#dusk is like a dagger

[derangedrhythms]

The coldest season's perfume is all around

The Frozen Autumn, Dusk Is Like a Dagger

[amensgf]

au thingy. simplest way to describe it is they both live,, ill rant about it in a reblog (maybe!)

to me edousa is all about giving. so here's edogai giving back usami what tsurumi took away . smirks in corny

[dayqyeen]

we gotta wrap up 2024 already bc I can't bear to read another 'elain is going to revive the dusk court' post for the next ten months when her ass has N O T H I N G to do with it and nesta has everything to do with it.

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

Thank you so much for the part 2 of the shapeshifter AU! 🙏 The atmosphere is so singularly spooky and sultry. Keep up the great work!

on it boss!!

70 / 1.6k / part 3 of shapeshifter familiars!141 tormenting witch!reader

...

You wait until the early evening. It's the earliest you can run. Your so-called familiars won't come out while the sky is still bright. Even so, the moon’s faint sliver stands faintly visible against the sky. You pack your things and fetch your traveling cloak. Vital components. Your dagger. Scrying parchment. You've survived on less.

Something catches your eye as you open the door. The setting sun gleams off the little glass vial on your hearth. You grab it. It's the thing Soap left—what he was teasing you about; the "little treat" he brought back. You see now what it is: black henbane. Your heart beats faster. Out of anger or anticipation—you're not sure which wins out. You'll certainly make use of this. But it will be despite your demons. Not because of them.

As you set off to leave, though, you find yourself face-to-face with a different threat altogether: townsfolk with torches and pitchforks.

The mob's torches flicker, casting jagged shadows across their grim faces. Their leader, a broad-shouldered blacksmith with soot-stained hands, steps forward. The pitchfork trembles in his harsh grip. "Off to consort with devils, witch?"

Behind him, a farmer's wife spits at your feet. "My boy hasn't slept since your cursed raven perched on our roof! You sent those monsters to torment us!"

A ripple of agreement surges through the crowd. You catch the glint of silver amulets around their throats—crude charms of rowan berries and iron nails. Your designs.

"I don't want any trouble," you tell them. You already intend to leave this place forever; all you need to do is convince them to let you go in peace. "I swear it. I condemn the demons that plague the village just as you do."

The blacksmith's shout cracks like a whip. "Liar!" He thrusts his pitchfork toward your cottage and the crow feathers littering the threshold. "Found your nest o' nightmares. Bones under the floorboards. Charms written in your hand guidin' those beasts!"

A teenage boy hurls a rock. It grazes your temple with a thump that rings in your skull. "She fed my sister to the black dog! Saw its yellow eyes in her window the night she vanished!"

Then a torch arcs through the dusk. It crashes against your doorframe, tallow and embers cascading onto dry thatch. The farmer's wife screams, "Burn the hellspawn out!"

Other voices roar in agreement. The mob surges forward as one. Their amulets glow faintly as they near your wards, rowan countering rowan.

You slam the door shut, scattering glowing red hay, and bolt for the back door instead. You flee toward the forest. Warm blood slides down your face and trickles into your collar. You crash through the tree line. Brambles tear your cloak. Torchlight dances between birches behind you. They’re gaining.

"Kill her before she calls the beasts!" one voice shrieks.

Another voice, a child’s, cries, “There! By the elder tree!”

Your boot catches on its massive roots. You hit the forest floor hard. Pine needles stick to your bleeding palms as you scramble up—and freeze.

Yellow eyes blink open in the shadows ahead. A wolf.

The blacksmith’s heavy gait clatters to a halt. “Christ preserve us.”

The hound steps into the fading daylight, scars rippling across its muscular flank. Ghost. He bares teeth longer than your fingers.

You back away only for another shadow to fall from the trees above and land next to you soundlessly. The shape is feline—Gaz—but he's no longer the size of a housecat. He's as massive as a tiger. A growl thunders through him. He levels his gaze past you. At the villagers. They don't stand a chance.

You whirl back on the villagers with wild eyes. "Get out of here!" you cry at the mob.

The blacksmith shoves a trembling boy behind him. "Back! Back to the—"

Ghost lunges. Not at the villagers. At you.

His jaws snap inches from your thigh, herding you backward into Gaz's flank. Gaz pins you with one paw on your chest. He keeps his claws sheathed, but the pressure is enough to bruise. His rumbling purr vibrates through your ribs as he licks blood from your temple wound.

"Demons!" A villager hurls a torch. It bounces off Ghost's shoulder. Embers catch in his fur. He doesn't flinch.

Soap's cawing laughter rings from the treetops. He drops down as a raven, shifting mid-fall into human form. He lands in a crouch. "Och, look at these brave lads! Come to play with the big bad devils."

The blacksmith thrusts the pitchfork at him. "Back!"

 Soap catches the shaft and yanks the smith forward. "Careful now. You'll poke someone's—" He drives the smith’s own weapon through his boot, impaling foot to soil. "—eyes out."

Screams erupt. The mob fractures. Some flee. Others stand frozen.

"No, don't hurt them!" you gasp out. You try to push out from under Gaz's paw, but it does you no good. "Leave them alone!"

Gaz's purr deepens into a predatory rumble as he drags his rough tongue up the side of your neck to taste your sweat. His hot breath stirs your hair when he growls, "Too late for mercy, love. Smell the fear on 'em? Ripe as summer fruit."

Soap wrenches the pitchfork free from the smith’s screaming form, flicking gore off the tines. "Aye, let's make it a proper feast! Been ages since we had fresh meat that fought back."

"Enough."

Price's voice cracks through the woods like thunder. He stands under the pines’ shadow as if waiting for the last motes of sunset to vanish before he ventures out.

"You lot should've heeded the warnings. Salt your thresholds. Avoid the woods after dark." His gazes pauses over a young child frozen in fear, no parents in sight. He tuts. "But you meddled. Stole from my witch. Harmed her."

The blacksmith finds his voice. "W-We didn't—"

Price steps forward. His boot crushes the smith’s bloodied foot into the ground. Bones pop. "See, that's the trouble with mortals." He crouches to stare into the terrified villager’s face. "You don’t admit you’re wrong."

"Price, please, just take me instead," you plead. "I'm what you came for, aren't I?"

Price's gaze snaps to you. He rises slowly. The flicker of your burning cottage on the horizon behind you reflects in his eyes and makes them glow. His expression tells you how little choice you have in that particular matter. Where you go, they go.

Then he looks past you. “Gaz."

Gaz’s hand slides up your inner thigh. "Already on it."

"No. Save the foreplay. We've got a village to raze." He grabs the bloodied collar of your cloak and hauls you to your feet. "You'll watch. Then we'll discuss your ungrateful actions." His gaze flicks away. "Ghost. Gaz. Clean up."

You can only watch Ghost and Gaz bound into the screaming mob. Your body feels lighter than the air. Then you remember the weight of the henbane in your cloak pocket. The next moment, it's in your hand. You crush the glass, ignoring the stab of pain. You send it sailing through the air, and it lands right on its mark—the roaring torch discarded in the leaf litter.

The henbane catches and wafts up into the air as smoke. It curls upward in thick, narcotic tendrils. The smell is heady, its effect potent and immediate. Soap snarls as the first plume hits his nostrils. He staggers back and clutches his head. Gaz convulses mid-pounce, collapsing into ferns as his tiger-like form shrinks to housecat size. Ghost whines low in his throat and shakes his massive skull like a dog with water in its ears.

Chaos erupts. Villagers seize the chance to bolt. The blacksmith drags his wailing son toward the tree line.

Price grips your arm hard enough to leave talon marks. His other hand clamps over his nose, veins bulging in his temple. You cough into your sleeve. Your vision swims. Henbane's poison works both ways, after all. It’s powerful for those who know how to use it for their own ends. Black henbane is what you used to summon your familiars and what bound them to you. But its hallucinatory effects are more pronounced on those who have surrendered the greater part of their souls to magic—or for those whose bodies are already flush with it. Price, Gaz, Ghost, and Soap don’t stand a chance. Even your soul is so considerably marked by witchcraft that you quickly fold to its effects. But you, at least, can twist it and warp it to weave a spell that might protect you.

Cloaked in smoke, you transform.

The shift hits you like a lightning strike—bones crackling, muscles twisting, vision narrowing into a something wide and preylike. The forest tilts, and suddenly Price's grip is gone. He holds your sleeve, but not you. You slip away, tumble through your limp clothes, and hit the forest floor on four paws. The world sharpens into smells of damp moss and wolf musk. Your rabbit heart hammers against ribs as thin as wishbones.

You dart left--straight into Gaz's waiting claws. The tomcat pins you with a paw, purring as his claws prick your scruff. Then he sneezes, henbane pollen glinting in his whiskers. You writhe free.

You race deeper into the forest with the wind at your back. The woods close in, but thorns no longer claw your clothes; roots no longer trip you. You are no longer an intruder. The forest itself turns toward you, opens to you. Thorns tug pleasurably against your fur as you bound past. Old magic stirs beneath your rabbit feet.

"Clever girl. Find her." Price's voice slithers through the trees far behind you, syllables slurred but venom intact. "And keep her whole enough to scream."

