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serpentface · 5 months ago

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A witch of the Naig-Troibadnnas (Yellowtail river valley) people, resting and enjoying a smoke of the mild stimulant brolge leaf on a hot summer day.

Witches are a small part of the everyday cultural framework among the Hill Tribes. They are individuals considered born possessed by a virgranul, a type of disembodied wild spirit that seeks to inhabit human flesh, either entering the body at the moment of conception, or entering the body at the moment of death. The latter is a dire circumstance that requires significant intercession to fix (the dead body may wander off without rites, leaving the person's soul trapped and liable to warp into the dangerous fuldaigh spirit), while the former circumstance is what causes a person to be born a witch.

In the case of those afflicted in the womb, possession by virgranul is lifelong, and is both a curse and blessing- it divides and isolates them from the human world and causes other wild spirits (both benevolent and malicious) to be perpetually drawn to them, but also allows for them to be attuned to the subtleties of spirits, and able to work magic and divination that the everyday person is incapable of.

Witches are usually recognized from a young age due to marked behavioral differences or atypical development, though are sometimes simply identified as such without obvious behavioral indications, by other witches having read signs of their coming. Their occurrence is not frequent, usually once in a generation for any given tribe. An identified witch child will be taken from their family (the timing varies by tradition, though is usually upon puberty) and into mentorship by an established witch, who will impart their accumulated knowledge and skill and teach the child how to best harness their condition.

One can be a witch regardless of their gender, with the only commonality being that they must remain unmarried, and are expected to never have children (deemed too dangerous, unavoidably placing a child in the path of potentially harmful wild spirits). With no spouses or children to support them in holding a household and herds, witches are instead supported by their communities as means of payment for their services. They typically live in semi-isolation in the boundaries between the village and wilderness (a reflection of their own division between the world of people and of wild spirits, and a protective measure for their communities), and will periodically be brought needed supplies. They do not commonly enter villages unless summoned, or for the sake of certain holidays and festivals, and live most of their lives in seclusion aside from any given mentee (who will in turn care for their mentor in old age).

The societal function of witches is as intermediaries between people and their ancestors, people and wild spirits, and as especially skilled performers of practical magic (most commonly weaving protective spells into worn items, such as clothing or the nose rings of cattle). Forms of practical magic and intercession with ancestors and spirits are performed by all members of society, but a witch has intimate, detailed knowledge of such things and tremendous natural skill that makes them an invaluable asset.

Witches personally discern the identities of the spirits living in any given area and will attempt to familiarize themselves with them, learning in depth about their ways, giving warnings of where the particularly dangerous (or mischievous) ones are, and giving recommendations on which will be receptive to offerings in return for boons. When a village needs to commune with a particularly powerful or dangerous spirit (such as a wildfolk witch), they will commonly send their own witch as an intermediary.

They are ascribed have the ability to directly summon ancestors (who otherwise come and go of their own volition, and rarely ever deign to come at the call of one who is not their descendant). This is of great use when a person finds themselves punished by their ancestors with no certainty as to why, or cases where an orphaned child's ancestry must be identified to gain them proper spiritual support.

They are also regarded as having innate qualities of divination, particularly in reading birdsign (itself generally acknowledged as communication from ancestors, and occasionally gods). The average person has basic knowledge in reading omens of birds and a learned repertoire of key signs, but a witch can divine the messages of birdsign in immense and specific detail, through a vast knowledge system of the meanings of the species, sex, flight direction, gaze, prey, number, and songs of birds. It is common for people to approach a witch for a reading of the skies before undertaking a significant venture or life change, in order to receive detailed and specific advice.

Witches are always literate (and will be taught to read and write by their mentor if they cannot already) and will record their repositories of knowledge in tomes. These are items of absolute secrecy and taboo for a non-witch to touch (the consequences can be severe, you really don't want a witch ancestor-spirit upset with you). Witches can often become competitive about the knowledge stored in these tomes and are known to organize heists amongst themselves in order to gain access to each other's secrets. Most people avoid getting themselves entangled into the complicated rivalries of witches, as these competitions can get ugly and result in many a petty curse if one gains a witch's ire.

---

The only visual cue distinguishing this man as a witch is the tattoos on his forearms, otherwise usually regarded as inappropriate to mark in the contemporary Hill Tribes cultural sphere (the face, upper arms, and sternum is reserved for important clan/tribe/ancestry identification, hands and forearms are reserved for witches, and the rest of the body is appropriate for decoration). These unique forearm tattoos indicate his ancestral connection with a lineage of witches, not blood ancestry but rather the generations of mentors that have produced him. The lines extending down to his fingers are the newest, indicating that he has fully mentored another witch and gained a place in this ancestral line.

The rest of the tattoos here are tribe and blood ancestry identifiers (on the face and upper arms respectively, worn by all members of society), and purely decorative imagery (visible here is a deer, horse, eagle, and a dragon). He also has a snake on his forearm, applied decades ago in an act of youthful rebellion, which has since gotten in the way of critical open skin space.

His clothing is otherwise typical wear for warm seasonal conditions- a man's wool shawl and woven belt, short trousers, decorative deer hide (distinct to the Naig-Troibadnnas), and sandals (these are imported Wardi style sandals, which have been modified with preferred elevated heels). The horn shaped torc on his forearm identifies him as an esteemed elder.

#I think I mentioned the witch tradition by implication in a couple posts but it hasn't come up directly #Witches here are very frequently going to be autistic or having other developmental disorders- with non neurotypical development #and behavior (though without marked intellectual disability) being seen as the impact of possession by virganul.#There's a parallel tradition of witches among the contemporary Finns (distant sibling cultural group to the Hill Tribes) but of MUCH #more core societal significance in which witch-kings are the central figures of power.#Both developed out of common ancestral traditions which diminished in centrality in the Highlands (witches going from clan #leaders to 'guy living on the outskirts of your village who you go to for magical assistance') and increased in centrality in Finns #(witches going from clan leaders to kings with magical powers granted by the gods)#You see a version of the historical predecessor for witches in the drawing of Kulyos and Bernike wrt his forearm tattoos #The proto-Hill Tribes would have regarded their chieftains as a type of witch and the tradition of marking the forearms would #have originally been exclusive to said chieftains. The societal centrality of witches has been lost but they retain traditions of #markings that would have originally identified them as leaders.#(That drawing is also a imaginative though and not just for the bird woman. He's wearing contemporary dress.)#hill tribes #\

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theguyinthemathexamples · 3 months ago

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Sunday meeting the Creation while (unknowingly) ascending to Aeonhood !!

A lil' something for y'all after my longlonglonglonggggggg disappearance :3

If the sinners couldn't be rid of by Their divine hand, then he shall do it himself. But his— her God pertains the notion of sparing the evil and giving them a chance to seek solace in THEIR thousand voices, or the ones of the Primaxus Deus.

Sunday wishes to see her vision one last time, to see with his own eyes if these sinners could truly turn back to the right path. He's done this before countless times before— but he wants to put this belief of hers to yet another run. Was it to reminisce on lost time, or run from his own sacred beliefs?

And yet still, he doesn't see nor hear the sounds of the battle, neither could he speak in this newfound space; all he can see was this shining path, a separating rift from the boundless luminescent seas it tore through.

He takes a cautious step forward and all of the nearby stars were already flocking towards his shoes with reverence, whispering things of the comprehensable mortal plane to the maddening knowledge of the divine. Some know of his current predicament, while some predict how his future would be another footnote in history, success or otherwise.

Time seems to slow here, atleast that was how Sunday saw it. His path was solid yet it made ripples with each step he took but, it never splashed water. He had half a mind to keep walking.

The stars do not have eyes— as if it would ever, yet he still feels as if he was being stalked, being followed by a presence. He wants to ask, yell out who it was, but his mouth was sealed shut. With no other choice does he continue walking. Faint cackles, and the sound of distorted heavenly choir whispers could be heard in the distance.

At last he sees something in the distance other than endless starry seas: a large, disembodied arm. Well, it looks that way anyways. The rest of the body looks to be shrouded in darkness.

Sunday got closer and closer to this arm when a sun suddenly rose up just ahead of his path. He can't help but feel familiar with this sun. The ones beside his feet tell him it's the one in his solar system of origin. But... he's seen and looked at countless stars upon the starry skies, how can he remember something that glowed hot and bright on the days when he was trying to keep survival closer with his sister?

The smaller beads of light beneath his legs gently pushed him towards the right direction, humming familiar tunes along the way.

Yet again, it was another long walk to his new destination. Sunday doesn't feel tired, if at all from walking all this way when he'd usually need a break by now. The stars provided decent entertainment along the way, luckily enough.

He carefully approaches this large hand, now as big as one of the walls in the Dewlight Pavilion. Memories of his death resurfaces in his mind. A small curse is stifled under his breath. No matter, he'll get rid of the concept of death in his promised dreamscape soon enough.

And just as he begins to tentatively sit on the beckoning heat of the hand, exactly as the stars excitedly encouraged him so, the space shook harshly and he falls. Sunday looks around in a panicked apprehension, which the beads of stars expressed as much if not more.

The large hand brushes along his figure in an almost comforting way, till it disappears after a few swipes. The stars dissipate as well in fear, leaving him in the neverending darkness.

He clutched his chest, almost in agony, a baffled look on his face when he tried to search for the warmth of the hand. Sunday hadn't asked them his question yet.

"So... Why does life slumber?..." He asks to the dark, not expecting answers. Machine parts clammer along his movements.

"Because... someday..."

"We will wake up from our dreams!"

And so does he, too wake up from his own slumber. And along with his shattered will, the stage beneath him crumbled and fell.

Sunday lets himself drop untowards the Golden Hour, reaching out to the world where he promised an impossible pledge to countless souls, unable to fly back where he wished due to his clipped wings.

The night is still... too short...

Arms cradle his figure and bringing it to a tight hug. This action brought him out of his stupor, embracing his sister in reflex.

He dipped his head low, imminent defeat having already been accepted. Yet again do memories flash his mind, but they were only about his 'dream.' What did it all mean?

"Brother..."

"The dream... is over."

#sparkling wheat ♪#gold coated cocoa powder ♪#stellar borne cookies and cream ♪#honkai star rail #hsr #sahsr #sahsrau #sunday #sunday hsr #robin hsr #self aware hsr #can this even be called sahsrau idk #i love making sunday be a soaping wet cat #he's so me fr

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moutainrusing · 5 days ago

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problems

962 words, jegulus, platonic prongsfoot, platonic moonchaser, wolfstar

He was not bad. He was not engaging in incest. What the fuck, James? Shit, he’d just sworn. And again. In his head. It was fine. It was not fine. He was in love with his brother’s brother. Shit, he shouldn’t say it like that.

James was in love with his best friend’s brother.

Except he thought of his best friend as a brother.

So was he now thinking incestual thoughts? And how to stop? And on a scale of rottenness, how bad was he? Should he get thrown out for this? Put in jail? Someone needed to absolve him of this crime. It didn’t feel like a crime.

That’s the rottenness speaking!

He shouldn’t be in love with the brother of the person whom he thought of as a brother.

But he didn’t think of Regulus as a brother— Shut up, James. Just accept that you’re awful. He didn’t want to. He argued with the voice in his head – he was going insane – he refuted it, I’m not awful, but it rolled its eyes at him, the disembodied voice now had disembodied eyes, and James should be send to a psychiatric ward to be fixed for his mental problem of having a crush on his brother’s brother— He was normal. He really was. He just needed to keep it to himself and bottle it up and hopefully he wouldn’t do anything illegal.

Maybe seeking help was a good idea. He’d say, Hey, McGonagall, sign me up for therapy? You see, I have a problem—

You have many problems—

Shut up, voice, anyway, I have this problem where I’m crushing on my brother’s brother, please fix me—

You can’t be fixed.

James really hated his brain. If it weren’t for his brain, he wouldn’t be here finding Regulus attractive, because he wouldn’t have the thoughts to do so. He would be empty and calm and peaceful, the ultimate goal of meditation, and that was a good idea, he should meditate, breathe in deeply, cleanse his mind of all this dirt, and stop thinking about the dirt!

He was meditating.

He had problems, and he would pretend they didn’t exist. That’s not meditation, James.

The voice was supposed to go away when he cleared his thoughts.

He sat cross-legged on his bed, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to fill his brain with only air and nothing else. He was lighter than a cloud, nothing weighed him down, he’d float away and be forever untied from the Earth and all his troubles. Far away in space, where time would lose all meaning, and he would simply be particles of dust in a nebula. Imagine being a nebula. A lovely haze of starry explosion.

Regulus was a star.

