#blue lock hunger games

[luna-3-clips]

I'm starting a Blue Lock Hunger Games series

I know that I already have another series going on, but that one I'll only be posting updates once a week. I saw someone do this on Youtube (River Shroom) and I decided I wanted to do it as well.

Here are the districts and their tributes:

District 1

Yoichi Isagi, Meguru Bachira, Hyoma Chigiri, Rensuke Kunigami

District 2

Asahi Naruhaya, Gin Gagamaru, Jingo Raichi, Wataru Kuon

District 3

Gurimu Igarashi, Okuhito Iemon, Yudai Imamura, Ryusuke Kira

District 4

Ikki Niko, Hibiki Okawa, Junichi Wanima, Keisuke Wanima

District 5

Zantetsu Tsurugi, Reo Mikage, Seishiro Nagi, Shoei Barou

District 6

Aoshi Tokimitsu, Jyubei Aryu, Rin Itoshi, Taiga Tsunzaki

District 7

Ranze Kurona, Yo Hiori, Nijiro Nanase, Jin Kiyora

District 8

Eita Otoya, Tabito Karasu, Kenyu Yukimiya, Akira Endoji

District 9

Ryusei Shidou, Sae Itoshi, Shuto Sendo, Oliver Aiku

District 10

Adam Blake, Julian Loki, Leonardo Luna, Pablo Cavazos

District 11

Noel Noa, Michael Kaiser, Alexis Ness, Lavinho

District 12

Anri Teieri, Jinpachi Ego, Chris Prince, Marc Snuffy

Check out the rest of the series here

[cherriestears]

GUYS.

I don't know how many times this needs to be parroted before it makes its mark but— PUTTING ANY SORT OF DESCRIPTION OR NAME TO THE 'READER' IN YOUR FIC/STORY DOES NOT MAKE IT AN X READER STORY, IT MAKES IT AN X OC STORY.

Putting a name to the reader that's not an alias they use for disguise? It's an x OC story.

Describing their complexion/eye colour/skin/body type/height in any way that's not related to the powers you may have given them? It's an x OC story.

"oh but I don't like y/n or (reader)-" TOO BAD. Either tag it as an x OC story and move on, make the characters in the story refer to them by terms of endearment or JUST DONT WRITE AN X READER STORY!! The whole point of x Reader stories are so that the reader, no matter what race, complexion, name, etc, can imagine themselves in a world they love. The most description that's acceptable is the GENDER. And that's if you mention their gender in the tags.

And yes, we get it, you're afraid of not getting any interaction on your x OC or x your sona/self-insert story but don't mislead readers who actually want to integrate themselves in the story! There will always be people willing to read x OC stories, whether because they're aroace or they want the character to be happy or whatever. And the same thing goes for making characters siblings to the reader. If a Japanese character is a biological sibling to the reader, then it's automatically assuming that the reader is Japanese and hence, NOT AN X READER! The only race changing acceptable is for fictional races.

So for the love of God, do not keep putting x OC stories in the x reader tags. It's really starting to irk the communities you write for (or atleast, me anyway.)

[tigreblvnc]

BLUE LOCK — HUNGER GAMES EDITION

Disclaimer: I had the idea after reading the MBTI Hunger Games simulation from @oiblackestsheep. Thanks to you! I generated this edition for Blue Lock with BrantSteele.net.

Enjoy your reading!

The Bloodbath:

As the tributes stand on their podiums, the horn sounds.

Oliver runs away from the Cornucopia.

Aryu runs away from the Cornucopia.

Gagamaru snatches a pair of sais.

Otoya runs away from the Cornucopia.

Sendo stays at the cornucopia for resources.

Hiori runs away from the Cornucopia.

Kaiser finds a bag full of explosives.

Kunigami runs away from the Cornucopia.

Rin runs away from the Cornucopia.

Sae scares Nagi away from the cornucopia.

Isagi runs away from the Cornucopia.

Bachira runs away from the Cornucopia.

Yukimiya, Niko, Shidou, and Chigiri share everything they gathered before running.

Reo runs away from the Cornucopia.

Barou finds a canteen full of water.

Charles runs away from the Cornucopia.

Karasu gathers as much food as he can.

Ness runs away from the Cornucopia.

Kurona runs away from the Cornucopia.

Zantetsu runs away from the Cornucopia.

Day 1.

Shidou pushes Sae off a cliff during a knife fight.

Kurona constructs a shack.

Gagamaru, Chigiri, Reo, and Yukimiya hunt for other tributes.

Rin searches for a water source.

Bachira camouflauges himself in the bushes.

Aryu discovers a river.

Ness catches Kunigami off guard and kills him.

Niko fishes.

Barou defeats Oliver in a fight, but spares his life.

Zantetsu runs away from Karasu.

Hiori diverts Kaiser's attention and runs away.

Isagi overhears Sendo and Otoya talking in the distance.

Nagi sprains his ankle while running away from Charles.

2 cannon shots can be heard in the distance.

Dead: Sae (district 3), Kunigami (district 9).

Night 1.

Isagi and Aryu talk about the tributes still alive.

Ness tends to Shidou's wounds.

Barou and Nagi tell stories about themselves to each other.

Otoya tends to Rin's wounds.

Kaiser and Zantetsu huddle for warmth.

Niko bashes Oliver's head in with a mace.

Hiori dies from an infection.

Kurona, Charles, and Karasu discuss the games and what might happen in the morning.

Reo begs for Gagamaru to kill him. He refuses, keeping Reo alive.

Chigiri questions his sanity.

Sendo and Yukimiya hold hands.

Bachira receives an explosive from an unknown sponsor.

Day 2.

Rin and Yukimiya work together for the day.

Karasu hunts for other tributes.

Aryu stabs Ness in the back with a trident.

Zantetsu ambushes Bachira and kills him.

Otoya and Niko hunt for other tributes.

Kaiser decapitates Sendo with a sword.

Charles explores the arena.

Kurona steals from Chigiri while he isn't looking.

Isagi makes a slingshot.

Gagamaru defeats Nagi in a fight, but spares his life.

Barou accidently detonates a land mine while trying to arm it.

Reo convinces Shidou to not kill him, only to kill him instead.

7 cannon shots can be heard in the distance.

Dead: Oliver (district 6), Hiori (district 4), Ness (district 1), Bachira (district 12), Sendo (district 6), Barou (district 5), Shidou (district 8).

Night 2.

Otoya quietly hums.

Yukimiya quietly hums.

Niko questions his sanity.

Kaiser, Charles, and Reo unsuccessfully ambush Isagi, Gagamaru, and Aryu, who kill them instead.

Kurona defeats Chigiri in a fight, but spares his life.

Zantetsu tries to sing himself to sleep.

Nagi and Karasu talk about the tributes still alive.

Rin climbs a tree to rest.

Day 3.

Zantetsu tries to spear fish with a trident.

Nagi steals from Yukimiya while he isn't looking.

Karasu receives clean water from an unknown sponsor.

Aryu discovers a river.

Gagamaru, Rin, Chigiri, and Otoya raid Niko's camp while he is hunting.

Kurona and Isagi work together for the day.

3 cannon shots can be heard in the distance.

Dead: Kaiser (district 1), Charles (district 8), Reo (district 2).

Night 3.

Isagi taints Karasu's food, killing him.

Gagamaru and Rin run into each other and decide to truce for the night.

Yukimiya and Kurona talk about the tributes still alive.

Niko thinks about winning.

Chigiri, Nagi, Aryu, and Otoya tell each other ghost stories to lighten the mood.

Zantetsu dies from thirst.

Day 4.

Isagi constructs a shack.

Chigiri receives a hatchet from an unknown sponsor.

Aryu receives clean water from an unknown sponsor.

