#do you feel it?: retribution (oc) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whitedarkmoonflower · 11 months ago

Note

GIRL! You should write a Sihtric ffc that takes place when they are trying to get Bebbanburg back and they take him and Finan and chain them. While they are chained, Sihtric notices a girl also being chained in a corner (the oc) and after the battle he rescues her…the rest up to you. If you do pls tag me 🤭😳

Here you goo girly! Copy and pasted <3

Bebbanburg

Authors note: It's my last fic this year. I hope you'll enjoy. I found it not so easy to write, but here it is. A big thank you to @the-irish-girl for helping me with the ideas and writing prompts. I appreciate it a lot!

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female)

Warnings: a lot of Angst and a bit of Fluff. That's it .

Word Count: 4,8 K

Tags: @sihtricfedaraaahvicius@hb8301@zillahvathek@alexagirlie@gemini-mama @verenahx@mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf@willowbrookesblog

If you want to be added to the tag list - write to me.

Constantin's voice pierces the inner yard, “He's no man of mine,” he declares, putting a very fast end to their venture.

'Your Scottish accent sucks,' Sihtric grumbles, his teeth clenched, as his hands are forcibly bound behind his back. Like Finan before him, he's quickly disarmed. They are surrounded by too many warriors, the resistance is futile. Surrender appears to be their only reasonable choice for now. At least this might buy Uhtred more time and divert the guards' and Wihtgar's attention from him.

"At least I gave it a shot," Finan shrugs with his shoulders as they are hauled away.

The air in the dungeon is musty and stale, the smell of mould and mildew mixing with filth and rot. It’s not under the ground, the cliff of Bebbanburg has made it far too difficult to dig deep. It stands as a separate building at the fortress's far end, with double wooden walls built on top of a stone base likely still left by the Romans. Its exposure to the sea winds and dampness is evident. There are no windows, its sparse lighting comes from flickering torches that cast long, ominous shadows across the walls and the metal bars of the cells.

“Torture them for answers,” Lord Wihtgar orders, his frame obstructing the entrance. The threatening tone in his voice suggests that he's more interested in retribution than actual information. He’s been fooled and humiliated before the Scottish king and wants revenge, eager to make them suffer. He approaches Finan, intent on delivering the first strike, as the astir voice of his commander distracts him.

“My lord, soldiers approach from the south.”

“How many?”

“Many.”

“Lock them up and then head to the ramparts,” Wihtgar commands and storms out of the dungeon. The guards roughly shove Finan and Sihtric into separate cells. The heavy metal doors slam shut with a resounding clang, the sound of keys turning in the locks echoing in the room as the guards depart, leaving behind a haunting silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of the torches.

"It could’ve been worse," Finan remarks with a half-hearted chuckle, making himself as comfortable as possible on a pile of straw in the corner of his cell. He glances over at Sihtric, in the cell across from him, worried about how he's handling things. Finan is well aware of his fearless friend's sole vulnerability.

Sihtric clutches the metal bars of his cell, his knuckles turning white under the pressure. He takes deep, deliberate breaths in an effort to remain calm, but his anxiety is palpable. The walls seem to inch closer, the pervasive darkness reaching towards him like insidious fingers. Each breath he draws feels oppressively heavy, as if pressing down on him, dragging him towards the ground. Sihtric shuts his eyes tightly, trying to take another deep breath, fully aware that it’s his own mind playing tricks on him, yet unable to shake the feeling.

When he finally forces his eyes open again, the cell is pitch black; the torches have burned out. The space feels even more confined than before. He finds himself sitting on the hard floor, his arms wrapped around his knees, back pressed against the wall. The distant sound of water dripping is the only thing that pierces the silence. Time has become a blur—hours, days, weeks? He can't tell.

Touching his swollen lip, Sihtric winces at the pain but is relieved to find his teeth intact. He curls up tighter, shutting his eyes, longing for sleep to claim him, but it remains elusive.

The cold in the cell is piercing, cutting through his thin clothing and his stomach is growling with hunger. Sihtric shivers, his teeth chattering from the chill. His gaze falls to his legs, barely covered by a worn rug, down to his bare, skinny feet. They're blistered and dirty, stained with streaks of blood. His blood.

He can still feel them—the blows from his father’s fists, the sharp sting of the dog whip in Kjartan's hands as he lashes out, his face flushed with anger, infuriated by Sihtric’s silence as he doesn’t cry out. He never does; he never gives Kjartan that satisfaction.

He can still hear them—his mother's desperate, pleading cries as she kneels before Kjartan, begging for mercy for her son, willing to do anything to end the brutal beating.

A vicious blow sends Sihtric sprawling to the ground; he instinctively curls into a ball, protecting his head and face, bracing for the rest of the assault. He doesn't make a sound, and Kjartan, losing interest, tosses the whip aside and refills his mug with ale. Strong arms grip him like iron claws, hoisting him up and tossing him over a shoulder. Sihtric catches a glimpse of his mother weeping on the floor, managing a small smile for her before he's taken to the small, damp cell in Dunholm's basement. Again. It’s not the first time and not the last.

No, no, no—it's not real, it can't be, Sihtric reminds himself, taking a deep, steadying breath. He's not the small, scared slave boy anymore. He's a warrior, a grown man who has endured more battles than the years of his life. He has risen above everything his father, Kjartan, sought to deny him. Kjartan is gone. This is Bebbanburg, and his friends are counting on him. He can't let the ghosts of his past haunt him, not from beyond the grave. He can’t let his father win this battle.

Yet, here he is, seemingly back in that same cold, dark cell in Dunholm, wiping away tears with the frayed fabric of his sleeves. This hidden place being the only spot where he lets them flow freely.

"Hey, hey, Sihtric, listen to me," Finan's urgent voice pierces through the haze, jolting Sihtric back to the present. His eyes fly open. He finds himself still upright, clutching the iron bars, his head leaning against them, breaths coming fast and heavy. A sheen of cold sweat coats his forehead, and his entire body quivers. If not for his tight grip on the bars, his legs would have surely given way by now.

"There's something in your cell. Sihtric, are you hearing me? Check out the corner behind you. Something's moving," Finan's voice, though somewhat muffled, carries a distinct note of urgency that spurs Sihtric to slowly turn his head. In the far end of his cell, he catches sight of a peculiar, quivering shape. It isn't merely moving; it's shaking, accompanied by faint, muffled noises.

Forcing himself to release the iron bars, Sihtric turns for a better view. The torchlight is too dim to make out details, so he cautiously takes a few steps closer. His muscles tense, ready to react to any threat.

He halts, concentrating on the sounds emanating from the shape. It quickly becomes apparent that what's under the tattered blanket is a living, scared creature, its quiet, stifled sobs reaching his ears. With careful movements, Sihtric edges closer, extends his hand, and slowly pulls back the ragged blanket, unveiling the source of the quiet sobbing.

—---------------------------------------------

You're abruptly roused from sleep by the sound of voices. Straining your ears, you recognize the voice as Wihtgar's. It's been a while since the Lord of Bebbanburg visited the dungeons, not since your arrival. You quickly rise and hurry to the iron bars of your cell, moving as swiftly as the clanking chains around your ankles permit. The metal chafes against the bruises left by the shackles, but you barely notice the pain. Desperation to speak to him, to plead for your freedom, urges you forward. You've done nothing wrong; you've been falsely accused, and you need him to know that.

The voices grow louder, and you catch sight of two men being dragged in. They're strangers to you. Probably intruders. Pirates? Or even worse, Danes? Hastily, you retreat into the shadows of your cell, curling up on the small pile of straw that serves as your bed. Your fingers grip the ragged blanket given to you by a guard – a young lad with a pale face and kind eyes who'd seen you shivering, your teeth chattering in the cold night.

You watch as the men are hauled to the cells. The sound of keys turning in locks and the snapping shut of iron-barred doors send a shiver down your spine as you realise that one of the men has been locked in the same cell as you.

"Oh God, help me," you whisper under your breath, noticing the pagan pendant hanging from the neck of the stranger in your cell. Your fears are confirmed: you're locked in a cell with a Dane, the kind of ruthless, heartless warrior you've heard countless stories about. You are frozen, too afraid to move, aware that the slightest sound of your shackles might reveal your hiding place. You hold your breath and pull the blanket over your head, silently praying for the guards to return quickly, before that wild beast in the shape of a man discovers you, before he lays his hands on you.

Blinded by the blanket, you're cut off from seeing what's happening in the cell, but your fear is too great to risk a glance. The silence is broken only by the sounds of heavy breathing and the occasional shuffle from the other cell where the second man is locked up. You feel your legs begin to tingle, going numb from the tension and your cramped position. An involuntary shuffle causes the chains to clink softly, the sound reverberating through you like a fanfare.

"Oh no, please God, no," you silently plead, but it's too late. They've heard you. You bury your head between your knees, wrapping your arms around it, trying to make yourself as small as possible. You curse your trembling limbs as footsteps draw nearer. The stillness around you is palpable. Time seems to stretch on endlessly, each shallow breath feeling like an eternity. You wonder, anxiously, what he is waiting for. Your lungs spasm, your ability to breathe constricted, and a mix of whimpers and sobs escapes your lips as your shoulders shake uncontrollably.

The blanket is suddenly whisked away and a sharp yelp escapes your lips as you recoil. Your arms instinctively rise, shielding your head in a protective gesture.

Sihtric's eyes quickly take in the figure before him, immediately recognizing you as a girl. The hands covering your face are small and delicate, unlike those of a man or boy. He notices the shackles binding your ankles and his expression turns to one of surprise and rising anger, wondering who could be so cruel as to confine and possibly torture a woman.

"Hey, you don't have to be afraid of me," Sihtric says softly, carefully moving closer. "I won't hurt you," he reassures, tentatively reaching out his hand, as if to gently touch your shoulder.

From the corner of your eye, you see his hand approaching. In a reflexive movement, you spring to your feet, driven by fear, and scramble further into the corner, trying to press yourself into the rough wooden wall. For a brief moment, your eyes lock with those of the man beside you.

His presence is intimidating: tall, strong, with broad shoulders and chest, muscular arms visible under his sleeveless armour. His hair, braided on top, falls in wild curls to his shoulders. Even in the dim torchlight, you can see scars marking his forehead and cheek, and an unusual tattoo on his neck. Panic surges within you, and you wrap your arms around yourself protectively, covering as much of your exposed skin above the neckline of your dress as possible. Your trembling legs can no longer support your weight, and you sink back to the ground.

Sihtric observes you, his fingers raking through his hair. There's something about your tightly curled, trembling form, your wide, red, and swollen eyes filled with fear and disdain, that resonates with him. That feeling of being trapped and terrified, it’s all too known to him, it’s still there, it still lingers in his bones. He finds himself unable to look away. Cautiously, Sihtric crouches down, maintaining his distance, not wanting to frighten you further by moving too close. His gaze softens as he watches you, remaining still and quiet.

"I am Sihtric," he introduces himself gently, a softness in his voice. "I understand you're scared. But I promise, as long as we're in this cell, you're safe from me."

You are surprised by the softness of his voice and by the fact that he speaks your tongue, but it does little to calm you. He is what he is – a heathen, a savage and you are completely at his mercy, as the fleeting hope that the guards might return soon fades. It’s only now that the meaning of the words you overheard has sunken in - the fortress is under attack, and you've been abandoned to a fate that seems increasingly grim, forgotten by a world that seems to have no place for you.