James took in another deep breath, trying to suffocate his thoughts with the expansion of his lungs, he’d make room for nothing else except air and air and air and he couldn’t breathe—

“James!” Remus’s voice cut through to him, with a hand on his back, thumping it once, before he returned to the room and opened his eyes.

He latched onto Remus, flickering over Remus’s expression, and he knew exactly how to get rid of the concern written across it. All he had to do was make Remus hate him, so he blurted, “I’m in love with my brother’s brother.”

Remus’s eyes widened slightly, before he coughed, choking on a laugh, “Don’t say it like that, James, or people will get the wrong idea.”

Wildly, James gesticulated, “There is no right idea!”

“James,” Remus calmly caught James’s arms before they swung off his body. “It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t—”

“Regulus isn’t your brother,” Remus stared at him seriously. “You’re doing nothing wrong.”

“But—”

“You’re allowed to think of him in a romantic way. He’s not related to you, he’s a person you met on the journey of your life, and it’s okay for you to fall in love with him. Sirius is another person you met on the journey of your life, and you’re allowed to think of him in any way that you want to as well, and you chose to think of him as a brother. That doesn’t mean that all the random strangers in his family are also yours.”

James collapsed into Remus’s arms, head on his shoulder, mumbling into his neck, “I’m being stupid, right?”

He could imagine Remus’s smirk as he replied, “Nah. You’re never stupid.”

James scoffed, still clinging to Remus as he sought out more advice. “How should I tell Sirius?”

“Tell me what?” The door slammed shut as Sirius entered the room. He paused, looked at James and Remus, and pointed between them incredulously, “Are you telling me that you’re dating?!”

Laughing, James slipped out of Remus’s hug to sling an arm around his shoulder, “Nah, Remus is a brother to me.”

Sirius’s eyes widened, “What?! No, I’m not in love with my brother’s brother!”

Aw, he and Sirius were so similar. James burst out laughing at how stupid his honorary brother was.

With a deadpan expression, Remus added to Sirius’s distress, “I’m also younger than you.”

Dramatically, Sirius protested, “I’m not a pedophile!”

Jumping to his feet, James realised, “Regulus is younger than me! I’m an awful human being—”

“You’re a pedophile for Regulus?!” Sirius turned on him. He waved a condemning finger, “And you’re incestual!”

“You’re incestual!” James contested.

“Neither of you are incestual nor pedophiles,” Remus pinched the bridge of his nose. He continued with a heavy sigh, “James, Regulus is in love with you too.”

Before Sirius could question this onslaught of upsetting revelations (apparently there was reciprocated romantic love between his brother and honorary brother), Remus mumbled as an afterthought, “And Sirius… I’m in love with you too.”

#marauders #james potter #jegulus #james x regulus #regulus x james #remus lupin #james and remus #sirius black #james and sirius #platonic prongsfoot #platonic moonchaser #regulus black #jegulus fic #jegulus microfic #marauders microfic #wolfstar

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novaursa · 4 months ago

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The Price of Fire (8)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: For all the parts to this story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 7 000+

- Previous part: 7

- Next part: 9

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy @hajmola-vs-aamchaska

The night is amassed with shadows, the kind that seem to creep from every corner, swallowing the light, until only a faint glimmer of moonlight filters through the cracks in the curtains. The air in your chamber is heavy, stifling, clinging to your skin like a second layer, and you toss restlessly in your bed, caught between sleep and wakefulness. The events of the day have left a mark deeper than any wound, a scar on your very soul, and even in sleep, you find no escape from them.

The dream begins innocuously enough—an echo of familiar places and faces. The Red Keep looms before you, its towers stretching into a sky darkened with storm clouds. You walk through its halls, but something is wrong. The walls seem to shift, to warp around you as if the castle itself were alive, breathing, watching. You pass a mirror, and in it, you see yourself, but your reflection's eyes are not your own—they are molten gold, like the eyes of the dragon that hatched from your blood.

Then the voices begin, disembodied whispers that slither into your mind like vipers.

"Make the tallow from the fat of a hangman."

You spin around, searching for the source, but the corridor is empty, save for the flickering shadows that dance along the walls. Your heart pounds, a drumbeat of fear, as the whispers grow louder, more insistent.

"Sealed with the kiss of swine."

The words curl around you, filling your ears, your head, until they are all you can hear. They are followed by images—horrifying, grotesque images that sear themselves into your mind. You see a man, faceless and featureless, his body twisting and contorting as if consumed by fire, and beside him, a grotesque beast with the head of a pig and the wings of a dragon.

"Whishes and words sprout from the same seed."

The final whisper is the most haunting, carrying with it a truth you cannot yet comprehend. You feel a pull, a deep, visceral pull, towards something—or someone—just beyond your reach. The air around you crackles with heat, with the scent of burning flesh, and you realize with a start that you are no longer in the Red Keep but in the throne room. The Iron Throne looms before you, and at its base lies the dragon, your dragon, with its golden eyes fixed on you. There is a chain around its neck, heavy and cruel, and as you step closer, you see that it is not just a chain—it is a part of you, binding you to the beast, to the throne, to your father’s madness.

You try to scream, to pull away, but the chain tightens, digging into your flesh, and the dragon roars, a sound that shakes the very foundations of the dream.

With a gasp, you wake, bolting upright in your bed. Your heart races, pounding against your ribcage as if it might burst free at any moment. Your skin is slick with sweat, your hands trembling as they clutch the sheets. It takes a moment for the familiar surroundings of your chamber to come into focus, for reality to assert itself over the lingering terror of the dream.

But the fear does not dissipate; it clings to you, wrapping around your bones like a cold, suffocating shroud. You cannot shake the feeling that the dream was not just a product of your mind, but something more—a premonition, a warning. You fear that you are now bound to your father’s madness in ways you cannot yet understand.

The door to your chamber creaks open, and you instinctively reach for the dagger hidden beneath your pillow. But it is only Arthur, his face drawn with concern as he steps into the room, the soft glow of a candle casting shadows across his features.

"Y/N," he says softly, his voice a balm to your frayed nerves. He crosses the room in a few long strides and kneels by your bedside, reaching out to brush a strand of damp hair from your face. "You cried out in your sleep. What happened?"

You stare at him, struggling to find the words. How can you explain the horrors you witnessed in your dream? How can you tell him of the chain that binds you, of the dragon’s eyes that haunt you?

"It was just a dream," you say finally, though the words feel hollow, a poor attempt to convince yourself more than him. "But it felt… so real."

Arthur’s hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. There is something in his eyes, a sadness, a fear that mirrors your own. He knows the weight you carry, the burden of your bloodline, and it tears at him as much as it does you.

"You are stronger than any dream, Y/N," he says, his voice firm yet gentle. "Whatever darkness your father has unleashed, it will not claim you. I won’t let it."

His words should comfort you, but the fear lingers, gnawing at the edges of your mind. You close your eyes, leaning into his touch, drawing strength from the warmth of his hand, the steady beat of his heart. But even as he holds you, a part of you cannot shake the feeling that something has changed, that the dragon now bound in chains is not the only one tethered to the Iron Throne.

"And the dragon?" you whisper, your voice barely audible. "What of him?"

Arthur hesitates, and in that moment, you see the truth in his eyes. He knows as well as you do that the dragon is not just a creature born of fire and blood, but something more—something that ties you inexorably to your father’s will.

"He is strong," Arthur replies after a moment, his voice laced with the same uncertainty that plagues your own thoughts. "But he is yours, Y/N, not your father’s. Remember that."

You nod, though doubt still lingers in your heart. You can feel the pull of the dragon, the bond forged in blood, and you wonder if it is a bond you will ever truly break.

Arthur pulls you close then, wrapping his arms around you as if he could shield you from the darkness that stands on the horizon. You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, and for a moment, you allow yourself to believe that he might be right, that you might be able to defy the fate that seems to be tightening its grip around you.

But deep down, you know that the dragon has awakened something within you, something that cannot be so easily silenced. And as you drift back to sleep in Arthur’s arms, you can’t help but wonder if that something is the same madness that has consumed your father—or if it is something far, far worse.

The echo of Rhaegar’s footsteps resonates through the darkened corridors of the Red Keep, each step a reminder of the burden weighing heavily on his shoulders. The scent of wildfire still lingers faintly in the air, mingling with the stale, musty odor that always seemed to cling to the throne room and its cursed Iron Throne. Rhaegar pauses before the door, taking a moment to steady his breath, knowing full well the volatility that could await him on the other side.

The door creaks open, revealing King Aerys II sitting at a large wooden table, papers strewn about, and a goblet of wine in his hand. His hair, once silver like the moon, now hangs in greasy strands, framing a face etched with madness but, at this moment, unusually calm. His eyes, however, still gleam with the dangerous fire that had consumed him over the years, a fire that now burned brighter with the hatching of the dragon.

"Father," Rhaegar begins, his voice soft, measured. He steps into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Aerys does not immediately acknowledge him, his gaze fixed on the flames crackling in the hearth. Rhaegar can feel the tension in the air, the precarious balance of his father’s mind. He must tread carefully.

"Rhaegar, my son," Aerys finally speaks, his voice surprisingly even. "Have you come to see our child? My dragon... our creation?" The king's voice carries an unsettling blend of pride and possessiveness, his eyes shifting to meet Rhaegar's with an intensity that makes his son’s heart tighten.

Rhaegar inclines his head slightly. "I have, Father. The dragon is a magnificent creature, a symbol of House Targaryen’s strength, of our blood." He chooses his words carefully, keeping his tone respectful. "But it is not just the dragon that concerns me."

Aerys narrows his eyes, suspicion flickering across his features. "What concerns you, my son? The dragon is ours by right. It will be the weapon that ensures our enemies bow before us."

Rhaegar takes a breath, steadying himself. "It is Y/N that concerns me, Father," he says, his voice steady but laced with concern. "She is still weak from the ritual, and Pycelle says her wounds will take time to heal. She needs rest, care. We cannot risk her health, not when she is so important to us… to you."

Aerys’s gaze sharpens at the mention of you. "She is important, yes. More important than any of them realize," he murmurs, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "She brought forth the dragon. She is its mother, its rightful queen. No harm must come to her, do you hear me?"

Rhaegar nods, carefully concealing his relief that, for now, Aerys seems focused on your well-being. "Of course, Father. No harm will come to her, I swear it. But she needs time away from the chaos of the court, away from prying eyes and those who might seek to use her or the dragon for their own ends."

Aerys frowns, suspicion clouding his features once more. "What are you suggesting, Rhaegar? That she be hidden away? That she be kept from me?"

"No, Father," Rhaegar says quickly. "I would never suggest such a thing. Only that she be allowed to recover in peace. Perhaps at Dragonstone, where she can be close to her dragon but away from the eyes of those who might seek to control her... or it."

The mention of Dragonstone seems to catch Aerys’s interest, and Rhaegar seizes the opportunity. "Dragonstone is a place of power, a place where our ancestors ruled and raised their dragons. It would be fitting for Y/N to be there, with the dragon, away from the prying eyes of the court. There, she can grow stronger, and the dragon can be raised in the safety and secrecy it deserves."

Aerys considers this for a long moment, his eyes flickering with the flames of the hearth. "Dragonstone," he muses, the word rolling off his tongue as if tasting its possibilities. "Yes… yes, it is a place of power. She will be safe there. But I must see the dragon, must know that it is truly ours."

Rhaegar bows his head. "Of course, Father. The dragon will be brought to you, but it must be done carefully, slowly. It is still young, still growing. It needs time, as does Y/N."

Aerys nods, seemingly satisfied with this answer. "Yes, yes, you are right, my son. But remember this, Rhaegar," he says, his voice suddenly cold, his eyes locking onto his son's with a ferocity that makes Rhaegar’s blood run cold. "She is mine. The dragon is mine. They are my legacy. Do not forget that."

Rhaegar swallows, his throat dry. "I will not forget, Father."

Aerys's gaze lingers on him for a moment longer before he turns his attention back to the fire, dismissing Rhaegar with a wave of his hand. "Go now. Ensure that my dragon is well cared for. And see to it that Y/N is taken to Dragonstone, where she will be safe... and where she will remember her place."

Rhaegar bows low, retreating from the room with a sense of urgency. Once outside, he allows himself a breath of relief, though the weight of his father's obsession with you and the dragon still presses heavily on his chest. He must speak with Arthur, ensure that you are protected, hidden away from the madness that now grips Aerys.

As he walks back through the dimly lit corridors, his mind is consumed with thoughts of you—of your safety, of the secret you share with Ser Arthur Dayne. Rhaegar knows he must act swiftly, for the shadow of his father’s madness is long and ever-reaching, and it is only a matter of time before it threatens to engulf you both.

