moment, I wait patiently for you to summon me, call me out by name so that I may appear in front of you. Waiting in an endless timescape is excruciatingly painful, and yet I continue to subject myself to its punishment. I remain hopeful that some day you would willingly be by my side again as my Chosen, and better yet, lover.

It’s... quiet without you. The pain of your noticeable absence never fails to astound me, and wracks my heart with immeasurable regret. I miss you quite terribly, and yet there is no one else to fault besides myself. Of all the things learnt in our time together, of all the things conquered… the only thing I failed to overcome was my own pride.

And now I’ve damned myself to an eternity without you.

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #baldur’s gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #angst #the dekarios folly #my writing #sorry i lied about my contribution

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aphicelend · 5 months ago

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Misaki Shirayama

26 y.o | 1.52 cm | Japanese | April 4th | Aries

(APH) Human | City Ver. | Colorful AU | BOX AU

Tags: #Art/HC tag | #Posts related to her | #MisAme

Wanted to do a profile for her here 💦 Misaki has been one of my fave oc's since 2012 and i'm having fun drawing her a lot again, and I love to put her in my other oc's stories 💃 so here's info of her hetalia AU(?

i wrote everything in spanish and im lazy to translate it properly so, google translator yay

| Personality

Misaki is a young woman with a fiery personality, she has little patience for stupidity. She is a hard worker, and likes to put effort into what she likes. She is also stubborn when it comes to opinions if it is not her way she will not do it, she tends to violence when someone bothers her. Her pride is something precious to her.

Despite this, when she gets upset she needs her time to calm down and then apologize. Even so, Misaki is a girl who cares about others, her way of showing her appreciation is through actions, especially cooking.

Socially inept, having lived surrounded by “nations” Misaki behaves awkwardly with other humans, for some reason she always feels distant and finds it difficult to understand them.

Having grown up with nations, Misaki did not develop “parental affection” or someone to consult her problems with, because she considered that Japan would not fully understand her.

He usually feels a constant feeling of loneliness, his heart is a hard shell that makes it difficult for him to let in emotions like love.

| BACKGROUND (Hetalia AU)

Strip about her background

In this AU, Misaki was raised by Japan who took care over her as she was abandonated. Her childhood was kinda chaotic, surrounded by nations of course she didn't grow like other kids, she felt distanced.

Japan tried his best to give her a normal life, of course he wasn't used to raise a kid. Misaki always wondered why did he took her? He felt lonely? She would never know.

She always had a sense of loneliness, a feeling of she doesn't belong where she is. Mother? Father? What's that, she only had "weird uncles"

Misaki was very problematic at school, her classmates teased her a lot and she answered back with violence.

Through her adolescence, she kinda developed a crush on Yao, and she was rejected, of course, the man only saw her as a little sister.

More about it here.

Time heals, she tried to moved on. On Uni, she meet a guy named Kazuo, they clicked and became a couple, Misaki thought that finally had someone who cared for her deeply, but no. The guy cheated on her. That was the point that made her close herself.

-> She lives alone in an old traditional house that Japan left for her, she works as botanic in a national park in Kyoto.

| Interests and facts

She LOVES gardering and plants. She has a traditional garden on her house and it's her first priority.

She's very good at cooking, Japan and China taught her very well.

Also Romano as shared with her some italian recipes so she could "learn something good"

Her way to show love is giving you food.

Her dream is to open her own restaurant.

One of her interests are kimonos, she likes to make her own

Favorite station is autumn, she loves when trees go orange.

Loves cats, and bunnies, loves cute things.

She likes minimalist clothing, plain clothes or stripped patterns

Her face may look annoyed but she's kind, and gets along better with girls.

She has been mistaken for a minor

Does she feel something for Alfred?? who knows.

She's just afraid to someone break into her heart and get too attatched.

| RELATIONSHIPS

I made this chart

| Music

Mostly vocaloid because i'm a weeb

Balsam / Misaki - About her loneliness

The Beast / Misaki - Her fear to open her heart

I'm glad you're evil too / Misaki - Her wish to find someone

Girl Pilot / MisAme - Their dynamic, Alfred trying to reach her but he can't

I can't stop the loneliness / Misaki - the song says it all lol, maybe her fear that its too late?

Hammer Song And The Tower Of Pain / Misaki - Pushing everyone away it's the best

MAD HEAD LOVE / MisAme - Their dynamic, they're idiots.

----

If you got this far here's some old misaki drawings, old hetalia? ocs? she used to have friends and now she's DEPRESSED.

2012 | 2014

#karuocs #karuocs misaki #hetalia #aph oc #hetalia oc #oc x canon #karudibu

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bl-beater · 12 days ago

Note

Hihi! I was thinking about my own OC’s backstory in the JJK lore and I was wondering how Ryuu fits in! What’s his opinion of the Inumaki clan and how does he get along with other sorcerers? :0

Hello!

Deemed too dangerous to abandon yet unworthy of belonging, the clan cast him off to Jujutsu High.

When Ryuu graduated, he joined Nanami who was currently working as Salesman. Ryuu didn't leave the sorcerer live behind and worked as an independent sorcerer. Until they both came back to Jujutsu High in 2014.

---

He resents the Inumaki clan, seeing them as hypocrites who only acknowledged him when they needed his power. Treated as both a stain on their legacy and a tool they couldn’t discard. He has no loyalty to their traditions or pride, if the clan fell, he wouldn’t mourn it. To him, family is about bonds, not blood, and the Inumakis severed that connection long ago.

---

Geto: Ryuu and Geto share a quiet understanding, but Ryuu rejects Geto’s growing extremism. Their bond frays over time, with Ryuu refusing to follow his path.

Shoko: They get along effortlessly, bonding over sarcasm and cigarettes. Shoko never pries, and Ryuu appreciates her laid-back nature.