With each movement deliberate and cautious, Sihtric settles himself on the floor near the wall. He leans back, drawing his knees to his chest, and places his hands on his knees visibly, a non-threatening gesture meant to reassure you.

He sits there for a while, quietly watching the shadows cast by the flickering torchlight. From the opposite cell, the sound of Finan's soft snoring indicates that he's making the most of this unexpected respite. Sihtric wants to convey to you that he is no threat. Understanding that words alone cannot convince you, he chooses to show it through his actions. So he just sits there patiently, giving you the space and time you need to realise that he means no harm.

You steal covert glances at the formidable Dane seated beside you. There's something compelling about him that repeatedly draws your gaze back to the stranger. He has remained still for some time, silent and not even looking your way. The air of strength and assurance he exudes is captivating, and his mere presence beside you has an unexpectedly soothing effect. Gradually, you feel the tension in your muscles easing and your sobs slowly subsiding.

Sihtric senses this subtle change in you, indicating that you're no longer overwhelmed by panic. He turns his head just enough to see you and clears his throat gently.

"Please, don't be afraid," Sihtric speaks in a soft, hushed tone. "I mean you no harm," he reassures once again.

Slowly, you lift your head, and your eyes unintentionally lock with his. The warm sincerity you see in them starkly contrasts with his intimidating appearance, and you reluctantly acknowledge that if he had intended to harm you, he wouldn't have waited this long. You break your gaze, only to let out a sharp shriek as you spot a rat sniffing near your feet. Startled by your cry, the rat quickly scurries away, disappearing through a small gap between the wall and the floor.

A smile slowly forms on Sihtric’s lips as he shifts his position slightly and stretches out his legs, his arms resting comfortably in his lap. He begins to speak, his voice calm and even. He tells about his childhood friend, a small, clever rat he had named Loki, after the trickster god.

"Loki was smart and fast. He'd come and go as he pleased, squeezing through the tiniest cracks in the walls. Each day, I'd save a bit of my sparse meal to share with him."

You find yourself captivated by his melodic voice, tinged with a slight accent. It almost feels as if he's speaking to himself, and only the occasional discreet glance in your direction reveals his awareness of your presence. As you listen, your breathing steadies, as you are drawn into Sihtric's story, finding solace in the sound of his voice. He recounts how Loki always found him, even in that dirty hole beneath his father’s fortress, and when he pauses, the last words hanging in the air, you unexpectedly find yourself asking, "What happened to him?" surprised to hear your own voice break the silence.

Sihtric's smile dims. "I don't know. When I finally left my father's place, I couldn’t take him with me. But I like to think that Loki kept having his little adventures in those dungeons, maybe even making friends with someone else who needed it. Like that little fellow you probably scared half to death just now."

You don't know whether Sihtric's story is real or invented, yet it stirs something within you that you believed was long extinguished. Is it gratitude? For a fleeting moment, the tale allows you to escape your grim reality, to forget the shackles chafing and bloodying your ankles, the hunger gnawing at your stomach, and even the bleak prospect of having no future.

"So tell me, why are you here?" Sihtric inquires, turning his gaze towards you.

You pause, your eyes lowering to your hands clasped in your lap. For reasons you can't quite explain, you feel a sense of safety in his presence.

"I'm accused of being a witch," you say quietly, your voice carrying a tremor of fear. "I'm waiting for my trial."

"They say I have unnatural powers, that I can summon spirits and cast curses," you continue, your voice barely above a whisper. "But it's not true. I've never harmed anyone. I just... I know herbs and remedies. People in the village would come to me when they were sick."

"People fear what they do not understand," you hear the Dane saying. "And in their fear, they can be cruel."

You nod, tears brimming in your eyes. "I'm scared," you admit. "I know what happens to those accused of witchcraft. I've seen... I've seen the pyres."

Sihtric extends his hand slowly, offering a gesture of comfort. You're hesitant at first, but then, driven by an unexpected impulse, you place your hand in his. His grip is warm and reassuring, and you allow yourself to be drawn into a soothing embrace. It's been so long since you were held with such tenderness that you can't even recall the last time. Sihtric gently strokes your dishevelled hair, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat just beneath your ear.

Your moment of solace is abruptly interrupted by a surge of voices and the sound of hurried footsteps approaching. Four guards burst into the dungeon, heading straight for the cells. The doors swing open, and Sihtric, along with Finan, are abruptly pulled to their feet and dragged out. Amidst the chaos, Sihtric exchanges a quick, knowing glance with Finan and swiftly reaches into Finan's boot, retrieving a small, concealed sharp object.

With rapid precision, Sihtric attacks the guards. The ensuing scuffle is fierce but brief. Within moments, the guards are dead on the dungeon floor, and you stifle a scream, covering your mouth with both hands in shock.

Sihtric casts a quick, conflicted glance back at you in the cell, torn between the need to escape and the desire to help you.

"Please, don't leave me here," you plead, rushing to the iron bars of your cell.

"Sihtric, we don't have time. She's chained and we don't have the tools to free her," Finan urges, grasping Sihtric's arm. But Sihtric resolutely shakes off his grasp and re-enters the cell.

"Lady, I will return for you. I promise," he whispers, his large hands gently resting on your upper arms.

"Please," you plead, your voice quivering as your fingers cling to his armour. "No, no, no, don't do this to me, please, no..." Your voice cracks, fading into a hoarse whisper, your eyes desperately seeking his.

"I will come back," Sihtric assures you again. His gaze doesn't waver as he cups your face in his hands, looking directly into your eyes. "I will."

He gently frees himself from your grip and turns to leave. Your world seems to crumble around you, despair engulfing you. You grasp the iron bars for support, but they provide little comfort, and you slowly sink to your knees, a desperate cry breaking out as you watch both men swiftly leaving the room, leaving you alone once more.

—---------------------------------------------------

The battle is over, the chaos engulfing the field before the fortress just moments before replaced by a haunting stillness. The ground is littered with fallen warriors, shattered weapons and broken shields, covered with dust and blood. Catching his breath, Sihtric lets his eyes wander around. He spots Finan nearby, bent over and breathing heavily, hands resting on his knees. Sihtric gives him a nod before continuing his search, but there's no sign of Uhtred.

"He's inside the fortress," Finan says, pointing towards Bebbanburg as he straightens up.

Sihtric turns, and a sharp scent of burning hits his nose. Bebbanburg is ablaze. The flames have taken hold of the fortress's roof, and a thick plume of smoke billows into the sky.

"Mighty Godfather, no," Sihtric mutters under his breath, his hand instinctively reaching for Thor's hammer pendant on his chest. He hears Finan swearing and calling out to him, but he doesn't pause to listen. Driven by urgency, he breaks into a desperate sprint towards the fortress, pushing through the fatigue that weighs heavily on his muscles.

—-----------------------------------

The first warning is the smell. A sharp, acrid odour of burning reeds gradually fills the dungeon, accompanied by a thin veil of smoke.

"Is anybody there? Help!" you shout, tugging at your chains with increasing nervousness. But the only response is silence, a deep, unsettling quiet. Your heart races, pounding a frenetic rhythm of fear in your chest. You pull against the chains again, as if you hadn’t done it already hundreds of times since your first days here, even though you know it's futile. Still, driven by desperation, you persist. As smoke from the burning fortress above seeps into the cell, your efforts grow more frantic. You keep yanking at the iron shackles, the metal chafing against your ankles, turning raw and aching skin into bleeding wounds. But you don't stop. You can't.

Breathing becomes increasingly difficult as the air thickens with smoke, stinging your eyes and scratching at your throat. Your mind races, frantically replaying every moment you've spent within these walls, desperately searching for some overlooked detail, some key to escape that you might have missed. But there is nothing. The cell walls appear to be closing in, the shadows deepening and becoming more threatening as the flames above intensify.

Your hands, now raw and bleeding from your futile struggles, tremble as you keep tugging weakly at the chains, tears streaming down your cheeks, not just from the smoke but from the crushing helplessness. You are alone, there is nobody in this cursed world that cares for you, that will miss you and remember you.

Your life doesn’t flash before your eyes, as you have heard it told so many times. It settles around you like a heavy cloak, woven with threads of regret, unfulfilled dreams, and the bitter sting of injustice.

"Hey, Loki!" you find yourself smiling at the small rat near your feet. "Will you tell Sihtric that I waited for him? Tell him I believed him. Tell him I have no hard feelings. I just hope he's safe," you say, your voice breaking as you reach out to gently touch the little creature, but it is gone.

Suddenly, you hear the metallic clang of the cell door flying open. Strong arms wrap around your shoulders, pressing you close to a broad chest. "I'm here. You don't need Loki to deliver your messages. I promised I would return, and here I am," you hear Sihtric's familiar, soft voice whispering in your ear.

"You came back? For me?" you whisper, your voice trembling with sobs, barely able to believe what you're seeing. Overwhelmed with relief and gratitude, you lean into the sturdy embrace of the very man whom you had feared so profoundly.

The sound of Sihtric's axe pounding against the stone foundation of the fastening is deafening. Despite his efforts, the Roman-built wall is solid and unyielding. He shifts his focus to cutting through the chains, but his axe has dulled from striking stone. With one final, forceful swing, the axe shaft snaps, leaving Sihtric holding a broken handle, the blade clattering to the ground. Undeterred, he grasps the chains with his bare hands, pulling at them with all his might.

"It's no use," you say, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Please, listen to me," your voice grows louder, trying to break through to Sihtric, who seems oblivious to your words.

"Stop it!" you finally cry out, grasping his hands in yours. Sihtric's eyes meet yours, his face a canvas of pain and despair, his fingers still tightly gripping the chain.

"There's no more time. You need to go. You have to save yourself," you implore, cupping his face in your hands, ensuring he can't look away. "Do you understand? Leave! Save yourself!" your voice rises almost to a yell.

A heavy silence falls between the two of you, your eyes locked. Then you hear the dull sound of the chain hitting the ground as Sihtric finally releases it, his arms dropping limply to his sides.

"I'm so sorry," he murmurs, his forehead resting gently against yours. "I… I've failed you."

"No, you haven't. You kept your promise. You came back," you reply, your fingers gently caressing Sihtric's thick, curly hair. You wonder if the warmth and ragged breathing you feel against your skin are from him or from the encroaching fire above.

You lift your face towards Sihtric, the tears on your cheeks mixing with the dirt and soot. Gently, almost hesitantly, you press your lips to his. The kiss is soft, filled with a sense of urgency. Sihtric shudders as he responds in kind, his lips crushing against yours so eagerly, so desperately. His arms wrap around your waist as he pulls you closer, and you feel his fingers trembling as they caress your back.

There's a raw honesty in this moment, the rest of the world – the smoke, the distant sounds of the burning fortress – all fade into the background. For those few seconds, it's just the two of you, sharing a moment of solace in a reality that seems increasingly bleak.

With a strength you didn't know you had, you manage to pull back, breaking the kiss.

"You have to leave, Sihtric! You can't stay here with me," you plead, panic and despair evident in your voice.

Sihtric looks down at you, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and sorrow. "I can't. I can’t leave you like this. Not alone, not chained," he says firmly.

Before you can protest further, he gently scoops you into his strong arms and lowers both of you to the ground. Your backs rest against the wall of the cell, his arms encircling you protectively.