The salty breeze tugs at your hair as you stand on the edge of the harbor, the morning sun glinting off the choppy waters of Blackwater Bay. The sight of the ship bobbing gently at anchor fills you with a sense of unease, the iron cage being carefully loaded onto its deck a pogient reminder of the strange and terrible events that have led you here. Inside the cage, your dragon, the one born of death, lets out a low, restless growl. His golden eyes, now a little larger, still burning with the same fierce intelligence that haunts your dreams. You feel a strange pull in your chest, as though something within you is tethered to the creature, a bond that tightens with every beat of your heart.

Your hand instinctively rises to your chest, pressing against the spot where you can feel the faintest echo of warmth, as if your own blood still burns with the wildfire that hatched the dragon. The world around you seems distant, your focus narrowing to the creature in the cage, to the strange connection you share. A soft, persistent whisper at the back of your mind urges you to draw closer, to reach out and touch the iron bars that keep him confined, but the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you back to reality.

"Y/N," Rhaegar’s voice is gentle but firm, grounding you. He appears beside you, his presence solid and reassuring amidst the swirling chaos of your thoughts. His arm slips around your shoulders, pulling you into a comforting embrace. The warmth of his touch dispels the strange pull you felt toward the dragon, anchoring you firmly in the present.

"You will be safe at Dragonstone," Rhaegar murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. "I wish I could go with you, but I will see you again soon. I promise." He pulls back slightly, his violet eyes searching yours for any sign of distress. "And I will make sure our father remains... distracted for as long as possible."

You nod, though words seem to fail you in the face of all that has happened. The sight of the dragon, your dragon, being locked away, the very creature that should have been a symbol of your family's strength, instead treated as a dangerous secret to be hidden away—it all weighs heavily on your mind.

Before you can voice your concerns, another presence joins you. Queen Rhaella, your mother, approaches, her face pale but composed, as if she has steeled herself for what is to come. Her gaze is tender as she looks at you, though it is clouded with the same sorrow that has shadowed her for years. "Y/N, Rhaegar," she says softly, her voice carrying the weight of a mother’s love and the pain of long-endured suffering.

"Mother," Rhaegar greets her with a bow of his head, stepping back to allow her to stand beside you.

Rhaella’s hand finds yours, squeezing it gently. "Aerys has allowed me to accompany you to Dragonstone," she says, her voice tinged with both relief and resignation. "He... he sees no use for me here any longer."

The words hang in the air, a bitter reminder of how far your father has fallen, how little regard he holds for those who were once dearest to him. Rhaella’s gaze flickers to the dragon in its cage, a flash of fear and sadness passing over her features before she turns back to Rhaegar. "Take care of yourself, my son," she says, her voice wavering slightly. "You carry the hopes of our house."

Rhaegar nods, his expression softening. "And you carry its future," he replies, his gaze lingering on you. "This is likely temporary, as you well know. Father will not be content to let you remain away from him for long. And when the time comes... the small council's debate may soon become more than mere words. Our marriage may no longer be just a possibility, Y/N."

Your heart tightens at his words. The idea of marrying Rhaegar has always been one tangled with duty, obligation, and the preservation of your house. Yet, there is another side to this—a secret part of you that yearns for someone else, for Ser Arthur Dayne, whose presence you can feel even now, standing at a respectful distance near the Queen’s retinue.

Your gaze drifts to where Ser Arthur waits, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his helm, though his eyes—those familiar, intense eyes—never leave you. Beside him, Ser Lewyn Martell stands ready, prepared to accompany you and your mother to Dragonstone. The two of them, Arthur especially, have been your protectors in more ways than one, and you feel a sense of calm knowing they will be by your side during this exile.

But before you can take a step toward them, a sudden shift in the atmosphere halts you. The harbor grows quiet, the bustling activity of sailors and dockworkers falling away as Aerys, your father, arrives with the Kingsguard and his entourage. The sight of him makes your blood run cold, the sharp contrast between the man he once was and the mad king he has become all too clear in the daylight.

Aerys’s presence is unsettling, a mix of unpredictability and danger that makes everyone around him tense, as though they are all walking on the edge of a knife. You straighten your posture, reminding yourself not to show any sign of weakness, any sign that might provoke him into changing his mind about letting you go.

Your mother, however, is less successful in hiding her fear. As Aerys approaches, she takes a small step back, her eyes lowering to the ground, her entire demeanor shrinking as though trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. You sense her anxiety, feel it in the way her hand trembles in yours before she quickly releases her grip, folding her hands in front of her as she stares at the ground.

"Y/N, you are my daughter, my blood. The mother of my dragon.” Aerys croons, his voice unexpectedly warm, though there is a manic edge to it that makes your skin crawl. He steps closer, his eyes—once sharp and clear—now filled with the flames of his own madness. Without warning, he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, the touch of his lips cold and unsettling.

As soon as his lips make contact, a voice—a dark, twisted whisper—echoes in your mind, repeating the words from the nightmare that has plagued you ever since the ritual: "Sealed with the kiss of swine."

The words send a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, the world seems to tilt, the harbor, the ship, the dragon, all fading into the background as the voice reverberates through your thoughts. But you force yourself to remain still, to show no sign of the terror that grips you.

Aerys pulls back, his smile unsettling as he examines your face as though searching for something only he can see. "Remember, my child, the dragon is ours—yours and mine. We are bound by fire and blood."

You manage a stiff nod, your voice catching in your throat. "Yes, Father," you reply, keeping your tone as even as possible.

Before Aerys can say anything further, Tywin Lannister steps forward, his eyes gleaming with that cold calculation that always unnerved you. "Safe travels, my lady," he says, offering you a bow that seems more like a formality than a genuine gesture of respect.

As he straightens, the voice in your mind returns, louder this time, dripping with malice: "It has two mouths to lick from."

The words almost make you recoil, but you manage to keep your composure, nodding at Tywin in acknowledgment. The tension in the air is suffocating, the weight of all that is unspoken hanging between you and everyone present. But you know this is not the time or place to question the meaning of these strange, disturbing messages. Not when so many eyes are upon you, waiting for any sign of weakness, any reason to doubt your loyalty to the crown.

Finally, with a nod from Aerys, the entourage begins to withdraw, allowing you, Rhaella, and your escorts to make your way toward the waiting ship. Rhaegar lingers for a moment longer, his gaze meeting yours, filled with a mixture of worry and determination.

"This will not be forever," he says quietly, his voice meant only for your ears. "I will do everything in my power to protect you, to bring you back safely."

You nod, though the certainty in his words does little to quell the unease that churns within you. As you turn to follow your mother and the Kingsguard toward the ship, your gaze once again finds Arthur. His presence, as always, brings a small measure of comfort, even as the weight of the future presses heavily on your shoulders.

But as you step onto the gangplank, the whisper in your mind returns once more, a final chilling reminder of the darkness that shadows your path: "Two mouths, one kiss."

You force the voice back, focusing on the solidity of the wooden planks beneath your feet, the sound of the waves against the hull of the ship. Soon, you tell yourself, you will be at Dragonstone, far from the madness of King.

The wind fills the sails of the ship as it cuts through the waves, the rhythmic rise and fall of the sea a steady backdrop to the tension that hangs in the air. The sun is dipping lower in the sky, casting the waters in a warm, golden hue, but the beauty of the scene does little to calm the storm within you. You stand on the deck, your gaze fixed on the iron cage where your dragon, your bond, waits restlessly.

The creature paces within the confines of its prison, its golden eyes flicking toward you with an almost knowing look, as if it can sense your inner turmoil, the conflict between duty and the strange, irresistible pull that has been growing ever stronger since you first laid eyes on it.

Beside you, Ser Arthur Dayne stands silently, his presence a comforting weight, a reminder that you are not alone in this. His silver armor gleams in the fading light, the sword at his side a symbol of the protection he has always offered you, even in the most dire of circumstances. Behind you, your mother, Queen Rhaella, stands with Ser Lewyn Martell and a handful of retainers, all of whom have chosen to accompany you and the queen on this journey to Dragonstone. Their expressions are a mix of concern and uncertainty, none of them quite sure what will happen next.

Arthur’s voice breaks the silence, soft but firm. "Are you sure about this, Y/N?"

You turn to him, meeting his gaze. The concern in his eyes is evident, but there is also a trust there, a belief in you that gives you strength. You nod, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you. "Yes, Arthur. This is something I must do."

He studies you for a moment longer, as if searching for any sign of hesitation, but when he finds none, he nods, stepping back slightly to give you space. You take a deep breath, feeling the salt air fill your lungs, the cool breeze against your skin. The moment has come, and you know there is no turning back.

With slow, deliberate steps, you approach the iron cage. The dragon inside, still young but already formidable, stops its pacing and watches you, its golden eyes locking onto yours. The connection between you flares to life, that strange bond you share surging with intensity. You feel it in your blood, in your very soul, a pull that goes beyond words or reason.

You reach out, your fingers brushing against the cold iron bars. The dragon shifts, lowering its head slightly, as if in acknowledgment. Your heart pounds in your chest, but there is a sense of rightness in this moment, a clarity that cuts through the fear and uncertainty.

Slowly, you unlatch the cage, the metal clanging softly as you pull the door open. The dragon hesitates for just a moment, as if testing the air, before it steps out, its movements fluid and graceful. The others on the deck watch in stunned silence, the anticipation is visible as they wait to see what will happen next.

As the dragon emerges fully from the cage, it spreads its wings, shaking them out as if testing their strength. It lets out a low, rumbling growl, more a sound of satisfaction than threat, and then it turns to you, its eyes glowing with that same golden light.

You feel the bond tighten, that pull in your chest growing stronger until it is almost overwhelming. And then, suddenly, you hear it again—that voice in your mind, the one that has haunted you ever since the ritual, the one that whispered dark and terrible things. But this time, the voice is different. It is clearer, more certain, and it speaks a single word: Terrax.

The name echoes in your mind, filling you with a strange sense of completion, as if something that was always meant to be has finally fallen into place. You whisper the name aloud, your voice trembling slightly. "Terrax."

The dragon’s eyes flash, and you feel a surge of recognition, a deep, primal understanding that passes between you. This is his name, the name that binds him to you, the name that seals the bond.

Arthur steps forward cautiously, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though his posture is more protective than threatening. "What did you say?"

"Terrax," you repeat, your voice stronger now. "That is his name."

Arthur’s gaze shifts to the dragon, his expression a mix of awe and concern. "You named him?"

You shake your head slightly, still trying to process the enormity of what just happened. "No... he named himself. I just... I just heard it."

Arthur’s brow furrows, but he does not question you further. He knows better than anyone how deeply intertwined your fate is with this creature, how the ritual that brought Terrax into the world also bound you to him in ways that neither of you fully understand.

Rhaella, who has been silent until now, steps closer, her eyes wide with both fear and wonder. "Y/N... what have you done?" she whispers, though there is no accusation in her tone, only a mother’s concern for her child.

"I’ve released him, Mother," you say, turning to face her. "I couldn’t keep him caged. He... he’s a part of me."

Rhaella’s expression softens, and she reaches out to touch your cheek, her hand trembling slightly. "You are so much like your father, in ways that both terrify and amaze me," she murmurs. "But you must be careful, Y/N. There are forces at work here that we do not fully understand."

"I know," you reply, your voice quiet but firm. "But I can’t ignore this. Terrax is mine, and I am his."

Ser Lewyn, who has been watching with wary eyes, steps forward, his voice calm but laced with concern. "Your Grace, if the dragon is to remain free, we must ensure he is properly guarded. Dragonstone is a place of power, but it is not without its dangers."

"Terrax will not be caged again," you say, your tone leaving no room for argument. "But he will not harm anyone unless provoked. I feel it... he knows who his enemies are."

Arthur exchanges a glance with Ser Lewyn, and then he nods. "We will keep him safe, Y/N. And we will keep you safe, too."

The tension eases slightly at his words, and you offer him a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Arthur."

As the ship sails on toward Dragonstone, the sun sinking lower on the horizon, you stand beside Terrax who is perched on taffrail, your hand resting on his small, scaled flank. The bond between you is stronger than ever, a living connection that pulses with the rhythm of the sea and the beat of your heart.

You are no longer just a princess of House Targaryen. You are the mother of a dragon, and your fate is now entwined with his, bound together by the ancient forces of old Valyria.

The streets of King’s Landing are alive with the hum of daily life, the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread mingling with the less pleasant odors of the bustling city. The setting sun casts long shadows across the cobblestones, painting the world in shades of gold and orange. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen walks among his people, his presence alone enough to draw hushed whispers and admiring glances from the smallfolk. His silver hair catches the light, making him appear almost otherworldly, a living embodiment of the storied Valyrian bloodline.