Gojo: Initially annoyed by Gojo’s loud personality, Ryuu eventually warms up to his persistence. Despite his complaints, he values Gojo’s unwavering confidence and friendship.

Haibara: Ryuu admires Yu’s optimism but finds it naive, fearing it will lead to heartbreak. Still, Yu’s kindness wears him down.

Nanami: Their bond starts with mutual respect, slowly deepening into love. Nanami’s stability gives Ryuu the sense of belonging he never had, while Ryuu helps Nanami loosen up.

#beater answers #anime-protag-wannabe #Ryuu inumaki

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jedimaesteryoda · 2 years ago

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Victarion had been sent by Euron to retrieve Daenerys to be his bride, but Victarion has other plans: he intends to marry Daenerys himself and become king not just of the Iron Isles but all of Westeros. Having spent his entire life being the follower serving others from his father to his brothers, and having failed to win the kingsmoot, he now takes the opportunity to become the leader.

"Where else? The dragon queen awaits me in Meereen." The fairest woman in the world if my brother could be believed. Her hair is silver-gold, her eyes are amethysts.

-ADWD, The Iron Suitor

On wings of song I fly to you, Daenerys, the iron captain thought.

-ADWD, Victarion I

The way Victarion thinks of Daenerys is notably similar to another Westerosi suitor, Quentyn. Quentyn saw himself by his own admission as on “a grand adventure . . . Demon roads and stormy seas, and at the end of it the most beautiful woman in the world. A tale to tell our grandchildren” only for his plan to marry her fall flat. Victarion likewise was sent to retrieve her by his sovereign, and thinks of her as a reward at the end of his long quest.

It’s seen further in his thoughts on her.

But I shall make the dragon queen mine own. She will share my bed and bear me many mighty sons."

-ADWD, The Iron Suitor

And Euron had not made Victarion a gift of her; the Crow's Eye meant to take her for himself. He sends me like a serving man to fetch her. How he will howl when I claim her for myself. Let the men mutter. They had sailed too far and lost too much for Victarion to turn west without his prize.

-ADWD, Vication I

The way he refers to her as “gift” and “prize” shows how before he even meets her, he’s objectifying her. He projects his fantasies onto her as some prize or damsel in distress wanting a big, strong man to come get her to become his trad wife who gives him sons, and just goes along with what he wants without even wondering what she might want.

He’s missing some clear indicators about the abilities and person of the girl he means to marry that are pointed out by Tyrion:

"I know that she spent her childhood in exile, impoverished, living on dreams and schemes, running from one city to the next, always fearful, never safe, friendless but for a brother who was by all accounts half-mad … a brother who sold her maidenhood to the Dothraki for the promise of an army. I know that somewhere out upon the grass her dragons hatched, and so did she. I know she is proud. How not? What else was left her but pride? I know she is strong. How not? The Dothraki despise weakness. If Daenerys had been weak, she would have perished with Viserys. I know she is fierce. Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen are proof enough of that. She has crossed the grasslands and the red waste, survived assassins and conspiracies and fell sorceries, grieved for a brother and a husband and a son, trod the cities of the slavers to dust beneath her dainty sandaled feet.”

While the submissive Vicarion was handed the Iron Fleet, Daenerys built nearly everything from the ground up. Daenerys didn’t get her dragons, her army or her city by being meek and submissive, but has shown herself to be strong, smart and resourceful and capable.

Victarion will find to his dismay when he finally meets her that Daenerys isn’t some meek, submissive damsel but someone just like his niece Asha who is a strong, proud leader (and smarter than him) not willing to subordinate her goals and ambitions to his.

He had seen the wench wed too, but what of it? She would not be the first woman Victarion Greyjoy had made a widow.

-ADWD, The Iron Suitor

But then where does he go from there? The dumb brute’s ideology is constrained by the Old Way which taught him nothing about diplomacy. What happens if she rejects his offer of marriage? Victarion likely will not give up after having come so far, and when in doubt, he would consult the Old Way or ask what Euron might do.

The Old Way taught him to take things by force, including people. Victarion has taken salt wives before, and he was even willing to kill Dany’s husband Hizdahr just so he could marry her without even taking into account her reaction to such an act, showing a clear lack of regard for her consent. I think should Daenerys make it clear that she won’t marry him freely, it would result in him trying to marry her by force.

"In the Seven Kingdoms, there are tales of dragons who grew so huge that they could pluck giant krakens from the seas.”

That, of course, won’t end well for him. While “at sea the kraken rules supreme,” in the Dothraki Sea, the dragon reigns supreme. His attempts at courting Daenerys will likely end the same way Quentyn’s did as the dragon Daenerys named in the spirit of the husband who protected her, Drogon, will likely deal with this troublesome suitor.

The deeply misogynistic Victarion who abducted women as salt wives and beat them to death for being raped by his brother, dies at the hands of a woman he tries to take by force. Daenerys herself ends up taking his Iron Fleet after having paid the Iron Price of Victarion.

Thus is the fate of any Greyjoy who strives for a crown.

#asoiaf #victarion greyjoy #queen daenerys #daenerys #quentyn martell #house greyjoy #house targaryen #drogon #daenerys targaryen #dothraki

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snappydragon14 · 5 months ago

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Part One

Next page~

Previous chapter~

Mictlan stared at Soar, his mind a turbulent sea of questions he didn't want to face. But they pressed against him, refusing to be ignored. His voice, when he finally spoke, was rough, as if the words were dragged out of him against his will.

"Why?" he asked, his tone sharp, almost accusatory. "Why do you stay? You should have ran when you first met me. Any sane being would have fled. So why didn't you?"

Soar's eyes softened, but she didn't flinch under his gaze. She knew this was coming; she had felt the tension in him, the questions boiling beneath the surface. Her hands remained on his shoulders, grounding him, even as she prepared to give him an answer he might not want to hear.