...

← part 2 / [part 3] / part 4 ➡

more Price / more Ghost / more Soap / more Gaz / masterlist

[thekinslayed]

Where Beggars Walk and The Lovers Swim

summary | A grieving widow strikes a deal to bring her husband back to life.

pairing | aemond targaryen x wife!reader

tags | inspired by orpheus and eurydice, angst, grief, death, book alys leaning, psychosis, incest, some spoilers for f&b, happy ending bc i was feeling sappy 🥹

wordcount | 3.3k

note | consider this my halloween fic :) not a v spooky person but i love me some mythology! orpheus is my fav especially and i loved this idea w aemond! lmk what u guys think!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

Grief had made a phantom out of you. The days since your lover’s fall into dissolution morphed into one sluggish, forlorn disarray. You didn’t know how long it had been— weeks, months perhaps. A transition of incredulity marked your days, then anger, until the numb stretch of woeful nothingness saw war’s end and they whispered of the madness of the green women. 

Helaena had gone before you did. Fallen just as Aemond was, and you deemed how much better in tune they were, even in death. You were always a beat too late from him, a step too far to reach. And now Mother wouldn’t stop frantically whispering in your ear, clutching her only living lifeline by the sleeve with rapid whispers of despair. It was making you sicker. 

The last living dragon took to the skies at dusk, and for a moment, it was beautiful. Vibrant orange sparked a sliver of life in your otherwise lethargic being, but even that had its end. A punishing downpour of rain slowed your mount as you crossed the Riverlands, but never deferred. The haunting sight of Harrenhal was imposing through bleary eyes, greeting you with its ominous embrace. 

Not a soul in sight, the shades of the dead welcomed you in its broken halls and dilapidated walls, and you wondered whether your love was one of them, lingering in some dark corner. Finding her was no challenge, an easier feat than the chase in the night you prepared yourself for.

Alys Rivers sat in what might be one of the last remaining chambers left intact. Her verdant orbs looked at you with expectance, a knowing lift in her thin lips at your trespassing. Your eyes hardened from where you stood at a careful distance, the sharp throbbing in your temple in tune with the cold rain pelting the castle from within. You stared at the face that had stolen from you, had taken the one thing you held dear, and led him to his death.

You had walked in with determination, an angry weight to your every step. Yet, you faltered. The wiggling bundle suckling on her chest fed with satisfaction, a head of silver shimmering against the dark of the night. You stared at the tuft of starlight on its head, and you felt your withered heart scream with the shrapnel of its last broken howl. A piece of him, yet never to be yours. 

“Princess. My, what a surprise.”

There was a slippery smoothness in her voice that made the hairs on your nape raise in warning, the grip on your dagger tightening. Your spine remained rigid despite the rising caution in your veins. The sight of your mount circling the open hall was a comfort, an impregnable shield from the unknown. 

“You killed my husband,” you glowered, the crackle of your voice unfamiliar as it echoed in the vast threshold. Alys raised her eyebrows, though her eyes remained the same glittering green that left you uneasy.

“I am afraid you confuse me for someone else. Your brother-husband had been slain by your uncle Daemon, princess, not I,” she responded, tone sticky with something sweet. Her raven mane was one with the night, a sharp contrast to her pale flesh. The woman appeared young enough, but common whispers would tell you she was older than the castle itself. 

“You fed him with lies, delusions disguised as heretic promises of victory,” you seethed, taking a dangerous step closer. “You took what was mine, and I have come to take it back.”

The babe pulled from his mother’s teat. It stared at you, into the empty depth of what had been a soul. Your void of amethyst hues stared right back. For a moment, it felt like looking at the lonely purple of your dragon’s good eye, the same magnetic ocean that once left you dazed and light as a feather. Until Alys shifted her son, cradling him into her neck, a protective hand on his nape as though you were some pathetic cradle snatcher. You came here for no babe, but an apparition.

“Larys Strong once told me of a story of a sorceress in his father’s house. He said she would tell of his future through the fires in the hearth, cradled him to sleep with dizzying visions he’d fail to make sense of. I figured he told me that to scare me, but I only thought him a fool,” you said, tilting your head as you stood before her. “I imagine you can do much more than lowly tricks on unassuming men. The gods give you power, do they not?”

“Speak plainly, princess, and perhaps we might find agreement,” she warned, stopping your pacing with the sudden drop of her tone. You stared at her, fiery willfulness blazing in your Valyrian orbs.

“I want you to bring my husband back to life.”

Alys’ laugh was shrill, piercing through the continuous pitter-patter of the interior storm. It made you want to cower like a child, foolish for such a demand. Yet her eyes scarcely told you what was beyond her power, merely of her amusement and deceptive wit. “You come into my castle and order me to raise the dead? Quite a bold demand for a woman with naught to offer,” she jabbered, triggering a tick of contempt in your chest. Dragon’s blood began to grow bubbling beneath your flesh, heated despite the chilling cold of the night. 

“I have been ripped off my all! I have given you my husband, let him seed you a son with no qualms and now he is dead!” Your rage echoed with an air of despair, no doubt reaching the ears of the listening dead. It only grew as Alys tutted at you as though you were but a petulant child, stomping her pretty feet with her stubborn demands. The glint in her eye called you for what you were— desperate.

“Oh dear darling, your prince’s bed was too cold without a wife in it. He wanted you here, did he not? And yet you weren’t,” she cooed. Her blow landed with a crack on your spirit, hitting you right in the middle of where it hurt. You were needed home, you had told Aemond. War made him grow frazzled, the emergence of bastard dragonriders left him grasping to regain the upper hand. You were no fighter, but Aegon was gone, and Helaena broken with sorrow. You had asked him for forgiveness, and a promise of reunion, until you were too late and all that remained of him was a skeleton tethered to his mount in deep water. 

“My little dragon–” Alys smiled, caressing her babe’s head, “–merely came as a token of gratitude for my company.”

The semblance of perfidy in the wide-eyed child reminded you of the failure of your fruitless marriage, broken in vow yet once blazing like wildfire. It should have been yours. You should have been blessed with a babe as beautiful as your husband was, not this conniving woman hungry for your blood. The numbness in your occiput jolted to life with the heat of rage— no, this anger was cold. Your veins icy and sharp like the deepest northern winter, your suffering harsh and unforgiving. Alys’ refusal would have to come with the repercussion of forcing your hand to break even.

“You take me for a fool,” you said, punctuated by the billowing howl of the wind’s turn as your dragon perched on a fragmented column. Your mount may not be the greatest to descend on the burnt stronghold, but she may as well be the last to burn it all to the ground, powered by a widow’s grief. Alys sat straighter in caution, her hand tightening over her son’s skull. You took another step closer, emboldened by the scales’ tipping, while your dragon stood mighty in command. “I know what you are. I have heard of what you see and what you have sought, one of which came from my husband. Your hand forges much more than what you made known, do not hide it.” Your pulse thrummed erratically on the cusp of something great, something tangible. You started to see Alys’ resolve quiver while yours grew denser and fortified. “Bring him back, lest I harden Harren’s curse with my dragon,” you commanded.

“You command me with threats, child?” she spat, standing abruptly. Your dragon growled in warning, rumbling with the thunderous storm that remained relentless. 

Your lips itched to smirk at the shaken witch, your chest beaming with hope. “My mount is starved, and she is intemperate. She merely awaits a single command,” you pushed.

“What you seek is to transgress the gods’ will,” Alys tried to reason, but her excuses never carried the idea of her inability. Your eyes fell on the child, the maddening effects of your agony clouding your better thinking. Green eyes followed where yours went, widening. 

“If so, I come to collect my debt in one way or another.” With your words, your dragon swooped down, sending a harsh gust of wind on her descent that shook you where you stand. She roared, its echo so loud that even rain and thunder bowed to the dragon’s might. 

With a heavy sigh, Alys closed her eyes, muttering something under her breath. You waited with impatience, fingertips quivering to reach for what was once out of your reach, now a hair’s breadth away. “So be it,” she said. The raven-haired woman sent you off to the Weirwood, free to take what you would find. Your boots squelched with every swift step as you blazed through the halls, bursting past doors to reach the courtyard where the tree stood tall, its trunk white as snow against the night. 

Before its face, you found him. 

“I pray my eyes do not deceive me now,” you whispered to yourself. Your reaction was nothing short of visceral— your hands shook tremendously, as did your knees, and you felt bile start to creep upward at the incredulity of it all. Yet you remained unmoving in your step, eyes wide in disbelief.

Aemond looked mythic under the pouring rain. Soaked to the bone, yet the storm had only added to his state. The dark green speckles of moss on his boots proved where he had been all this time. Freshly plucked from the depths of his demise, your husband stood tall in his armor, rippled Valyrian steel glinting in the winks of moonlight. “Is it really you?” you asked, voice cracking with the plea that this was no jest. Aemond nodded, his good eye as wide as yours, his sapphire eye beautifully haunting under the moonlight.