Gagamaru stabs Yukimiya in the back with a trident.

Niko cannot handle the circumstances and commits suicide.

Otoya, Kurona, Nagi, and Rin hunt for other tributes.

4 cannon shots can be heard in the distance.

Dead: Karasu (district 4), Zantetsu (district 7), Yukimiya (district 10), Niko (district 10).

Night 4.

Isagi receives medical supplies from an unknown sponsor.

Nagi loses sight of where he is.

Otoya, Chigiri, and Gagamaru get into a fight. Gagamaru triumphantly kills them both.

Kurona tends to his wounds.

Rin and Aryu huddle for warmth.

The feast:

The cornucopia is replenished with food, supplies, weapons, and memoirs from the tributes' families.

Rin decides not to go to The Feast.

Kurona takes a staff leaning against the cornucopia.

Nagi strangles Isagi after engaging in a fist fight.

Gagamaru decides not to go to The Feast.

Aryu dies from an infection.

Day 5.

Rin fishes.

Kurona runs away from Nagi.

Gagamaru explores the arena.

4 cannon shots can be heard in the distance.

Dead: Otoya (district 5), Chigiri (district 9), Isagi (district 12), Aryu (district 7).

Night 5.

Rin destroys Nagi's supplies while he is asleep.

Gagamaru attempts to start a fire, but is unsuccessful.

Kurona dies from hypothermia.

Day 6.

Rin discovers a river.

Nagi receives medical supplies from an unknown sponsor.

Gagamaru is pricked by thorns while picking berries.

Arena event:

Carnivorous squirrels start attacking the tributes.

The squirrels separate and kill Gagamaru and Rin.

3 cannon shots can be heard in the distance.

Dead: Kurona (district 11), Gagamaru (district 11), Rin (district 3).

The winner:

The winner is Nagi from District 2!

Results:

© TIGREBLVNC 2024 | BLUE LOCK — HUNGER GAMES EDITION.

[rinitoshiplzdateme]

i need a ryusae hunger games au where sae is shidous mentor in the games and gradually falls in love with him as time passes.

its kinda like a fell first x fell harder thing where shidou loved sae every since he saw sae win his games couple years ago.

but yeah overall i need a bllk x hg au in general

[cantheywinthehungergames]

Submitted anonymously

Keep Reading for Tribute Info

If you would like to see your favorite character either as a tribute or as a mentor, please fill out this Google Form. Just keep in mind that for mentor polls, they will be posted every Saturday so chances are it could take a long time before they are posted.

Please also look at my pinned post for submission rules as well as a list of previously submitted characters prior to submitting your character.

Tribute Name: Hyoma Chigiri

Age: 16-17 (throughout series)

Media: Blue Lock

Restrictions: No superhuman abilities of any kind

[deadliestpieceontheboard]

the thing about sports anime is that they're as dramatic as aftg, but never as insane. it scratches the part of my brain that likes team shenanigans and drama about inconsequential things but not the batshit plot. UNTIL

Blue Lock

i swear i'm obsessed about it it's just the most out of there plot and they're unhealthily focused on football (🙄 soccer) and it's so gay.

i mean look at this:

[heich0e]

saw your tags and yes I'm a sae stan too 😳🤭

i don't know anything abt him other than he's hot and evil but fortunately that's my type

[the-death-game-enthusiast]

Welcome to the Death Game Enthusiast, a new blog dedicated to the underappreciated genre that is Death Games!

Definition: a death game must have rules (even simple rules such as "win, get prize") and the penalty for losing must be death or similar (loss of career, livelihood, family, etc. also count) there's also almost always a host or mastermind to set the rules and/or mete out punishments

Popular Death Games you might know: The Hunger Games, Danganronpa, the Maze Runner series, Squid Game, the Future Diary, and even Blue Lock! There are many different types of death games, and my goal is to help as many people as possible appreciate the genre

Welcome to my blog everyone, sit down, relax! but don't relax too much... you never where your life will be tomorrow.

[neiptune]

these men are so talented... also gay af...

[cherienymphe]

A Caged Bird (Coriolanus Snow x Reader)

WARNINGS: NON-CON, blackmail, stalking, abuse of power, hints of dacryphilia, slightly spoiler-esque

summary: Birds are best kept in a cage where one can see them...and where you know where they are at all times.

~

You thought that it was over when you won.

That’s what winning The Hunger Games meant, right? The psychological torture, the grueling conditions, and the fear that wouldn’t leave you until you finally left the arena was supposed to be over. You made it out through blood, sweat, and tears, and so your reward was to go home and reunite with your family and try your best to put the memories behind you.

Try your best to put him behind you.

So, why were you still being tormented?

When you first locked eyes with Coriolanus Snow, your first thought was how strikingly blue his were. Almost as if they weren’t real and had been specially manufactured in The Capitol for him, somehow. His hair, too, was just so much blonder than anything you’d seen in District 12, and again, you noted how so much about him seemed…artificial.

…but then he spoke…and the effect his voice had on you was very real.

“You don’t seem like you’re supposed to be here,” you’d said to him after stepping off of that train.

His response was expected, a charming chuckle leaving his pink lips, blond curls the perfect addition to his features.

“I’m not,” he slowly admitted.

The intensity behind his gaze whenever he so much as glanced at you was enough to make any girl’s heart race, and despite what you wished, you weren’t immune. He was beautiful—gorgeous as some of the other tributes and mentors liked to call him—and despite the initial intimidation, there was something about him that made you want to let your guard down.

…but he was your mentor…and a capitol citizen…and you were nothing more than his ticket to notoriety.

“Don’t you know who his dad was?” another tribute, one from one of the better districts, had said to you in a tone like you were stupid.

That was all the confirmation you needed, really.

…but he’d hopped onto the truck with you and gotten into that cage with you and brought you and your district mate food. He gave you poison to use against the other tributes. He wanted you to appeal to the audience so he’d have the funds to send you supplies. It was hard to decipher what was purely for show and what was just because he wanted you—and him by extension—to win. Perhaps, they were one in the same though, and it was impossible to have one without the other. Maybe it didn’t matter his reasons behind his desire to have his tribute win.

Maybe all that mattered was that you’d win.

…but that was when you thought winning meant you’d be free.

Coriolanus Snow was your best chance at winning, and so when the rebels rigged the arena, you didn’t hesitate to stay behind and save him. It wasn’t even a question in your mind because mentor or not, he was hurt, and you had to believe that that one fluke was not your only fighting chance. You couldn’t allow yourself to believe that in saving him, you’d allowed freedom to pass you by.

“You saved me,” he told you, a gentle brush of his handkerchief under your eye to catch your tears. “You saved me, and I am going to get you out of here.”

You had no idea then that he meant out of the games…and to him.

It was that flickering moment of doubt where you wondered if you could actually win, and you recalled what you’d said to him earlier about believing you could, how much you needed him to actually believe it. Now, you were the one doubting, and he could see it, blue gaze flicking over your face and soaking in the fear and uncertainty, because if you couldn’t win…

You’d die.

A lingering gaze and a tense atmosphere, and you felt yourself pulling back, realization hitting you as to just what you were about to let happen. It was hard to decipher who overstepped first, but you couldn’t allow yourself to get wrapped up in something that was only ever meant to be strictly professional. Coriolanus was your mentor, and you were his tribute.

That was all.

You didn’t know then the full lengths he went to just to ensure your victory. How could you? You were too busy trying to survive, trying to fight off rabid tributes and teenagers driven mad with the sole desire to just live. It was all so unfair and angering, and you were sure that with less focus, you might’ve gone insane too. You didn’t have the luxury to worry about your eerily handsome mentor and whatever ulterior motives he might’ve had to see you beat this thing.