Though he often brings his harp on such walks, today it remains in the Red Keep, for Rhaegar’s mind is heavy with thoughts too dark and tangled to be soothed by music. At his side, Ser Barristan Selmy, the most loyal of his Kingsguard, walks with a steady, measured pace, his watchful eyes scanning the crowd. Even in the heart of the city, danger is never far, and Barristan’s duty is to ensure that no harm befalls the prince.

As they move through the narrow streets, Rhaegar can hear the murmur of conversation, snatches of talk that filter through the air like the wind. The people adore him, even now, when the shadow of his father’s madness looms large over the realm. They speak of his kindness, his wisdom, and, more recently, his possible marriage to you, his sister. The idea of such a union has stirred a mix of hope and curiosity among the smallfolk, who see it as holding true to the old ways, a reaffirmation of House Targaryen’s ancient customs.

Rhaegar’s thoughts turn to you, the sister he has sworn to protect. He pictures your face, the strength you’ve shown despite everything, and the bond you now share with the dragon. One that ties you both to the darkest aspects of your family’s legacy. He remembers Varys’s words, spoken in the shadows of the Red Keep: “If the nature of her relationship with Ser Arthur becomes known, it will not just be Aerys’s wrath you need fear, but the whispers of treason, the seeds of rebellion. Even the gods cannot save her from the court’s judgment if this becomes public knowledge.”

A chill runs through him at the thought. He knows Varys speaks the truth; the court is a nest of vipers, and the truth of your relationship with Ser Arthur would be more than enough to destroy you—and by extension, him. He cannot let that happen. He will do whatever it takes to protect you, even if it means denying his own desires.

As they turn onto a broader avenue, the crowd parts slightly, and Rhaegar catches sight of a familiar figure moving toward them. Cersei Lannister, her golden hair shining like a beacon, approaches with a small entourage of Lannister guards and retainers. She is dressed in rich red and gold, the colors of her house, and she wears a smile that is both charming and calculating.

“Prince Rhaegar,” she greets him warmly, inclining her head with just the right amount of deference. “It is a pleasure to see you out among the people. They adore you, as well they should.”

Rhaegar offers a polite nod, though his expression remains distant. “Lady Cersei. It is always a pleasure to see you.”

Cersei steps closer, her green eyes gleaming with a mixture of ambition and something else—something deeper, more personal. “I heard the most delightful rumor today,” she says, her voice smooth and honeyed. “They say that you may soon be betrothed. To your sister, Y/N. How... traditional.”

Rhaegar inclines his head slightly. “Rumors often carry more weight than truth within the walls of the Red Keep,” he replies, his tone noncommittal.

Cersei’s smile widens, though there is a hint of steel beneath the sweetness. “Perhaps. But some rumors hold the promise of great alliances. The smallfolk are not the only ones interested in your future, my prince. There are many who believe a strong union could secure the stability of the realm—especially in these troubled times.”

She moves even closer, her voice lowering so that only Rhaegar can hear her next words. “House Lannister, for instance, has always stood ready to support the crown. We are the wealthiest house in Westeros, and our influence could be invaluable to your father... and to you, when the time comes.”

Rhaegar meets her gaze, recognizing the offer for what it is: a calculated move to entwine her family’s power with his own. Cersei’s ambition is as bright as her beauty, and while he understands the allure of such a match, his heart remains steadfast in its devotion. Not to her, but to you, and to the dangerous game he must now play to protect you.

“I appreciate the loyalty of House Lannister,” he replies, keeping his tone neutral. “The realm benefits greatly from your family’s wealth and influence.”

Cersei’s smile falters for just a fraction of a second, a flicker of frustration crossing her features before she recovers. “And it could benefit even more from a closer alliance,” she presses. “Together, our houses could usher in a new era of prosperity and peace. A union between us would be celebrated across the Seven Kingdoms.”

But Rhaegar’s mind is elsewhere, replaying Varys’s warnings, the weight of his responsibility to you, the unspoken truth that lies between you and Ser Arthur Dayne. He cannot allow himself to be swayed by Cersei’s words, no matter how tempting the prospect of a secure and powerful future might be.

“My duty is to the realm, Lady Cersei,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “And I must consider what is best for it. The future is uncertain, but I will always act in the interest of peace and stability.”

Cersei’s expression tightens, the charm slipping away to reveal a flash of cold determination. “Of course, my prince,” she replies, though the sweetness in her voice has turned brittle. “But remember, peace and stability often require strong alliances. And some alliances are stronger than others.”

Rhaegar nods, signaling the end of their conversation. “I thank you for your counsel, Lady Cersei. I will give it the consideration it deserves.”

She offers him one last smile, though it no longer reaches her eyes. “I hope you do, my prince. For all our sakes.”

With that, she turns and sweeps away, her Lannister entourage following in her wake like a pack of gilded lions. Rhaegar watches her go, a sense of unease settling over him. He knows Cersei will not give up easily, but his heart is resolute. His duty to the realm, to his sister, and to the truth is clear.

Ser Barristan, who has remained silent throughout the exchange, steps closer. “She is not one to be underestimated, my prince.”

“I know,” Rhaegar replies, his gaze distant. “But my path is already set. Whatever the cost, I must protect my sister, and ensure that our house survives the storm to come.”

Barristan nods, his respect for the prince evident in his eyes. “Then we shall be ready, whatever may come.”

Rhaegar resumes his walk through the city, though his thoughts remain troubled. The weight of the crown feels heavier with each passing day, and the future looms uncertain and dark. But he knows that, for now, his course is clear. He must guard the secrets that could destroy his family, even if it means walking a perilous line between duty and desire.

And above all, he must ensure that when the time comes, he is ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead—with or without the support of the lions of Lannister.

The wind whips through your hair as you stand on the balcony of your chambers, the salt air of the Narrow Sea filling your lungs. Below, the waves crash against the rocky shores of Dragonstone, their rhythm a constant reminder of the power and isolation of this ancient seat of your ancestors. The sky is overcast, but the clouds part just enough to allow slivers of sunlight to dance on the waters, turning the sea into a shimmering expanse of silver and gray.

Far in the distance, soaring above the waves, is Terrax. His black scales glisten in the weak sunlight, and his wings beat with a powerful grace that makes your heart swell with a mixture of pride and fear. No longer the size of a hound, Terrax has grown in the past months, now large enough to be mistaken for a small horse. He has claimed the fiery caverns of Dragonmont as his lair, where the heat of the volcano suits his nature. The dragon is fed a steady supply of cattle, and though he still has much growing to do, his presence has already brought a renewed sense of awe and reverence to this ancient fortress.

Yet despite the majesty of the dragon, a shadow hangs over your thoughts. The voices in your nightmares have returned, whispering dark and twisted things that leave you shaken and fearful. You clutch the stone balustrade of the balcony, trying to draw strength from the solidness of the ancient castle, but the whispers are persistent, gnawing at the edges of your sanity.

A soft sound from behind you draws your attention, and you turn to see Ser Arthur Dayne stepping out onto the balcony. His presence is a balm to your troubled mind, and for a moment, the tension in your shoulders eases. Here on Dragonstone, away from the prying eyes of the court, you can afford a small measure of relaxation in each other’s presence. But even here, you must remain vigilant; the risk of discovery is always lurking in the back of your mind.

Arthur’s expression softens as he approaches, his lilac-gray eyes searching your face. "You’ve been out here for a while," he says quietly, his voice filled with concern. "Is everything all right?"

You offer him a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. "I find the sea calming," you reply, turning your gaze back to the horizon where Terrax is now a distant silhouette against the sky. "But even here, it’s hard to escape... the nightmares."

Arthur steps closer, his hand resting on the small of your back. The touch is gentle, comforting, and you lean into it, grateful for the warmth of his presence. "The nightmares are back?" he asks, his voice tinged with worry.

You nod, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. "Yes. The same voices, whispering in my ear. I... I fear I’m going mad, Arthur. Just like him." You don’t need to say your father’s name; the fear of Aerys’s madness running through your veins is a constant shadow that you’ve never been able to shake.

Arthur’s brow furrows, and he gently turns you to face him, his hands resting on your shoulders. "You are not going mad, Y/N," he says firmly, his voice grounding you in the moment. "You’ve been through more than anyone should have to endure, but you are strong. You’ve always been strong."

You shake your head, frustration and fear bubbling to the surface. "But these dreams, these voices... they feel so real. They say things that make my skin crawl, that make me doubt everything I know. Sometimes I think I can hear them even when I’m awake."

Arthur’s hands tighten slightly on your shoulders, a silent offer of support. "You are not your father, Y/N," he insists, his gaze never leaving yours. "Whatever these voices are, they do not define you. They do not control you."

"But what if they do?" you whisper, your voice trembling. "What if I’m losing myself, just like he did? What if Terrax is more than just a dragon to me? What if... what if he’s part of this madness?"

Arthur’s expression hardens, and he cups your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Listen to me," he says, his voice low and intense. "Terrax is not a curse. He is a part of you, yes, but he does not dictate who you are. You have a bond with him, a bond that is forged in something deeper than the madness of your father. It is your strength, not your weakness."

You search his eyes, finding only sincerity and the unshakable belief he has in you. The warmth of his hands against your skin anchors you, and slowly, the cold knot of fear in your chest begins to loosen.

"You’re not alone in this," Arthur continues, his voice softer now. "I’m here, and I will do whatever it takes to help you through this. We will find a way to silence these voices, to banish these nightmares."

A tear escapes the corner of your eye, and you lean into his touch, drawing comfort from the man who has been your steadfast protector, your secret love, in the midst of all the chaos. "Thank you, Arthur," you murmur, your voice barely more than a breath.

He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, a gesture that is both tender and filled with unspoken promises. "Always," he replies.

For a moment, you allow yourself to close your eyes and simply breathe, the sound of the sea and the distant cry of Terrax filling your senses. Here, with Arthur by your side, the voices seem further away, their power over you diminished. You can still feel them at the edges of your mind, but they are no longer overwhelming.

When you finally open your eyes, the fear is still there, but it is tempered by the knowledge that you are not facing this alone. You have Arthur, you have Terrax, and you have your own strength—strength that you will need to draw on in the days and months to come.

"We should go back inside," Arthur says softly, though there is a reluctance in his voice. "It wouldn’t do for someone to see us out here alone for too long."

You nod, though you linger for a moment longer, casting one last glance at Terrax, who is now circling back toward the island, his powerful wings cutting through the air with ease. There is something majestic, something undeniable about the dragon, and despite your fears, you can’t help but feel a deep connection to him, one that transcends the nightmares and the whispers.

With a final sigh, you allow Arthur to lead you back inside, where the warmth of the castle wraps around you like a comforting embrace. The darkness of your fears may still lurk, but here, within these ancient walls, you have found something to hold onto—hope.

#game of thrones #got x y/n #got x you #got x reader #asoiaf x reader #asoiaf #arthur dayne x y/n #arthur dayne x you #arthur dayne x reader #arthur dayne

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madelynhimegami · 3 months ago

Text

Crimson Soul Guide

Oh, did you think you had seen the last of me today? Foolish! This one's a bit different, as I concluded it was a good idea to include information on the status and capabilities of everybody's favorite book-bound disembodied soul.

Also, if you have a character you'd like to see me make a summation for next, then please by all means let me know! I've been doing these as they've been suggested to me anyway.

Anywho.

The demon from whence the Crimson Soul came was once a demon lord/overlord before being sealed away, possibly on a scale similar to Satan?

At the time they were sealed, the Arka civilization was prosperous-- though the exact relationship between Arka and the demon is currently unknown.

The demon was a massive bibliophile, which is a trait the Crimson Soul has kept

The above three points are all we know for certain about the demon prior to sealing, specifically. Everything else comes from the account written by the Tome of Sealing's author.

(Said account is of dubious credibility at points, but that's beyond the scope of this post.)

As for the Crimson Soul themself (ie, regardless of what may or may not have applied to the demon), they despise filth and trash. They will not abide by any litter in their presence and will get rid of it on sight.

They are extremely dramatic, theatrical, and verbose. The Crimson Soul is the ultimate theater kid. Once again, possibly on a level similar to Satan.

While it has been demonstrated multiple times that their red power is dangerous, if not outright malevolent on its own, there's been little indication to suggest they are evil themself.

They describe their magic as "a crimson power [that is] hidden within [their] soul" in Fever 2's sound test.

Fever 2 also has a curious item-- a lithograph from Arka's prime that has a prayer for the land to be forever bountiful written on it. Using it in-game immediately puts Possessed Klug (and only Possessed Klug) into Fever mode

It is not particularly clear what might happen to Sig, should the Crimson Soul successfully claim his body. For a long while, it was speculated that the demon's will would overpower and eventually erase Sig. Recent developments have called it into question.