Your lower lip quivered with the threat of bursting into tears, but the astonishment left you frozen still. You took small steps toward him, careful that he might disappear lest you moved wrong. His hands were pruned and pale in his re-emergence, quivering in the harsh chill. “My dearest love, you are cold,” you said, taking off your fur-lined cloak in haste. However, your dragon took a step back before you could shield it over him, his hand raised to keep his distance away from you. “Aemond?” you asked in confusion, yet he remained unspeaking.

“Must not be too keen with greed, princess, he is not yours yet,” a familiar voice rippled behind you. Alys materialized in the middle of the courtyard, her babe nowhere to be seen. The glint in her eye returned, sending a cold shiver down your spine. You figured it wouldn’t have been this easy, yet the fear gleamed in your heart as you stood protectively in front of Aemond. 

“The prince Aemond is free to depart with you, but on one condition— he shall remain trailing your shadow as you walk on ahead. You will not speak, nor will you pause, or turn until you pass Harrenhal’s gates.”

Your brows furrowed, temper heating with these games. “You still conspire to deceive me, witch?” you fumed, calling on your bond to sense where your dragon was circling above your heads. 

“Tis merely the gods’ provision,” Alys shrugged. Uncertainty clouded the joy that was only beginning to bloom in your heart, mind weary of such games. You looked back at Aemond— your Aemond, real with flesh and shared blood— and you find in his eye the hope you thought had been long stolen. His subtle nod urged you on and you both took to descend the winding steps down to the towering castle’s gates. 

The challenge proved to be a difficult feat. It was hard to see through the rain, harder with the darkness of the hour of the wolf. Your only comfort was the constant clink, clink, clink of Aemond’s armor that made known he was still there. Though your dread only grew with every step, silently praying in desperation that this was no sick trick by the gods. 

It seemed the closer you inched towards the gates, the more relentless the storm grew. Perhaps it wanted to knock you off your path, make your husband slip and preying on your helpless need to turn around. With every sonorous thunder, you started to lose the sound of Aemond’s steps behind you. Even your dragon, previously following your trail above in the skies, seemed to be lost in the depth of darkness, and you were all alone. The unease in your spirit made the torment unbearable, urging you to hasten down the steps. 

The tall iron gates marked the end. The moment you passed its threshold, your relief was insurmountable. You breathed deeply, before turning around to face your lover risen from the dead, but you were only greeted by the cold wave of dread when you failed to find him behind you.

You had gone too fast, too eager. The drenched armor must have slowed Aemond, or it must have been the struggle of navigating the darkness with his lone eye. Perhaps rising from the depths of the God’s Eye left his sculpted form of prowess dampened with exhaustion, his bones aching with every step he had to take.

You had gotten too far ahead, and Aemond was still on the steps.

“No,” you whispered, rushing back to reach him. He knew well before you, merely standing on one of the last few steps. Your anguished eyes met his, and you found only warmth when you thought to find anger, until the blinding strike of lightning made you shield yourself.

He was gone when you opened them.

The wail that tore through the night was enough to reach the souls in the highest tower. By morning, the people found their missing princess curled up on muddied earth, sick to the core with a burning fever and a broken soul. 

Whispers of madness only amplified at the state you fell in, deathly pale and fatigued as you wept day and night. The gods seemed to snicker and delight at your lament, teasing you with fleeting winks of your lost love following you wherever you went. The court’s growing worries led to confinement in your chambers, left to rot in misery. Your world remained unmoving, yet time passed on. When pity came and you were let out for air, you took to your dragon with one last destination in mind.

The Gods Eye was cold as steel in the late winter. The overcast sun was tepid on your wearied body, and the grass had lost its vibrancy in your eyes, the forests painted a dampened shade. It was unclear how long you sat there, merely staring at the gaunt reflection of a girl you once knew. Shedding until left in your shift, you dipped into the icy water, swimming into its depth and plunging your head under repeatedly. You willed yourself to hold your breath, diving deeper and deeper, filled with a last determination to find him. Your lungs started to strain with exertion, your muscles prickled with an unforgiving cold, but something in your heart kept you under. The lake’s odd currents swept you far from where you came from, leading you to a depth of rubble and bones. It was then you found her monstrous shell, Vhagar, mighty to its core with remnants of rotting flesh clinging stubbornly in areas. Atop sat her rider, but where she was bones and water-swollen meat, he was whole. His silver hair billowed around like a curtain, and his fingers reached up for you. 

A third chance, perhaps the gods may not be so cruel after all.

Yet the more you swam, Aemond stayed too far away, but you persevered.  You swam deeper and deeper, despite the burning in your chest and the lightness in your head begging for reprieve. Fueled by the last shreds of life, you urged on further, kicking and treading through the darkness of the depths, until light began to shimmer through the water. All of a sudden, you were swimming upwards and not down, until you broke through the surface to find yourself right where you started.

Where everything was once bleak and cold, was now warm and bright. The grass a luscious green, and elegant swans swam around the lake. It was warm like late spring, the air fragrant with flowers, and it made you happy. You swam back to the lake’s edge to where you had left your garments, but instead of finding the pile of fabrics, a tall figure awaited you.

Aemond.

“Beloved,” he spoke, and he smiled. Gods, how he smiled. 

You gasped in disbelief, warily keeping your distance in thinking that this was yet another vision. “I pray my eyes do not deceive me once more,” you whispered. Your husband took a step closer, his smile unwavering as he cupped your cheek in his hand. How warm. He was always so warm. “Tis truly you,” you breathed.

You took his hand in yours, planting a reverent kiss on his knuckles. Emboldened, you took a step closer. Your hand, pruned and pale in your re-emergence, caressed his firm chest, now rid of the weight of his armor. You ran your touch upward to trace his jaw, his lips, to the faint scar of his cheek where his jewel winked at you in the sunlight. His hands found their home on your waist, caging you close in his arms despite the water dripping to your feet. “Have I kept you waiting?” you asked, tears prickling the corner of your eyes as your lips quivered. For the first time in an inconceivable amount of time, your anguish was ended. 

“I have stood where you have, walked behind your shadow. I have seen what you have seen. Where you have gone so have I,” Aemond said, the melody of his voice a beauty you had started to forget. 

“You were always with me?” 

“Enduringly so,” your love nodded, tucking a damp piece of hair behind your ear. 

“What a terribly journey it must have been— walking behind someone so blind. Forgive me,” you sobbed, clutching the cotton of his shirt tight, lest they took him away from you again. His lips were warm as he kissed away every tear that fell, before claiming yours in a spellbinding kiss that voiced the promise of eternity. 

“Such torment is all left behind now, my love. It is only you and I,” Aemond vowed. 

Joyous laughter filled the air as the lovers swam side by side, overflown with love in the sweetness of a cosmic reunion. Your chest felt light and your body much more filled with life as it ever was as you found your home in his embrace, free at last.

History would recall the Kinslayer perished in battle, chained to his dragon, and his wife aptly so in the pursuit of him, though local folklore would tell otherwise. In the years following the dragons’ dance, the Gods Eye met no shortage of curious passersby diving to find whatever soul lurked in its depths. Some eager to find the prized Dark Sister and the bones of the queen of all dragons, but all anyone ever found in its depths were a pair of remains, of two lovers embraced they say, intertwined for eternity. 

[tojisbestslut]

► 𝗙𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗘𝗡 ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── [ Ambessa x enemy soldier reader ] ╰┈➤ masterlist

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ SYNOPSIS: her attention was piqued as an enemy soldier continued fighting after losing the war, and the reason shocked her. — ⌗PART2

𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗻 ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ 2:02 ───ㅇ───── 4:26 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝗶𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘦𝘦𝘥 — 𝘈𝘶𝘳𝘰𝘳𝘢 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘆 ▄ █ ▄ █ ▄ ▄ █ ▄ █ ▄ █

The devil had picked up the brush that dusk, filling up the canvas with uneven splashes of crimson red. Crows flying around the raining sky, screaming in excitement and fear at the agonizing scene happening beneath them. Men running with all their might, having the hopeless delusion of being saved. The squishing sounds of sharp weapons tearing apart human flesh, destroying God's perfect creation that took him million years in seconds. There she stood on a hill, proud and pleased, the noxious smell of blood filling up her nostrils indicating another victory being nearly. Squinting her eyes and watching every single detail with attention, she hummed and enjoyed the canvas she was filling.

A quick shadow sneakily moving past her direction in the distance caught her attention, making the warlord tilt her head, watching the scene closely, squinting her eyes in concentration as she tried to process what was happening. There moved a figure amongst men twice her size with ease, slashing their body holding a sword with each of its hands, jumping in the air and swirling around as the blood dripping from the edge of the swords moved in an angelic way. Ambessa frowned, unpleased at the new way things had suddenly turned. Moving her head towards the enemy soldier, she signaled the soldiers standing next to her to move towards the scene as her hands reached for her own dagger, in case she had to take care of the situation on her own.

Sensing a new crowd of people move towards you, you narrowed your eyes at the warlord eyeing you in the distance, enjoying the disapproved expression she held that was obvious from only the lower part of her face being visible under the mask. Your heart beat started raising as adrenaline pushed you through your limits, making it possible to survive. The chaos happening around you turned into a steady humming sound in the background as you could only hear your heartbeat while you blinked quickly to not let the sweat dripping from your forehead mess up your vision. Grabbing your swords tighter, you ran towards the new crowd heading towards you, and slashed the first throat that came to your vision.