So, when you did win, all you could feel was relief. All you could focus on was your family and their faces when you’d ultimately reunite with them. All you could even entertain were thoughts of pushing this very real nightmare to the back of your mind for as long as you possibly could. Initially, you didn’t even notice that you weren’t immediately reunited with your mentor when they crowned you as the winner and got you out of there.

At least, not until you came face to face with him in your own district.

“I thought they’d killed you. I didn’t know if my actions had come back on you too,” Coriolanus told you in a secluded corner, the loud music drowning out his words and the cover of darkness hiding your faces.

Those beautiful pale curls were gone, and any thought that so much of his beauty relied on his golden locks was gone too with one drink of him. He was still the same handsome boy that mentored you, the same one who’d garnered the nickname ‘gorgeous’ among the other tributes. Up on that stage, you’d been thrown to meet a familiar gaze, your harmonious tune pausing for half a second as he met your shocked stare with an expression of his own you couldn’t place, pink lips curved upwards ever so slightly.

Any question of how and why he was here had disappeared as you registered his words. Confusion filled you as you stared at him, a slight frown between your brows as you wracked your brain for how that could possibly make sense.

“Why would they kill me…?” you slowly asked him, and you and the shadows were all that was privy to his confession.

The water bottles, the handkerchief, and the snakes—even the poison. Coriolanus had cheated to secure your victory, broken rules that plucked him out of The Capitol and dropped him here in your very own district as a Peacekeeper. The shock you felt that your victory was far from a fair one warred with the confusion you felt as to why he’d risk everything just for you to win.

If you’d lost fair and square—as you probably should have—there was no doubt in your mind that he’d be safely tucked away in the lavishness of The Capitol instead of lingering about in some rundown excuse for a bar in lowly District 12. If he knew what awaited him should his treachery be discovered…then why chance it? Nothing about your brief tutelage with him could justify what he’d risked and ultimately lost.

You wanted to ask him why, but something in you was afraid of the answer.

That almost kiss—a kiss you hadn’t thought about in months—suddenly came to mind, and even though you didn’t ask him why, something in you knew why even if you wanted to deny it. It was there in the dim lighting and rowdy atmosphere of some rundown building that every minor interaction didn’t start to feel so minor.

Every brush of his hand against yours as he reached for you, the unsettling way he seemed to watch you in that short time that you’d simply written off as concern for his tribute, and the ruthless desire to see you out on the other side of the arena. The kiss that never was only seemed like a lapse in judgement to you then, but in this moment, you had suspicions that it was very much intentional.

You swallowed, realizing that in that brief internal introspection, Coriolanus hadn’t taken his eyes off of you once.

“Did they send you to District 12?” you finally asked him.

You didn’t know what gave you away. Perhaps your tone, maybe your face, or maybe your eyes weren’t as secretive as you’d like to believe. Either way, something about your visage and demeanor gave the blond man pause, head tilting just a tad as those baby blues glinted with something you didn’t recognize but you know you didn’t like. He studied your face before coming up with the answer he probably thought you wanted.

“Of course.”

You didn’t know if you believed him.

…and Coriolanus could tell.

You’d played enough cat and mouse games in the arena—you never thought you’d have to play them in your own home too.

Starving off the affections of some boy in your district wasn’t hard or uncharted territory. Even spurning the forbidden advances of a Peacekeeper or two wasn’t unheard of, but Coriolanus was different. He wasn’t some average Joe turned cop. He was born and raised in The Capitol with a powerful father, and even though the man had been taken before his time, your former mentor still had been brought up with the kind of influence and reach and mindset that surpassed the average Peacekeeper.

They were followers—controlled by The Capitol and tasked with maintaining order. Most were no more than dumb brutes, mindlessly following orders without question, simple enough to be bribed and swayed. If Coriolanus’ actions had shown you anything, it was that he was not a follower. He did what he wanted and played by his own rules, and it was how you found yourself hunted by a gaze you thought you’d left behind in the arena.

Since the discovery of your former mentor’s presence in your district, you never felt alone.

Every walk to trade for food felt shadowed, every footstep home was accompanied with an echo, and a sweep of your eye over the crowd as you played an instrument or sang a tune was rewarded with a familiar blue one that made your heart freeze. You were forced to ignore it no longer when a single rose was left for you on the doorstep, your ma’s gaze questioning as she held it out to you.

You didn’t know where or how he got it, but you only cared about giving it back.

“I can’t accept this,” you told him, gaze steady but fingers trembling as you held it out to him.

It was raining, and the cover over your heads sheltered you from the downpour, but it did little to drown out the sound of it. Coriolanus simply stared at the flower for what felt like too long, making no moves to take it from you, and you swallowed. His blue gaze zeroed in on the action before it lifted to your face.

“…and why not?”

“Because I think it means something different to you than it does to me.”

Your response was swift, and you watched him sigh, eventually reaching out to finger the flower like he did that day before he’d proceeded to put it behind your ear. He finally took it, and just like that day before the games, it found its way behind your ear once again. The only change this time was the shudder that traveled down your spine, and the apprehension you felt when his gaze met yours.

For the longest time, the only sound was that of the rain, a few stray drops making it’s way onto your face and clothes due to the wind. If the man before you still had the locks you’d met him with, they would’ve been rustling with the breeze, right now. Both of you were very still, or maybe it was just you—nervous and fearful of how he’d respond. He briefly looked past you, eyes glinting briefly before they hardened once again, his pink lips pressed together as he regarded you.

“…and if it does?”

He continued when you frowned.

“Mean something different to me than it does to you,” he elaborated, and you blinked.

Taking a deep breath, you tried to gather your thoughts.

“I know…that I’m only standing here, now, because of you,” you slowly started, watching him push his shoulders back. “I won because of you, I know that, but-.”

“Exactly,” he cut you off, making your lips part. “You won because of me…and everything I sacrificed was to make sure you won.”

“…but I didn’t ask you to do that!”

You felt…cornered, somehow, because on the one hand, yes. You did owe so much to the man before you, but at the same time, what did you owe specifically? Your attention? Your affection? Whatever he deemed an appropriate compensation? When you saved his life in the arena that day, and he vowed to save yours in return, you didn’t understand the full ramifications of the deal you were agreeing to.

“I saved your life, and you saved mine, and I’m sorry for the things you felt the need to risk, but that’s where it ends.”

The cold from the rain didn’t faze you nearly as much as the heat from his gaze boring into your back.

You wanted to believe that your lack of confrontation was what led you to the predicament you found yourself in. After all, things between you two had held too many ‘what ifs’ and lingering feelings and questions. You liked to hope that telling the man in no uncertain terms that your relationship should never and would never progress beyond anything professional would fix things.

You never would’ve guessed that your bout of confidence would only prove to make things worse.

“My ma doesn’t even know any rebels, and you know that.”

You’d whispered the words so quietly, throat too choked up to speak any louder as you tearfully stared Coriolanus down, your words only intended for the two of you. Your back was pressed to the doorway as he stood before you, a foot or two of space between you as other Peacekeepers did their duty to search your house as thoroughly as possible. The reason you’d been given was suspicion of treason—to the shock of your ma—but both you and the handsome man before you knew the truth.

“One can never be too sure. It’s always those you least expect.”

His cool response only made you look away, a few tears escaping.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You won, you were free, so why did it still feel like you were in the game…except a much more dangerous one this time? You could feel his eyes on you as you watched man after man rifle through you and your ma’s things, your younger sister not home to witness this. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him take a step towards you—just one, but one was enough to make you flinch.

You still didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him though.

“Unbearable,” he quietly said. “…not able to be endured…or tolerated.”

You swallowed.

“Not to be confused with hard—requiring a great deal of endurance or effort.”

Another step towards you.