It hasn't been entirely ruled out, though. Akuma, Accord, and Popoi all say that Sig interacting with the Crimson Soul will put him in danger, and Amitie has come to the same conclusion semi-independantly.

The ritual that Klug had performed with the tome in Fever 2 not only ended with him getting possessed, it also irrevocably altered the seal, making it not as airtight as it used to be.

Consequently, Klug gets possessed more easily, can faintly sense the vibes of the Crimson Soul, and the Soul may have some influence on Klug's thoughts (e.g., they can subliminally plant feelings in him, like extreme interest on specific items).

Klug can also be swapped out by mind-swapping procedures that target both himself and the Tome.

It seems that the artifacts listed in the Tome are not the only ones that can lift the seal. Sufficiently powerful sources of energy from the sun, moon, and stars will also get the job done.

Whether the above two points were true before the events of Fever 2 is currently unknown.

Although regaining their lost power is their ultimate goal, the Crimson Soul does not appear to be actively seeking out Sig with much urgency.

The soul tends to possess Klug while he's unconscious, and maybe in mortal peril.

Most tellingly, there was one occasion where they took over Klug's body and they were in the closest proximity they had ever been to Sig since Fever 2. Despite this, they never address Sig. Instead, they first lament that they can't fight off a dragon with Klug's body, and second urges (if condescendingly) for the main Primp kids (and Feli) to work together.

As far as I know, the only time they intentionally hijack Klug's body while he's still conscious was to yell at tourists visiting the Arka ruins to get of their lawn.

The Crimson Soul can also pull Klug in a direction they want him to go, via the book.

Under most corcumstances, Klug can only get fleeting impressions of the soul's emotional state if said state is at a high level (e.g, agitation, restlessness, panic). This can compound with the above, as well.

The soul can telepathically communicate with Klug if they both happen to be in a dream or a dreamlike environment.

More than once they have seized the opportunity to speak directly by… insulting Klug. Their favored jab is "pathetic excuse for a glasses-holder."

Given how frustrated Klug was over the noise they kept making in Puzzle Pop, they were likely too frantic to speak in a readily-understandable manner.

On top of Klug's body just not being powerful enough magic-wise to the soul's liking, they don't like his physical state, either. "Has this brat never heard the phrase 'a healthy mind in a healthy body?!'"

Despite this, they have been show to be protective of Klug multiple times while in control, keeping both his body and soul safe by defending them from a dragon, drowning, water saturation, and Yu.

They also seemed to have shielded Klug from Marle's corruption. Whether that was a conscious effort or just the nature of the red power (Sig was also unaffected, but his arm became frenzied) is left vague, but Lemres was pretty confident that was what had happened.

Their ulterior motive for doing so-- at least on the surface-- is the convenience of having Klug as an emergency vessel. The body-swapping incident mentioned earlier in this post left them practically gleeful at the fact that their swap with Klug had bypassed the seal entirely, leaving Klugs body to be theirs.

Another instance of the seal being negated had the Crimson Soul desperately fight against having the seal restored and forcing them back in the book.

When others speak to them while in Klug's body (post Fever 2), they generally sidestep, evade, or point-blank to refuse to answer any questions directed at them. Especially ones regarding their true identity or intentions.

They also want to avoid direct interactions with Akuma when possible.

Their understanding of machinery is "punch it until it starts working again."

As the Crimson Soul was themself sealed away for who-knows-how-long, they will voluntarily release other, similarly-sealed entities if they can.

The Crimson Soul does not seem to share Sig's enthusiasm for bugs.

#puyo puyo #puyo summations #crimson soul #ayashii klug #strange klug #possessed klug

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vixstarria · 3 months ago

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Kinktober Day 21 - Free Use

For every day of the month of October I will be posting a little snippet following prompts listed in this post. Most of these will not be full fics, but rather short snippets, set-ups, and, in a few cases, copied bits and pieces of fics I have already published. But, if there is a lot of interest and feedback on any of the snippets, they might just evolve into full fics, so keep that in mind.

Disclaimer / TW: Sex club shenanigans. And yes, yes, I know I'm late... It did take me a full 3 weeks to fall behind, at least.

The masquerade masks were, of course, completely inadequate for concealing anyone’s identity. However, they served a different purpose: acknowledging mask-clad acquaintances as such within the mansion, as well as mentioning their presence at the party outside the manor grounds was an unthinkable taboo, and would result in the irrevocable banishment of the offender and their immediate connections. Attendance at the events was a great privilege, one not to be squandered.

Astarion and Asmodea had been invited to the soiree by the owner of the establishment herself. They were encouraged to peruse and, if they so wished, partake, though the actual purpose of their visit was business, not pleasure: they were exploring the possibility of forging business ties between their cabaret theatre and the Scarlet Veil.

“Why this is even more strange than being on the paying end of a brothel,” Astarion murmured to Asmodea upon their emerging from the cloakroom.

"Are you sure you want to be here?" she frowned. "I'm happy to deal with the owner myself."

He waved a hand dismissively before responding.

“I will only ask two things of you: make no assumptions, and ask no questions you do not want to know the answers to.” Not waiting for her to respond, and likewise not giving her a chance to voice any more concerns, he sauntered towards a nearby room, sectioned off by a velvet drape.

"The Burrow," he read a plaque at the entrance. "Hmm, let me guess..."

Asmodea had no choice but to follow him as he disappeared behind the curtain.

Her eyes widened as she was immediately greeted by the sight of a splayed pair of legs protruding from a nearby wall at about hip height. The ankles were in restraints, bound to the wall. The rest of the body disappeared behind a window cut-out, concealed by strip curtains. The figure, or at least the visible part of it, wore absolutely nothing but a pair of torn silk stockings.

"...Ah," Asmodea blinked. "Gloryholes. ...Of a kind."

There was an entire row of these holes further along the wall, she now realised, most of them occupied by grunting, thrusting masked men, their trousers gathered unceremoniously at their ankles.

"Harengon holes, they're called," Astarion corrected. "Because harengons-"

"...live in burrows and fuck like rabbits, yes, I've gathered."

Despite herself, she glanced up at Astarion, and, perhaps reading the unasked question in her eyes, he elaborated further.

"If the manor events are run the way I think they are, the participants here are all thrill-seeking guests, not paid staff. Concealed attendants should be keeping an eye on things on both sides, in case anyone doesn't know how to behave."

They passed further along the wall, observing the activities around them. A halfling, scorning a nearby stepladder which must have been provided for those of their stature, simply stood with their face buried between the disembodied legs. A chorus of muffled moans and howls sounded from somewhere beyond the wall.

The scene appeared increasingly more comical the longer Asmodea observed it, and she bit her lip to hold back a titter.

"Shall we move on before we're kicked out..?" Astarion asked, seeing her reaction. "I don't believe this is intended as a comedy show."

They continued on to the next room.

My Kinktober masterlist and prompts post

#kinktober 2024 #bg3 kinktober #BG3 Kinktober 2024 #Astarion #Asmodea #kinktober prompts #bg3 #smut #bg3 smut #I needed a word to use instead of 'czech' and well 'harengon' happened #this one does beg to be expanded into a longer fic

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steviewashere · 10 months ago

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It would've been so cool if during the scene when Steve hears Dustin "in the walls" of the Wheeler's house, he's the only one who could hear it.

Like he tries to tell the others that Dustin's there or his voice is there. But in reality, it's Steve being lured in by Vecna.

And Dustin's voice goes from normal talking to something panicked. A danger is lurking kind of panicked. And Steve's protective instincts kick in and he can't turn that part of him off. He's just stuck in fight mode for too long. Getting jumpy and putting himself in front of the others. Nancy, Robin, and Eddie think it's weird, but get more and more concerned the more that time passes and Steve is...panicked beyond belief, gasping and hiccuping at every sound, spinning in place, arms up and blocking, eyes wide and searching, silently listening and uncharacteristically serious. He gets to the point where all he can hear around him is the screaming for help from the party members. And the only thing that gets him resolved is a tape playing and somebody holding onto him, urging him to relax.

The moment he thinks it's safe to take his headphones off (because he thinks the screaming and the urgent voices have stopped) Vecna gets him in his hold. And oddly, the only way that gets Steve away from Vecna and back to regular Hawkins, is the genuine urgent pleading of his friends, begging for him to come back to them. To fight Vecna's control and to follow their voices. (Whereas before, the panicked words were coming from everywhere with no sign of stopping, no real instruction as to where the disembodied voices were coming from.)

Also, Steve would definitely offer himself as bait in the Creel house. Imagine he gets Vecna'd and the other person there with him is Robin. And he dies in his best friend's arms. But this time, Robin realizes his death is very real. She knows what holding a limp and bleeding and broken body is like. She knows what it's like being present for the death of Steve Harrington. And all she can think, besides the obvious that her best friend is dead, is that she didn't sign up for this. (But she'd do it all over again if it meant that Steve didn't die in the end.)

Obviously, he wouldn't die. But imagine the angst. Imagine him coming back to himself in the hospital. He comes back different, not wrong, but different. He's no longer playful. Doesn't want to talk. Always staring, unfocused and frightened. Doesn't even care that his key feature, his hair, has been shaved down from how unruly it got during his time in the hospital. He's a shadow of himself. Lingering in what Vecna inflicted onto him. Not placing himself as an outcast, constantly outside of the group. In fact, he's practically too intertwined with everybody. Too much in people's space. Fitting himself between gaps. Needing to be close. Needing to be alert. Barely sleeps. And if he does, it isn't for long, awoken by voices. Has to call everybody, hear their voices soft and natural. Doesn't seek out romantic relationships because he knows he won't be able to explain what happened to him. He's overprotective and awfully afraid. Can't sit in silences because he imagines his friend's screams.

And even when he dates Eddie (because I'm going to make this Steddie, bite me), he is content to just listen to Eddie ramble. On and on. Doesn't allow him to stop. Will ask questions if only to keep the silence at bay. Needs to be close in his sleep. Needs the constant touch and the constant affection. Needs to be reassured. Won't leave Robin's side either. At work or in social functions. She relies on him and he relies on her. They often have late night phone calls that stretch on for hours. Steve in his kitchen, hunched over the phone at his island, repeating over and over that he's alive and reasonably okay. And Robin on the other side, comforting him that everybody is safe and that she's not in danger and nobody is going to need him this late at night. Eddie getting out of bed to Steve slumped and asleep at the counter, phone still tight in his grip. Lugging him to the couch to sleep. Sitting nearby, on the floor or at Steve's feet. One hand on his ankle or his wrist or on his shaved scalp.

Just Steve growing dependent on everybody. Instead of them being dependent on him. And also being tremendously traumatized. And just...abnormal.

Anyway. Maybe I'll write this. If not, here's an idea lol.

#stranger things #steve harrington #dustin henderson #robin buckley #eddie munson #steddie #platonic stobin #Steve gets vecna'd #ramble

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youremyheaven · 9 months ago

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I thought I would share another observation I had concerning swati people is when they do stalk, they tend to stalk solar nakshatras. I’ve seen this happen with the swati girl I told you about she used to stalk this uttara ashada man and his exes (who were solar too, they were mostly uttara phalguni) and she used to stalk me too ( I’m Krittika). I’ve seen this with Olivia Rodrigo (shatabisha) too she made songs about solar women (Sabrina carpenter and Madelyn cline). I know also a Moroccan movie (the name is bouchaib le bienheureux) about a swati stellium man who’s obsessed with a krittika woman and wants to force her to marry him. I’ve also seen a shatabisha guy who’s heterosexual but is obsessed with an uttara phalguni man to the point where he would constantly stalk him.

It completely makes sense that Rahuvians are drawn to/obsessed with Solar people. Sun creates its own light and Solar people have an abundance of light. Rahu is in the darkness, they're constantly chasing the light and trying to feel grounded in it

I have noticed a similar pattern with Jupiter & Ketu, Jupitereans are emotionally spacious and can hold so much within them/have an immense capacity to care/indulge but Ketu's disconnection does not allow it to indulge in the way Jupiter does even though Ketu is also virtually limitless. They often become obsessed with Jupiter people because that energy helps them feel more stable. Jupiter natives in turn initially like having some of their excess energy "drained" by someone but soon enough they feel like their soul has been sucked out as Ketu seeks to absorb as much as possible and these relationships turn toxic.

Both shadow planets are constantly striving to draw in light and are drawn to strong Yang energy (Rahu is extreme Yin) to feel grounded and tethered. Since Rahu is the head, it's drawn to more Solar energy and Ketu, the disembodied body is drawn to Jupiter energy.