Minutes have passed, and ambessa could see you tiring out. Even if she let her pride aside and accepted your strength, you were one and her men were hundreds. Yet she stood, watching you fight using all your energy, wondering what cause were you fighting for so furiously. Your nation had lost the war since the beginning, only leaving some of your peers here and there fighting to save their dignity. There was no need to fight to your death right now, as the outcome would still be the same. As you jumped higher this time and the soldier standing in front of you ran to the side leaving your figure exposed to the warlord's eyes, her breath hitched and her eyes sparked with amusement as she saw the small yet visible bump on your stomach.

With one movement of her hand, her men stopped fighting you and took a few steps back, holding to their weapons ready to slaughter you the second their warlord ordered. You looked up at ambessa as her men circled you like a prey, shoulders shaking and legs shivering with exhaustion. You didn't know how, but you'd even fight God right now if you had to, to protect your child. You couldn't logically think, you haven't been thinking since the beginning of the war. The only thing on your mind was survival, for your child. Ambessa hummed with interest, the shivering sight of you with fire in your eyes as you covered your stomach with your swords bringing back memories.

She started walking down the hill and towards you, her sharp eyes catching your body tensing up, which made her laugh and shake her head. The confusion and slight frown on your face was a sight for her. She figured you'd clearly expected her to fight you, so seeing her walk towards you with a smile on her face was something new and unexpected. She stood a few steps away from, and looked down at your bloody swords covering your stomach bump. The thought of a small pure fetus getting protected by a weapon that had killed many was interesting to her. Her eyes then finally landed on you, immediately noticing how your left eye started twitching. Maybe out of anger, out of frustration, but surely not out of fear. She did not smell an ounce of fear on you.

"Strong women are always a sight to enjoy" her voice broke the silence, causing you to squint your eyes in annoyance at her friendly tone. You had heard all about her mind plays, being nice and kind to the enemy to get what she wanted. "I'm not your friend" you immediately snapped back, lifting your swords, ready to strike. "Who said I wanted to be friends, mama?" She asked, her tone filled with amusement, yet you could find the mockery behind it. "Besides," she switched her dagger to the other hand, walking towards you. "That was a genuine compliment, you should be happy I granted you one" you huffed with anger, eyes scanning her hands quickly trying to predict how and when she'd attack.

Before you could even realize, both of your swords were dragged out of your hands by her dagger, making you bare of your weapons. Your mind froze in confusion at the different power scale between her and her soldiers, and you went immobile for a second, trying to think of what to do. She stood in front of you, touching your stomach with the tip of her dagger, watching you shiver, in fear this time. The only thing that caused you to feel actual fear was your child being in danger. She let out a hum out of respect, withdrawing her weapon. "Take her to the base" she yelled as she turned around and walked away, making you alone with your thoughts while her men reached you, grabbing your arms, not too harshly.

anyways, who wants to be added to the tag list? 😛👉🏻👈🏻 (lowkey got tired of writing stupid dumb reader)

[spider-stark]

GOLD

Aeron Bracken x Blackwood!Reader

Summary - You go sneaking through Bracken territory for some time alone with Aeron.

Warnings - mentions of blood, mentions of fighting, no real plot, hurt/comfort, subtle rivals-to-lovers, aeron grabbing boobies lmao, maybe some grammar errors idk

Word Count - 1.6k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

As the sun dips below the horizon, the beginnings of dusk paint the land around you in dim, muted hues. The forest buzzes with life—crickets chirp and frogs croak, rodents scurry through the undergrowth as birds-of-prey call out overhead. 

Unlike the nocturnal creatures around you, you take great care to stay quiet, fearing that if you don’t, the very soil beneath your boots might finally recognize you as an intruder. 

So you keep every footfall careful and deliberate; avoiding sticks and leaves in favor of plush, noiseless grass. Even your breaths are calculated, soft as the spring breeze rustling the leaves overhead. 

After all, you’re playing a dangerous game venturing this far from home. To be several miles from the vastness of Blackwood Vale, traipsing on the wrong side of the boundary stones, no less… You were gambling with your life—fair game for any Bracken man wishing to bloody their sword with Blackwood blood. As the daughter of Lord Samwell Blackwood, you would make a fine prize, too. 

But you had grown comfortable in these woods the past several months. Familiar, too—learning which paths were best avoided and which clearings were most often used for hunting or goofing-off. You learned to remain invisible, weaving through the trees like a wraith—invisible, unseen and unheard, as you drift towards your usual meeting spot. 

Well—mostly invisible, you suppose. 

You’re less than a few feet from your spot—a glistening creek branching off from the Red Fork, several miles off any main trail—when a twig snaps! behind you. 

Your spine turns to steel, every muscle locking up as alarm bells roar in your mind. A second too late, you reach for the dagger at your thigh. Trembling fingers hardly graze the hilt before an arm wraps itself around your waist, tugging you backwards into a crushing embrace. 

A single finger jabs at your chest, just off-center between your breasts, pressing through the thin fabric of your tunic. 

Just above your heart, you realize as it hammers against your ribs. 

“Got you.” Aeron’s voice quells your nerves, warmth tickling your skin as he nuzzles his face into the side of your neck. “If I were anyone else,” he murmurs, “you would be dead right now.” 

He taps his finger against your chest—once, then twice—to emphasize his point. As much as it annoys you, you know that he’s right. Anyone else and they wouldn’t have hesitated to send a blade tearing through your chest. 

You won’t admit it, though. 

“You scared me,” you grumble instead, trying to sound annoyed with him. It’s a hopeless objective—it’s too hard to be upset with him when his lips brush over your still-racing pulse, kissing up your neck. 

“Did I?” Aeron asks, playing coy. “Strange. I thought you Blackwoods claimed to be fearless.” 

Teeth graze against your earlobe, nibbling lightly. You bite your lip, twisting around in his hold so that you’re face-to-face. “And I thought Brackens were all insipid creatures,” you tease him. “So I suppose we both deviate from the norm of our Houses, don’t we?” 

Aeron laughs—a sound so sweet it makes your teeth ache. “I suppose so.” 

He pulls you closer, hands falling low on your hips. In all your life, you’ve never met someone so warm before—the sheer closeness of your bodies like standing too close to the edge of a fire. It sets your every nerve ablaze, desire coiling in your belly like a fiery serpent. 

He presses his forehead to yours and, for a moment, you assume he’s going to kiss you. 

Instead, your breaths only mingle in the space between you, his lips barely grazing yours as he whispers, “Still—I need you to be more careful. Especially here.” 

Here. 

That one word is like a bucket of water, dousing the flames lapping at your skin. Desire swiftly turns to nausea at the realization that, even in the arms of your beloved, you were still unwelcome in this part of the Riverlands. Still an intruder. 

You step back, Aeron’s hands falling from your hips. “As if you’re one to lecture me about being careful.” 

Neatly-groomed brows knit together as he watches you turn your back, abandoning him in favor of the gurgling creek. Confusion laces his words as he hurries after you. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“That Benji has a big mouth.” You sit in your usual spot by the creek's edge, your legs stretched out in front of you. You look up at Aeron with a raised brow. “Did you truly think he wouldn’t tell me about you insulting him this morning?” 

“He was trespassing on Bracken land,” Aeron argues. 

You give him a flat look that screams: As if you’re one to talk. 

Aeron had snuck onto Blackwood land more times than you could count—with far more nefarious intentions than Benji. If your brother ever found out about all the times Aeron had snuck into your bedchambers at Raventree… 

“Well he also called me a spineless dolt,” Aeron grumbles. His lips, naturally flushed and oh-so-kissable, turn to a sullen pout. “What was I supposed to do? Just stand there and take it?” 

You fight the urge to scream Yes! at the top of your lungs. 

Instead, you draw in a breath. “You know better than to get into it with him, Aeron. You said it yourself: Blackwoods are fearless—especially Benji.” 

He shakes his head, strands of sandy-colored hair brushing his shoulders. “Feckless is more like it.” 

“Tread lightly, Bracken.” You bristle, shooting him a look of warning. “He’s still my brother.” 

He doesn’t apologize—and you don’t expect him to. After all, both of you know that there’s some truth to his words. 

Benji has always been… difficult. 

Quick to anger and slow to forgive, he was one of many reasons why you kept your feelings for Aeron hidden. 

Your father could be persuaded to accept such a betrothal, you think. After all, it was common—if a bit futile—for Blackwoods and Brackens to wed in the name of peace. At the very least, for the sake of your happiness, he would consider it. 

But Benji… 

“I know I cannot expect you to just let him walk all over you,” you tell Aeron, a bit softer now. “But you know how Benji is.” You turn to the water by your feet. It ebbs and churns, bubbling as it laps at the stones lining the edge. “How detached he gets.” 

It petrifies you, sometimes. How, in a fight, Benji becomes someone else entirely. Should he ever decide to do more than simply taunt Aeron, you know without doubt which of them would survive such a fight. 