"Please, Sihtric, you have to go! Save yourself!" you cry, your hands weakly beating against his chest, your pleas muffled against the fabric of his armour.

But Sihtric only tightens his hold, pulling you closer into his embrace. "I won't leave you," he murmurs, his voice resolute yet tinged with sadness. "We're in this together now."

Your struggles gradually subside as the realisation sinks in that he won't be swayed and you cease your futile attempts to show him away. Nestling against his strong body you let your tears flow freely.

“I don’t want this, Sihtric. It’s madness. Why are you doing this?” you mutter through your sobs, but Sihtric’s grip around you gets only tighter.

—--------------------------------------------

As your energy fades and your consciousness begins to slip away, the distant sounds of the dungeon seem to grow louder and more urgent. In your dwindling awareness, you hear the hurried footsteps of multiple people and the muffled clamour of loud voices.

Amidst this chaos, a distinctive sound cuts through the haze - the pounding of a hammer, resonating through the dungeon.

Suddenly, you feel multiple arms reaching for you, lifting you from Sihtric's embrace. You're too weak to resist or understand fully what's happening, but you sense movement as you're carried away from the cell.

You're vaguely aware of being brought into the open air. The cool, fresh breeze on your face contrasts sharply with the stifling, smoky air of the dungeon.

As consciousness slips from your grasp, the last thing you become aware of is the sensation of being laid down gently, with a flurry of urgent voices surrounding you. The chaos around you becomes distant, fading into a blur. Yet, amidst this disorientation, there's a distinct, grounding sensation - a hand clasping yours and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

In that brief, fleeting moment, you recognize the touch. It's Sihtric. Despite the confusion and the murmur of voices around you, his presence is unmistakable. The strength and warmth of his grip offer a sense of safety and comfort, a silent promise that you're not alone.

#sihtric #sihtric kjartansson #the last kingdom #tlk #sihtric x reader #sihtric x you #arnas fedaravicius #arnas fedaravičius #sihtric fic

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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 2 months ago

Text

The Silver Dragon (17)

The Legend of Gahaelon and Aeremys

After being reunited after so long, Aemond has one request of Arianwyn: to read him a story.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)

Warnings: none

Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Arianwyn could have spent the rest of her life with her face pressed against Aemond’s cheek, savoring the feeling of his strong arms around her and inhaling his familiar scent of parchment and steel – now laced with brimstone. But the commotion from the Velaryon arrival was fading, and she knew the crowd’s attention would soon be drawn to the prince openly embracing a young lady in a way that was not entirely proper. She opened her eyes and pulled away from him. Still, he did not break contact, keeping his arms firmly around her waist.

As expected, those in the training yard and on the ramparts were staring at them—knights, courtiers, servants… and her stepbrothers.

Luke still cowered behind his brother, fearful now that the uncle he mutilated had become such a fierce warrior. Jace was far less intimidated. His stare was filled with the promise of retribution, and Arianwyn knew that as soon as he had the chance, he would report everything he had seen to Daemon.

Desperate to escape those dark, prying eyes, Arianwyn shyly looked back up at Aemond. “Do you need to return to your training?” she asked, “I believe Ser Criston is waiting for you.”

For a moment, she thought Aemond would not respond. He just stood there, looking at her as if she were some mythical being. Like he wasn’t entirely convinced she was real. “No,” he said, his voice low and soft, a rich sound that seemed to rumble through Arianwyn’s chest like thunder through the sky. “I have been here since dawn; I am long overdue for a break.”

With that, he took her hand and surged up the stairs, pulling her with him into the passageways of the Red Keep. Arianwyn was so delighted to be with him again, her jubilant laughter echoing off the stone walls, that she did not realize where he was leading her until they came to the door.

Her door.

She released her hand from Aemond’s and laid it on the dark wood. “Why have you brought me here?” she asked, tracing the runes they had carved into the door years ago to ward off monsters and spirits.

Aemond was nearly silent beside her, but she felt his presence as if it were the air she breathed. A heavy but welcome weight upon her heart – a perfect embrace. “They are your rooms. I thought you would be eager to see them again.”

She turned back to him and could not suppress her smile. After all these years, they were together again. They stood before the rooms in which they spent half of their youth. It felt like it was meant to be. As if they were always fated to be here again.

“Surely they belong to someone else now,” she said. “It has been eight years.”

A subtle smile spread across his lips, not the broad, toothy grin she remembered as he reached around her to open the door. Then, he stepped back and motioned for her to enter. She did so hesitantly, half-expecting them to be walking in on some stranger’s afternoon tea.

They did not.

Her solar looked precisely as she remembered it.

The same furniture, the same curtains and tapestries. Her old cloak, made of thick brown wool and lined with bear fur, was still draped over her favorite reading chair. Two ancient bronze swords, their fullers engraved with Runes, still hung above the fireplace. Hanging from their handles, tied with faded green ribbon, were scraps of parchment bearing Aemond’s writing – the translation of the Runes they had written years ago.

Arianwyn approached the mantle, reaching out to read the note written in Aemond’s youthful scrawl. The paper was brittle with age, but the ink had not faded. When she tied them on so many years ago, she had not realized that he had drawn a figure, whom she could only assume was the prince himself, wielding the blades as he defended a long-haired maiden from some shapeless beast.

“How?” she asked, unable to tear herself from the artwork.

Aemond came to her side, the space between them sizzling like air broken by dragonfire. “Ser Gerold wanted to empty it and bring everything back to Runestone after he and Lady Arryn failed to secure your release. I would not allow it,” he murmured. “Though he and mother lost hope after that, I knew that eventually, you would return to me… and to all of us.”

She, at last, looked away from the note but remained with her back to Aemond as she stared into the long-cold ashes in the fireplace. “I came close to losing hope as well.” So many times throughout those years, she would fall into loneliness and despair, and not even Brynna or Ser Adrew could draw her out. “I would have, were it not for your letters.”

Knowing that he was still out there, that he still thought of her each day and cared enough to send long, thoughtful letters even when he was infirm, was like the sun breaking through dark, stormy clouds. Each piece of fine parchment bearing his seal was a lifeline she clung to, each one still resting in a trunk in her tower, just below her favorite window. She would read them so often, not only for the lack of books at Dragonstone but –

“What is that?” As she turned to face him, her eyes were drawn to the far corner of the solar, where her bookshelves had once been. Upon closer inspection, she realized they were still there, only now buried within a massive pile of neatly stacked books so high it nearly reached the ceiling.

“That,” Aemond said, setting his hands on her shoulders and leading her across the room, “is eight years of reading for you to catch up on.”

“You cannot be serious!” Arianwyn let out a barking laugh as she craned her neck to take in the entire pile. It was so tall that she would not be able to reach half the books without assistance from someone taller. She took a step back, coming to rest against Aemond’s chest. “You’ve read all of this since I’ve been gone?”

“I’ve read more,” he replied with a smug smile that she could not see but heard in the lilt of his voice. “These are just those I thought you would like, or wanted to discuss with you, or… what I wanted to hear you read aloud.”

At that, Arianwyn turned to face him, the corner of her mouth quirking/”::: up in a wicked grin. She raised her brows in an expression of mock pity. “Are you still struggling with the big words?”

Aemond did his best to scowl at her, but it quickly faltered and morphed into that new small smile of his. “Not for years, Aria.”

Her laughter faded when he laid a hand on her waist, guiding her backward until she was pressed against the wall of books, and he raised one hand above her head. He was so close – their lips so near to meeting. All she had to do was lift her chin ever so slightly.

But before she could truly consider doing so, Aemond pulled away. He held a small grey book, a ribbon hanging from within. He tugged on it, coaxing it open to the page he had marked. “Some stories require your voice to do them justice.”

Arianwyn glanced down at the book. It was a collection of Valyrian myths, illustrated with lovely gilt illuminations. She did not recognize the title, The Legend of Gahaelon and Aeremys.

“Will you read it to me?” Aemond asked, as reverently as if it were a prayer.

Entranced by the intensity of his gaze, Arianwyn nodded. She slipped past him and walked to the velvet couch where they had often read together. The fabric had faded slightly but was kept clean enough. She sat in her usual place on the right, where she so often laid her head against the armrest while commanding Aemond what to write down.

After a moment spent simply staring at her, Aemond sat in his place on her left.

The air between them – smaller than she had remembered – crackled with something that would only take a single spark to ignite as she opened the book once more. Then, with one more furtive glance at Aemond, Arianwyn began to read:

“The island of Aethios was one of the greatest jewels of the Valyrian Freehold. The sands of the beaches sparkled as if made from pure gold, the forests lush and green, and the dragons raised on its shores grew large and strong.

This paradise was ruled by the dragonriders of House Cephaeos. Its Lords ruled wisely and justly for hundreds of years, making the island the greatest power in the Narrow Sea. It was even said by some that the Cephaeosi had made a deal with the Merling King to ensure the tides were always in their favor, for no man alive could remember a ship bearing its blue-scaled sails ever meeting a bitter end.

But so many years of good fortune so easily won often breed weak leaders. At the height of Aethios’ power, its throne fell to Lord Aeravon – whose most demanding trial came when he had to settle a dispute over the ownership of four crab traps. He was a boastful man, certain that the glory and honor won by his ancestors was also his to bear.

One day, Aeravon was feeling particularly prideful and boasted to his court that so great was the might of House Cephaeos that even the smallest of his family’s dragons – a young beast with scales the white of sea foam which his daughter had only just taken to wing – could surely best and devour any of the Merling King’s monsters.

The court fell silent. Surely their Lord would not be so foolish as to provoke the wrath of the Merling King? Aeravon’s advisors begged him to rescind his words, but it was too late.

A great wave, taller than the topless towers of Valyria itself, crashed over the castle, bringing the pale stone roof down upon Aeravon’s court. Then, the Merling King himself stood before Aeravon’s throne.

“Your tongue wags with dangerous words, boy,” the Merling King said, pointing his three-pronged spear at the prideful Lord. “You have no respect for the sea which I command nor for my children who you now insult without shame. For this, you must pay a price equal to the offense. Bring forth the dragon of which you speak, and we shall see how it fares against the youngest of my children.”

The Lord’s daughter, Aeremys, pleaded with her father to beg the forgiveness of the Merling King so he would spare her beloved dragon, but he ignored her desperate cries. He had been issued a challenge in his own castle, and his pride would not let him refuse.

The young dragon was brought to the throne room bound in heavy chains. The pitiful beast trembled in fear along with its rider when the Merling King lifted a clawed hand to summon his child.

The court cried out when one massive webbed foot, the size of a fishing boat, seized the side of the cliffs behind Aeravon’s throne. Another followed, and the blood-red head of the Caetus came into view. It loosed a horrible roar from its mouth, filled with jagged teeth longer than ballista bolts. The ladies of the court fainted as the beast hauled its enormous body over the edge of the cliff, propelling itself towards the castle with startling speed.

All that is, except for Aeremys, who continued to cry out for her poor dragon. As the creature was devoured, chains and all, by the fearsome Caetus, it was said that her wail shattered every piece of glass on the island.

Lord Aeravon looked on with unbridled terror at the dreadful might of even the Merling King’s youngest. His skin paled as white as his hair when the Merling King again pointed his spear at him.

“Foolish man,” the Merling King said. “To think that your feeble beasts could pose a threat to my children. You and your people will suffer for your vanity.”

Even Aeravon cried when the Caetus reached out and grabbed Aeremys, carrying her away from the castle and the island as quickly as it arrived.