"Because I see something in you, Mictlan," she replied, her voice steady but gentle. "Something beyond the rage, beyond the war. I see someone who's been fighting for so long that he's forgotten why he started. Someone who's lost in a battle with himself."

Mictlan's jaw tightened. He didn't want to hear this. He wanted her to say something he could easily dismiss, something that would let him shove her away, along with the vulnerability that her words were stirring in him. "You don't know me," he snapped. "You can't possibly understand."

"Maybe not completely," Soar conceded, her voice unyielding but compassionate. "But I understand enough to see that you're more than the god of war you've made yourself out to be. You don't have to be defined by the battles you fight, Mictlan. There's more to you than just the destruction you cause."

Her words struck something deep within him, a place he had buried long ago under layers of anger and pride. His fists clenched as he tried to fight against the emotions rising within him, emotions he didn't want to acknowledge. "You think you know what I am? I am war. I am battle. I don't need your pity or your understanding."

"I'm not offering pity," Soar said firmly. "And I'm not claiming to know everything about you. But I see someone who's hurting, someone who's trapped in a cycle they can't break out of. And I'm not going to turn my back on you just because you're scared to face that."

"Scared?" Mictlan's voice was a low growl, his pride bristling at the word. "I fear nothing. Least of all you."

Mictlan felt his breath hitch again, the anger inside him colliding with a deeper, more painful truth. He didn't want to admit it, but her words cut through his defenses, exposing the cracks in the armor he had worn for so long. "Why does it matter to you?" he asked, his voice rough with frustration and confusion. "Why do you care what happens to me?"

Soar's expression softened further, and she took a small step closer, her voice lowering to a near whisper. "Because I've been where you are, Mictlan. Lost, angry, drowning in my own pain. I know what it's like to feel like you have to fight alone, to push everyone away because you think you don't deserve their help. But I also know what it's like to have someone reach out, to remind you that you don't have to go through it alone."

Her words struck a chord within Mictlan, a chord he didn't want to acknowledge but couldn't ignore. He stared at her, his mind a battlefield of conflicting emotions. Part of him wanted to lash out, to reject her words and the vulnerability they demanded from him. But another part, a part that had been buried deep beneath his anger and pride, wanted to reach out-to take the hand she was offering and let himself believe that he wasn't as alone as he had always thought.

But could he really do that? Could he let down the walls he had built so high and allow someone to see the parts of him he had hidden away for so long?

"I don't need your help," he said, but the words lacked the force they had held before. There was doubt now, uncertainty that he couldn't quite shake.

"Maybe not," Soar replied softly. "But that doesn't mean you don't deserve it."

Mictlan's gaze dropped to the ground, his mind a storm of thoughts and emotions he couldn't control. He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to respond to the compassion in her voice, the sincerity in her eyes. For the first time in centuries, he felt lost-truly lost-and the only thing anchoring him was the presence of this fallen angel who refused to leave his side.

Slowly, he looked back up at her, searching her mask for any sign of deceit, any indication that this was some kind of trick. But all he saw was a steady, unwavering determination-a determination to help him, no matter how much he tried to push her away.

his voice barely more than a whisper. "Why do you even bother?"

Soar's expression softened into something almost tender, and she gently squeezed his shoulders, offering him the only answer she could. "Because everyone deserves a chance to be more than what they've been told they have to be. Even you, Mictlan."

Mictlan stared at Soar, the weight of her words pressing down on him. For so long, he had believed that his path was set, that his identity was fixed in stone-he was the God of War, the bringer of destruction. That was his purpose, his destiny. But now, with Soar standing before him, unflinching in her conviction, he felt something stir within him, something he hadn't felt in ages: doubt.

He clenched his fists, his body tense as if he were preparing for battle. But this battle wasn't with Soar-it was with himself. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken emotions, until Mictlan turned away from her, his eyes scanning the room as if searching for an escape from the storm of emotions building inside him. He didn't want to believe her-didn't want to believe that he was capable of anything more than the endless cycle of violence he had known for so long. But her words echoed in his mind, refusing to be silenced.

"I'm not like you," he muttered, his voice thick with frustration. "I don't possess the very strength you have..."

Soar's eye's widened slightly, "You think I'm strong? Mictlan, I've fallen more times than I can count. I've been broken, shattered into pieces I never thought I could put back together. But here I am, standing before you. Not because I'm strong, but because I chose to get back up. Strength isn't about never falling-it's about rising after every fall."

Mictlan's chest tightened as her words struck deeper than he wanted them to. Rising after every fall. Could he really do that? Could he rise from the ashes of the destruction he had caused, from the ruins of the battles he had fought?

He glanced back at Soar, his eyes narrowing. "And what if I don't want to rise? What if I've fallen too far?"

Soar took a step closer, her wings folding behind her as she reached out, gently placing a hand over his heart. "Then let me help you. You don't have to do it all yourself."

Mictlan flinched at her touch, his instinct to pull away warring with a deeper, more desperate need to hold on to the connection she was offering. He had never known this kind of compassion, this kind of understanding. It terrified him. But it also called to something inside him that he had long thought dead.

The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Mictlan felt something break inside him, something he had been holding onto for centuries-an armor forged from pain, anger, and pride. And as it shattered, he felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he hadn't been in eons.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Mictlan didn't push the vulnerability away. He didn't run from it, didn't hide behind his walls. Instead, he let himself feel it, let himself stand in the raw, painful truth of his own brokenness.

And in that moment, he realized that maybe, just maybe....-

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Mictlan looked back at Soar, his eyes reflecting the storm of emotions raging inside him. He didn't have the words to express what he was feeling-he wasn't even sure he understood it himself. But as he sat there, staring into the eyes of the one being who refused to give up and run from him, he knew one thing for certain:

He wasn't ready to give up either.