“If the two of you ever… If Benji hurts you–” 

Tears sting the back of your throat, the heavy words clinging to your tongue like molasses. You don’t want to think about that—but you can’t stop, either. Silver lines your eyes, tears threatening to spill over as Aeron drops to the ground beside you. 

Without hesitation, he tells you, “You’re right.” Soft, uncalloused hands gently cup your face, urging you to look at him. He brushes a thumb along the apple of your cheek. “I was careless—to think only of my pride instead of what it might do to you if your brother…” Aeron pauses, thinking. “If he went too far. For you, I’ll take better care to hold my tongue around him.” 

Your voice is quiet, hardly perceptible over the gurgling water, when you say, “Do you promise?” 

A childish thing to ask, perhaps. 

Yet Aeron obliges without question. 

“I swear it on the Gods.” 

Slowly, relief begins to untangle the knot in your stomach. 

“But,” Aeron’s lips quirk into a small, teasing smile, “only if you swear to be more cautious when coming here. It seems you’ve gotten far too comfortable wandering through Bracken territory.” A bit more solemn, he adds, “You should walk with your dagger out, at the ready, just in case—at least while you’re still a Blackwood.” 

A wrinkle forms between your brow. “While I’m still a Blackwood?” You ask, amusement dancing in your tone as you echo his earlier words, “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“That you won’t be a Blackwood forever—eventually, your father will have to marry you off,” Aeron drones, his hands falling from your face to your waist. “Such is the natural order of things.” 

You try not to giggle as he starts pawing at you, pulling you onto his lap, your thighs caging his hips. “True—but I had no idea you spent so much time thinking of my future.” 

Aeron’s hands dip lower, moving from your waist to slip beneath the hem of your tunic. “I’m always thinking of you.” 

“Have you any particular House in mind, then?” Brushing a lock of sandy hair from his face, you jest, “I can pass your suggestions along to my father.” 

Fingertips trace along your ribcage, inching higher and higher. His palms graze your breasts and suddenly breathing becomes a difficult task—the warmth of his touch reigniting the familiar spark in your belly. 

“Well—” he leans in close, smooth lips hovering over yours—“I’m quite partial to how you might look in gold.” 

“Careful,” you warn—though it's interrupted by a hiss as he toys with your nipples, rolling and pinching, grinning at your reaction. “That almost sounds like a proposal, Bracken.” 

Aeron nearly moans into your mouth as your thighs tense, rolling your hips against his, his voice gruff as he asks, “And would that be such a horrible thing?” 

He doesn’t wait for your answer. Doesn’t want it, maybe. 

Instead, he catches your lips with his. You melt into it—his touch, his taste. His tongue glides against yours, your fingers tangling in his hair and—for a moment—you let everything else fall away, your fears and worries fading into insignificance.  

No, you think. That wouldn’t be horrible at all.

a/n - so I actually ended up not liking this at all once I got about halfway through editing---honestly, something about the ending just is not vibing for me and there really just isn't any true plot here lol. but, with that being said, I had already written it so I decided to go ahead and post it because there needs to be more aeron/amos bracken content in the world. and yes, I did totally just use the name aeron because I like it more than the name amos lmao.

anyways, hope you got some sort of enjoyment out of this! time for me to go write more benji fics🫡

[sluttysnowangel666]

The Woman Beyond the Wall

Cregan Stark x Wilding!Fem reader

Summary: Cregan must go beyond the wall to aid Castle Black after a large group of Nights Watch men are killed under strange circumstances, only for him to discover the “strange circumstance” is a beautiful and mysterious wilding woman that will make him forget everything he thought he knew.

not proof read yet!!

cw: angst, smut, dom fem reader, dom cregan, freaky cregan, reader is kind of odd 😭

word count: long af

part 2 , masterlist

⛫ ⛫ ⛫

Cregan sat, contemplating the decision before him.

“Forgive me, sirs. The kingdom greatly appreciates the sacrifice you men have made to serve the Nights Watch, but I cannot abandon my duties as a lord to go beyond the wall for Gods knows how long.” He tells them, hoping they won’t take offense to his declination to participate.

“We wouldn’t ask if we were not desperate, my lord.” The maester says, “But 15 men have disappeared just in this past exhibition. The Nights Watch grows scarce of fighters the more men beyond the wall continue to disappear.”

Cregan sighs, not wanting to go beyond the wall and leave his kingdom without a lord, but also not wanting to leave the Watch vulnerable.

“Alright, Maester Devron.” Cregan sighs, “We owe you men a great debt… I need to know what are these strange circumstances you speak of?”

“Men have reported finding the abandoned bodies with arrows in both their eyes, perfectly positioned every time. It’s rather… unusual how perfectly calculated the shot is. It never changes. Then, the bodies are positioned in circles, with no footsteps left behind. We fear it to be witching.”

A shiver ran up Cregan’s spine, but he hid it well. Witches were almost always stories told by Septs to children in an attempt to get them to behave, so to hear a maester say it was unnerving.

“Don’t be ridiculous, maester.”

“I am not jesting, my lord. When you find the group of men who disappeared only a fortnight ago, you’ll see.”

“When? Not if? How can you be so sure I’ll find them?” Cregan asks.

“She leaves them in the same place every time. About 20 miles beyond the wall, facing north.” The maester says.

Cregan sighs, already frustrated with the venture, and eager to kill a wildling.

———

3 days later, 15 miles beyond the wall, and alone in the blistering cold, Cregan couldn’t help but contemplate his decision. Although he was miserable, he knew it was the honorable thing to do. He wouldn’t have done it, if otherwise.

His horse stopped suddenly, its hair raising and body becoming stiff.

“Dusk.” He said her name. “Move.”

His horse ignored him, standing her ground. “Dusk!” He yelled at her.

She sensed something, but he didn’t know what.

They sat there for what felt like hours, but what was merely seconds.

Finally, the horse began to tredge forward… very, very, slowly. Cregan groaned in frustration, his hands gripping the reins.

They walked like that for miles. No matter how much Cregan tugged the reins, Dusk maintained her slow pace, as if anticipating something was nearby, ready to pounce on them at any given moment.

Night eventually came, and Cregan was forced to set up camp.

“Bloody horse.” He mumbled to himself as he tied her to a nearby tree.

He set up a fire nearby Dusk, then leaned against the tree she was tied to. He fidgeted with the dagger he kept in his armor, carving little dire wolves in the bark. He spoke to Dusk, hoping the already timid horse would comfort his feeling of isolation in the barren icy landscape. It didn’t help.

He eventually fell asleep standing up, leaning his weight against the tree, too on edge to leave himself vulnerable on the ground.

The fire near him had gone out, leaving nothing but the red glowing embers.

The wildling who had been following them for miles used this to her advantage.

She stalked quietly, her boots making no noise or crunch as if she weren’t even there, floating like a ghost.

She made no attempt to immediately kill him, but kept her bow poised, ready to grab an arrow and fly it into his eye if he woke. Normally, any crow out here would’ve been dead miles ago, but this man wasn’t a crow.

She believed him to be a lord, and when her fingers grazed the dire wolf on his chest she knew him to be a Stark. Excitement fueled the fire burning in her veins. She had never seen a lord, especially one so handsome.

Her fingers twirled one of his brown locks, but when he shuffled in his sleep she quickly backed away like a scared bunny.

She decided she would let the cold kill the handsome man, but not before taking a souvenir to remember him.

Her slim, dainty fingers wove into his furs, silently snagging the dagger strapped to his chest. She twirled it in her fingers, admiring the craftsmanship. No smith she had ever met was as talented as the one who made this dagger. She traced the wolf sigil on the handle, then ran the sharp tip of the blade along her finger. A drop of blood hit the snow in front of their feet, and then she ran, snow immediately falling to cover her tracks.

When Cregan awoke, he immediately knew someone had been in the camp. But, how? How could someone have even passed through without him waking?

He looked down, and picked up the snow with the drop of blood on it. His blood immediately ran cold, colder than it already was. There were no footprints. Where could this have even come from?

He checked himself, but was free of any cuts. It was here he noticed… his dagger.

“What in Gods…” He mumbled, feeling all around his body to make sure he hadn’t misplaced it.

He angrily yells into the trees, cursing and violently threatening the woman who stole his dagger, hoping she heard him.

And she does. She quietly giggles in a nearby tree at his brutish behavior. He kicks the burnt wood from the fire, startling his horse.

He mounts the horse, slowly trekking onward to find the bodies of the missing men.

Within the hour, he finds himself at the base of the men’s camp, their bodies positioned like how the maester said they would be.

Cregan sighs, dismounting his horse and staring at the corpses, their bodies frozen and not yet decomposed from the harsh cold.

He was, for the first time in his life, unsure of what to do. He knew the woman had already found him, but how was he to find her? He assumed she left him alive out of mercy, but he knew there was no chance of finding her unless she wanted him to.

“Fuck.” He mumbled, slightly embarrassed at his desperation. “Alright, witch! I know you’re out there!” He yelled into the trees, not actually knowing if she was out there.

She was, and she paid attention as he continued.

“I don’t know your goal, if you even have one!” He paused, not even knowing what else to say. “Stop killing these men!” He said, lacking in confidence. She giggled again. Quite an entertaining man he was.