“You shall watch as your innocent child is devoured by my waters,” the Merlin King decreed. “Only when your heart is broken, and you cry out to your fickle gods to save you, will I grant you the mercy of death. You. Your family. Your people. Your very island shall fall to my power.”

The ground beneath the island rumbled, and great spouts of water began to spray from the cracks in the throne room tile. But Aeravon was blind to the suffering of his people. All he could see was the stone pillar that had emerged from the sea, where his beloved daughter lay naked and chained, exposed to the roiling storm that had formed around the island.

He cried to the gods, begging them to spare her, begging them to spare him and his people and the island of his ancestors. They did not listen.

Aeremys resigned herself to a painful death, anticipating the sting of salt water in her lungs or the burn of lightning on her skin. But death did not come.

Her eyes, which she had kept tightly closed since the slimy hands of the Caetus closed around her, opened to find the rain falling upon her had ceased. Instead, she beheld the gleaming silver scales of the largest dragon she had ever seen, set aglow by the light of the storm.

Astride the dragon’s back was a fearsome warrior she had met once before. Gahaelon of House Belaerys, The Silver Knight of Valyria, who had flown the entirety of the world atop his steed, Tyvaros. There was no monster he could not slay.

As if it sensed the prowess of the new arrival, the Caetus again emerged from the sea, diving with an open mouth towards Gahaelon and his dragon.

“Dracarys!” Gahaelon shouted, and his dragon obeyed. A great cone of white flame enveloped the monster, boiling the water from its very blood. As the Caetus wailed for its father to save it, Tyvaros charged, allowing Gahaelon to carve it from tooth to tail with his greatsword, Aemandra.

Before the two halves of the beast could fall into the water, Gahaelon leaped from Tyvaros’ back, using the bloodied sword to cleave Aeremys’ chains and set her free. He held her close as he wrapped her in his cloak to hide her nakedness before mounting them both upon Tyvaros.

“Come, let us save your father!”

“No!” Aeremys replied. “He has made his choice. Let him suffer the consequences.” Gahaelon needed no convincing beyond the rage he found in her eyes.

The Merling King watched as the silver dragon flew away from his storm. Though he mourned the loss of the Caetus, he remembered how Aeremys begged her father to apologize and how she cried when her dragon was devoured. He watched as Gahaelon gently kissed the tears from her cheeks with a love the Merling King had not felt in millennia. Such a love deserved mercy, he resolved.

Then, the Merling King unleashed his ultimate wrath on the island of Aethios, reducing it and its people to stones and sand that sunk to the bottom of his sea.”

Aemond barely heard the story, though he knew Aria read it beautifully. She always did. But as she read, she had shifted closer and closer to him, and he to her. He could focus on little else but the way her head rested on his shoulder, his chin nestled in her hair.

She froze momentarily as if she, too, realized how dangerously close they were. Yet she didn’t pull away.

Emboldened, he slowly moved the arm he had slung over the back of the couch down until his hand was on her waist. She did not hesitate to lean back into his chest. Though his heart raced, and he was sure she could feel it, Aemond felt calmer and more at ease than he had in years.

“I never thanked you for the book of Runes you sent,” Aria whispered as she let the book fall into her lap.

Aemond took her hand, bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “There is no need to thank me, Aria,” he kept his voice soft, too, as if any noise may shatter the small piece of paradise they found themselves in. “If anything, I should be the one to thank you for the gift you gave me.”

“Do you have it with you?” She looked up at his eyepatch as if she could see what lay beneath.

“I do,” he answered, though he was unsure if he wanted to show her. The last time she had seen what remained of his eye, she had fainted. He did not want her to be as afraid of him as so many were.

But then she looked at him with those perfect silver eyes brimming with fondness and reached with hesitant fingers for the edge of his scar. “Can I see it?”

How could he deny the woman he loved? How could he ever think she could fear him? Keeping one arm around her waist, he reached for the patch.

The moment his fingers touched the leather, the door to the room swung loudly open.

In an instant, Aemond realized how they must look, entangled in each other, alone in an empty room. Suddenly desperate to protect her reputation, he hastily uncoiled his arm from her waist and stood from the couch, leaving Arianwyn dazed by his sudden retreat.

Turning to the door, he was greeted by a smiling Queen Alicent, followed by Helaena and her children.

Perfect timing, he thought wryly as he forced an innocent smile to his face.

#aemond #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond imagine #prince aemond #aemond x oc #house of the dragon aemond #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd aemond #aemond fic #hotd fanfic #aemond xf!oc #aemond x original female character #aemond x original character #the silver dragon

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almondemisewriting · 3 months ago

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doomed to repeat

prologue: original sin

This story happened a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. It is already over. Nothing can be done to change it. - Matthew Stover

notes: as mentioned before on my main blog @almondemise, I recently watched the acolyte while recovering from an infection and became rather obsessed with it. I fear this might be my roman empire. star wars had never really interested me but you can count on the fact that I watched every single of those movies after finishing the acolyte. although I haven't written fanfiction in years, I better put this english degree to work. no oshamir as I fear I can't do them justice. / banners are by @cafekitsune & gif by @goodsirs

summary: after Osha and Mae had banded together and betrayed Qimir in the forest of Khofar, he killed them. now, once again, he was alone. how good that he had already been working on another plan. on the other end of the galaxy, there was a girl born out of pure force. a weapon raised for one reason only: to kill him. but the force works in mysterious ways.

word count: 3.6k

pairing: qimir x female oc; the stranger x female oc

warnings: english is my second language, jedi evil arc, manipulation, psychological abuse, physical abuse, violence, martyrdom and other religious themes, probably inaccurate star wars lore & deviation from both plot and general worldbuilding, explicit content and other sensitive themes in following chapters

She had never chosen to be the Chosen one. Her destiny of martyrdom was forced onto her as retribution for her original sin: being born. All the suffering Amalthea endured throughout her life never could quite make up for it.

In fact, Amalthea had never made a decision, she was simply an amalgamation of all the choices made for her. She had no particular feelings about it. It was not like hate was a feeling that was allowed for her to feel anyway. There were dozens of rules for her to follow, a hundred things being forbidden to feel, a million things not allowed to experience, all for her safety.

If pride was allowed, Amalthea would have been proud of being good at following rules. It made her life easy, but it also made her lonely. Late at night, she lay awake, a blanket of unhappiness weighing her down, the viciousness of isolation gnawing on her bones so tangible that she bit her lips bloody. There was no one she could talk to. Amalthea was not allowed to speak to anyone unless spoken to. Emergencies excluded, of course. An easy rule to follow.

But at Anantore Point, only a couple of people were authorized to talk to her at all. Her days were spent in perpetual silence, thinking, listening. Often she went days without talking to anyone. It helped that people usually ignored her, acted like she was part of the furniture, her Cortosis ring and the veil helping to keep her hidden. Amalthea often imagined the others not being able to see her at all.

Until a year ago, no one bothered to correct her daydreams. It would have been worse if there were people who actually wanted to talk to her. A connection. Any connection. Amalthea vastly preferred being invisible. At least that is what she often told herself.

With time, not being able to talk to anyone made her into someone who was an excellent listener. And she was eager to listen. Going into most of the rooms of Building C and blending in to eavesdrop was easy.

"..heard that Team Three did not come back from their mission. Apparently they sent a message that they found him and then just vanished. They couldn't even track their ships!" "And they won't try to find them?"

Kiani and Odessa were low-stationed officers who mostly did administrative work but had a hang for gossip. Amalthea became acquainted with most of the events at the station thanks to them. Usually, it was just who slept with who, complaints about what food they served in the canteen, and other inconsequential things. But sometimes Odessa had interesting news thanks to Nyseth. Amalthea did not know exactly what his job was, but she did know that they tried desperately to hide their relationship.

Knowing so many secrets of the people living at the station did not make her feel bad. It was not like she could have told anyone. And with news like that she could not help listening in a bit more closely. Sinking into a plush brown chair close to them, she acted like she was reading one of the books she always carried around, but focused on their mouths. Conversations like these were often whispered and she was lucky that the veil hid her stare.

"No, I heard Yavin say that they will not send a recovery ship. It's too dangerous. He is probably on some other planet already, but all kinds of cultists will be searching for him. He says that having multiple ships in the same vicinity will end up with us losing more teams."

Odessa's voice was hushed and taut. When she named him, she almost stumbled over her own words, her fear transforming her dispatch into a jumbled and croaky mess. Amalthea heard Kiani gasp. There was a short silence after.

"I guess it will be time then soon," Kiani mumbled. Both she and Odessa started looking towards Amalthea. The insinuation made her sick to her stomach. She promptly lowered her gaze down to her gloved hands. Had the others seen her staring? Were they still looking themselves?

Trying to sink deeper into the chair, her shoulders slumped forward in an unnatural curve, her veil almost touching her knees. Now, standing up and going anywhere would have made it obvious that she listened in. So she agonized in the awkward silence, trying to make herself invisible again, the feeling of uneasiness leaving behind an uncomfortable prickle on her skin.

Suddenly, loud chatter outside the door interrupted them. The metal of the double doors crashed into the sandstone walls next to it and in came a whole barrage of people back from their missions and other work, ready to storm into the canteen to fill their grumbling stomachs.

By now, Amalthea knew all of them. At Anantore Point there were less than fifty people employed and even less than that were allowed to enter the buildings on a permanent basis. The less people knew she existed, the better.

The loudest group of all were Brom, Qimir, and Kona. Qimir was today's good news. During a mission over the last couple of days, his ship suffered sudden engine failure while in hyperdrive, and while going back into realspace he got unlucky and landed in an asteroid field where he got cut off from the rest of the group. Just this morning he was able to find them again, his ship completely beaten up, but his mission completed.

Amalthea did not know what to think of him. He was unprofessional, goofy, carefree, and not the smartest. But he knew his way around ships and various planets better than more experienced explorers at Anantore Point and he had come here on personal recommendation by Senator Fasmum. Most importantly, he was her anchor point when the time came.

Qimir's job was being responsible for getting her safely to him so she could do her job. Perhaps the last person she would ever see. Still, he was the reason she had to wear the Cortosis ring. At least that is what Amalthea guessed. Until Qimir showed up a year ago she never had to wear one. But like her, he was Force-sensitive, although he never studied it. They tested him and he could barely even light a lamp. Master Xylter said that the Force was wasted on someone like him. But Qimir could still observe it.

And that was the problem. Although Amalthea could not see it, she exuded massive amounts of the Force and that was distracting for every Force-sensitive person who came close to her. Close in this case was relative. Depending on how sensitive someone was to the Force, they could feel her from hundreds or thousands of miles away, even if they were strangers.

She wondered what it looked like, but no one had ever bothered to tell her. And Amalthea did not dare to ask. Master Xylter had said that it was because more important guests would visit after the recent happenings, but it was obvious that Qimir could not concentrate on his job with her around in this state. Amalthea did not mind the Cortosis ring. Sure, it was heavy, but having it rest on her collarbones was strangely comforting sometimes.

However, not even the ring could make Qimir stop looking at her. She felt the weight of his stare bearing down on her without mercy. And she just didn't understand why. Most of the people at Anantore Point didn't even give her a single glance, never mind a second one. Meanwhile, it was like he could not rip his eyes away from her.