“To find something unbearable means that you quite literally cannot stomach it any longer. It forces a change to come, forces something to…give,” he whispered.

Your gaze was still focused ahead, but his words made you blink, made your heart sink, and you swore that he knew that.

“I can make things incredibly unbearable for you…and your family.”

You straightened at that, finally looking at him with a venomous gaze and a heaving chest. Coriolanus reached up to pick at your shirt, removing a piece of grass from it, and you watched him inspect it before turning his blue eyes back onto you. They lingered on your own eyes before lowering to your lips, his own twitching so subtly you might’ve missed it if you were anyone else.

“Or I can make sure you’ll be taken care of, looked after as if you were my own…” his gaze met yours again. “It’s entirely your choice.”

You two stared at one another for an infuriating amount of time before he let out a sharp whistle, telling the other men that nothing seemed to be here and to move on. His wording was not lost on you, and you crossed your arms over your chest. Coriolanus was the last to walk out, and despite the feel of his heavy gaze, you didn’t look his way the entire time.

Your ma commented on the strangeness of the whole ordeal, but nothing about it was strange to you. It was all very calculating and sinister actually, and while you grew up hearing countless talk of running away and living off the grid, you were never more tempted than in this moment…but you were not alone. Your ma was sickly, and your sister was too young.

…and if you left, you could only guess what you’d be leaving your family susceptible to.

Your future seemed inevitable no matter how much you tried to find a way out of the path set for you.

The first night you slept with Coriolanus Snow, it was storming just like that day you’d attempted to give him back his flower. You’d cried for a good three hours before, feeling helpless in the aftermath of another so-called inspection from Peacekeepers—this one much more destructive. The only light that night came from the brief flashes of lightning, and the sound of the rain drowned out the reluctant gasps to leave your lips.

Hands much softer than you ever expected trailed down your frame, curving over your hips and dipping underneath your thighs. The blond man’s lips rarely left your skin, kissing whatever part of you that came to mind, nose gently grazing you as he did and pulling shudders from your frame. It was a foreign feeling to be so heated and afraid at the same time.

Under the cover of darkness, his fingers intertwined with your own and his hips were flush with yours. The feel of him inside of you was much more jarring than you thought it would be, choked deep breaths leaving your parted lips as he pressed his face into the crook of your neck. His thrusts were slow, the complete opposite of what you expected, and you didn’t know if you liked that better or worse.

Every kiss felt wrong, like you were betraying yourself, but in the same manner, they also reminded you of that first day you met. You thought about when you stepped off of that train, and that smooth voice escaped those pink lips, and your stomach flipped no matter how much you pretended it didn’t. The person you were that day wanted to throw your head back and welcome the little nips he left along your skin.

The person you were, now, wanted to crawl inside of your skin.

This man had stalked you to the highest degree, following you all the way from The Capitol just to collect on the young woman whose survival he ensured. The things he’d risked and ultimately lost, he placed the weight of on your shoulders as if you were responsible to compensate for that somehow. As if it was your duty to make his sacrifices worth it.

When he pulled you into his lap, resting on him with arms circled around your waist, it was your turn to press your face into the area where his neck and shoulder met. His fingers dancing along your skin made you shudder, and that just made the tears collect more because you didn’t want to enjoy this, but your body and your brain didn’t seem to be in alignment.

When you were forced to come around him, you saw stars, and you were positive your nails left marks on his back.

You didn’t really think that no more trouble from Peacekeepers was worth the figurative collar around your neck. The abundance of food and supplies might have been, if only to just see the smiles on your ma and sister’s faces, but even then, when you found your back pressed to Coriolanus’ chest as he drove his cock up into you, you wondered if it was actually worth it.

Your ma would say no, that you knew for sure, but you supposed it wasn’t her call to make.

After all, the alternative was psychological torment and worst-case scenarios you didn’t even want to entertain.

“Would you have had her arrested?” you quietly wondered one night.

The sheet was clutched to your chest, and you were facing the wall, still unable to look him in the eye directly afterwards. You’d never been able to, feeling used and low and indefensible. You tried not to dwell on the feel of his fingertips tracing patterns into your shoulder, his cool breath hitting your skin as he exhaled.

“I mean…would you have…framed her somehow? Found some justification for it?”

You didn’t know why you were asking, certain you wouldn’t like the answer, and as you predicted, you felt your throat tighten the longer the silence stretched. Against your will—like many things you’d been doing as of late—a few tears escaped, and even before he answered, you knew what you were going to hear.

“Yes,” he confessed, just as quietly.

You squeezed your eyes shut, subtly wiping your face.

“I sacrificed so much for you to win, and not just because your win was my win…but because I wanted to see you win,” he murmured, placing a kiss to your back. “…because I wanted you.”

You knew that, but having it confirmed so plainly was disturbing.

“…and when I eventually make my way back to The Capitol, as we both know I will, I’ll still want you.”

Your stomach sank at that, and for the first time, you turned to look at him while still trembling in the aftermath of what had quickly become a nightly occurrence. His gaze was still focused on where your back had been, and when his eyes flitted up to connect with yours, you didn’t have the words to convey how you felt about what he was insinuating.

“In The Capitol, you’ll have access to things you could never even imagine…and you could send those same things back to your family,” he told you, reaching up to touch your face.

When you moved to sit up, he stopped you, a firm grip on your arm. Coryo—as he liked for you to call him—fixed you with a look that you knew all too well. It was the look he gave you when you tried to come up with any excuse as to why you couldn’t meet with him. It was the look you received when you briefly forgot the power dynamics here, turning away from him and attempting to push him away.

It was a look that told you not to fight the inevitable.

“I want you there with me.”

His tone left no room for argument, and there was so much conviction in his voice that the thought of arguing seemed legitimately draining. You simply stared at him, eyes glassy, and he stared back, waiting for verbal confirmation of what you both knew was going to happen, anyway. You had no choice in the matter, you never did, and for a brief horrifying moment, you almost wished you were a lone orphan who didn’t have to look out for anybody but yourself.

That thought did make tears spill over.

It was a horrible thing to think, but your loved ones were being used against you, and you knew that your ma—and your sister if she were old enough to comprehend these things—would never want this for you. Coryo sat up with you, a hand resting on your cheek as he gazed at you, a thumb brushing the tears away. It wasn’t meant to be comforting.

Nothing he did was ever meant to be comforting.

“I want you there with me,” he repeated.

You wondered what someone like you would possibly do in The Capitol.

“I don’t belong there,” you whispered, a poor attempt to get him to change his mind.

His response was swift and clipped.

“You belong with me.”

When he pressed his lips to yours, it was expected that you would kiss him back. His thumb brushed along your skin as you did, a low hum sounding in the back of his throat that quickly escalated into a groan. His free arm snaked around you, and your last attempt at resisting proved futile, so you let him lay you down.

Sex with Coriolanus was a maddening experience.

You didn’t want it, and your brain didn’t want it, but it was as if your body was its own separate entity running on hormones and animal instinct.

When he rested his full weight on top of you, you shuddered for a multitude of reasons—one of which you didn’t want to acknowledge. When he slid his hand between your breasts and down to your stomach, your back arched, chest pressing up and into his. When he pushed into you all torturously slow as he always did, you involuntarily held your breath, shaking at the feel of his hips connecting with yours, the length of him fully sheathed in your warmth.

You were terrified of him, so that was why you opened up for him like those budding roses he used to carry around, but in doing so, you made yourself vulnerable beneath him. You made yourself more susceptible to his kisses and his touch and that maddening voice that knew just how to get its way. He wasn’t a very talkative man when he was inside of you, much more content with letting his actions speak for themselves, but tonight was different.

“Look at me,” he whispered, curving his hips into yours. “Look right at me.”