He gave up, tired of feeling foolish. He began dragging the bodies into a pile, preparing to burn them. It took nearly half of his day, and when he was done he finally sat, sweating, despite the cold.

After his brief rest, he burnt them, saying the custom words, “And now their watch is ended.”

He watched, silently mourning the fallen men who gave their life.

Afterwards, he mounted his horse and started his journey back to the wall. There would be no finding the woman. She was rogue, didn’t run in a pack. He’d be searching for the rest of his life if he stayed.

He didn’t make it far, only a few miles before night fell upon him and his horse. He didn’t want to rest, but he had no choice. The day had worn him, and traveling at night was unwise when he couldn’t see his surroundings.

He set a fire again, and sat down, forcing himself to stay awake.

Suddenly, his horse whined. He whipped his head around, standing to his feet quickly.

“Whoa, whoa. Calm down.” He said, trying to shush the mare. The horse bucked, breaking its reins from the tree before scurrying off.

“Fuck!” Cregan cursed, angrily. What in Gods names was he to do now?

A voice rang out behind him.

“Pretty little beast you’ve got there.”

He whipped around again, unsheathing his sword.

A woman knelt across the fire, her bow and arrow already drawn. She wore gray, thick pelts and gloves, and a pair of fur clad boots. No wonder she was so silent. She pulled her thick hood off, revealing the most beautiful set of eyes Cregan had ever seen. The woman was gorgeous, ethereal. She literally took his breath away.

“Suppose I should say had there.” She teases.

“It’s you.” He finally says, after a moment of silence.

“Mm.” She hums in response. “And who might you be?”

“I think you already know, given you raided my camp last night.”

She laughs. “Raided? You southerners.”

“You’d do well to mind your tongue, witch.” Cregan spits at her, tightening his grip on his sword.

She notices and stands, raising her bow, “And you’d do well to mind yours, crow.”

“I’m not a crow.”

“And I’m not a witch.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Sharp little tongue on you. Ain’t you lords supposed to treat ladies with respect?”

“What kind of lady are you? Killing good men and desecrating their bodies?”

“I never desecrated them. In fact, I left them better than I found them.”

“Those were noble men.”

“Please.” She laughs. “Those crows were rapists and thieves. The north is better without them coming into our land.”

Cregan says nothing, so she continues. “I suggest you watch how you speak to me, Lord Stark. I could shoot this arrow right through those pretty gray eyes before you’d even realize what happened.”

“Try it, witch.”

“I already told you. I’m no witch!” She lets the arrow fly, only intending to let it kiss his ear and hit the tree behind him, but he raises his sword, and the arrow shatters against the Valyrian steel.

She lowers her bow, shocked, before her features return to their stoic form.

“It appears I’ve met my match.” She smirks, impressed.

“Perhaps you have. For that reason, I’d suggest returning my dagger.”

She pulls it out. “Oh, this pretty thing? I think I’ll keep it… Unless you’re brave enough to come take it from me.”

Heat flushed through his stomach. For the first time in his life, a woman repeatedly left him at a loss for words. He did not know how to approach her, or how to respond.

“You obviously walk these woods often. How do I get back to the wall?”

“Simple.” She smiles, “South.”

Cregan stomps towards her. She nervously laughs, backing into a tree as he presses himself against her, his height towering above her own.

“Show me the way or I’ll put your pretty little head above my mantel.”

She breathlessly chuckles, “All you have to do is ask nicely, Stark.” She places her hand on his broad chest, giving it a light push yet keeping her hands entangled in his armor straps. He grabs her wrist, pulling it from him. He removes her quiver from her back, tossing it on the ground. He takes her bow from her other hand, going to give it the same treatment before she stops him.

“No, wait, please don’t leave my bow.” She asks, genuineness in her voice for the first time. He searches her eyes, but finds no answer there.

“You won’t need it where you’re going.” He responds.

“Leave my bow and you’ll die in these woods. And trust me, southerner, you’ll die long before I do.” He looks at the darkness that clouds her eyes, then grunts and puts the large bow around his body.

She smirks as he ties her wrists together, dragging her along behind him. “We’re going now? These woods aren’t safe at night.”

“The sooner you’re no longer my problem, the better.”

She stops in her place, but he gives her a yank that pulls her to the ground, dragging her body behind him. “I’m serious! We need to stay at your sad little camp.”

“One more word out of you and I’ll cut out your tongue.” He says. He takes a few more steps, still dragging her, before stopping. He knows she’s right, but refuses to admit it. He growls in frustration, turning back towards the camp.

She laughs, still being dragged on the ground. What a strange woman. He thinks to himself.

He sits back in front of the fire, still holding the rope attached to her wrist as she crawls towards him.

“Do you have any food?” She asks. He sighs, taking out a little sack of dried meat. He holds a piece out to her, and not moving from her knees, takes it from his hand with her mouth.

“You’re bloody off.” He mumbles to himself. She laughs, a strange and wicked laugh in an attempt to scare him, as well as mock him for thinking she was a witch.

It works, as it startles him into giving her a confused look. He picks up a big pile of snow, throwing it into the fire to put it out.

He lays down on the snow, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. She crawls towards him, opening his arms and lying against his chest.

“Get off me, woman.” He says, pushing her.

“I’m cold! You’re telling me an honorable Stark is going to let a woman freeze to death?”

“Witches don’t get cold. Your blood runs with fire.”

“You southerners and your silly little-“ He pulls her into him, wrapping his big arms around her. He hates to admit it, but her warmth comforted him from the cold.

“I’ll keep you warm if you shut up.”

She listens for once, saying nothing and nuzzling her head into his chest. He sighs, not having the strength to push her away… but not really wanting to either.

Her knee forces his legs apart to push her leg between his, slowly lifting it towards his crotch. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing?” She says, playing dumb. He doesn’t respond. She wiggles her knee more, rubbing her thigh against the leather covering his manhood.

“Stop. Moving.” He says.

“Was I? Sorry, didn’t notice.”

He shifts, trying to keep her from noticing the bulge growing in his leathers.

———

Cregan awakes before her. He stares down at the woman against his chest, her cheeks are tinted from the cold, and her lips are parted slightly. He admires her for a long time before she stirs. He pushes her away, thinking she’s awake.

“Ow.” She grumbles, sleepily. “Why’d you do that?”

“We need to get moving.” He stands, brushing the snow off him.

“Can’t we just lay a bit longer? I didn’t sleep well with you poking me with that thing all night.” She says, running her hand up his knee.

“I wasn’t.” He responds quickly, pushing her hand down. She stands, stretching as best as she can with her hands tied.

They begin walking for a few miles, with her trying to make conversation with him.

“You’re a rather quiet man.” She says, when her previous questions get no response.

“I just don’t have many words for a woman like you.”

“I leave you speechless?” She says, with a smirk.

“Try annoyed.” He responds flatly.

She steps close to him, pressing her chest into his back.

“What are you-“ Before he can realize what she’s doing, she cuts the rope on her wrists on his sword.

He whips around, prepared to knock her unconscious, but she’s too quick. She ducks, kicking his ankle and sweeping him down.

He hits the ground hard, but is back on his feet almost instantly. She runs, fast, beyond him.

He chases after her.

“Witch!” He yells, turning to look for her in every direction after she seemingly vanished.

“I told you I’m not a witch.” She says, stepping from behind a tree.

He stomps towards her, grabbing her by both of her arms, itching to give her a good smack across the face.

He looks down at her, that sly little smirk on her face, her cheeks red and flush, staring back up at him through her wet eyelashes.

She moves her arms from his grip, tracing her skinny fingers up his armor.

“You’re…” He whispers, starting to lose his strength. “Unlike any woman I’ve ever met.”

She grabs him by his neck, and he gasps in shock, but it’s quickly cut off as she pulls him down to meet her lips. Her kiss is harsh and fierce. Cregan had known women, but never one so blatantly unapologetic to be herself. She growls like an animal, ripping to get off his furs and leathers.

He matches her intensity, kissing her with the same energy. He lets the anger she ignited in him release itself unto her by biting and kissing her neck. She tugs at his hair, grinding her hips into his.

“Are you a virgin?” He asks.

“Don’t be stupid.” She responds, taking a step back to remove her own furs. He steps back towards her, pulling them off her himself.

“I only ask for your comfort.” He growls, frustrated with her attitude.

“Comfort? This isn’t the south.” She pushes him back, standing before him naked and unashamed. He breathes in the sight before him, his length growing at her beauty.

She practically pounces on him, pushing him to the snow before he’s even fully undressed.

“You are a fucking witch.” He moans, as she crawls her way up his body to rest her wetness above his face.

“Are you hungry, wolf?” She asks him.

“Starving.” He whines, wanting to taste her.

Her grip on his hair pulls him towards her, finally bringing his mouth to taste her sweet cunt. He can’t help but look at her as he eats her. Her nose and cheeks are so red from the cold, all he wants to do is warm her up. His large arms have a hold on her thighs, his fingers resting between them. She pulls off his gloves, letting his fingers grip into her warm legs.