Sometimes, when she sensed him, she looked back and it was like he could stare straight through the veil into her eyes, making the hairs on her neck stand up. At least, he was good at concealing it in front of others. Amalthea was not ready to be lectured on being too noticeable.

So, like many days in the last year, she decided to eat her dinner in her room. Nobody looked at her when she got up and made her way to the door. Except Qimir. His gaze was glued to her. When she walked past him to exit, she could have sworn that their eyes met. Knuckles white and straining, she clutched the front of her robe in her hands and got out of Building C as fast as she could, stumbling over elevator entrances, stairs, and her own boots.

Could he see underneath her veil? That was impossible unless you were a Jedi and had enough control of the Force. And there were only five Jedi living at Anantore Point: Grandmaster Torinn, Master Xylter, Yavin, Ecla, and Amalthea. Shuddering, she tried to physically shake off the feeling, her dense robe rustling in the desert winds outside. The way from Building C to Building A was, as usual, completely empty. Out of all of the people living here, only four had access to Building A, Amalthea being one of them. Only Ecla was standing in front of the entrance ready for her night shift and nodded at her. "Meditation?"

She simply nodded back and made her way to her room. As her guard, Ecla was allowed to talk to her. When she first came to Anantore Point six years ago, Amalthea was really excited but soon understood. Ecla was here to do her job, not make friends. She would later quietly enter her room to put down dinner and then leave as quickly as she came. The same routine as most days. Only after closing the door behind her, she realized that her books still laid in the employee room.

Although Amalthea was bored a lot, she was grateful. The Conclave of Light had saved her life when she was a baby, housed, fed, and trained her. In exchange, she did what she was born to do and it was an honor. There might have been many rules, but they were all there to keep her safe from Rebels, Wildlings, and, in the worst case, the Sith.

Most people believed them to be extinct, but you could never be too sure. And suspicious events over the last years had proven the caution of the Jedi right. Soon it would be time for Amalthea to go. A nameless Sith had been slaughtering people. Jedi searched for him and ended up dead too. He was not a dark user with many followers, but he was amassing amounts of Force that made it clear that he was a danger. Not just to the Jedi, but to the Republic at large.

Just a month ago he had executed multiple Jedi and civilians on Khofar, then vanished without a trace. It was Amalthea's responsibility to stop him. A final fight. It was all Amalthea had been working towards. The climax of her entire life. Her purpose. Her dream? She had never asked herself that. She would rather not. The choice had been made for her, the Chosen One. Her immaculate conception would either end in immaculate victory or immaculate death. Before her thoughts could get any louder, Amalthea assumed her meditation pose, closed her eyes, and concentrated.

Amalthea did not know how much time had passed since she started meditating when she heard Ecla enter her room. She often lost herself in her concentration, not knowing when and where she was when she awakened, saturated with Force and strengthened with knowledge. Ecla did not put her dinner plate down or leave the room. When Amalthea turned towards her, Ecla did not even hold a plate.

"Master Xylter requires you in the main office in Building B."

Immediately she knew what this would be about. Actually, Amalthea had already expected to be called in soon. It was time. The feeling of finality grabbed her by the throat and squeezed. But there was no time to acclimatize. She put her gloves back on and followed Ecla outside, struggling and breathless.

Amalthea could have found the way to the main office herself, but it was night, and Anantore Point, being the only cluster of buildings in this desert and desolation, stood out. Not having others around made it safer, but the lights flickering could be seen far away. So as soon as the sun tinged the sky with hues of pink and orange, Amalthea was not allowed to walk outside alone. She moved gingerly behind Ecla, almost hiding behind the broad shoulders of the experienced Jedi warrior, becoming invisible in between her massive strides.

Often, Amalthea pictured Ecla before Anantore Point in her head. She knew nothing but her name. Nevertheless, she trusted her. And, while she could not tell anyone, she admired her. She knew that Ecla would always keep her safe. Amalthea had personally seen her finish off intruders before. Secretly, she wished Ecla would come with her on her mission. She knew she was sinning heavily with that wish. Personal affections were forbidden. Any outside help during her mission was forbidden. But no one would ever know what she thought. No one ever asked.

Master Xylter was not the only one waiting in the main office. Amalthea had a look at the others. Grandmaster Torinn. Yavin. Qimir. So it was as she expected. Master Xylter cleared his throat and she quickly got down on her knees and looked to the ground. "Greetings Master." Amalthea could hear Qimir swallow loudly. When she got up and glanced at him, he was glaring at her. Was he angry that she didn't greet him? But there was no time to contemplate.

"You know why you are here. Your mission is in three days. Say yes if you understand." Master Xylter had never been patient. "Yes, Master."

Amalthea pondered for a moment. It was now or never. "I don't know if I am ready for the mission yet. I still have not been knigh-,", she began.

Master Xylter reacted fast. "Insolent!" His voice was so loud that even Ecla flinched. Immediately, Amalthea fell to her hands and knees, her veil brushing the dirty ground. Not a second later, Master Xylter's boot secured it there. Desperate, Amalthea pleaded for forgiveness. She should not have acted so rashly and the humiliation of her audacity stung worse than a cut.

"How dare you question the decisions of the Conclave! I must have spoiled you too much. You have not been knighted because you're simply not worthy. I do not care if you do not think you are ready, you are ready when I say you are. You will do your duty and you will do it gladly," Master Xylter exclaimed.

"Stand up." Slowly, Amalthea got back on her feet, her posture demure, her arms hanging aimlessly at her sides. They were dirty and bruised, but it was too mortifying to openly try to brush them clean on her already ruined clothes. She decided to get this done quickly.

"I have been ill-mannered, Master. I deserve punishment."

When she was younger, Amalthea cried every time this happened. But she quickly learned it would just incense Master Xylter more. By now, she had more control over herself. Calmly, she lifted her dirty veil, her face as tranquil as an undisturbed lake at dusk. When her Master struck, not a single soul in the room dared to move.

But the corner of her sight showed something interesting. Qimir's hands, tightly curled into fists. Did he want to hit her as well? He was an explorer, after all, a job that sought people with a hang for violence.

"Thank you, Master. I will do better," Amalthea said softly. As she put her veil back down her unobstructed gaze fell back upon Qimir. His eyes seemed to bore themselves into her, his dark blown-out pupils reeling her in like the gravity of black holes. It was the first time their eyes met directly. The moment was gone as quickly as a shooting star and Qimir straightened his gaze towards the empty space in front of him, his jaw unclenching and his back loosening.

Yavin spoke up. "You will leave Anantore Point at dusk together with Qimir. He will take you to the designated place, deploy your pod, and wait for you to finish your mission. You will kill him. You will wait for further instruction," he stated slowly and clearly.

Yavin had been the commander of the explorers ever since Amalthea could remember and he was good at his job. He was deviant and did not want to be found. Commander Yavin did so anyways. He prided himself in his work, but he had gotten older as well and Amalthea could hear in his voice that he was glad that he could soon retire. It all came back to how successful Amalthea would be. Grandmaster Torinn laid a calming hand on Amalthea's veiled hair.

"Remember, Padawan. No weapons. Your Force will provide. Do not doubt the Conclave. As a last resort, please make use of this."

His old croaky voice was barely above a whisper, and still, everyone listened with reverence. Grandmaster Torinn had trained Jedi for decades, was highly respected, and had been specifically chosen to instruct Amalthea in the Force. He dropped a small green crystal in Amalthea's open hands.

"This is an Artusian crystal. It will strengthen your Force when you need it."

Next to him, Master Xylter grew impatient. "You will finish this mission. You will be successful. You will be allowed to talk to Qimir during the mission. Flight emergency situations only. Now go back to your room. Do not expect rations for the next twenty-four hours. Dismissed," he bellowed.

Amalthea clutched the crystal in her hand and felt the sharp edges press into her skin as she wordlessly left the room, bowing slightly. Of course, she didn't expect to get fed any time soon. Denial of food was Master Xylter's favorite punishment.

The three days were over faster than Amalthea anticipated. Ecla came into her room to wake her, but Amalthea had not been able to sleep and was already meditating, her new clothes equipped and her bag next to her. It was her first time to leave the building complex ever since arriving here over twenty years ago and the airfield fascinated her. There were thousands of little lights blinking like stars on the ground, dozens of ships awaiting to soar into the gradually lightening morning sky.

Amalthea felt electrified by what expected her, her stomach churning, her body slack and glossed over with cold sweat as she dragged herself behind Ecla towards a small exploration ship. Qimir was already waiting for her, greeting her shyly. Once again, his eyes wandered all over her body, fixing themselves on her face. Today was the second time he saw her without her veil.

She would not need it anymore from today on. There was nothing that could keep her safe now. So she lost her protective layers shielding her slender, bony figure and her dark curls. Qimir watched them billow in the artificial wind of the ship's engine, seemingly unsure of what to say. After some deliberation, he asked the worst question possible.

"Are you ready?" Ridiculous. Did it matter? Had Amalthea been anyone else, she would have probably laughed. Alas, she had not laughed in years. So she responded in the only way she knew and silently climbed into the ship that would deliver her into the hands of her destiny.

#qimir #the acolyte fanfiction #the acolyte #the stranger #qimir the stranger #qimir x oc #qimir smut #the acolyte fic #my writing #star wars the acolyte #star wars qimir #qimir fic #qimir the acolyte #almondemisewrites

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lokismischievousmusings-fanfic · 4 days ago

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Ok… do you all remember when I said I was working on a Detective Loki AU where he’s hunting a serial killer? Well here’s the introduction!! Please let me know if you like it!!

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: mention of murder, death, crime, cause of death. (Nothing gory and no details)

Characters: Loki, other OCs.

Summary: After living for some time on Midgard, Loki takes a liking to the small city he’s been banished to. Seeing the darkness of humanity day after day for almost a century has Loki feeling like he could make a difference. He joins the local detectives to solve the city’s violent crimes and comes face to face with his first serial killer.

Snakes and Daggers

The shrill ringing of his cellphone cut through the silence in Loki’s flat like a knife through butter. He grumbled turning over and grabbing the phone and answering it with a grumpy growl “This better be important.”

A moment of silence on the other end and then the voice of his partner “I think homicide is pretty important but what do I know?” Detective Fowler replies sharply. “Ah, hello Ethan, do you have more information for me or….?” Loki sits up and runs his long fingers through his messy onyx curls. “Yeah, we have a body, I’ll text you the address, get your ass down here” Fowler snapped back. “So grumpy Ethan, I’ll meet you there soon” Loki teased him before hanging up.

—•—•—•—

Loki arrived at the scene, officers and crime scene technicians bustled about. Camera shutters clicked, baggies rustled and Fowler barked orders that hung in the air with the fog of his breath. Fowler was young but he was no rookie, he had reddish brown hair and blue eyes with soft untouched skin to match. Ethan Fowler barely drank, didn’t smoke, ate healthy and dressed well. “Everyone relax, I’m here now” Loki joked as he ducked under the crime scene tape and approached Fowler “So what do we have?” he asked.

Fowler sighed deeply and his glance flashed to the right of them. “Young female, deceased. A man was walking his dog and it pulled him off the trail and straight up to the body” he describes solemnly. “How young Fowler?” Loki presses further. “Maybe 19 or 20, college age” Fowler answers. “Shit! This fucker is escalating. This is the third body this week” Loki growls deeply.