You did, and while you didn’t know the specifics of the psychology behind this, you knew that looking into the eyes of your tormentor while in the act couldn’t be good.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he breathlessly told you, nose brushing against yours with every thrust.

You could hear that it was starting to rain again, and you pressed your hands into the small of his back, trying to ground yourself in some way—trying to have control over something, anything. Tears kissed your eyes, and you swore—you swore—that something in those blues of his twinkled. It sparked something in his gaze, and in his psyche, his thrusts becoming more powerful and making you gasp, nails pressing into his skin.

He only looked especially satisfied when the tears spilled over.

When he came inside of you, and you around him, you swore you saw stars.

You even thought you saw snow.

[haikyuubby]

go bother my bsf and fill her inbox with requests guys 🙏🏽

Introduction

hii, I’m relatively new on here.

I write fics about various characters or ocs from time to time.

**Smut / fluff / headcanons / x reader / character x character / female, male, gender neutral reader ALL WELCOME**

PLS give some requests if we share any interests! :vv

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Interests …

Animes:

Attack on Titan

My Hero Academia

Haikyuu

Demon Slayer

Chainsaw Man

Jujutsu kaisen

Blue Lock

Hunter x Hunter

Devilman Crybaby

Tokyo Revengers

Cartoons/Video Games:

Arcane

FNAF

Shows:

Alice in Borderland

Outer banks

Stranger things

Movies:

Harry Potter

Maze Runner

The Hunger Games

(highlighted are my current main interests)

[luna-3-clips]

Blue Lock Hunger Games

Day 8

Anri bashes Snuffy's head in with a mace.

Isagi goes hunting.

Imamura dies from thirst.

Kaiser and Gagamaru split up to search for resources.

Iemon tries to spear fish with a trident.

Naruhaya attempts to climb a tree, but falls to his death.

Shidou practices his archery.

[littlelamy]

you lean back against rafe’s car, your breath catching as he steps out of the house, his eyes locking onto yours immediately. the smirk on his face is enough to make your knees feel weak, and you can already sense where the night is heading.

my boy’s a winner, he loves the game.

"been waiting on you," he murmurs, his voice low as he gets closer. his chain glints under the streetlight, and your lips part just slightly, catching the shine of his cross-gold chain as he closes the gap between you. "couldn't stay away, huh?"

"please," you roll your eyes, though your heart is pounding in your chest. "don’t flatter yourself."

my lips reflect off his cross-gold chain.

his fingers brush against your waist, then dip lower, grabbing a handful of your ripped blue jeans, tugging you closer. "don't play coy. you knew exactly what you were doing when you put these on." his voice is thick with hunger, and it takes everything in you not to lose control.

I like the way he's telling me my ass looks good in these ripped blue jeans.

"don’t act like you’re not into it," he whispers, his lips grazing your ear as his grip tightens. "i can see it all over your face."

you blush deeply, trying to look anywhere but his eyes. you hate how easily he gets under your skin, how he knows exactly what buttons to press.

my cheeks are red like cherries in the spring.

"you like me like this, don’t you?" he teases, his voice dipping lower, almost like a dare.

you swallow, trying to compose yourself, but he steps closer, so close that his body presses against yours, and suddenly the air feels thicker, hotter.

"admit it, you’re dying for me," he says, his lips brushing yours, his hands trailing down your body. "you’re a work of art, baby. no one else gets to see you like this. just me."

bodies a work of art you'd diet to see.

you inhale sharply as his lips finally meet yours, soft at first but quickly deepening, the taste of him clouding your senses. he pulls back just slightly, whispering against your lips, "untouched, huh?"

untouched, XO, young lust, let's—ah.

you don’t respond, letting the kiss say more than words ever could. it’s all heat, all hunger as his hands roam your body, fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you closer.

"get in," he orders, his voice breathless but firm. you obey, sliding into the passenger seat as he gets behind the wheel. the car roars to life, and you’re on the road before you even have time to think, your heart racing as he speeds down the empty streets.

when we drive in your car, i'm your baby (so sweet).

his hand moves to your thigh, fingers pressing into your skin just enough to make you shiver. "you’ve been teasing me all night," he mutters, his grip tightening. "acting like you don’t want me just as bad as i want you."

losing all my innocence in the backseat.

"say it," he demands, glancing over at you with that same dark intensity that always makes your pulse quicken. "tell me you want this."

"i want it," you whisper, barely audible, but it's enough to make his smirk grow wider.

"not good enough, baby," he says, pulling over suddenly, the car jerking to a stop in an empty parking lot. "say you love me."

say you love, say you love, say you love me (love me).

he's already moving before you can respond, pulling you into the backseat with him, his lips crashing into yours like he’s been waiting all night for this moment. your body arches into his, the tension between you snapping like a rubber band.

"say it," he growls against your lips, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you into his lap. "say you love me."

losing all my innocence in the backseat.

you pull back, breathless, your lips swollen from his kisses. "you know i love you."

"yeah?" he smirks, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, pulling you closer. "then prove it."

he leans back, eyes dark and heavy with lust as you straddle him, feeling the heat between you. your lips find his neck, and you press kisses down to his chest, your lipstick leaving marks as you go.

break all the rules 'til we get caught, fog up the windows in the parking lot.

"you’re mine, rafe," you whisper, your fingers slipping under his shirt, feeling the hard muscles beneath. "all mine."

summer love (ah, ah), sexy, sitting on his lap, sippin' Diet Pepsi.

he groans as you write your name across his chest in red lipstick, the letters bold and unmistakable. "yeah, i am," he growls, grabbing the back of your neck, pulling you down for another searing kiss. "and don’t you ever forget it."

I write my name with lipstick on your chest, I leave a mark so you know I’m the best.

you feel the tension building again, that electric pull that has you both on edge. untouched, but not for long. his hands grip your hips, guiding you, showing you exactly what he wants without saying a word.

untouched (untouched), XO (XO), young lust, let's—ah (go).

"you don’t have to leave," he whispers against your lips, his voice almost desperate now, like he can't get enough of you. "stay. don’t go."

you don't have to leave, don't (leave me) have to leave (XO).

"i’m not going anywhere," you breathe, your hands tangled in his hair as he pulls you impossibly closer, his lips tracing a path down your neck. "i’m yours."

it's fine, you'll never leave, mine (baby), don't ever leave (XO, ah).

his fingers dig into your skin, like he’s holding onto you for dear life. every touch, every breath is a promise, a claim. you’re his, and there’s no escaping it.

when we drive in your car, i'm your baby (so sweet), losing all my innocence in the backseat (ah).

"say it again," he murmurs, his lips against your ear, his voice rough with need. "tell me you love me."

"i love you," you whisper, your lips finding his in a kiss that feels like it’s never going to end.

say you love, say you love, say you love me (love me).

"good," he smirks, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you even closer. "because you're never getting rid of me."

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0

[tigreblvnc]

cw: hunger games context, blood, manhunt, survival.

Rin runs.

His frantic breath swells and bursts in his chest as he accelerates deeper into the foliage, far from the cornucopia.

Far from the slaughter unfolding there.

His heels crush leaves, dirt, and humus beneath him.

He climbs a hill and nearly stumbles over a snarl of branches and brambles.

Rin runs.

Even from this distance,

he feels like he can still hear the screams of agony.

How many are already dead?

Is someone on his trail?

How far does this forest stretch?

His heart pounds, his temples pulse in time. His skin is already flushed, swollen with sweat.

On his back, a bag swings wildly. It's what he managed to grab before fleeing the clearing where they all stepped down from their pedestals to go die.

Rin runs with hope on his back.

Maybe there's nothing in that bag.

Maybe there's his reason for winning in it.

His eyes narrow, his focus sharpens. He doesn't slow down.