#maya and the three #lord mictlan #'pathetic' attachment

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flower-cage · 2 years ago

Text

The Wolf and The Dragon | Chapter Five

by @flower-cage

Once again beta'd by the wonderful @em-writes-stuff-sometimes

Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader

Summary: The war between the Greens and the Blacks has begun and the youngest of the Stark heirs is sent on a secret mission to King's Landing. In its course, she will learn to accept the power that was never meant to be hers and the love she never thought she deserved.

Chapter Five: Dragonstone

Chapter summary: Together with the Prince and Ser Criston, in the aftermath of your vile actions, you undertake the final steps in your perilous mission.

Words: 6,157

Warnings: 18+ only; sexually suggestive content, violence, gore, mentions of blood, cursing.

Although this chapter does not contain explicit smut, later chapters will. Minors do not interact.

Your thumbs twist along one another, your leg bounces when you are seated, your digits tap any and all surfaces they can reach. That is how you await an order of execution to come knocking at your chamber’s door - but it never comes. You tense in the short moments the Queen Mother crosses your path in the corridors, awaiting her scolding, her disapproval, but it too never comes. You await snide comments reminding you of your lack of composure, your absolute discourtesy. You await Ser Criston’s animosity and the Lord Hand’s snubbing. You await even the stroke of lethal metal in the hour of the owl.

But none of it ever comes.

As though your deleterious thoughts insistently pursue you through the winding passages of the Red Keep, you walk with a fast gait and a posture inflexible, ears finely attuned to the voices which echo off the thick walls. You hope that your uncongenial disposition will scare away unwanted attention, for you wish not to discover what sentiments the nobility harbors for your terrible acts of incivility. Even when you shudder at the sight of a member of the court, however, it is your shame, not the consequences you expect to suffer, that devours you from within.

“And what the fuck have you just done?”

His words loop in your mind freely, trampling over any other thoughts and manifesting the same ice-cold repugnance that had consumed you at their original declaration. A foul sensation pierces your gut and suffocates you in self-disgust time after time. In all their unfounded malice, his words hold still one accursed truth: you had submitted to the behavior you so passionately condemn, to his infantile eruptions of bad temperament. A pitiful victim to your damaged ego, courtesy of his adamant rejections, you had surrendered to unruly vitriol and inadvertently confirmed his assumptions of treason and ineptitude.

“And when that threatens to fail, you lash out like a child.”

Your own words, spoken in moments of furious passion and etched with spiteful judgment, now mock you seven-fold. If he were a child, what were you?

This enclave of fear against shame that rages within you pitches also cowardice against bravery. In bursts of courage, you find yourself outside his door, in the dead of the night when the dark shields your insecurities from unfriendly eyes, and after hours of peaceful solitude have granted you empowerment. Every time, your fist is the first to rise to the challenge, inches from the dark wood, only to fall back to your side when your heart catches up with your mind and you become frozen with trepidation - or is it shame?

And so, when your head hits your pillows, the brave has already given way to the coward, and your wish for closure and repentance has once more given in to your fragilized pride. When the sun rises each following morrow, it takes you into steering clear of his path, for the light of day too cruelly exposes your humiliation.

You do not see him again on the days that succeed your return from the Neck. You had neither shared words on the flight back, nor when you presented yourselves to the Queen Mother upon arrival. The War Council had not been summoned since your departure, each Lord having now been sent back to their own House seats to set forth preparations for war. Reserved for you is the tormenting task of waiting. Though you try keeping busy with visiting the Grand Maester, looking to be of aid, he quickly becomes exasperated with your insistences and most diplomatically dismisses you.

“I thank you for your dutifulness, my Lady,” he had smiled sympathetically, pushing you gently towards the exit of his study, “I will see you in a few days' time when all of this greenery has turned dust.”

To no avail, you search for books, instruments, arms, anything you could disguise as a critical element for your journey to the ancient island-seat of the House of the Dragon. In the end, it serves to prove only that, no matter your efforts, your mind - insistent in assigning him such high priority - is repeatedly envenomed by the infuriating Prince Aemond. Such are the lengths you take to deviate from his path that it is only at the stables at dusk on the seventh day that you are finally in his presence.

You secure your cloak around your neck, your bow to your back, and your travel bag to the back of your stallion. Ser Criston revises the steps the three of you have diligently delineated and, though it helps mute your far more injurious thoughts, it does not cease them - not when the royal root of your distress stands present.

Reserved as usual, the Prince graces the knight with no more than nods and hums of pure courtesy. He does not look at you, as half the times you have been in his company. And yet, when you envision his commonly fervent looks, you shudder. There was never a balance, a common ground - whether violent or awed, he had only ever cast you ardent gazes. Either he did not look at you, or he attempted to set your soul aflame.

Every part of you tenses in his company, despite his ordinary demeanor. As a measure to remain calm, you focus fiercely on Ser Criston, only to inadvertently heed naught but your own desperate reprimands to cease all thoughts about Prince Aemond.

“I advise we refrain from using our titles,” you hear, managing to catch the last of his directives. “We cannot be too careful.”

Too soon, however, the knight leaves you to retrieve the dragon poison the maesters have concocted, the weapon which will dictate your victory if effective. His back retreats slowly into the receding light and your eyes remain glued to it as much as they are able. Though the Prince refuses still to regard you, you cannot bring yourself to watch anything else now that your chief distraction has abandoned you. How could you not, when he has incessantly haunted your dreams and your musings?

He looks rightfully in place next to his stallion - both graceful, robust forces, one’s white mane complementing the other’s. As he secures his own in his usual method, your imagination paints the picture of his cloak hood forced back by the wind, silver hair flowing wildly like his horse’s, catching moonlight and stealing your breaths.