She moans and whines in ecstasy. The sound turns him into a wreck, clawing and gripping at her thighs to the point he draws blood. She doesn’t even care, relishing the sweet pain.

She pulls and tugs on his hair so harshly, forcing his face so deep into her cunt. If he even thought of stopping, she’d kill him herself. She grinds her hips into his tongue, crying and whining into the cold air. It seems as if everything has gone silent, even the winds, the world around them stopping to hear her sweet ecstasy. He moans her name into her cunt every time she pulls his hair, wanting to be her release. He’s desperate to taste her release, she’s desperate to give it to him.

Cregan, the man he was, never having been with a woman so lust driven, couldn’t help but urge his own desires to see her writhe in his arms. One of his hands left her bloody thigh, grabbing a cold chunk of snow to rub against her warm cunt. She gasped at the feeling, whining from the cold. He rubbed his fingers against her sweet spot. Her nails dug into the arm still on her leg, moaning his name as she finally let herself go onto his tongue.

He swallowed every drop, only wanting to taste her sweetness for the rest of his life.

When she came down, he shoved her off him, mounting her and positioning himself between her legs.

Her body was growing red from touching the bitter snow, but it seems like she hadn’t even noticed.

Cregan wrapped his hands around her throat, leaning in and giving her a deep kiss. “I could kill you right now if I wanted, get this whole mess you’ve caused for me over with.” He whispered into her lips.

“You won’t.” She whispered back. “Not before you get to even fuck my sweet cunt.” She reaches her cold hand down, snaking it into his breeches and rubbing his length.

“You’re right.” He kisses her again. “I want all of you.” She unlaces his breeches, pushing it down along with his soft clothes.

She glides him along her wet entrance, and Cregan groans. He pushes himself into her, eliciting a sweet gasp from her lips. He gives her no time to adjust, immediately thrusting his hips back and forth.

She moans, tears brimming her eyes, having never been fucked by a man so large as Cregan.

“What? Why are you crying? Never been fucked like how you deserve?” He growls. She does nothing but nod.

“Nothing?” He asks. “Have I finally shut you up?” He fucks her harder, and she pulls on his brown curls, using her other hand to scratch all along his back. Cregan loved the thought of it, coming home with battle scars from her. He kisses her jaw, licking her salty tears.

He stands and picks her up, worried about the cold getting to her skin. He pins her to a tree, her back scraping against the bark. It hurts in such a sweet way, better than the cold snow. She cries out his name so loud as he fucks her against it. His hands roam her body, wanting to feel all of her but also wanting to warm her up.

“Tell me it true, Cregan.” She moans, her naughty attitude returning with a smirk. “Are you going to kill me?”

She knows his answer before he even does. He growls as a response, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of knowing that sweet cunt bested the Lord of Winterfell.

“I hate you.” He growls, fucking her even harder so she shuts up. “You killed innocent men.”

She laughs and moans at the same time, “I killed crows, My Lord.” He moans at ‘My Lord’ “I’d never… fuck… harm an innocent man. That’s why you’re here now, fucking my dripping cunt.”

He wraps one of his hands around her throat, the other holding her up, his thrusts growing sloppy as he nears his peak. “Fucking witch.”

To his surprise, her hand finds his throat too, but he loves it. He loves her aggressiveness. She matches him, she’s practically a savage wolf herself.

He wants to pull out, knows he should pull out, but he can’t find the strength. All he can focus on is the wetness surrounding his length. His hands grip her waist in such a harsh way it’s bound to bruise, and he relishes in the thought of marking her so those other wildlings knew she was his now. He had claimed her, and any other man who dared try to touch her would meet the Gods.

He grabs her and pushes her back into the snow, falling on her hands and knees. His hand takes a grip in her hair, pulling her head back toward him and forcing her to arch her back. He fucks her in such a shameful way. If any lady in Winterfell were fucked like this, she’d nearly be a whore. But she was not a lady, so he felt no guilt fucking her how she deserved, and how she eagerly wanted. Her hips bucked into him, matching his rhythm.

She cried such sweet moans at the pleasure, finding her peak so close. Her fingers spread into the snow, shaking, and she released onto him again, and he growled, fucking into her until he found his own peak.

His spilled into her so deep it touched her womb. She rested her face in the snow, panting. He pushed her off of his length, her body falling into the cold. Cregan stood, out of breath, staring down at the woman in the snow, her body curled into a fetal position as she laid there catching her breath. He was hooked. Obsessed with her beauty and madness, even as she laid there sweaty and cold.

He grabbed his furs and sat beside her, pulling her into his lap and wrapping the warm furs around her.

“You might catch a chill.” He whispered, slightly worried now that their lust had subsided.

“I’m a witch, right? My blood runs with fire.” She breathed. He laughed softly.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you smile, Lord Stark.” She smiled, a soft and sweet smile. His heart nearly melted.

After dressing, they began walking again.

“Can we make a quick stop?” She asked, not letting him answer before she ran towards a cave in the not far off distance.

He sighs, not making an effort to chase her.

He walks into the dimly lit cave. It appeared lived in. He eyed the area, while pulling at his collar, due to the heat in the cave.

“Is this where you live?” He asked, his voice echoed back to him, making him feel alone.

She nodded, undressing herself again. “It’s a hot spring.”

She jumped into the water, moaning at the warmth. He twitched.

“You gonna just stand there lookin’ pretty?” She asked, her thick northern accent appearing. He sighed, slowly taking off his furs and armor before stepping into the hot water. She spit some of the water at him with a little smirk. He tried to hide his smile, but couldn’t. He grabbed her arm, pulling her towards him and into his lap. She curled her legs up and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Let’s stay here.” She said, voice unsure. “You’re a wolf. You belong out here, not in the south.”

He took her hand in his. “My place is in Winterfell.”

“Then stay with me just for tonight.” She said. He sighed, pressing a soft kiss to her hand and nodding. She rested her wet head against his chest.

“I won’t cause any more trouble for you, Lord Stark.”

He sighed, knowing what it meant.

He yearned to bring her back to Winterfell, to give her a place in the castle, and to take her in his bed at night, but she was too wild. She would cause too much trouble for the servants and handmaidens. She would never be happy either.

He made it count, fucking her over and over again in that cave. When they slept, he held her close to him, refusing to even let her roll over. Her head fit perfectly against his neck. It felt like a crime to let her go.

———

They had been walking for three days to return to the wall, only growing closer and closer with each moment they spent together.

“I thought you said it was a day’s journey.” Cregan said.

“On horse.” He shot her a look, frustrated with the forgotten mention. She only smirked. He didn’t want to part from her just yet anyway.

“Lord Stark!” A voice yelled. He quickly pushed her behind him, unsheathing his sword and searching for where the voice came from. He was terrified for her, but she showed no fear. He knew if they seen her, they would kill her immediately.

4 men in black, all on horses trotted up besides them, encircling them.

“Gods, I can’t believe it.” The Lord Commander said, “You Starks, damn it. You put the rest of the North to shame. I can’t believe you found the witch.”

“I’m not a witch.” She said, but Cregan only grabbed her and wrapped his hand around her mouth, preventing her from starting a fight. She kicked and growled into his hand, but eventually submitted.

“Why is she still alive, m’lord? You should have taken her head the moment you found her.” A boy said.

“It’s not that easy. She’s strong, more useful alive.” Cregan said.

She kicked her foot back into his shin, stealing his sword from his hand. Cregan yelled and grabbed his leg. He grabbed her arm with his other hand with a harsh grip. Her elbow met his face, knocking him on the ground as blood pooled from his nose.

“Took you long enough to find your own way back here, crow.” She said, looking at the Lord Commander specifically, the heavy valyrian steel sword dragging from her hands onto the ground.

He only snickered at her.

“Don’t hurt yourself trying to lift that sword. I’d rather watch Stark behead you himself.”

“Can’t do your own dirty work?” She sneers.

Cregan sensed the tension but said nothing. He stood and grabbed her by the back of her neck, pulling her back and taking his sword from her. He stared her down, breathing angrily, his eyes fuming with rage. He wanted to take her on the snow again as revenge for breaking his nose, but restrained himself.

She looked back up at him, anger in her own eyes, his hand lingered on the back of her neck.

Cregan turned back around to face the Lord Commander. “I will not behead her. She is a prisoner of Winterfell.”

The Lord Commander fumed. “She’s killed half our men-“

“You killed half your men when you sent them searching for me.” She spits.

“Enough!” Cregan yelled, but she ignored him. She broke from his grip and ran at the Lord Commander. The horses spooked, bucking the other men off them and scattering.

She jumped, using the stirs of the saddle of his horse to mount it. She pulled out the dagger she stole from Cregan earlier, and slit the Lord Commander’s neck.

Hot blood spewed onto her face as he weakly grabbed at her throat. She smiled, that wicked smile again, licking the blood that spat across her face, her eyes wide with madness.

“Goodnight, crow.” She whispered.

Cregan ripped her off the horse, throwing her onto the ground.

“Do you understand what you have just done?!” He screamed at her. She smiled up at him, blood staining her teeth. She kissed him, the blood on their faces smearing. He briefly matched her love with the kiss, before pulling away.