Then grass and gravel crunch lightly under their feet as Loki follows his partner down to the location. The scene was all too familiar for Loki now, an innocent young girl lying nude in the twigs and mud, dumped like trash. Loki squats down near the body “I’m sorry darling, I’m going to catch this asshole, I promise” he says quietly. “Why do you talk to them?” Fowler asks inquisitively. Loki straightens and faces his partner, hands in his pockets. “What do you mean?” he tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “I’ve been your partner for a while now, I’ve noticed you talk to the decea- to the victims, why?” Loki searched Ethan’s face for any sign of mockery but none could be found. “Because they can hear me, I am a god after all, even if I’m not their god” Loki explains as he takes his notepad out of his blazer pocket and flips it open. “Yeah that’s the other thing, what is a god doing on earth working as a homicide detective in this shit city?” Fowler laughs as he asks that question following Loki back towards the body. “Well originally I came here to hide from retribution for my so called crimes on Asgard. While I was here I saw so much of this violence and hatred you all have towards each other, innocent people being slaughtered by people they loved or trusted. After that I learned that many of these crimes as you call them, they go unsolved and well that really upset me. I have a gift with my siedr and I realized I could use it for good, to help with this, so here I am” Loki continued examining the body, at one point even taking a camera from tech and snapping his own photos. “Hmm, interesting reason” Fowler shrugs and snaps a pair of gloves on.

Loki looks up at Fowler, almost through his lashes at this angle “So are you going to interrogate me some more or actually work on solving this crime?” he motions to the murdered girl in front of them. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. I’ve been your partner for a little over a year and I realized I don’t really know that much about you or who you are” Fowler replies squatting down. “How about we focus on our victim? Find out who she is yeah?” Loki answers back raising his eyebrows. He reaches out and gently brushes the hair from her neck revealing bruising “Victim is a young Caucasian female between 19 and 25 years old, bruising around the throat suggests that the victim was strangled, there is no evidence to suggest that the crime took place here, location appears to be a dumpsite” Loki speaks into a recorder as a tech takes down notes. “Hey…. Lokes….” Fowler’s tone changed to that of concern. “What is it?” Loki looked over at his partner, he seemed paler than a ghost. “Isn’t this the girl who was talking with you at the bar Saturday night?” Fowler asks quietly so the others won’t hear. “Shit… yeah it is her” Loki goes even paler than he already is and stumbles back. “Well did you get her name?” Fowler asks him. Loki looks around at the other officers and begins to breathe heavily, he runs his fingers through his black tresses “Uhh no, we just talked for a few minutes at the bar” his voice was shaky. Fowler steps closer to Loki “Hey, no one is going to think you killed this girl” he assures him. “Obviously no one is going to think I’m a bloody killer Ethan!” Loki hisses at him through a clenched jaw. Fowler backed up a little bit with wide eyes “Whoa, calm down Loki. You looked upset or nervous or something Is all" he explains. “Well, I am upset, I talked to this girl and now she’s dead, was the guy watching her while she talked to me? Did he get her after I turned her down and she left the bar that night? How did this happen?” Loki rambled on a bit in his worry. “Loki this had nothing to do with you and doubt you could've stopped it, let's say you did take this girl home, there would be a different girl laying here in her place. You and I have been doing this long enough to know that” Fowler reminds him. “I’ll meet you back at the station, we’ll start looking into her last movements and see if she has anything in common with our other victims” Loki replies as they head back to their vehicles.

This was the 4th victim in two months, the killer had the same MO each time. The victims were left nude and appeared to be washed prior to being dumped, cause of death strangulation. Each victim was discarded near the lake in the tall brush near the woods, it wasn’t an easily accessible area. The bodies had to be carried to the location, the killer would have to carefully navigate the gravelly shore to reach it. Loki had no doubt that the killer chose the area because the rocks made it impossible to leave any footprints behind. The question was when he was leaving the bodies, it had to be at night since the lake was a popular spot during the day. These killings were eating at Loki, keeping him awake and consuming his thoughts as he tried to chase down the monster responsible.

Tags: @mischiefmaker615

#loki laufeyson #loki rp #fanfic #fanfiction #loki #loki fandom #loki fanfic

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cuffmeinblack · 1 year ago

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Ominis Gaunt masterlist

Ao3: cuffmeinblack

Buy me a cuppa 🖤

Full masterlist for all characters is here

Reader inserts female unless specified otherwise.

Ominis Gaunt x reader

Old habits die hard - smut, angst, 112k words 🔞

You find yourself once again in the arms of Sebastian Sallow, but with the added complication of your unexpected feelings towards your friend, Ominis Gaunt. Love rivalry.

About time (series) - fluff with sexual content in final work, 6.6k words

You regret never telling Ominis your feelings for him. Sebastian decides to give you some time alone. Start of relationship/new experiences.

Sanctuary - fluff, gn!reader, 1.3k words

You show Ominis the Room of Requirement.

Companion - fluff, gn!reader, 2k words

Sort-of sequel to Sanctuary. Gregory the puffskein.

Kindred spirits - fluff, 1.4k words

Ominis bonds with you over your pet snake.

Legilimens (ao3 link) - smut, explicit, 2.3k words 🔞

Ominis uses his unique Legilimency to find out your deepest desires.

Career Perks (ao3 link) - smut, explicit, 3k words 🔞

Ominis' career leaves little room for excitement or challenge, but his unique brand of legilimency makes for a more interesting job when he finds himself in the company of a lonely witch. Audio excerpt.

The boggart in the tower - fluff, 1.1k words

Mostly just silly Ominis & Sebastian friendship stuff, pranks and Ominis having a crush on you.

Two little words - fluff, 1k words

Ominis hears you singing in the Undercroft and falls hard.

You're welcome - fluff, 1k words

Ominis asks Sebastian to describe you, realising that they both like you.

Hold me close - hurt/comfort, gn!reader, 1k words

Post-Crucio comfort, rewrite of In the Shadow of the Study.

The end and the beginning - hurt/comfort, gn!reader, 1k words

Post-final battle comfort.

Beauty marks - fluff, gn!reader, 380 words

I am obsessed with his moles.

Snake whispers - smut, mature audience, 500 words 🔞

Ominis speaks parseltongue to you at your request.

Overture - smut, 500 words 🔞

Ominis uses his hands to distract you.

Deft hands - smut, mature audience, 300 words 🔞

Ominis explores your body.

Parting gift - fluff, gn!reader, 850 words

Ominis gives you something precious to take with you on your travels.

A touch of sage - fluff, gn!MC, 800 words

Accidental touches lead to something more.

New beginnings - romance, poem

The year after leaving Hogwarts.

Ominis Gaunt x f!OC

Retribution (ao3 link) - angst, smut, 9k words 🔞

Ominis has kept his romantic involvement with Maerys a secret from his family for her own safety, but a pending betrothal causes complications. Maerys confronts his family with the hope of acceptance but gets more than she bargained for. Audio excerpt.

Sebastian Sallow x reader x Ominis Gaunt

Give him something to listen to (ao3 link)- smut, explicit, 1.7k words 🔞

You give in to Sebastian's flirtations and Ominis is along for the ride.

Ominis Gaunt x Sebastian Sallow

Crave - angst, slow burn romance (WIP, hiatus)

The anniversary of the worst day of Sebastian's life approaches and brings with it the familiar nightmares, the only comfort being Ominis' presence.

Silk and Lace (ao3 link) - smut, explicit, 3.9k words 🔞

Sebastian's teasing plants an idea in Ominis' head for a night of indulgent roleplay; and he isn't one to do things by halves.

The experiment (ao3 link) - smut, explicit, 1.7k words 🔞

Ominis admits he isn't sure whether he has a sexual preference given his woeful inexperience. Sebastian offers to be his guinea pig.

Because you're mine - smut, explicit 🔞

Garreth shows an interest in Ominis, Sebastian gets jealous. Rewrite/what-if of You need only ask.

Ominis Gaunt x Garreth Weasley

You need only ask - fluff, smut, 36.1k words 🔞

Garreth Weasley has admired Ominis Gaunt from afar, offering his secret assistance in their shared potions classes. Ominis finds out and wants to know why.

Excerpt audios: chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3

Lost and Found (ao3 link) - fluff, angst, 5.4k words 🔞

A love story told in five scenes.

Repercussions (ao3 link) - smut, 2.4k words 🔞

Ominis is driven to distraction by Garreth's voice.

My own

Ominis and Garreth adopt a baby' drabble. Audio.

Ominis Gaunt x reader x Garreth Weasley

Proposition (v1) (ao3 link) - f!reader, smut, 4.3k words (audio excerpt) 🔞

Proposition (v2) (ao3 link) - m!reader, smut, 4k words 🔞

You've always held an affection for your best friend, Garreth Weasley, but he is very much taken by Ominis Gaunt. You weren't expecting Ominis to come to you with an intriguing proposition.

Audios

Ominis x Garreth 🔞

Ominis x f!MC 🔞 (snippet from Career Perks

Receiving a blowjob (f!listener) 🔞

Ominis x f!MC x Garreth 🔞

Ominis x f!OC 🔞

Ominis x Sebastian 🔞

Ominis x Sebastian (Dominis/Subastian) 🔞

Ominis and Garreth adopt a baby

#ominis gaunt #ominis gaunt fanfiction #ominis gaunt x reader #ominis gaunt x sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt x garreth weasley #sebinis #garrinis #ominis gaunt masterlist #hogwarts legacy masterlist #cuff writes

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redrawthecolorlessworld · 6 months ago

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Destonio: Everyone. I have something to tell you all.

Crave Wave: Oh, it's the fact that you're bisexual as hell, right?

Destonio: Well yes-

Destonio: What.

Lumine: Yeah! It was really obvious, haha!

Fate: I could tell from day one.

Retribution: I knew you'd end up realizing it eventually.

Chariot: Mhm.

Lumine: Now we're bi buddies! Isn't that cool, Desto?

Destonio: What the fuck.

#(skit)hesia #arthesias ocs #rhymix: skits #i don't give a f***: destonio (oc)#the young wizard's night journal: crave wave (oc)#fireworks that only brought tragedy: lumine (oc)#our fates are distorted: fate (oc)#do you feel it?: retribution (oc)#and the chariot is guiding our fate: chariot (oc)

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winterstellars · 5 months ago

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sins of the son | part iii

15,506 w (entire fic is 55,619) | aemond x nameless fem oc (can also be read as reader insert) | 6.14.24 | the first two parts can be found in full on ao3

content warning for violence in this excerpt. if reading the full fic on ao3, please be mindful of the tags!

What could you possibly kill that you love so much it would make the sun rise again?

—Succession S2E10, written by Jesse Armstrong

Harrenhal stands out from the gray-brown muck of the Riverlands like a lonely gravestone: bitter, ugly, twisted. Aemond can just barely see the broken towers and melted stone walls, the work of his ancestors, as Vhagar pierces the clouds and descends upon the castle. It is for the best that the weather has put a thick haze between them and the countryside. If it were clearer, he might be able to see the villages. The farms. Small huts where simple people live. It is best not to think of them as people, what with the orders he and Criston have. It is best not to think of them at all.

Her hands, which have been anchored to his tunic since they left the capitol, finally uncurl when Vhagar touches the ground. The tension dissipates as he helps her down from the rigging. She is a bright bloom of life against the dull backdrop of snow and steel. Soldiers cross the courtyard carrying supplies, lighting torches, draping green-and-gold banners with the three-headed dragon sigil emblazoned upon them. Nightfall is close—the clouds hide the glow that should be a sunset—and every bone in his body aches for a bed and a pile of quilts and furs.