Whether it is the strenuous passage of time, or the weighty silence, or your flesh, exhausted from the burning and cooling of your greatly fluctuating emotions; whether it is the coward seeking to pretend amiability or the brave wishing to make peace; something compels you to release all your discomfiture. You choose to accept it, whatever it truly is, for it promises to liberate you from your self-inflicted torment. And you take the opportunity in this raw, perhaps momentary freedom to test the waters and evoke the tenderness of which you knew him capable.

“My Prince?” you try. To your surprise, he turns to face you fully, readily. “If I may-”

“My name,” he commands. “You ought to familiarize yourself with it.”

Not unlike most of your exchanges, his eye seeks to hold you, penetrate you, burn through your dignity to force your submission. Even in your resignation, it is against your nature to allow it, to surrender.

“If I may, pl-”

“Say it,” he orders.

In your hesitation, he steps closer - always seeking to subjugate you with his towering presence, always to no avail when you are engulfed by his sharp and sweet scent of sandalwood. With no allowance on your part, your nose draws in more of the air between you, made warm with his proximity and satiating an innate obsession you knew not. His fragrance has become intimately familiar and too quickly synonymous with passion, though you remain ignorant of how this came to pass. It makes your flesh thrum - his scent, his warmth, and perhaps the effort with which you refrain from reaching for him and ceasing the final distance between you.

The thought, the pull, invades you with such abruption you whip your head back in utter scandalization. With eyes wide, mouth parted ghastly, you look at him finally to meet his leering countenance.

“Say it,” he presses still, so remarkably close, voice luring you into obedience.

“Aemond,” you manage a whisper.

The shape of his name on your lips captures his attention, darkening his eye, and his evident appetence goads him yet closer. The width of a single, fine hair is all that separates you, but his energy is so palpable you feel him flush against you. Emboldened by your influence, encouraged by your undeniable cravings, your wayward fingers reach around his shoulders to pull on the bindings that secure his silver hair. A low grunt like a thunderous purr rumbles out of him.

“Your Valyrian hair might denounce us-” you gasp when his hands take your waist. “If I may, please… Aemond.”

The parting of his lips evinces the effect you intended to have when your grip tightens on his strands. He tilts his head further down as you resume your indecent ministrations. Expert and swift is your work, made easier by the lushness of his hair even as your eyes veer to remain locked in his.

It is unclear whether each pull brings your faces yet closer, inch by inch, or if it is you who leans, but soon the intimacy is such that your eyelids become heavy, guiding your sight toward the pink flesh that glistens just out of reach of taste.

“Why do I remain standing?” The question tumbles out in a whisper, unprecedented; your mind incongruous with your heart. You nearly berate yourself for the disruption, though he softly smirks and incites you to elaborate. “Why haven’t I been denounced for my behavior?”

His humming fills your ears to the brim, tingling with its low vibrations and more finely attuning you to him. Even from behind half-shut lids, he contemplates your question, hiding its answer just behind the soft glinting of his eye and stowing it between his lips. A hand lets go of its grip on your body to brush the side of your neck. His calloused digits turn your skin rough in goosebumps as they journey upward, and he breaks away from your gaze to appreciate the pattern he leaves behind. Your chest burns with the toil of constraining your gulps of air, the unbridled beatings of your heart, the anticipation of his every move. Every second is addictive in its raw, ardent adrenaline until his fingers lodge against the curve of your jaw, where days prior they had touched with brutality.

As though he shares your thoughts, his own jaw sets into a stern place you know too well. In the blink of an eye, his face falls back into disregard, and the dizzying spell of attraction is broken. You think he traps something there too, in the taut clench of his teeth, perhaps something he had nearly set free.

“Aemond,” you whisper as he retreats, as your arms fall limply from his shoulders, but the word no longer holds the same effect.

Your every muscle aches when you finally come to a stop. Every inch of skin is covered in a viscous layer of sweat. It gathers on the edges of your brows, at the tip of the fine hairs framing your face. Its droplets roll down your neck, making the path they touch both tacky and ticklish. Your legs more than any other part of you sting from having clung to your horse so firmly. The beast itself huffs violently and you pat its neck, appreciative of its tremendous efforts. Had there been a faster, more furtive way, you would have willingly spared it. When your feet hit the ground, your knees almost give in to fatigue but Shadow’s firm bearing saves you from a disgraceful fall. She too pants loudly in her exertion, though she is quick to vanish between the trees, to no doubt chase after supper.

Indeed, the hour of the wolf merely threatens departure, the sunlight still a couple of hours away from washing over a starless night sky, the crisp, dewy air burning still from throat to chest. In these last moments of darkness, your small company seeks refuge in the woods just off Duskendale, at the exact midpoint of your perilous journey. In a clearing dwarfed by shrubbery, you build a small fire, and you soon sit about it, having fed and refreshed the horses, to share a quiet meal.

Shadow returns to join you, eventually, with a disfigured, unrecognizable creature pierced by her teeth. She settles across from you, on the other side of the fire, and too close to Criston for his liking. He shuffles farther as she proceeds to devour its flesh, blood splattering as organs are brutally yanked from the carcass. He regards his dry jerky mistrustfully, utterly repulsed, and you chuckle when he drops it back into his bag, defeated.

“Anyone else in your family have one?” he tilts his head toward her, untroubled by your amusement.

“Only I,” you tell him. “My father meant for her to be Cregan’s at the time.” You look at your direwolf, ever present, ever faithful, and cannot fathom carrying out this mission without her. More than your protector, she has become your strength, your friend, your home. “But she chose me instead.”

He hums exaggeratedly, knowingly, and raises his brows in a pretense of great surprise.

“I’ve heard a similar tale before,” he over–enunciates, looking unblinkingly at Prince Aemond as if the very emphasis of his gaze would erupt a response.