Find shelter to hide. Wait for the surrounding madness to die down.

Then,

he'll make his move.

© TIGREBLVNC 2024 | SAE ITOSHI & RIN ITOSHI ROLEPLAY.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 10: Arteries and Rain] [Series Finale]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), blood and violence and death, Alicent desperately trying to bond with her freak children.

Word count: 4.6k

❤️ All my writing can be found HERE! 💙

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

The same hand that once turned a key in the locks of closets and trunks, that moved his game piece across the board until it landed on the same space as yours and sent your bat hurtling back to the start, that shoved you into an ice-flecked stream in the Vale, that yanked you, bruised you, pushed you, trapped you, tore off your clothes, unraveled your braid, committed sins that others believe are beyond redemption; now you grasp for Aemond’s hand and it is not there.

I’ve lost him, you think, splintering like a shell struck with a mallet. I was too late.

Then the Cannibal dives and banks steeply, and your outstretched, searching fingers close around Aemond’s wrist.

He slams into the Cannibal’s side, grabs a jutting black spine with his other hand, and pulls himself upwards to where you are. The ground is closer, the field and the castle and the Gods Eye where the bones of Daemon and Caraxes and Vhagar will spend eternity in the sunless depths. The wind is cold and vicious, howling in your ears. From where the Cannibal torched the Northmen, dark smoke billows into the air and makes your eyes water, makes your lungs burn.

As the Cannibal descends, Aemond speaks to you only once that you can hear. He is still panting, trying to catch his breath from the fall he had believed would kill him. He shouts to you over the roar of the wind and the deafening whirr of dragon wings: “I always knew you were worthy.”

On the shore of the Gods Eye, Cregan Stark is down on his knees. He has surrendered to spare the lives of his remaining men; thousands of soldiers are flocking to yield with him, their empty hands held high in contrition, submitting to the orders of troops carrying Aegon’s banner. You recognize your uncle Gwayne Hightower among them. Criston looks up at you as he holds Cregan at the lakeshore, a blade to his throat. The Cannibal soars past a group of Northmen sprinting for the trees, deserters, cowards, and they are engulfed in flames. As one of the men burns, your dragon scoops him into his mouth and bites down, fangs impaling flesh, jaws crushing bones. There is a muffled scream and then nothing. You feel the Cannibal’s hunger being dulled like you’ve eaten something hot and bloody yourself, boar or venison dripping with grease.

You land near Criston and Cregan Stark, the gales from the Cannibal’s wings rocking the trees and making waves on the dark, enigmatic blue of the lake, a color that reminds you of Aegon’s eyes. The Cannibal is already impatient, lurching from side to side. He wants this stranger off of his back. He will tolerate no one but you.

“You should dismount,” you tell Aemond, and he promptly finds a path to the earth, scrambling down the onyx-black spines that protrude from the dragon’s thorax and taking several hurried strides away. The Cannibal glares at him and growls, steam rising from his flaring nostrils. But he can feel who Aemond is to you—ricochets of animal lust and episodic tenderness and doubt and surety and hatred and love—and so the Cannibal refrains from killing him.

You climb down from your dragon and walk to where Cregan Stark is kneeling. Criston is gaping at you, thunderstruck. Aemond steps closer to you and draws his sword. He carries the weapon that belonged to Aegon before he was burned at Rook’s Rest, the Conqueror’s sword Blackfyre. Aemond is watching you, and you have the impression he is trying to tell you something. You feel echoes of the wounds the past year has left in him: regret, shame, the most inescapable pain he’s ever known. He doesn’t want you to have to feel the same things.

You recall what Mother, standing defiantly behind the iron bars of her cell, once told Rhaenyra: Perhaps you imagine that you will kill every last Green, and all of our loyalists throughout the Seven Kingdoms, millions of people, and therefore you will have no use for bricks upon which to build a lasting peace. But I think that would be a mistake.

Cregan Stark, tall and rugged and with dark hair that runs to his broad shoulders, bows his head. He seems stoic, but his breathing is rapid and you can see his jugular pulsing madly in his throat. He has never met you before, but there’s only one person you could be. “Princess.”

Snowflakes and cinders fall from the sky. Escaped strands of your silver hair blow in the wind. I hate him, you think. But nothing I do now can raise the dead. And there must be a future for those of us who are left. You say to the Warden of the North: “Yield and you will live.”

“We yield,” Cregan Stark agrees immediately, placing his sword on the ground in front of him. It is Valyrian steel; it is called Ice. If he obeys, you will let him keep it. “We will return to the North at once.”

“No,” you say. “You will march south to pledge fealty to the king. And your men will help us rebuild, since their support emboldened Rhaenyra’s treason.”

Behind you, the Cannibal snarls and gnashes his teeth, stained with fresh blood and flecked with shreds of organs. He is the largest claimed dragon in the world. Vhagar is dead, and so are Caraxes and Syrax, Dreamfyre and Meleys, Moondancer, Seasmoke, Vermax, and Arrax. But there are some beasts left as well. Vermithor, Silverwing, and Tessarion are free. Nettles is somewhere far away with her mount Sheepstealer. Sunfyre is healing on Dragonstone. Little Joffrey Velaryon has the young creature Tyraxes, and his silver-haired brother Aegon has Stormcloud. The juvenile Shrykos was orphaned when Jaehaerys died, but Jaehaera still possesses Morghul. And so both the Targaryens and their dragons will live on for generations, and perhaps forever.

“Yes, princess,” Cregan Stark replies, gazing with thinly-veiled horror at the Cannibal, a monster that only someone who has known hatred could see beauty in.

You tell Aemond and Criston: “The Cannibal and I will escort you to King’s Landing to ensure your safety. I’ll keep him as far from your men as I can. I know he unnerves people. Believe me, he doesn’t want to be so close to you either. Not unless he intends to eat you.”

Criston is sheathing his sword. Aemond is smiling, faint and tentative but proud, so proud.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you arrive it is raining in King’s Landing, cold and misty and grey; soon there will be snow. Winter will last a year, or two, or five, but you will survive it. Aemond is already sending letters to Dorne and the Triarchy to forge trade agreements that will help supply the realm with food. He feels responsible for attending to this. His destruction in the Riverlands has endangered everyone. You rarely speak to Aemond, nothing beyond logistics. You are relieved that he survived, and your fury is waning like a crescent moon…but you don’t know what to say to him. Each time you try, you think of Luca and Jace and all the others, and your words crumble like bodies charred to ashes. Aemond gives you space and silence, but he watches you, and sometimes you overhear him telling the soldiers stories of the Conqueror’s wife Visenya, the same reverence in his voice he’s had since childhood.

At the gate of the Red Keep, Mother rushes out and embraces you first, collides with you, collapses and sobs into your shoulder as you hold her like a good daughter would. She is so thin you fear you will shatter her. Jaehaera and Maelor follow after Mother, so much older than you remember them. Jaehaera runs to embrace you too, but Maelor hesitates by the gate. His sister goes back for him, promises that everything will be okay now, and walks with him to where you are crumpled on the cobblestones with Mother. Jaehaera hugs you tightly, but Maelor is still frowning. Perhaps he does not remember the details, but he knows he has the sense that you once betrayed him.

“I’m so sorry, Maelor,” you whisper. “I would never hurt you. I would burn anyone who tried to.” And he relents and allows you to bundle him into your arms, and once he’s there he finds it feels like home.

Mother is weeping for Helaena and Daeron and Aegon. “Aegon is alive,” you say. “He is wounded, but he is safe and has been in hiding on Dragonstone. Aemond has arranged for a ship to bring him here. You will see him tomorrow or the day after.”