#rahu #ketu #jyotish

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hey-august · 1 year ago

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time for some fem!buggy x GN!reader 🤤

Word count: ~770 Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, fem!buggy x GN!reader, buggy is afab, no use of Y/N, vaginal fingering, lil bit of chop chop but not a misuse of powers, multiple orgasms.

you wake up with the softest pillow caressing your face. tits. plump, plush tits, covered by fabric thinner than sun rays. you drag a hand up to rest on a soft mound while nuzzling the other one. a gentle, content sigh emanates from a different part of the bed, from your companion who is literally sprawled out.

hardening nipples encourage you to loll out a tongue and seek out the nearest pebble, which you find easily and bathe in kisses, nips, and licks. you pull away and blow on the spit-soaked fabric, adding to the cooling sensation. your other hand, which had been busy groping, squeezing, and jiggling, tilts the supple flesh so you can greet the other nipple. sliding up the cloth barrier, you suck the sensitive bud into your mouth and replace the tickle of fabric with swipes of your tongue.

“nnh, m-more,” breathes buggy. her voice is slow, lazy, and horny.

you reach down and find nothing. the portion of body next to you abruptly ends at the ribcage. extending your search, you find more - a ticklish ankle, a shoulder to rub, a warm wrist - but not what you’re looking for. releasing buggy’s nipple from it’s warm moist prison, you lift your head just enough to find your treasure.

stretching your arm out, you hook a finger into a waistband and drag the pink panty-clad ass closer. buggy whines at the movement, but she does nothing to help. you reward the lack of effort with a smack, enjoying how her ass bounces under your hand, before rolling her hips over.

“you’re soaked through,” you say excitedly while sliding your fingers along the wet fabric covering the lush folds. “you needy thing, you like this?”

buggy bucks her hips against your touch, wanting more contact, more friction. “j-just give it, please”

you chuckle and carefully tap her sensitive clit, which receives a delicious whimper in response, before slipping your hand into her panties. the slick-coated fabric is cold against the back of your hand, so you seek out buggy’s luscious heat. she moans as your middle and ring fingers slide in her weeping cunt. you thrust and scissor, manipulating her entrance and depths, before pressing into the spongy rigid spot that makes her unseen toes curl.

a disembodied hand presses buggy’s breasts towards your face for more kisses and sloppy attention, which you gladly provide. you slurp, suck, and nibble, earning sweet moans and squeals of ecstasy. your hot breath tickles buggy’s skin as you move locations, changing from soft skin to hard nipples, from one heavy breast to the other.

“m’close” the shake in buggy’s voice matches the tremor in her body.

groaning excitedly, you rub your thumb along her swollen clit. swirling circles and harsh pressure that explodes within her spread out body.

“o-oh fuck!” cries buggy as the climax courses through her disconnected body, before tethering it back together.

in an instant, her body is whole. thick thighs clamp around your hand as she grinds into the orgasm. arms wrap around your head, pressing your face into her chest. her body trembling and shaking as you continue your assault inside and on her sensitive clit.

“one more,” you beg between her tits, “gimme one more”

buggy meekly shakes her head above yours while spreading her legs, a coy act she likes to put on in these moments. “mmmh, one more,” she repeats.

you squeeze your hand against buggy, palm pressing onto her mound and surrounding the hidden bud with pressure that feels good but won’t get her anywhere. she whines and wiggles under your touch. biting back a grin, you harshly suck on a forlorn nipple and slip your pointer finger inside buggy’s heat, nestling it with the other two.

buggy threads her own fingers in your hair, pressing herself ever harder into you. craving your touch, your being. you. dusting kisses up the swell of her breasts and along her neck, you arrive at her parted lips.

her red nose is pressed against your cheek as you greedily drink her moans and cries of joy from her coil quickly retightening. a coil that is just as quickly snapped when you draw shapes on her aching clit. first a circle, then a triangle, but it’s the messy shaky heart that she cums to. bucking against your hand, sliding from how much slick her pussy has gushed.

finally, her body stills against yours. her sweet sounds get quieter, eventually becoming heavy breaths. you pull out of her heat but leave your hand nested against her body.

“g’morning,” you mumble against her lips, watching buggy's ocean eyes flutter open.

“morning,” she sighs back.

#fem!buggy #buggy smut #buggy x reader #buggy the clown x reader #buggy the clown #fem!buggy x reader #buggy x you #x reader #buggy op #one piece buggy #buggy the clown smut #one piece smut #buggy x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #hey-august buggy short stories

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thedemonofcat · 6 months ago

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Dealing with ghosts is nothing new for a witcher, but Geralt encounters something completely different: a ghost that’s not technically dead.

The ghost in question is Jaskier, a bard who hasn’t died but has misplaced his body. As both a bard and a psychic, Jaskier had a romantic entanglement with an actual ghost who, it turns out, possessed his body.

The ghost then ousted Jaskier from his body and disappeared, leaving him bewildered and disembodied.

Now, Jaskier is seeking Geralt's help to reclaim his body.

#the witcher netflix #the witcher #joey batey #geralt of rivia #jaskier the witcher #henry cavill #the witcher jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #fic ideas #jaskier #gerskier #cirilla fiona elen riannon #freya allan #headcanon #yennefer of vengerberg #the witcher season 3 #the witcher season three #anya chalotra

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pursuitseternal · 1 year ago

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Spooky, sexy, wolfy “Trespassers Beware” just in time for Halloween…

Fem!Reader (Galadriel) x Sauron |E| 4K Wolf Sex

🎨 by @thebabydragon

Summary: You seek the source of the dark power, following the rumors and the wolf howls to the Old Fortress… he finds you… and does so much more

CW: bestiality, multiple wolves at once, wolf possession, disembodied sorcerers having their way, sex in an old ruin with your forbidden lover

Read on AO3 | Tolkien Masterlist

🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺

You heard the rumors; they are what drive you to leave the secret realm you worked tirelessly to build. Your haven, your home among the trees. Your safety ensured for an age among the Mallorn trees, you enjoyed the peace while war had raged around you. Your powers of protection had ensured the preservation of light in the darkness.

But it wasn’t enough. Not since you had touched the darkness and left it with a howl in your ears and a slickness between your legs.

You tried to be content with your kingdom of light, but in the dark, you still heard his music. It wafted to you in your dreams, faint, an almost-illusion that haunted you. But it never woke you. Never appeared. Never showed himself aroused and ready to fuck as he had before. He was too preoccupied with war then, and since the Fall of the Enemy, that music had grown silent.

Until tonight.

Tonight, the melody stirred your body, boiling your blood. Tonight you crept along the forest darkness, the edge of your own lands behind you. You still remember that music from your dreams. The way you had just awoken in a sweat, wet and panting like you hadn’t felt in over and age.

You knew the rumors had spread to your door, a spirit dwelling in the shadows of the Old Fortress. Dol Guldur. You had heard tales from travelers that now there were foul things in the darkness, spider webs among the trees and howls in the silence.

But rumors were hollow. You need to see them for yourself. To follow the call of those wolves to their Master.

For you could not deny, part of you hopes it is him. The master of such wolves, the sensual caress of darkness itself.

Your heart beats in your chest, erratic and hard, as you step between the black limbed trees in this part of the Greenwood. Or the Mirkwood as it is now called. Craning your neck, you listen for his song, just a faint wavering that meets your ear.

Your hand flexes, the thin strip of your finger missing the protection of your ring. But you smile, better to seek what you desire without abandon, without distraction or more temptation. For finding the Spirit in the Woods is temptation enough.

Dusty, dead leaves under your feet turn to cold stones. You stand on the bridge to the Fortress, a chill in the air that somehow heats your body, shivers running down your spine to pool between your thighs. You hear that song, that music, faint but real, whining from the distant and crumbling walls. Mists swirl, and you get the feeling of distant eyes watching you, that crawling sensation creeping all across your skin to steal your breath. You reminisce, the feeling of being here before. The ruins of a fortress of darkness, howls in the distance, your body warming at the memory of the same feelings from a thousand years before.

The hush of winds rustle the leaves across the stone bridge, and you push on. Until you hear the scratch of claws in front of you. Suddenly, orange eyes begin to glow in the shadows of arches and derelict walls. Panting, growling, a pack of large, grey wolves file in around you. Their eyes glint in hunger, tongue lapping at their jaws.

Suddenly, a low, rumbling howl overwhelms your ears, commanding his pack to withdraw. Commanding you to come.

And come you do. The way his voice weaves around your body is palpable, shaking into your flesh, riding into your insides with a tremor.

You know that sound in your bones. It is him.

Above you from a parapet, black mist swirls. And then eyes large and red shine, flickering with ridges of orange and flecks of yellow. Made of flame themselves. Two of them, staring unblinking above you. Your blood seems to freeze with fear and boil with desire at once.

That music that settled for ages in your bones now greets your ear, melancholic, weak, and mournful. A baleful howl comes from that patch of shadow, darker than death itself.

“Have you come to taunt me, Lady Light?” his voice scratched inside your ear. “Come to show me the spoils of a lost war? Treasures I shall never plunder the same again?”

Your heart races against your ribs, feeling your body responding to the sound of his voice, the pull of that lamenting music now that fills your ears.

“You come seeking something… or else you would not be here…” those flaming eyes seem to be framed in a tall form, crouching low to the floor of the parapet above you. A shadow of a great wolf, remembering the form you have always craved between your legs.

You step closer, your body humming to life as it had not for centuries. Your body burns despite the cold mist and shadows, your heart beats with lust, not with fear. Even as a dozen eyes shine back at you from the crumbling fortress.

“I may no longer have true eyes to see, or a true tongue to pry your answer from your pretty, pouting lips, but I have my ways even now to make you keen and answer me…”

“Oh?” You dare, sliding your feet through itching dust, your core now turning to liquid, searing and strange, as you meet those eyes of flame with your own arrogant glance. “What would you do to force out my answer as to why I have come? Do you fear I have come to tame you, Wolf?” You toss your words with confidence, arrogance growing with each step you take. Drawn in willingly by his sorcery, his presence.

“Tame me?” he spits down at you, throwing the heat of his gaze in your direction. “No, you will find I am fire and shadow now, untamable, feral, and wild as the dark forest in which you foolishly trespassed…”

Your heart lurches at the meanings. “You mean…?”

“That’s correct, little She-elf, little enemy of mine. I have no form with which to fuck you now, if that was your desire.”

“That is not…”

His howl pierces your ear, splitting your hearing, deafening you with his power. Shadows grow around you, feeling pulled inside the crumbling walls of the Old Fortress. All is mist and shadow and flames and shining eyes.

You feel a hint of fear, heart racing as those wolf eyes begin to draw nearer to you. They shine a white in the distance, but as they draw nearer, they glow like fire. Matching the eyes that still glare unblinking from the archway above you. “Do not lie to me, after all our times together, with only you and me, my fangs in your throat, your body trembling around mine. There is nothing else for it now, it is the punishment you will take for entering my lands. Pleasure or death.”

The black bodies of the wolves draw near, the Wolf Lord’s voice echoing around you from every direction. They circle you, brushing their fur against your legs every so often. Their growls make their own sad music, but one that still fueled the heat between your legs. Each wolf, sable coated and flaming eyes now. Like their Master.

“Which is it, my love,” his voice sounds in your ear, as if his mouth pressed into the curves and point of your ear. “Death—” you feel a snout shoving in your ass, the weight of the beast heaving against you until you fall to your knees. Pain shoots through your body as you hit the rough stone ruin. You pant, swallowing the cry of anguish. Another wolf, eyes of glowing orange and swirling gold, stares into you. Your face matching his height, his maw bearing teeth on one side, as if he smirks. “—or pleasure?” That disembodied voice floats no longer, the smell of smoke settling over this lupine form, that rumbling voice of the Master sounding from its throat.

“You know my answer,” you breathe with a force you did not suspect you could muster as you are stared down by two dozen flaming eyes in the darkness.

“Pleasure it is,” the voice rumbles, so close to the wolf, you can feel its low vibration in your belly. The beast’s hot breath passes over your face, its tongue lolling as it stares, smiling. Massive. You know that wolf will cover you head to toe once the master decides it.

But you force a laugh, reaching a hand to pet it between the ears, trialing your touch down its neck. Fur so thick, so lush, you can’t let go. “Of course, you pick the male almost as big and beautiful as you were to possess…”

“You’re wrong,” his voice sounds from the chest before you. And a dozen other places in the dark. “Why inhabit one body to fuck you in when I can possess them all… possess them to possess you…”

The air grows so cold around you, chilling your skin even under your shift. As if you are already naked. The damp of the mist thickens now, wetting your dress against the goose flesh of your body. You cannot bear it anymore. Ready to rip it off your self.