You follow his train of sight, but the man beside you gapes into the flames with his only eye - the one which remained after his own beast had chosen him. In the dark, they lick his skin rapidly, contouring his acute angles in blood-red hues. His iris glints like a ruby as it reflects the crimson glow and his blushing lips turn ruddy under the blazing lights. And though it paints him truly beautiful, ethereal even, it is a thought you entertain only absentmindedly. Rather, free of any sense of decency, you revisit the images of those lips as they had appeared mere inches from yours. In your mind’s eye, you see every curve and incline, every shade of pink, every fine hair and fading sun freckle.

“Can’t imagine your brother was any pleased about that,” the knight addresses you before you get trapped in a trance. He smiles like he understands precisely what had transpired between the Stark siblings nearly fifteen years in the past - like he had priorly watched the severance of familial bond. “I’m sure it’s been isolating.”

He regards the Prince still, and you understand clearly that he does not, indeed, speak of you. This time, the latter meets his mischievous brown eyes in stern warning.

Cregan had been twice your age the day your direwolf became yours. She was not yet fully grown when she walked out of the Wolfwoods in the company of your father, but in all the majesty of her raven fur and sapphire eyes, she was the amazement of all who had the privilege to lay eyes on her. And yet, all that had been beautiful turned terrifying when your brother approached, and she bared her menacing teeth.

Dark and broad and scruff like a true Stark he was already. Proudly he strode toward her as a king strides to his throne, as if that pinnacle of power had always been his to claim. In your brazen innocence, you swung yourself between them when your father’s fist clenched on his sword. But Shadow did not retaliate against the sudden move. From that day onward your friendship only grew, whereas the bond with your brother never bloomed.

“Not close to your siblings, huh?” Criston’s question is so attuned to your thoughts, for a heartbeat you believe to have vocalized them.

How could you have been? Your sisters had been betrothed and dispatched to be raised by their future families by the time you learned to read. Cregan never forgot the loss of Shadow to you, and your father never bothered to correct his remoteness.

“I have a good relationship with my brother Rickard,” you tell him instead, “despite our age difference.”

Always a diplomat - the Stark brother with the auburn-colored curls and the soft smile - he had slowly though surely assumed the role of the older brother as you grew into your maiden years. If Cregan is known to don the outward, boisterous charisma inherent in a great leader, Rickard possesses the quiet confidence of a mentor, one you cherish greatly.

Ser Criston is the first to drift off after you offer to keep the first watch. He does not show further interest in your upbringing, and you, in your turn, prefer the company of the crackling logs as they char beside you. Evidently, Aemond preserves his quietness, also watching wistfully as ambers leap out of the flames.

There is a mystifying quality to the dark, specifically that which lingers late at night before the break of day. Inexplicably, it promises salvation; it promises protection. It erases your anguish and warrants your vulnerability as it seduces you with the prospect of forgiveness. And thus once more you find yourself yearning for repentance because the night veils your insecurities.

As you often do - as you can never refrain from doing - you watch him. For perhaps the first time you think you see him for all that he is; not a Prince of the Realm, or Aemond One-Eye, the Kinslayer, a second son, a dragon rider, but a man both whole and fragmented. You wonder if the night permits also the naked truths of the world, for under your eyes he has never looked so mundane, so grounded and connected to the physical realm in which you all dwell. There is no pretense of superiority where he simply sits in silence, no violent anger you hear belongs to the blood of the dragon, only a man who gets distracted by the alluring movements of the fire, who tires, who feels. Though to you his beauty and his essence will always be innately empyreal, he has revealed to you in short-lived moments of tenderness that his heart does remain human.

“Aemond,” you breathe, you choose the brave to speak. When he looks at you his eye is quick to soften, and you suspect it is the glittering of your own which elicits so. “I wish to apologize,” you gulp, “for my behavior… of earlier.”

Your clumsiness of speech evinces the burden of your humiliation, but each uttering that is unaccompanied by harsh retaliation frees you of whatever weighs on your heart, compelling you to continue.

“It was most unbecoming of me to defy and- and harass you, my liege Prince. And I greatly regret it.”

He does not grant you a reply, allowing you with his compassionate regard the floor so you may confess in this single moment of defenselessness all that you have previously inhibited.

“But I beg you,” your voice trembles, you grasp his hand where it rests on his bent knee, clutching his fingers as if that might urge him to comply, “to accept me not as your enemy, not as someone who aspires to usurp you of your station or your commendations,” you sniffle, containing your tears as you hold his unwavering, penetrating look, “but as a friend.”

He exhales, then, breaking from your insistent eyes and staring instead at your joined hands as though he cannot bear being the target of anything other than your spite.

“You might realize we have more in common than it seems,” you whisper, leaning in to recapture his attention, “and that’s a good thing.”

His eye meets yours briefly, and he turns his palm in your hold to take your trembling fingers. When his thumb strokes over your knuckles, your breath hitches.

“Why do you insist on my approval?” he murmurs gently.

It takes you off guard, his question, but most jarring is the softness he chooses to maintain. He does not mock your offering of peace, does not take the chance to humiliate you further as you debase yourself. And you find you lack an answer despite the parting of your lips.

“Very well,” he acquiesces, sighing resolutely. “I shall grant you pardon.”

He rises before you can properly express your gratitude, and pulls on your joined hands so that you follow him.

“But only,” there is a glint in his eye you know well to be mischief, and it tugs a smile on your lips, “if you teach me how to beat you… in the dark.”

A relieved chuckle leaves you, and with it does the tension that had tightened the muscles on your shoulders.

“I’m afraid I’ve brought only my bow,” you say, wiping the wetness on your eyes when they threaten to spill over, “for the sake of stealth and secrecy.”

“Funnily enough,” he responds, a smirk widening on his face as he reaches with both hands for the back of his head, “I thought the same.”

In a swift motion, he pulls two fine daggers from his back.

You know you should deny him. From head to toe, your body begs you to lay back down and rest. You know you will regret it at sunset, but when he extends you his beautiful knife, you take it anyway.

“Seldom will you have to fight in complete darkness,” you pant, “even so, if you learn to rely on your other senses, you will have an advantage.”