“My prince.” Cole, though muddy from the march, is as sharp and meticulous as ever. “The castle is secure. The scouts have not seen any men within a league of here. They likely retreated when they saw our advance.”

She makes a small humming noise in the back of her throat. “They know this land better than we do.”

Cole makes no reply, but Aemond can see a small muscle by his ear go taut. He will not do any of them the disservice of pretending as though Cole would approve of her presence. To him, she represents an uncomfortable inconvenience. Neither as shameful nor as easy to overlook as one of Aegon’s whores, but still. Inconvenient. A blemish on Aemond’s honor, if such honor ever truly existed.

“My lady.” It is a generous allowance coming from Cole. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable inside.”

“I’ll stay,” she murmurs, holding Aemond’s arm, thumb stroking over the crisp leather. He can feel her gentle stability, the sureness of her presence. His wife, he thinks, his queen.

“These are the prisoners?” He gestures to a pack of men in fetters, closely guarded. Many sport gray hair and long-healed scars from wars of the past along with fresh cuts and bruises. Others are barely old enough to swing a sword, scrawny and unsure of themselves, the same age as Luke had been—

He kills that thought in its infancy. Storm, sun, blood. It feels more like a nightmare than a memory now.

“What’s left of House Strong,” Cole replies, disdain dripping from his words. “They await the king’s justice.”

He can feel her watching him. He dares not look back. He and Cole know full well what their orders are. They know that the king’s justice knows nothing of mercy and everything of retribution.

“I’ll have the servants make up a room for us. You can rest. I’ll find you,” he tells her, but as soon as he speaks, she shakes her head. Firm, sure, unflinching. Sometimes her conviction ought to frighten him.

“I rode to war with you,” she says. “I expected war.”

“Have you ever seen a man die?”

Her mouth moves, almost resembling a smile, but her eyes are far too steely for there to be any hint of joy. “You won’t scare me.”

He couldn’t, he realizes, even if he tried. There are no shadows in which he can hide from her gaze. All of his rage, his grief, and his love has been laid bare in front of her, and she has not fled from him. What he must do will not change anything. She has seen him as a killer and still loves him all the same, still touches him as though his hands have never committed any sin.

The first man the guards bring forward has a mop of brown curls with spots of gray by his forehead. His doggish nose is split with a fresh break. He does not look at Aemond, but that is for the best. This man is a ghost from another world, some wretched glimpse of what Luke might have been like had he lived. A silver wedding band perches on his ring finger, and a piece of red ribbon is tied around his wrist. It is a simple thing. A little trifle. Something a child might gift a father.

Traitor, traitor, traitor, Aemond chants to himself, embedding the word into his heart. It does no good to let himself imagine what kind of person this man might be. He makes himself think of his mother, of Helaena, of Jaehaera and little Maelor. Their safety comes at a price he will always be willing to pay.

“Your name, Ser?” Criston asks for him. He is silently grateful; if he tried to speak now, he would not know what to say.

The man keeps his face lowered, shoulders hunched, all signs of fight drained out of him. “Harrold Strong.”

“You command the garrison here?”

“I do.”

Aemond draws his sword, the steel singing in the crisp winter air. He sees her standing off to the side. Her breath turns to mist as though she could breathe smoke and fire, fiercer and darker than even Vhagar. If she can be a dragon, he must be one too.

“Harrold Strong, your house has betrayed the crown and has conspired in treason against the king. In accordance with the law, your lives are forfeit. You and your men have been sentenced to the king’s justice.”

So slowly, as if he has all the time in the world, Harrold Strong looks up at him. Stares. Raises his chin.

“You the king, lad?”

Aemond ought to offer him better dying words, but when he searches inside himself, any pity has evaporated. He has his sword raised in the space of one heartbeat, and in the next, head falls away from body and blood coats the earth. Though he can see Criston’s mouth moving, there is nothing but a great, piercing silence in his head. The guards bring another man—no, not a man, a boy not even Daeron’s age—forward. The boy is crying. A pair of soldiers come for the pieces of Harrold Rivers. One drags his body off by his arms, the other scoops his head up, careful not to touch his neck. Aemond breathes in and tastes metal on the air.

It is past nightfall when they finish. His shoulders burn from the effort of it all. Blood pools along the cobblestones, draining outwards in little rivers. She is there when it is over, arms crossed, serene as a statue, the hem of her dress stained indelibly red.

read the rest on ao3

#aemond targaryen x oc #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen fic #sins of the son #ells fics #hey look at us. who woulda thought? not me!

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mako-neexu · 6 months ago

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Id chapter is insane. im so stressed even after more than 2 months of its release. because the Class who won for the entirety of Ordeal Call (dare i say it: the entirety of FGO?) so far are the Avengers. (so far... at least for me..lets hope ruler and foreiner OCs are good...also idk read my og tags for this)

its probably just me overthinking... i dont know if sakurai thought this far but its just so good. because... like. the current arc's focus is on the Classes and the recent main story focused on Avengers.

Avengers. heroic spirits. Extra Class. Those who speak of hate yet are born from love and those who speak love yet are born from hate. The basis of each and all of the heroic spirits in the Throne are simply because they are all records. They are spirits and shadows of those who have lived long ago and those are currently living somewhere or those who have still yet to live and are from the future. Either way, anyone summoned from the Throne is what makes them a Servant. A copy of the real thing. Beings made of ether, ghosts who are a set of records and memories given form.

Avengers are the very embodiment of holding onto the past. Oblivion Correction, being able to remember even beyond time loops or universes could be considered more of a curse than a blessing for these flames whose lives burn endlessly from hate and anger and sorrow from towards those who have wronged them. Flames who would burn endlessly and would stop at nothing even should their retribution be at the cost proper human history's ashes.

Records. Human and beast shaped memories given form. They are beings of stagnacy and cannot grow well past beyond their current state. As only those who are currently living have the privilege of being the only ones to grow. Do you understand me? Do you understand what I'm getting at?

Avengers are more records and fragments of themselves - Alters, Innocent Monsters, collective will of hatred from many people condensed into one - beyond any Class of the Throne. As such they cannot grow. They will never grow for they will remain as flames and inhuman creatures that will ultimately consume and burn all that is within their sights.

And yet, the very Avenger considered to be the greatest, to be the representative and leader of the group was able to transcend the impossible.

Only the living have that right to escape their impending deaths, their doom, their fate. Servants, nothing more than familiars, don't have that right anymore. Not anymore as they don't truly exist in the present.

And yet. And yet.

The Count of Monte Cristo claws an eye out, splits his skull open, rips an entire arm out, bleeds himself dry to change himself. Change himself down to his very core and almost every aspect of him, all for the sake of one person alone.

He was able to take a step forward. An extreme impossibility in and of itself to these burning spirits who are broken records incarnate.

Just one step. Look away from the past without discarding it, still carrying it close, still remaining who he is and yet his sights are on the night sky above, to that star twinkling so gently, so brightly ahead of him that there is no helping that feeling of breathlessness he feels.

Far different from choking on smoke, far different from drowning beneath the icy waves of a prison tower by the sea.

To that person who is his fate, who is his star, his light, and fire in this second life, they extend a hand out to him with a dazzling smile.

Oh.

The Count of Monte Cristo, far beyond salvation and absolution, must think, This in itself is poison. This in itself is ambrosia given form.

With a hand, a resolute gaze telling him he isn't alone, Edmond Dantes, King of the Cavern, the Count of Monte Cristo was able to move forward, change himself and turn into a flame that would pave the way for that star which seeks its own wishes to be fulfilled. To that partner, co-conspirator, accomplice who always walked forward and never wavered in wanting to fight by his side, the Avengers won here and now.

Because to be loved is to be changed.

And being able to change, find yourself capable of it, there is growth. And in growth, for these heroic spirits, ghosts, those who have long passed...

What is that, if not, victory to all of the Avengers themselves?

#Victory for the mark of growth for these cursed souls doomed for destruction and vengeance because of the past.#But because of love from the present- love from now they became more than flames-#more than what the world dictated them to be because of LOVE.#FUCK ISTG ID CHAPTER GET OUT OF MY HEAD #fgo #fate grand order #edmond dantes #jalter #hessian lobo #antonio salieri #avenger class #COUHGING UP BLOOD #fujimaru ritsuka #guda

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the-art-in-arthesia-is-loud · 1 year ago

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AYEEEEEEAAAAAAA

#(art)hesia #arthesias ocs #do you feel it?: retribution (oc)#original character #original characters #oc #ocs #oc art #art #digital art #rgverse: artwork

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chaoticpuff17 · 1 year ago

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Amygdala

Master list

Chapter 1 named oc x mafia yoongi

“Sir?” Minwhan asked hesitantly, seeing how perfectly still his boss was.

“What did you just say?” Yoongi’s tone was low and each word articulated in a dangerously slow way, his eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a grim line that promised swift and terrible retribution should the answer to his question be less than agreeable. “What did you just say?” He repeated after a moment when Minhwan had failed to answer, each word practically spat from his mouth.

“The woman, the foreigner, caught in the altercation, her name was Margot Brooks.”

The poor man stumbled over his words unsure what this information had caused such a reaction from his boss. The only reason something so insignificant had been brought up to him in the first place was because the woman was foreign and no one wanted to deal with the hassle the police would make if she brought it to them. There wasn’t much the police would actually do, but they’d put on a show to save face, and that would be a hassle for everyone involved.

“Was she injured?”

“A little- a little bruised, I think.” He replied, stumbling over his words still reeling from the unusual reaction, and the intensity with which his boss was looking at him. “But overall I don’t think she was harmed, maybe a little shaken.”

“I’m going to Yongsan-gu.” His boss announced, abruptly standing from his desk and shrugging on his jacket.

“Sir?”

“Send me the address.”

——-

“I’m fine.” Margot assured, trying to push away the elderly man who continued to fuss over her despite the fact that she was fine, a little bruised, but fine. “You really don’t have to worry about me.”

“Of course I do.” Tae-il huffed, taking the tray of empty dishes away from her. “And you worked all day! You don’t need to come help an old man.”

“Someone needs to help until Maria is released from the hospital.” She reminded him gently, as she took the tray back, carrying it to the kitchen. “Besides, I like helping. It makes me feel useful.” She flashed him a grin, disappearing into the kitchen and ignoring the way her hip ached from the bruise that was firmly settled there. It was a lovely souvenir from when she had been shoved into a table the night before.

The way that Tae-il’s brow scrunched up in concern didn’t escape her. She was well aware of how much the old man loved his wife, and she was also aware of how heavily the medical expenses weighed on his mind. She suspected that they had to do with their visit from what she could only describe as a couple of thugs the night before.

Three men had unceremoniously barged their way into the little noodle shop the night before, overturning tables, pushing her into one when she tried to stop them, and demanding their payment from Tae-il. Unfortunately, the old man had nothing to give them, and they had left with promises to return and threats about what would happen if he didn’t have their money the next time they did.

She’d tried to ask about it. She really had, but Tae-il refused to talk about it. She suspected it was because he was too ashamed about what had happened, but this was the kind of problem that she didn’t think would go away on its own. Her thoughts weren’t really the ones that mattered here though. What mattered was what Tae-il was willing to do, and so far he was unwilling to talk about what had happened or to contact the authorities. The most that she could do was help put things back in order and help around the restaurant as much as she could even if Tae-il was insistent she didn’t need to.