The Wolf before you takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring as he prods his muzzle into the neckline of your gown. For a moment, you enjoy the heat of his breath down your bosoms. The beast looks down at you with glowing orange eyes—his eyes. His teeth sink into the fabric of your dress, slowly and deliberately. Undressing you with care. Even if it means tearing the measly fabric from your flesh, rip by rip. He jerks his head, baring your skin to the damp night until it puddles in shreds at your feet.

You look at the beast before you, covered in thick, dark fur that ripples in the stiff breeze. And you want nothing more than to have it cover you head to toe. You wrap your arms around his neck, feeling its breath down your back, its muscles flexing in your embrace. The scent of cedar and smoke, the tingle of magic floods you where you touch him. That mournful flow of music curls inside your ear, the wolf resting his head on your shoulders for a moment.

But you are wrong to trust him entirely. His head lifts, dragging that soft, tickling fur against the crook of your neck. His laughter fills your ear, warm and harsh and cruel. Wet fangs replace the blanket of fur on your skin, their points sinking into the flesh of your shoulder with piercing agony. You scream, your voice swallowed by the noise, joining in the rising chorus of howls that echo around you.

Swallowed by the sound of him in his pack of monsters. Consumed by the pain of his fangs pressing into your flesh. Marking you, claiming you as his as your blood covers his tongue and paints his maw.

Your body buckles, bending you on your knees until your bare body lays on the freezing stone. Releasing your shoulder, the great wolf laps at the wounds, cleaning the punctures as soons as your blood begins to trickle. You shiver, from pain and from the cold, but soon it is only your biting fear that races up and down your spine.

Two more wolves approach you, their eyes glowing, his laughter multiplied as many voices when they reach their mouths for your wrists. They don’t bite. At least not hard. But they make you their captive, tongues licking the inside of your wrists as they stretch you out against the ground. Their teeth circled your wrists leaving you nowhere to go.

You breathe, forcing your chest to rise and fall. Feeling your nipples straining painfully hard in the cold. You wish something, anything would take away the chill.

As if to answer your desperate prayer, something hot trails over your mound. All you see is the hulking frame of that Great Wolf, eyes gleaming up from between your legs. “This wolf is strong, hungry,” your lover’s voice caresses inside your mind, as if stoking your desire from within. “A most worthy alpha to use for what I have waited centuries to do to you once more.” His laugh spikes a new sort of shiver down your spine as the animal chuffs and sniffs your folds. “You better beg me to stay in control of this monster…”

“You wouldn’t for one second relinquish control to another,” you snap in return, “no I trust you to be in complete control to enjoy this perverted union.”

“Thousands of years and you finally have learned your fate,” his words brushed like a loving caress. “None shall have you as I have, not in this world or the next….”

His words soften as you feel the cold press of a snout between you folds. Hot and cold mingle in one delicious mix, making your every nerve light on fire. Hot breath, chilled nose. Hot tongues and saliva between your legs and around your wrists as you lay on the freezing ground. An offering to the Wolf Lord himself.

Suddenly you feel heated mouths panting on you. A tongue slips between your folds, lapping and licking with ferocity. A hunger barely bridled. But you can see nothing but black fur now wreathing your vision. More beasts descend upon you, eyes glowing. All under his influence.

“If I must only take what is mine through these wolves, I might as well make use of them all.” His voice tickles in both your ears, sounding from between your thighs, echoing inside your very mind. “And I will use them all at once, in case you doubt my power…”

Maws lower to both your pointed nipples, coating both in matching swirls of wolf-tongues. Your body floods, unable to handle the contact on your skin. The heat and the wet saliva that trickles from your cunt, slipping down the side of your body as all three mouths make sloppy work of your pleasure. A graze of teeth against one nipple sends a scream from your lips, you try to lift your hands, but more fangs press softly into your wrists.

And then you hear that low, throated laugh shiver through your body and mind again.

“Why such a hurry?” he chuckles. “I am starved since last we coupled, as are you from the smell of you. Be still, Princess, my tongues will do you some good.”

You feel consumed, your flesh at his mercy, your pleasure raging unbearable and hot. Everything about you is dripping, your folds leak your arousal faster than the beast’s tongue can lap it up. Your own mouth salivates, and your ears are filled with the wet squelch. Every sense of your body is consumed by heat and flame, going rigid as you writhe on the ground.

For a moment, they all withdraw. For a moment, you feel only cold and wet from their drool and your own cum as it cools in the night breeze. But your guardians hold you firm, binding your wrists in their maws. No escape. But you wouldn’t dream of it now, not as you rub your legs together, unfulfilled and empty. Mewls scratch and whine from your throat, your thighs drenched even as you try to chase the need for him inside you. The walls of your pussy clench on nothing, as your voice cries out only more and more desperate.

And he laughs. A laugh so low, so much like a growl, it shakes your bones. “Are you afraid, little princess? Afraid I’ll leave you for the wolves, or afraid you’ll leave here empty and aching with no cum to drip down your thighs?”

“Both,” you manage to pant, a small thrill of that fear and a massive rush of anticipation as something massive pushes its rippling, fur-coated body between your squirming legs.

“Then let me give you the means of mastering your fear, Princess,” his voice seems to tickle your ears, air brushing past them both as if lips hung not a breath away.

Thick, smooth, and wide…. You are filled, the walls of your innards stretch to the limit. You scream as his cock presses so deep, slipping effortlessly from your slick. Eyes flash down between your legs, seeing nothing but the black of his underbelly and the way your belly swells and bumps. So filled. So aching. He trusts again and again, that rise of him in your cunt protruding over and over. Your hips buck to take him deeper. Beastly breath pants over your head, stands of drool from his slacked maw trickle between your breasts.

And still he thrusts. Your eyes fixed on the bulge of your gut, the way you could take him inside you more and more if your little body could manage it. Pain and pleasure swirl down every nerve, you have never felt more alive, nor more in danger as a dozen eyes glow and a dozen tongues lap their jaws as if they wait for their turn.

His voice growls in your ear, inside your head, a little rumble with each body-splitting thrust he made between your thighs. “Take me,” he rasps in your mind. You feel his tongue lapping at your shoulder, cleaning the blood that begins to run fresh from the rigor of his fucking. Raising your legs, you brace your thighs around his middle and you buck your hips to make him slide deeper. Slam after slam against the end of your cunt. Vision starts to fade until the last thing you see are two glowing eyes of fire in your face, a pink tongue cleaning your crimson blood off its shining teeth.

Then all goes white, your body erupting fire that spasms down your nerves and burns your veins. You stop breathing, the sound of your own scream is swallowed as his tongue laps in your mouth, down your throat. You are suffocating in his rut, possessed just as much as these wolves that pant their lust.

Suddenly, you feel more tongues lapping your body again as the ground of the Old Fortress steadies beneath you. They lick every inch of you, making you squirm and writhe, fighting against the jaws that keep you pinned. You can feel those guards clamp down, their fangs piercing your skin.

The scent of blood thickens.

The sounds of growls and the caws of the carrion birds crescendo. Only sound greater is the way his laugh sounds impossibly loud and impossibly deep in tone. Like gathering thunder.

The thrusts between your legs make your whole cunt numb, the end of your channel unfeeling after he begins to fuck you even harder. More erratic. More feral and wild. You squeeze your thighs harder, trying to leverage against his hip bones, but he only shifts himself against you so rough, you feel the fur of his balls tickling your ass.

Once… twice… you scream despite the lapping, ravenous tongue in your mouth. And then you feel split apart, his knot shoving into your entrance, hard and swollen and bursting. You feel him filling you, pump after pump of cum coating you, overfilling past his cock to squirt from you. The heat that liquid warms your skin as it pools beneath you, and you shiver in the chilling air.

You tremble, wet from their drool, from your blood at your wrists and your shoulder. Sticky and slick even as you wait for his knot to release you. And yet all you can hear are the piercing, chilling cries of carrion birds. Their voices harbingers of death.

“Release me,” you breathe, trembling in voice as your body is wracked with another shiver. “You have given me my fill of pleasure, and I have seen you haven’t lost any of your power…”

“Or my desire,” he rasps in your ear. Another low, consuming howl sounds from the sky, and all the wolves withdraw. That cock tugging free from your folds roughly and suddenly. Your body feels broken, bereft, and cold. Not empty, not as you feel the still heated drips of cum seeping from you. “Join me,” his voice swirls from ear to ear, as if his body hovers over yours on the broken stones of Dol Guldur.

“No,” you pant, trying to lift your body from the ground. But something keeps you pinned still, black mist warm on your skin as you realize it is him around you. On top of you.

“You think you have a choice… how amusing,” you feel a tickle over your collarbone, the black mass taking on a strange orange glow within. “Your arrogance to come to me, to trespass on my domain, has only left you bound to the one being you crave and despise in equal measure.”

You fight to get to your hands and knees, trying to push off the dirt and cum covered stones. Something brushes against your sex as you crawl, as if a cold, damp breath breathes you in. “You can leave, Princess, but you will always be drawn back to me…”

You grit your teeth fighting harder to stand. First one foot, then the other as you crouch beneath the weight of his enchantment. It feels so good, so thrilling, to push back against him for once.

“… you have and will always long for more, another belly swollen with my seed, another empty void filled inside you…”

You press yourself to standing, lifting your head even as the black mist swirls, darts and flickers of orange flames sparking in the midst of it.

“…for you know you are what you have always been…”

“Your mate,” you breathe, “but I will not remain in this chaos and darkness.”

You feel the chill of the air warm at your words. Your admission. The flashes of orange begin to cluster, to take a form, the shape of a man. A smile crosses your lips, feeling the warmth of his magic stealing over your skin, battling the cold that sends goose flesh across your body.

“Then join me…” you feel his voice flutter against your skin, so close and yet unattainable. Intangible.

“You know my answer…” you reply, forcing your words even as that mist trails hotly over your flesh, warming at your nipples, caressing the back of your neck.

You hear him sigh down your skin. “If only I could take true form… if only I could really touch you, convince you…”

“You will have to settle for haunting me, it seems,” you sigh, arching your back as his invisible attentions continue, sending another flood of arousal between your already drenched legs.

“It is you who have haunted me,” his breath, his presence tastes like smoke over your tongue as you gasp. As something prods at your belly and grips your ass. “The least I might do is return the favor, if I can’t keep you as my own, my possession.”

“I fear you will possess me for ages to come,” you wriggle from the center of the black mass, and he lets you. And even as you walk down the cracked path and crumbling bridge of the Old Fortress, you can feel the heat of those glowing eyes on your back. You still feel the slick sliding across your bare thighs as you walk in the darkness.

And all the while, you hum that mystical melody. His song. The melody still clings to your year and fills your throat. You can’t stop, even if you tried, possessed entirely by him. In mind, if not in body. At least not until the next time he calls to you.

One last entry for @hellghoulweek and @thehaladrielfancollective (I’m sure there are five kinks on there for Kinktober 🪦🐺)

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meguwumibear · 2 years ago

Text

Revelation(s)

Summary: You look up and there before you is a pale man. His name is Nai and his companion is the knife. He seeks authority over the planet, to kill the spiders so that the butterflies may survive...or Nai finds you literally buried in the sand and decides to spare your life for unclear reasons.

Word Count: 2,900

Warning: character injury (mentions of blood), knives (obviously), Tesla’s backstory (nongraphic torture and what happens to their body after), i think that’s everything but let me know if i missed something!

Notes: If you’re all caught up with tristamp there are no spoilers! Takes place before Vash and the gang make it to July.

Nights in No Man’s Land are cool. Mornings are filled with stagnant heat from the planet’s sun. The warmth from the great red giant is oppressive. Its rays burn and blister the skin. Unforgiving and unrelenting, the days here are marred by sweat, liquid hot.

You read somewhere long ago in a book about lost technology that moons were once thought to control the tides. The sea and its waters ebbed and flowed, swayed by the pull of something far, far away. There are no seas in No Man’s Land. No waves to crest and fall. Here, on this dry, barren planet, the oceans are made of the sand and her dunes, moved only by the worms beneath it, not some heavenly body from above.

Still, maybe the five moons of this planet are trying to move and sway something, for there’s a gentle breeze when they’re out that simply isn’t there in the morning. It’s that cool, gentle breeze that you find comfort in this night. You are trapped, half buried in the sand, held there by a collapsed metal beam, but at least you can see the stars.

There’s a nasty gash on your forehead just above your left eye. Blood’s been steadily trickling into the thing for hours, obstructing your vision. The wound stung when you first got it. Now it’s just numb. The only proof you have now of the injury are the ruby red droplets slipping slower and slower down your skin.

The night is quiet save for your labored breathing. You figure it won’t be long now.