You deflect each of Aemond’s strikes, a feat more difficult now that you engage in close combat. The blunt side of your daggers meet every few seconds as he quickly learns to retaliate your movements.

“Attune your ears to your opponent’s breath and steps,” you advise him, breaking his quick series of advances with a few of your own, “the reverberations of their sword - all of which will denounce their position.”

“Allow your enemy the first attack, so you may learn their patterns and anticipate their moves.”

“But above all-” you sidestep his next blow, where he expects you to meet blade for blade, to position yourself instead on his blind side. “Beware of your weaknesses.-“

He turns to keep you on his good side - dagger first, torso second - but it is too late; you duck well in advance, anticipating his reaction, and land a swift kick to the backs of his knees, causing his fall.

“For those will be their strength.”

You press the dulled steel to his neck and pin his body to the ground as you had the first time you faced one another in the training yard. And much like the last time, your noses brush when you first settle atop him, and his heated scent, spiced sandalwood made earthy with his exertion, is just as dizzying. He huffs, annoyed at being beaten yet again, but unlike the time he had lunged at you to seek revenge - and perhaps your death - the dim moonlight now reveals a toothy grin. It too traps you in a dazed state of mind and you fail to thus conclude your lesson.

“You positioned yourself on my blind side,” he concludes for you, groaning, “and used my height against myself.”

He allows you neither a response nor a reaction, for just as swift as you had been, he hooks a hand behind your knee and throws his body against yours to take over your position.

“But you forget that I am stronger,” his grin turns triumphant, devilishly triumphant, as he takes in your widened eyes, your parted lips, “and have not yet yielded.”

He holds your wrists to the ground above your head and his torso presses against yours, from his chest to his pelvis, where he kneels between your legs. Your mind has not been freed of its foggy prison despite his abrupt movement, and every point of contact between you is turned tender, hyper-sensitive to his every movement. His position of power where he towers over you, where he pins you at the same time down and against his body, for once electrifies you not with anger but with excitement… with want.

So it is a purely physical reaction when your eyesight descends to watch his flushed lips, making your own tingle with the effort it takes not to lunge and take them. Your insides coil when you go to meet his gaze once again, only to find it, too, fixed to your lips.

It is of their own accord that your eyelids flutter shut when he nudges your nose with his. His cupid’s bow is sharp when you let it pry your lips open, his bottom lip tastes salty when he lodges it between yours. And when his warm, warm tongue slides so slowly against yours, your jaw melts apart, allowing him deeper, allowing you to sink further into your hazy deliverance.

You can scantily reciprocate it - his tortuous, lustful, lewd licks. You can only let him do as he pleases. You can do nothing more than sluggishly burn and melt like molten lava, surrendering to the excruciating strokes of his honeyed, warm tongue. It licks its heat into you as if his very dragonfire is what drips from his mouth into yours, scorching your insides with desire as it descends into your most intimate parts, as they hum in delight. Its every caress is charged with a sensation so delectable your own slick muscle sits soft and still, stunned.

And you love it.

His torso presses against yours - as do his hands, his mouth, his heart. Your legs tremble as they yearn to spread for him further. And when you think you cannot bear any more of his touches, he rolls his body against yours, dragging his stiffened member against your clothed yet craving core. The lecherous movement forces a startled moan from your lips and too soon you both reel back from one another, parting just as easily as you had joined.

He looks at you wide-eyed and mouth parted as if taken aback by his own actions, though he does not take initiative to change your indecent position. His chest moves up and down in accordance with yours.

“My Prince,” you pant, “we shouldn’t-“

You cannot force the words out, for they get trapped in your throat. Your body loathes you. It aches for him madly with its every fiber and it loathes you for driving him away. But your head has finally caught up with your heart, and your Stark honor stubbornly stands its ground, even if hanging by a thread, compelling you to get a hold of your improper desires.

Aemond nods at your plea, slowly then rapidly as if amid the gesture he realizes the insanity of your activities. He helps you to your feet, and you both stand there, avoiding eye contact as dawn approaches.

“Forgive me-” he starts, but you shake your head before he can finish.

“It’s as much my fault as it is yours,” you attempt to appease him, appease the situation. “The rush of peril will do that to anyone.”

He never agrees, not as you walk back to your makeshift camp, not before he drifts off on the ground by your side.

The sun had almost made its way to the peak of its trajectory when Ser Criston relieved you of your appointed duty. You had watched it ascend over the twisted trunks attentively so that your tired eyes remained vigilant, only to fall into deep slumber the very moment it was granted. When he addressed you again, the sunlight was already scarce and you had time but for a stretch and a bite before you departed.

Once more the three of you rode fast under the light of the moon, under the shading of your hoods. As you approached the shores of Cracklaw Point, the winds gained an icy bite which you welcomed to refresh your fatigued muscles. After all, horse riding was merely the first physical adversity you would have to endure in this perilous quest.

Rowing had not been much easier, but at least your legs had gotten a chance at rest. With your wolf guarding the horses ashore, you were free to take to the ocean. The canoe your small party fitted into had been courtesy of the Master of Whispers and his muted men, hidden in the bushes with two oars. The dark waters of the Blackwater Bay shimmered in the light of the stars and, as Aemond had suggested, its waves were not nearly as vigorous as those of the open sea, permitting you a swift sail to the rocky coast ahead.

Most difficult had been securing your wooden vessel to a stony wall that would not part it in half when the waves rocked it back and forth, and climbing the menacing slope with a large bag of dusty poison strapped to your back. You had located an incline shorter than most, but its fall promised fatality all the same.

The Prince had taken the lead, his torso knotted to one end of a sturdy rope and yours to the second, to fix stepping screws and safety cords along your ascent. The motion of the sea had left you less nauseated than this uncertain, upward trek. You envied Criston, who served merely as a grounding weight for the swinging rowboat below.