“Long live the king!” Criston shouts, you all echo him, Mother with an astonished smile and tears glistening in her large dark eyes. Her firstborn son is back from the dead. She will have the chance to try to learn to love him properly.

“My girl, my brave girl,” Mother says, touching your face and your hair. Your eyes are savage; you smell like smoke. “What’s happened to you? Rhaenyra told me that you’d given birth to a baby at Heart’s Home, that she and I shared a grandson, but…” She looks around, hoping that a maid will appear carrying an infant with Jace’s pug nose and unruly dark curls. And there is such a child, but not in the land of the living. You explain this, and Mother takes your hand and leads you to the sept, and for the first time in your life you join her without protest. Together you light candles for those who were lost, and a little more of your bitterness burns away as the wax melts into pools and cools like lava that runs into the sea.

The king returns to his city, and the smallfolk pour into the streets to welcome him. He is ashamed of his scars, his infirmity, the fact that he must be carried in a litter, but to them he is a man who has suffered just like they have—maimed and marooned and grieving martyred loved ones—and proved that there is hope for a different sort of future. That first day, Aegon spends ten hours on the Iron Throne listening to the stories of his people and learning what they need, you and Aemond standing on either side of him. Each time the Cannibal flies overhead, growling in a rumble like thunder and casting a vast shadow, they do not shrink away but beam up at him as their protector, their assurance that no further harm can befall King’s Landing. Women embroider him into their blankets and pillowcases. Children carve tiny wooden figurines of him. Cregan Stark and his Northmen bend the knee, as do representatives from scores of other treasonous houses. Aegon pardons them; but he grins wickedly when the Cannibal’s roars quake the Great Hall and battle-hardened warriors tremble.

You wait until Aegon is back to see Rhaenyra. You go to the dungeon with your brothers, Mother, and Criston, and you stand in the same place Rhaenyra did when she agreed to marry you to Jace. You were supposed to save her son. Instead, your love for Aemond condemned him.

What was our marriage for? What was any of this for?

The woman who once aspired to be queen and paid the price in blood is a ghost, hushed and weightless, hunched in a corner with her knees to her chest, her long unkempt silver hair thinning. When she sees you, she crawls to the door of her cell and grips the rusted iron bars with skeletal hands. Her watery eyes are frantic and darting like a trapped animal’s. “My children—”

“They are unharmed and still at the Eyrie with Rhaena,” you say, and Rhaenyra sobs in relief.

“Please let them live,” she begs you hoarsely. It is difficult to reach the Eyrie in the winter, but you could do it on the Cannibal. You could raze the fortress like Aemond burned Heart’s Home.

“Because you showed the same mercy to Helaena and Daeron?” Aegon seethes.

“They are helpless, they are blameless. It was my decision to go to war, not theirs.”

“And you shall atone for it,” Aegon taunts, leaning heavily on his walking stick. “I will take you to Dragonstone and Sunfyre will eat you alive. How do you like that, bitch? He’ll start at your feet and work his way up, and you will feel everything.”

“Jace would want her to be spared,” you say quietly.

“I’m not taking suggestions from the delegation of the dead.”

“I’m serious,” you say. Aegon’s scarred brow furrows, Criston is incredulous. Aemond is watching you thoughtfully, his right hand resting on Blackfyre’s hilt. Only Mother is not startled; instead she is studying Rhaenyra wearily, perhaps wondering if she can stomach the mercy the gods would want her to extend to even the most vile of sinners. “That’s why Jace married me,” you remind them. “So his family might survive even if the Blacks lost the war. And he swore to do the same in return. He was kind to me. When he traveled here to King’s Landing, he ensured that Helaena, Jaehaera, and Maelor were treated well. He would have protected Mother if our side had been defeated.”

“And so you’re proposing…what, that we free her?!” Aegon exclaims.

“Her dragon is gone. Her cause is hopeless. But half the realm fought for her, and if we are to earn their loyalty rather than merely compel it with force, we will need to offer concessions. We could give Driftmark to Joffrey—he is allegedly a Velaryon, after all—and allow Rhaenyra to reside there under guard. When her sons with Daemon are grown, we can marry them into the great houses that allied with us in the war. Both branches of the family will survive, and eventually they will grow back together through marriage, just as Jace and I learned to care for each other.”

“She’s a traitor.” Aegon glares hatefully at Rhaenyra. “She’s a murderer, she’s a monster.”

“She could make the same accusations against Aemond, or you, or me,” you say calmly. “Consider it. Take it to the council. You are the king, and it is your decision either way. But this war began with Targaryens devouring each other. And if we continue to succumb to this fury, this fire…then someday there will be none of us left, and our bloodlines and our dragons will be myths and nothing more.”

You turn to go, and Rhaenyra’s bony hand strikes out from between the bars of her cell and seizes your wrist. In a second, Aemond is there; but you shake your head and he retreats. You are not in danger. Rhaenyra cannot hurt you now.

“Where is Luca?” Rhaenyra asks you, pleading and pitiful, terrified of the answer. “Where’s the baby? No one has spoken of him, not the guards, not the maids. The people don’t seem to know he exists. Is he dead?” The tears that well up and glitter in your eyes reveal the truth before you can say it. Rhaenyra nods, weeping. “Aemond killed him when he burned Heart’s Home, didn’t he?”

Once you lied for Aemond on the night Luke died over Shipbreaker Bay: Luke was an enemy. He perished in combat. And now, just as instinctively, you refuse to disavow him. “No,” you say solemnly, agony choking your words, Aemond looking at you, racked with guilt and entirely mystified. “Luca died of fever three days before the attack. It wasn’t Aemond’s fault.”

“So Jace’s line has ended.” Rhaenyra has lost him all over again. She releases your hand and sinks to the stone floor, kneeling there despondently.

“Yes,” you say, briefly touching a palm to one of her jagged, waifish shoulders. And you feel a flicker of something you would have thought was impossible: sympathy, compassion, kinship. “But you still have Joffrey.” You still have a son of Harwin Strong.

You leave the drafty gloom of the dungeon and return to Maegor’s Holdfast, where life is beginning again. Maids are stripping away every vestige of Rhaenyra’s tenure here. A hundred cats, once brought to the Red Keep by Grandsire, trot lazily through the corridors and groom themselves on windowsills. You take Jaehaera and Maelor with you to collect seashells on the chilly, fog-swept beach and teach them how to make mosaics. You craft one depicting Vhagar for Aemond, and give it to him without a word. He brings you a new roost for bats, forget-me-nots painted onto the oak wood box, a deep blue velvet cover to blot out the daylight.