Footsteps. Somewhere behind you. The metal beam pushing down on your stomach prevents you from turning to look. You wouldn’t have had the energy to even if you wanted. Besides, you’re so far gone it’s possible there aren’t actually any footsteps at all.

A shadow. A silhouette made visible by the moon light. Someone is here and they are looming over your slumped form.

“Pathetic,” comes a disembodied voice. The part of you that remains lucid swears you’ve heard it before.

“Vash?” you ask. Is it possible? Had your traveling companion come back for you.

“Not quite,” the voice tuts.

Then he’s in front of you, large and looming like the horsemen of death. You recognize him and you don’t. His build and frame are familiar, but even in the darkness you can tell this isn’t your Vash. It’s the eyes that make the difference. They’re bitter and angry. Icy and cold like the breeze that’s been soothing you.

“So this is what my brother has been up to,” the man muses. “Traipsing around with you and your ilk. Some days I swear he’s just as pathetic as you.”

Brother. You suppose that makes sense, though the Vash you knew never spoke of a twin.

“Well?” he’s demanding. “Got anything to say for yourself?”

“I don’t know where Vash is.”

He crouches so that he’s eye level with you and rolls his eyes. “I don’t remember asking. I’m not here for him. I’m not ready for him yet.”

Your face scrunches, “What-”

His fingers wind their way through your hair, gripping it so tightly you feel like a puppet pulled by a string. He forces your face closer to his own so that he can inspect you properly. When he survey’s you, his eyes are sharp, like those of a hawk catching sight of its prey. You manage to stare back with your good eye, the one that isn’t pooling with blood, though there must be something wrong with that one too because the man before you is fuzzy, blurred and misshapen, like a picture out of focus.

When he drops you suddenly, your head lulls to the side.

“Pathetic,” he repeats. “I don’t get what he sees in you weak little creatures. I mean, look at you, in this bad of shape due to a little blood loss. What do you think, hmm? Should I leave you here to bleed out drop after agonizing drop, or should I just ago ahead and finish you off?”

There’s a sound, a burst of light, and the man before you is engulfed in a tornado of something sharp and silver. It takes a minute for your brain to process what it’s seeing: millions and millions of swirling knives.

Your eyes widen, “What are you?”

The monster before you smiles, “An independent.”

And then your world goes black.

***

When you wake, it’s into a deep darkness. It’s so dark in fact, you figure you’ve either actually died or been struck blind. With some effort, you manage to peel open your eyes. The room you’re in is unfamiliar. As you sit, a wave of pain cascades down your back and spine. So not dead or blind, then, for death surely cannot be this painful.

There’s a man in the room with you. The same one as before. The one who wears Vash’s face.

“What do you know of Eden?” he asks you. Clutched in his lithe fingers is a thick paperback book, the spine worn with read. The Bible, you realize. His eyes never leave the page.

“The garden?” you ask, your voice hoarse. It strikes you suddenly how thirsty you are.

He rolls his eyes and snaps the books shut. “Yes, the garden. What do you know of it?”

You consider him now that his eyes are on you. There’s a strange look in them that you can’t quite place. Something serious and dangerous.

Your family wasn’t pious. There was a church in the small town you grew up in, but people hardly ever attended. Even the priest spent more time drinking than preaching. Still, you somehow think your answer to his question may determine just how long you get to remain breathing, so you say, “It was supposed to be a paradise for the first humans, but a creature tempted Eve with a fruit forbidden and after she convinced Adam to eat it with her, they were cast out.”

He nods, smiles.

“A world without humans.”

He seems fond of the idea.

“Is that your goal?” you ask him. “A world without humans? A new Eden.”

He stands to leave, “I doubt a thing like you could understand.”

***

A man with hair the color of the sky on a cloudless day brings you some food and water, grumbling to himself about babysitting though he doesn’t stay more than a minute, practically flinging the tray of food onto your bedside table before stomping and storming away.

“Legato,” Nai will tell you later, not long after he gifts you his own name. “He was my first.”

“First what?” you ask between bites of food. You’d refused it at first, but Nai hadn’t liked that. Started ranting and raving about how he didn’t go through all the trouble of having his doctor save your stupid life just for you to throw it away in some half-hearted hunger strike.

(When you asked him why he had chosen to save you, he had no answer).

Nai ignores your question—as he often does—to ask you one of his own. He seems to like to question you, though you’re not sure what you’re on trial for. Your humanity it often seems. “What do you know about plants?”

You shrug from the bed you haven’t managed to leave in days. The doctor worked miracles to repair your back and legs, but they remained mostly lost to you. Stiff and unsteady.

“They’re the source of our water on No Man’s Land.”

He’s sitting reclined in a chair, elbow propped up on the arm rest, two fingers next to his eye, a thumb below his chin as he observes you. The ease and nonchalance at which he studies you makes your blood boil with rage. He’s right to feel so unthreatened by you. You are only human after all. What could you possibly do to creature like him?

“Where do they get it?” he asks, tone bored yet undercut with something sinister.

You sigh, closing your eyes to pinch at the brink of your nose. “I don’t know, Nai.”

He’s smiling when you look at him again, as if he’s caught you somehow. You’ve clearly given him the answer he sought.

“Have you ever seen one?”

You shake your head.

“Would you like to?”

***

You don’t understand what you’re looking at. Surely, this floating white sphere in a tank cannot be what has kept the people of the planet fed and watered for nearly a century or more. At first, you think you may be looking at a gigantic filter, but then the sphere begins to unfurl and you’re left with more questions than answers.

Still, Nai is looking expectantly at you, waiting for your reaction, so you say, “They’re beautiful.”

Which is true. The creature before you is pale and soft like the moons of the planet, shining and shimmering with an almost blinding white light. It has a head and body not unlike your own: two arms, two legs. And then, of course, there are the wings.

“They’re kin.”

You look from Nai to the creature and start to piece parts of the puzzle together. “You’re related to them. You and Vash both. You’re plants.”

“Independents,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

He’s staring intensely at you now, arms crossed, icy eyes burning holes through your soul. It takes you some time to realize that he wants you to figure it out, so you give it your best guess, “Independents can exist outside this container.”

There go his eyes. Rolling. They never seem to stay still when he’s with you. “Obviously. Dig deeper. How come I can stand here before you and they can’t?” His tone is condescending and patronizing. He scolds you like a teacher does a disappointing pupil.

“You’re…” you try again, determined not to be disappointing, “sentient?”

He nods lightly yet encouragingly. “Go on.”

“You and Vash,” you continue slow and unsure. “You’re more alive than them somehow. More aware. Conscious and able to make more decisions.”

“Perceptive girl,” Nai hums. You think he might be complimenting you, though his facial expression remains strikingly neutral.

He may be pleased at your perceptiveness, but a creeping unsettledness suddenly begins to worm its way into your heart. “Plants…” you muse aloud. Nai is watching you. Waiting to see what epiphany, if any, you have next. “We humans called you that. That’s the name we gave you. Is it accurate?”

“What do you think?”

You frown. You think this thing in the tank looks an awful lot like an angel.

“Can they consent?” you ask him suddenly. “Do they know what’s happening to them?”

He’s smiling now, something wide and toothy and predatory like you’re a fly he’s caught in his well woven web. He asks you again. “What do you think?”

You think, begrudgingly, that whatever these plants are, you’d die without them.

***

“Are there others?” you ask him one day.

By now you’ve learned where you are: an opulent city called July. A hearty, healthy plant crashed here during the big fall—which you’ve come to learn Nai and Vash caused—and people built their lives around it.

“Other what?” he asks in return. “Be more specific.” He’s sitting at a grand piano beating the same song into the keys over and over and over.

“Other independents.” You’re sitting on the cold floor beside his piano bench, resting your back against it.

He waits until he’s finished playing the song one last time to address you. “There was another,” he confirms for you. “One other.”

He’s shifted his body so he can look at you fully. You turn to face him as well. After months and months of entertaining the beast, you think you finally understand how to play its game. He won’t elaborate unless you ask. He likes to make you beg.

“Who were they?”

“Their name was Tesla,” he says. “I never met them.” He pauses, then corrects himself, “Well, actually, I suppose I did meet them. Twice actually. But by then it was too late.”

Nai only ever feeds you scraps. He likes to keep you hungry. Wants you coming back for more.

“What happened to them?” you ask, humoring him. You think at his core, Nai is incredibly lonely. There’s no other reason for him to keep someone like you around. You’re not like Legato. You don’t believe in him or his desire for a new Eden. If he were to finally sate you and your appetite, you’d both go mad with boredom.

“Humans,” he bites. “What else. You and your kind can never just leave anything well enough alone. It wasn’t enough for you to destroy your own planet and the flora and animal life there; you had to destroy this one too. And on the backs of my brothers and sisters.”

Anger isn’t unusual for him. He doesn’t seem to realize it, but all his anger makes him oh so very human. His emotions bring him closer to what it is he hates the most.

“What happened to Tesla?” you ask again.

“They came to me,” he says, “in a dream. They led me to where the humans on that ship were keeping what was left of their body. Alive two hundred twenty-nine days, and every one of them torture. You humans pumped them full of so much poison there was hardly anything left of them when they died. An arm. A brain. Their eyes. All stored in three separate containers. Preserved like trophies. And he has the gall to insinuate I’m the sadist. Every fucking thing I did thereafter I did for him!”

His fist slams down on the piano. The instrument wails in protest. You jump at the sound.

Talking to Nai can feel like diffusing a bomb. Cut the wrong wire, and he’s bound to explode. You aren’t sure what to say to him now. It isn’t your job as his captive to comfort him. Still, there’s something in those stone-cold eyes of his that wasn’t there before. Something sorrowful.

“Everything you did you did for Vash.”

He sighs, posture slumping. Nai’s tired, you realize. Of what you can’t be sure.

“He’s too weak to survive as a plant so he acts the dim witted fool to win him the affections of humans instead. Why do you think he behaves the way he does? He’s shrinking himself to not seem harmful or dangerous to you and your kind. You’d hunt him for sport or string him up and suck him dry like you’re doing our brethren if you knew his true nature. I had to protect him. I had to protect us.”

An arm. A brain. Some eyes. That’s all that was left of Tesla. Humans consumed everything else. Maybe that’s what Nai is so afraid of. Maybe that’s why he’s so angry all the time. You picture your mother hacked up and pickled. Suddenly it isn’t so hard to empathize with Nai.

“What are you going to do?” you ask him. He’s never actually told you his plan. Just bits and pieces of it. You’re not sure if he wants to keep you ignorant or if he wants you to figure it out for yourself. “How are you going to protect your kind?”

A little while back he brought a preacher to your room. Asked you to share everything you knew about Vash with the man. You assured both of them that it wasn’t much—you’d only traveled with Vash a few weeks at most—but Nai insisted, hanging on every word. You wondered how long it’d been since Nai saw his brother in the flesh.

Vash is involved in all this somehow. Nai needs him in July.

Nai is looking down at you from the bench, lips pressed firmly together into a thin straight line. It’s the first time he’s contemplated sharing everything with you. “The extinction of your kind means nothing while my own remain little more than conduits and shells.”

You nod. That makes sense. Vash and Nai are the only independents. Even if Nai managed to exterminate your kind, the plants would be no more sentient then than they were before.

“You want them conscious,” you say. “Independent like you and Vash.”

He’s smiling now, lips curved upwards, corners of his eyes crinkling. You don’t think you’ve ever seen such a soft and serene expression on him. All his hatred and anger gone as he envisions this humanless utopia.

As quick as the expression comes, it goes. Nai’s face darkens. Lips curved down in a deep, contemplative frown. You dare to ask, “How will you manage it?”

A sneer. Vicious and violent. It warps his otherwise angelic face. That’s the issue, then. The how. It occurs to you that Nai may have kept his plans from you not to keep them a secret, but because they’re too hard for him to breathe life into. A plan unspoken is one yet to have been made real.

Nai thinks you’re selfish. He thinks every human is selfish. You are tempted by everything. By food and drink and sex. Driven by id, seeking pleasure, drowning out pain. He calls you all Eve and plots a paradise free of your particular breed of sin. He can’t understand that you and your kind are just doing what’s needed to survive on a plant you were never meant to inhabit.

He wouldn’t want your pity, but in a way, he’s earned it.

You force yourself to look up at him as you say, “Whatever you end up doing, I hope it brings you peace.”

#nai x reader #nai x you #millions knives x reader #millions knives x you #trigun x reader #trigun x you #nai x y/n #millions knives x y/n #trigun x y/n #trigun imagines #i have nai brainrot and this is the result #i need a tag for my fics hmmm #i thought i had one but now i cant find it lol #oh well

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