“Do you see that pointed summit?” Aemond had asked when you finally reached the peak. “‘Tis a volcano. Dragons will often rest at the grassy fields by its base, where it’s warmest.”

When you offered him round, fearful eyes, he chuckled.

“During the daytime,” he added. “At night they’ll seek shelter within the ground. You’ll be safe.”

Thus he had sprinted the opposite way, splitting from you to scatter poison at the very cavernous nesting place of the winged beasts before you could question his surety.

Now, you are beyond ready to leave this somber, humid island. Nothing about it invites you to stay any longer than you absolutely must - not its howling winds, not its steep slopes, and certainly not the looming threat of untamed dragons. You surmise that is what the stronghold of the enemy is supposed to feel like - uninviting. Each second stretches by as you sit on the muddy grass, at the top of a hill, waiting for Aemond to return. You cast a silent prayer for him as your ever-treacherous mind paints pictures of him getting devoured or burnt alive deep within the somber caves of Dragonstone. The thought is one you would have embraced - and even entertained - a few days back, even if deep down you had never wished for his demise. But right now, as the damp chill of the Blackwater is windblown into your bones, you wish for nothing other than his heated touch, his dragonfire.

They don’t astound you any longer - these indecent thoughts that overwhelm you without warning - and you try no longer to escape them or deny their existence. In fact, you delight in their indulgence. You delight in reliving them. The mere remembrance of his lips on yours and his slick tongue slipping between them is enough to protect you from the humid cold.

You spot him when he is halfway up the hill, running towards you, large steps climbing quickly up the slope and braided hair catching the moonlight. You rise to your feet before he meets you.

What does it mean for you? To have admitted to these feelings? You find nothing is of certainty but your craving for him.

“Sorry it took me so long,” he pants when he finally reaches you.

He goes on to comment on the intricacy of the mazes that are the dragon caves within the hills, but you get yourself trapped in your own musings. The humidity sticks to his skin, gifting him an alluring glow, and a drop of sweat unlatches from the fine hairs that escape his coiffure. Attentively you follow it with your gaze as it rolls down his glistening skin, curving around his jaw to move down his neck.

It drives you to thirst.

You take too long to look up when he turns back to you, so when you meet his eye it dons already that vehemence you know so well.

Not a single bone in you wishes to inhibit yourself any longer. You had contained your anger before him only to have it explode monumentally. You had stifled your vilest reflections only to exploit the opportunity of physical violence the first chance given. The control over your luscious musings is fast fading. You are exhausted of all the pretense, the weight of duty and honor, the weight of repression.

“Aemond,” you plead, wishing he would simply understand.

You want to lean as he had, lodge your lips on his as he did, and commit him to taste. But you find yourself rooted to the spot, aching, as instinct fights logic, as desire fights morality. Your flesh burns with the urge to throw yourself in his embrace yet it freezes in fear of dishonor.

Against all odds your hand finds his chest, his own fingers clasp onto your elbow. When you think you can finally break through the invisible barrier that restrains your ardors, however, you spot a distinguishable glimmer of silver at the foot of the hill. Aemond turns to look for the source of your distraction.

“Daemon,” he spits.

The Rogue Prince. He approaches like a villain in a novel, stomping leisurely in the night with his Dark Sister in hand. You know him as well as the entire Realm - the proud, callous, viciously barbaric brother of the late Viserys I, now husband to the former heir.

Aemond pulls out his sharp daggers, his disposition starkly contrasting to just seconds ago when he reached for you so softly.

“Aemond,” you hiss, pulling on his arm in vain. “Let us go - we can make it to the boat in time.”

He hesitates to turn and follow you, but when he does comply, Prince Daemon recaptures his attention.

“Nephew!” he roars. “Did little Luke take your stones as well as your eye?”

You lose him in a heartbeat, to a juvenile taunt no less, as he storms down the hillside to meet his uncle. In your desperation, you take your bow to release an arrow against the older Prince, but it merely catches his shoulder. Though he grunts a curse and breaks it off at the root, it does nothing to deter him. As you raise a second arrow, the Princes meet, and you cannot assume the risk of it hitting the wrong one.

So you run.

Aimless, you dart off to where their blades viciously bounce off one another. And then, just before your very eyes, Aemond falls. As Dark Sister rises above him, glinting, you are drained of all warmth.

How would you relay to his mother you had let him perish?

There is no option, naught to do but to protect him. You don’t think as you holler at Daemon the Rogue, nor when you throw your body against his piercing blade. Though the pain of its cut steals your breath, stinging maddeningly where it opens a gruesome gash beneath your collarbones, shoulder to shoulder, you still land a hit so harsh against his jaw that you are unsure whether it breaks his face or your knuckles. You are happy to watch his head hit a rock hidden in the grass before you too hit the ground.

A guttural grunt leaves you as the pain truly registers. Even in your state of shock, its sting immobilizes your arms, its throb hammering, blinding, deafening. And wet. You are quickly drenched in your own blood. You feel it slide between your shirt and your leather tunic, drip down your sides, pool in the hollow of your throat as it gushes and gushes from within you like the mouth of a river.

“You fucking fool,” Aemond snarls above you, quick to tear his undershirt and wrap it tightly around your wound to constrict the blood loss. You have not the strength to bite back. When he notices this, his incensed demeanor turns desperate.

He carries you over to the cliff you had climbed. Tying your body to his, he makes it to the boat. How swiftly this happens, you cannot gauge. You can no longer comprehend the passage of time.

His chest on your back, his scent in your head, the lull of the sea invite you to doze. Absent-mindedly, you hear Aemond urge you to keep your eyes open. But his voice is too sweet. It too tantalizes you to welcome sleep.

And so you do.

A/N: yay, we're halfway through! I know posting this on a random Wednesday at midnight is a dumb move, but I couldn't hold it any longer...

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