Each night your bed seems to grow bigger, more lonely, more unnaturally vacant. When you are here…think of me, Aemond once wrote to you; and gradually, like mountains are formed over eons, you do.

~~~~~~~~~~

Several weeks after you arrive home, you bleed for the first time since you gave birth to Luca, your body healed and replenished, your corporal almanac beginning again. Soon you will have another child. Soon your hatred and your grief will fade even further, never disappearing but becoming cool to the touch and clear like glass. The flow of blood is heavy, and your cramps are terrible; but you know what will relieve you.

You find Aemond in the small council chamber, where he spends so much of his time. Sometimes he is in meetings with Aegon and Criston and Mother and the rest of the king’s advisors, sometimes he is examining maps and making calculations. But often he is simply here alone and empty-handed, the weight of the past year mooring him like an anchor does a ship. He does not seem to hear you come in. He is sitting with his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together, his melancholic blue gaze on the floor. He is mourning Vhagar. He is mourning what he once had with you.

You sweep across the room to him, crimson gown, bare feet. You lift Aemond’s chin and say, soft and gentle: “Enough.”

He looks at you as if he’s not sure if this is real. Then after a moment, he smiles. “I missed you.”

“I know.” You flash a mischievous grin, taking several steps back from him. “If I ran, do you think you could catch me?”

“I do.”

“I’m very fast.”

“But you want to be caught.”

Aemond lunges for you; you snatch your hand away just as his fingernails are biting into the vulnerable flesh of your forearm. You bolt to the other side of the small council chamber, careening around the table. Aemond follows, his silver hair flowing behind him, his boots thumping against the floor. He grabs you, hurls you against the wall, pins you there with his hips as he rips off his black leather tunic and kisses you messily, deeply, gulping down all the time he’s lost. Your hair is torn from its braid. Your pulse is racing, low moans spilling from your lips. Aemond is not taken aback at all when he reaches under your scarlet gown to find a bundle of bloodied rags tucked between your thighs. He whisks them away and replaces them with his right hand, rough and forceful.

It’s been a year since he’s touched you this way, and you’ve had a child since then. You stop him, a palm pressed to his chest. Suddenly, you are self-conscious. You must warn him. “I don’t look the same as I used to. I don’t feel the same.”

“You’re still you,” Aemond says tenderly. His thumbprint traces the arc of your jaw, skims down the front of your throat, ghosts delicately over the scar that begins at your collarbone. This is where he mended you with a needle and thread; this is where he almost lost you. “You belong to me, you always will. Nothing can change that.” Then he kisses you again, and you are drunk in it, warm all over and melting into the forbidden ancient magic you share, the violence and the hatred and the devotion and the love, the insatiable hunger that thuds in your tangled arteries.

Aemond drags you to the table and throws you down onto it. You can feel bruises blooming like violets beneath your skin, the hot euphoric pressure of trapped blood. You try to crawl away from him, scratching your way across the table. Aemond grips your ankles and hauls you closer, wrenches you onto your back, pushes your thighs apart and buries his fingers in you—slick lust and clotted blood, muscles loosening with desperate need—and unlaces his trousers with his other hand so at last he can take you as a husband would. He leans down over the table and seizes your jaw to hold you still, watching your face as he pushes himself inside you, knowing that he’s not hurting you, knowing that you are whole again after a year of having pieces carved away.

Aemond thrusts carefully at first, and then hard and deep, and you hook your arms around his neck and pull yourself upright so you can taste him, whisper to him, moan and whimper into his sweat-damp throat. Aemond tugs down your bodice so he can stroke and bite at your breasts. And you feast on each other until you are both satiated and gasping for air, your blood staining his skin and trickling down his legs, the table painted with smudges of viscous red. Before you leave together for a bath murky with soap and steam, Aemond drags his tongue over the wood, drinking your copper and iron and youth and desire; and when he smiles at you with blood on his lips and chin, you lick his face clean.

Later that night in the hour of the wolf, his tasks of governance behind him, Aemond comes to your chambers and climbs into bed beside you. And he holds you like he did when you were a girl he had shoved into a frigid stream in the Vale, burning up with fever as The Stranger stood in your doorway.

~~~~~~~~~~

You are married on Dragonstone. You and Aemond ask for Aegon’s permission and no one else’s. You want Mother there even if you fear she will not be able to hide her disappointment, but she and Criston attend and make no complaints, standing together amidst the black volcanic rocks and the mist, murmuring back and forth about the many oddities of your house. You don’t mind; you are glad they have each other. It is very lonely to be surrounded by creatures so different from yourself.

Jaehaera and Maelor giggle as they chase minnows and skittering red crabs around the tidepools. Aegon watches them from where he is sprawled on the wet sand swigging his wine, smiling wistfully, effusively admiring the seashells they bring him, heaps overflowing in their tiny hands. When Vermithor roars from the other side of the island, Maelor looks up and gazes intently through the fog as if someone has called his name. Perhaps one day he will claim the Bronze Fury. When you return to Maegor’s Holdfast, you will give him the small oak dragon that Aegon once carved for you.

Afterwards you tell Mother, blood from the ancient Valyrian ceremony still drying on your lips: “You were right.”

She is puzzled, her brow crinkling as she dabs gingerly at your wound with her green handkerchief, embroidered with the Hightower of Oldtown. “About what, dear?”

“A year ago, I didn’t know anything besides how it had always been with Aemond. I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. But now I do.”

Mother distracts herself by tending to your lip, some infinitesimal way in which she can mend you. Her white hands are wrinkled and frail. Her coppery hair thrashes in the cruel wind. “You being happy brings me peace.”

Your voice goes quiet, somber, ashamed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save Helaena and Daeron. I’m sorry I failed.”

“Oh, darling, it wasn’t your fault. We tried, didn’t we?” Mother says, smiling sadly and cradling your cheek. And then she tells you for the first time in your life: “I’m proud of you.”

During the short journey home, you sail past the island of Driftmark, where Rhaenyra, her three surviving sons, and Rhaena now reside with the council’s assent. As you peer over the side of the ship, you spy sapphire dorsal fins of sailfish rising up through the frothing surf, and you lift Maelor so he can see them too. In King’s Landing, there are statues being chiseled out of marble to be placed throughout the city, not just effigies of Jaehaerys and Helaena and Daeron but also Jace, Luke, Baela. The old wounds must be stitched closed. The realm must be united again. The Targaryens must not allow their hunger for fire and blood to turn inwards, lest the last of the Valyrians and all their dragons perish from the earth. Your first son will be named Lucerion after the child you lost; Aemond has already promised this. Jaehaera, sweet and benign like her dead mother, has been betrothed to Jace’s brother Joffrey.

When his wings have healed enough, Sunfyre flies home to King’s Landing to be with Aegon. When fragments of Vhagar’s bones and teeth wash up on the shore of the Gods Eye, Aemond has them brought south so he can burn them. The Cannibal does not slumber in the Dragonpit, nor does he seek you out for comfort or companionship. He ranges far and only comes to you when kindling threats make you hateful again. There are rebellions in the Riverlands where Aemond has made generations of enemies, but Harrenhal and its vassals are always loyal. Since the day you claimed the Cannibal, you are rarely ill. Your chills and fevers and headaches have vanished like a dead language no one is left to remember.

One day summer will return, and there will be roses and blue jays in the garden again, ladybugs and dragonflies and forget-me-nots. But tonight snow is falling outside, hushed and powdery, and you are reminded of when you were at Heart’s Home with Luca and Jace and Lady Caro. You miss being able to talk to Jace; you are grievously aware of the absence of Luca’s fledgling weight in your arms. Aemond knows this, and he understands that you are in need of a distraction.

On the floor of your bedchamber as a sweltering fire crackles in the hearth, the five of you are gathered around the board. Jaehaera and Maelor are finally old enough to play. Jaehaera has inherited Helaena’s yellow butterfly; Maelor’s game piece is Daeron’s purple shadowcat. Your new bats are scrabbling out of their roost and gliding through the window you’ve left open for them. Their names are Ocean, Sorrow, Stream, Winter, Dreams, Rain, Peace.

Presently, it is Jaehaera’s turn. She tosses the dice but they tumble too far, clattering across the room. Aegon helps her fetch them. Maelor asks if you will help him make a mosaic of Vermithor the Bronze Fury, and of course you agree.

“I love you,” you say to Maelor as you comb your fingers through his white-blonde hair, and he stares up at you, bewildered. Perhaps no one has ever told him this before. You say it again, smiling. “I love you.”

Now it’s Aemond’s turn. He rolls the dice, pretends to misread nine dots as ten, lands on Aegon’s space and sends his piece back to the start instead of yours.

[cantheywinthehungergames]

isagi yoichi from blue lock! :D

Name: Isagi Yoichi

Age: 17

Restrictions: No use of superhuman abilities, with exceptions noted below

Note: Any general senses of spatial awareness, adaptability, and reflexes are allowed for usage

Edited to the right poll duration