Margot had known Tae-il and Maria for years. They were old friends from her college days when she had been studying abroad. The older couple had no children of their own, and with Maria being an expat herself, they were very sympathetic and more than willing to take in a nervous college student struggling to survive in a new place on her own. They had become her self-proclaimed guardians, and when she’d returned to Korea to teach, they had insisted that she come stay with them instead of getting housing through the school as she had planned to do.

She had just started sweeping the floors when the bell over the door sounded, informing her that a new customer had entered the space.

She raised her head and began to sound off a polite greeting, but the words died in her throat as she saw who was walking in.

There were two men who looked quite similar to the ones who had caused so much chaos the night before and behind them entered a man dressed impeccably in a suit. This she had to assume was someone with more authority in the nonsense that Tae-il had gotten them mixed up in.

“Yah!” She shouted, gripping the handle of the broom firmly. “We already told you we don’t have your money.”

“Ma’am.” The two men bowed politely, making way for their boss who was staring at her with an expression that was completely indiscernible to them and that Margot simply wasn’t paying attention to as she brandished the broom in front of her almost like a weapon.

“Out!” she ordered, sweeping the broom and the subsequent dust from the floor towards them.

“Margot?” The man in the suit spoke her name, calling her attention to him. The way he said it was odd though. It held something halfway between wild hope and disbelief.

“Didn’t you hear me?” She asked sharply. “Out!”

“Margot.”

He stepped forward, taking in the sight of her. The years had changed her. Of course they had. He couldn't expect her to be unchanged in all this time, but it was still her.

Her hair was a little darker. It wasn’t as long anymore, but her eyes were the same. They were the same honeyed brown they had been then, still hidden behind a pair of glasses. They were different glasses now, but they still slipped down her nose in the way they did then.

She eyed him warily, broom still held in front of her as if she were going to whack him with it at any given moment, but the gears were working in her head as he got closer. She was taking him in, examining him just as he had examined her, and he let her, watching with predatory grace as she put the pieces together.

“Yoongi?” she asked after a moment, recognition softening her features into surprise and disbelief instead of the open hostility she had been showing. “Min Yoongi?”

“Margot.” his face lit up in a gummy grin as she let the broom fall, her hands going to cover her mouth and her eyes widened in shock.

“Oh my god!”

All at once she threw herself at him, knocking them both back as he fought for a moment to keep his balance, arms locked around her as he kept them both steady.

“I can’t believe it’s you!” she cried, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. His hold was no less tight as he kept her pressed to him, relishing the feel of her in his arms.

How many years had it been? Six? Seven? It had been far too long, but she was here now. She was here in his arms, and that was what mattered.

She pulled back, eyes scanning his features as she fired off a rapid series of questions. “Oh my god! How long has it been? How have you been? What have you been up to these days? You look great!”

“One question at a time.” he chuckled in the face of her enthusiasm, holding her a little tighter and prompting her to return the hug once more.

“I missed you.” she breathed out, face pressed into the juncture between his shoulder and neck.

“I missed you too.” he admitted softly.

They stayed like that for a minute, both of them basking in the reunion until she let go.

“Come! Sit! Tell me all about life!”

She pushed him towards a table, the men he entered with completely forgotten in her excitement to see her old friend again.

Yoongi obediently sat down, watching with amusement as she darted into the kitchen.

“Have you eaten?” she called over her shoulder, already grabbing something for them both to drink. “Uncle makes the best jajangmyeon. You remember Uncle Tae-il right?” She asked, emerging with two bowls of noodles on a try and a carafe of water with two glasses.

“I can’t believe this place is still here.” he admitted, smiling politely at the old man who was eyeing him warily from the kitchen, more worried for Margot than he was for his restaurant.

They shared a look, and Yoongi understood then that Jung Tae-il was not his ally in this matter at all. The older man knew exactly what Yoongi did these days, and based on his sour expression, he didn’t want Yoongi anywhere near his business or Margot.

“You always did make the best noodles, ahjussi.” he called with a dangerous grin, daring the other man to say anything as he enjoyed his reunion with Margot.

“I know.” Margot sat down with a pleased smile. “I was so happy when I got back and Maria and Tae-il were still here. They were even kind enough to let me have the third floor apartment.”

“How long have you been back?” he asked, picking up his chopsticks.

She thought for a moment, picking up her own chopsticks. “Around two years now?” She estimated. “Is that about right, Uncle?”

Tae-il made a noncommittal noise from the kitchen, still keeping a wary eye on the interaction.

Two years, Yoongi pondered. Two years and he hadn’t known she was here. Two years and she hadn’t reached out to him. She’d been within reach, and he hadn’t known.

“You should have reached out.” He scolded gently, and she blushed sheepishly.

“I would have,” she began hesitantly, “but we parted on such bad terms, and when I finally worked up the courage to do it, your number wasn’t in service anymore. I didn’t have any way to contact you.”

He couldn’t fault her for that. His number had probably changed multiple times since they had parted, but it still burned him that she’d been here, within reach, for two years and he hadn’t even known.

“Tae-il and Maria didn’t know how to reach you either. I think we all assumed you went home to Daegu after school finished.”

But Tae-il clearly knew better, Yoongi thought to himself. The man had reached out to Yoongi’s organization for a loan that he couldn’t seem to pay back. If he had wanted, he could have told Margot that he was in the city.

“What brought you back to Korea?” he asked after a minute, eyes fixed on her intently.

“I came to work.” she shrugged. “I missed it here so I got a job teaching English. What about you? What have you been up to all these years? You really are looking great, Yoongi.”

He smiled crookedly. “I’ve been doing this and that. I’ve got my own business these days.”

“Really? Doing what?”

“A couple different things.” he hedged, not wanting to give too much away. “But I want to hear more about you.”

“Same old same old. I don’t think I’ve changed all that much.”

Yoongi disagreed. She was the same, and yet he could tell that there were things about her that were different and not just about her appearance. Six years was a long time to be apart.

“I’m teaching English at a local school, which is exhausting, but it’s good. I really enjoy the kids.” Her smile was a little more subdued now, but still bright.

“What grades are you teaching?” He asked, cocking his head to the side as he waited for her answer. He wanted to know everything that he’d missed in their time apart.

“I’m teaching the little ones, six to ten year olds. You know?”

“You always were good with kids.” He chuckled, shooting her another crooked grin.

“They drive me batty, but I love them.”

They continued in this way for a while, asking questions and sharing answers back and forth even after they’d finished their meal. Tae-il continued to keep a close eye on them, clearly anxious for when Yoongi and his men, who had taken a seat away from Margot and Yoongi were sitting waiting for their boss to make a move and more than a little bemused by what they were seeing.

The two had settled into old rhythms as they talked, like the fight that had occurred just before she’d left had never happened. It was as if the six years they’d been apart were washed away, and they were right back where they left off, thick as thieves.

“I should let you go.” Margot said after a while, standing to collect both of their bowls, as well as the empty carafe and cups. “It’s getting late, and I don’t want to take up your whole evening.”

“You can take my evenings anytime.”

She narrowed her eyes at him playfully but didn’t say anything as she returned the dishes to the kitchen where Tae-il was anxiously waiting for her.

“Margot,” he began, practically wringing his hands. “I think they should go. That young man… that young man is trouble.”

She looked at him confused. “It’s just Yoongi, Uncle. You remember him from when I was here for college right?”

He shook his head anxiously. “That is not the same boy you knew. The best thing is to get him out of here and forget the whole conversation ever happened.”

She was going to argue, but seeing how anxious Tae-il was gave her pause. “I’ll see him out, Uncle.”

He shot her a grateful smile and returned to what he had been doing before she entered, keeping a watchful eye on her as she went back out.

As she entered the main space again, she saw the two men from earlier talking with Yoongi in hushed tones. Yoongi’s expression set into a grim line she wasn’t familiar with.

“But, boss, aren’t we here about the money?” One of them asked, and Margot’s blood ran cold.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” Yoongi snapped, his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Be grateful that I didn’t skin you and those other fuckers alive for what happened last night. You’re lucky she isn’t injured.”

The bruise on her hip seemed to throb in time with his words as the realization of what he was saying sunk in like a stone settling in the pit of her stomach.

“Boss?” She asked, her voice both confused and indignant. She stepped back, breaking away from his hold. “Those men worked for you?”

“Margot…” Yoongi shot up from the table, eyes wide as he looked at her. He took a step forward, reaching for her, but she took a step back, reaching down for the broom propped against the wall.

She took another step back, holding the broom in front of her as a weapon once more.

“You’re the one who sent those guys here last night?” She demanded the hurt and confusion clear on her face as she stared at him.

“Margot, I can explain.” He tried, but she was having none of it, pushing the broom at him menacingly to keep him back.

“Don’t.” she hissed, tears welling up in her eyes. “Is that the business you run? You terrorize old men and women? You extort money from them?” With every sentence her voice rose in pitch, hysteria rising along with bile in her throat.

“Margot…”

“Get out!” she shouted, pushing the broom at him again. “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

With every yell she pushed him closer and closer towards the door, and with every push Yoongi’s temper rose. He’d only just gotten her back. She was finally within reach again, and now she was trying to push him away? He wasn’t going to accept that lying down.

“Margot,” He growled, grabbing the handle of the broom and wrenching the wretched thing away from her. “Let me explain. This isn’t what it seems.”

She scrambled a couple steps back, trying to put some distance between them. “I think it’s exactly what it seems like.”

“I’m still your Yoongi, Margot.” he tried to plead, schooling his features into something soft, something gentle despite his rising frustration.

“The Yoongi I knew didn’t terrorize people,” she spat, venom on her tongue despite the tears welling in her eyes still. “Or extort them for money.”

“Get out.” she ordered, softly now but sternly.

“Margot…”

“Out!” she whispered fiercely. “Before I call the police.” When he didn’t move she took one step forward and then another until they were toe to toe. “Out!” she ordered shoving him back with both hands against his chest. “Out!”

They continued in this way with Margot pushing him back and Yoongi allowing her to do so while his men watched on flabbergasted as he did until they got to the door. It was at that point that Yoongi grabbed her hands, stopping her from shoving him again, and stared down at her with an indiscernible expression.

“You’re upset now.” he conceded, gently squeezing her hands in his where they were still resting against his chest. “We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down, yeah?”

Keeping both of her wrists secured in one of his hands, he gently brushed some hair out of her face, watching silently as the tears started to fall, but Yoongi knew better than most that these were frustrated tears, angry tears. There was no use trying to explain to her now, not when she was like this.

“Get the fuck out.” she hissed, wrenching her hands away from him and taking a few steps and clutching her hands to her chest as though she had been burned.

“Tae-il nim!” he called, looking over her head towards where the older man was watching the interaction anxiously. “Say hi to the missus for me, yeah?”

All the color drained from Tae-il’s face, and the heat rose in Margot’s cheeks as her fury rose, but before she could say anything, Yoongi had already turned to go, motioning in a lackadaisical way for his men to follow behind as if this had been all been normal, casual even.

Tae-il and Margot watched as they all drove away, not saying a word until they were out of sight and they were both sure they weren’t coming back.

Slowly, Margot turned to her old friend, the grief and horror caused by the revelation written across her face. “What are we going to do?”

Part two

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