He tried snatching the dagger back from her, “No, it’s mine!” She yelled.

He pulled her by her collar close to his face, “You have to go now… or I’ll kill you.”

Sadness swept across her face, her lip trembling like a scorned child.

“Keep your fucking dagger, then!” She yelled, stabbing it into his shoulder.

Cregan cried out, letting her go, and falling to the ground. He ripped the dagger from his shoulder. She used this as an opportunity to take her bow back from his body.

She reached into her boot, pulling out an arrow. She knocked it and drew it back. Cregan weakly jumped on the Lord Commander’s horse. The other Night’s Watch men were returning on their horses, having calmed and gathered them.

“Back to the wall!” Cregan commanded them. He didn’t turn to look at her. He knew if he had, she would’ve shot the arrow right through his eye. Instead, she hit him in his rib, perfectly hitting where it would hurt, but wouldn’t kill him. Cregan yelled in pain again.

The men rode off, not stopping until they made it to the wall. Cregan passed out multiple times on the way, visions of her flooding his thoughts as the men had to drag him to the maester.

She stayed in the same place for hours, sobbing and sobbing, as the icy cold froze her tears. Only when night fell then did she turn and leave, knowing she would never see the Lord again.

[rafesdolliee]

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ 𝓂𝒶𝓎𝒷𝑒 𝒾𝓉𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊.. ˎˊ˗

warnings: (not actual warning but yeah) fluff, soft angst undertone, summer dusk vibes, light hearted but still hits you in the chest

pairing: luke castellan x aphrodite!reader

you’re not even sure how you ended up walking beside him.

well. you do know. you followed him. but casually. like in a “oh hey! i’m also going to the armory for no reason at all even though i literally have nothing to sharpen and i don’t even know what a celestial bronze dagger looks like” kind of way.

totally casual.

the sky is painted with that soft golden-pink that looks like a love letter in color form, and luke’s voice cuts through your daydreams.

"you good?" he asks, glancing down at you with that stupidly perfect smile that probably ruins people.

"me? oh. yeah. i’m great. perfect. thriving, even," you say. your voice cracks on the word thriving. tragic.

he laughs. laughs.

you think you might melt.

"you’ve been weird lately," he adds, nudging your arm gently.

you blink. this is it. this is where you either confess or spontaneously combust.

deep breath.

"...i like you," you blurt.

pause.

dead silence.

the birds stop chirping. the breeze stills. even the nymphs freeze like this is a dramatic moment on a CW show.

luke just blinks. slowly. like his brain glitched.

"...you like me?" he echoes, like he’s trying the words on for size.

"yeah," you say, now fully committed to the emotional freefall. "like, capital L Like. like I-watch-you-train-and-sigh kind of like. like I-think-about-how-you-smile-when-you’re-watching-the-sunset kind of like. like you make my heart do that annoying flippy thing and i hate it, but also maybe i don’t. that kind of like."

another pause.

you want to disappear into the nearest shrub.

but then—then—he smiles. not his usual confident smirk. a soft one. slow. real. and he steps a little closer, the world narrowing down to just the space between you.

"good," he says, and you blink because... what?

"good?" you echo.

he doesn’t answer with words.

he kisses you.

it’s not dramatic or dipped-in-golden-light or fireworks-in-the-sky. it’s gentle. familiar. like maybe you’d done this a thousand times in dreams you didn’t remember.

his hand lingers on your cheek, and when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

"i’ve been waiting for you to say that," he whispers.

and in your head, you hear your mom’s voice��love is a battlefield, darling, but sometimes you win.

[fangswbenefits]

The Arrangement (11) - First Light

Chapter summary: A much needed discussion takes place and it ends with Astarion coating his daggers with poison.

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. Mentions of past trauma. Mentions of oral sex. Blood drinking,

Word count: 4.3k

Author's note: I am still unable to reply to comments (I'm waiting for tumblr support to fix this... I read all of the, I promise. You can also send and ask or head to ao3 so I can reply there. Thank you!

Series masterlist

Ao3

Wyll Ravengard was the picture-perfect of integrity.

Well, if you were to exclude his past dealings with the half-devil Mizora. But even then, he had been mostly justified in his assessment of the situation.

So it came as no surprise when you weren't able to find a single trace of judgement on his face.

Only evident concern.

Shadowheart had quickly filled him in on the Waterdeep situation as well as provided him with enough context when it came to Ava.

“Well, this is a… mess,” Wyll eventually drawled out.

Astarion, who was sitting to your right, immediately snickered. “Understatement of the year.”

Shadowheart, who was sitting to you left, promptly quipped, “I wonder whose fault that is.”

He leaned forward to glance at her. “Darling, all that pent-up frustration must–”

You heaved a deep sigh as you nudged him with your elbow, not in the mood to moderate their venomous exchange. “Enough!”

Wyll took a seat across from yours as a Fist stood by his side, hand clasping the handle of his sword in a silent warning.

“You should have told me about your arrangement with Ava,” he said, locking eyes with you. “I know all too well how some propositions are just rotten from the start and doomed to fail.”

Tension and guilt settled in the pit of your stomach.

Not even half an hour ago, you had been able to momentarily push aside the chaos that had been hurled at you in such short notice.

“It seemed like a fair exchange – if her words are to be believed, that is,” you said.

Wyll tensed up. “There is nothing fair about offering your blood to bloodthirsty fiends as an exchange.” He then glanced at Astarion. “No offense.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “None taken, darling.”

But Wyll did have a point even if your arrangement with Astarion was nothing akin to the one with Ava.

Yet…

“Nothing is set in stone. I don't have to go through with any of it.”

From beside you, Shadowheart managed an irritable look. “I cannot be the only one who finds all of this rather convenient. Even if there is someone connected to Cazador after you, why would she withhold that information? Doesn't she need you safe and sound, Astarion?”

“I suppose so, but who's to say? I would need to talk to her,” he said, eyes on Wyll. “I have to talk to her.”

Wyll immediately understood the implication in his words. “Now?”

“Well, obviously not now,” he said indignantly.

The sun was still up and dusk was hours away. 

“I don't think that's a good idea,” you intervened, heart racing in your chest. “We need to find out first if there's something that links all of this to Ava.”

“Regardless of that, she still needs to answer for her deranged proposition,” Astarion replied.

Shadowheart scoffed. “You were the one who endangered her in the first place with that bizarre deal.”

He was on his feet faster than you could blink, scowling. “Do not make the idiotic mistake of thinking you are the only one here who cares for her.”

She rose from the sofa, matching his defyance. “Oh, I am sure you care for her – in your own twisted way.”

“Can you two stop it?” you half-shouted, coming to stand in between them before he could retort. “This is pointless!”

They glared at each other in silence for a moment before parting ways, with Astarion sinking down on a chair whilst Shadowheart began pacing around the room, evidently distressed.

“My friends, we need to think critically here,” Wyll spoke again. “Arguing with each other is the last thing we ought to do right now.”

Silence followed as tension dispersed.

“Now, as we wait for Lae'zel and Gale to return, I must ask a few questions, Astarion.”

He crossed his arms. “Oh, this should be fun.”

Wyll ignored his snarky remark, assuming a more serious demeanour. “Why would you resort to her in the first place? Was her promise more solid than the Wish spell?”

“There were no promises made,” he said acidly, a nerve clearly having been struck. “She’s merely experimenting and the prospect seemed too good to pass.”

“So, your blood for a way to lessen your vampiric hunger? That was the deal?”

A cold shiver ran down your spine and you watched as Astarion tensed up slightly.

He had never shared with them just how deep the horrors he endured under Cazador's command truly twisted inside him.

How all of it had taken a toll on his ability to be intimate with someone without feeling tainted.

How it had ultimately driven him into striking a deal with someone like Ava as despair took root.

And it wasn't your place to reveal any of it.

So you merely sat back and observed him in silence.

“It seemed good enough back then,” he said coolly. “Besides, it could also be helpful to the spawn in the Underdark.”

That had Wyll arch an eyebrow. “The spawn?”

“Petras has been sending letters to report back, and – well, let's just say that dealing with 7,000 hungry vampire spawn isn't an easy feat,” he said. “I figured that if her experiment were to be successful, then it'd be beneficial for them as well.”

Oh.

Shadowheart waggled her eyebrows as her feet came to a halt. “So you weren't merely thinking about yourself?”

“Initially, yes. Of course.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

“However, I was the one who doomed them to eternal hunger, so it seemed fitting I'd help.”

“They were doomed either way,” you quickly pointed out. “And it was Cazador's doing.”

His head turned to you. “Be it as it may, their hunger isn't sated for long. I know that all too well.”

Astarion wasn't exactly the epitome of selflessness, but you knew he had come to change some of his ways in the past few weeks after all the events that had unfolded.

And when it came to his own hunger, you figured old habits did die hard.

His eyes then landed on your neck for a moment before looking away.

“I reckon I already know the answer to this, but did you even plan ahead?” Shadowheart said, crossing her arms. “How would you even make this feasible for thousands of spawn with just your own blood? Or were they really just an afterthought?”

Astarion narrowed his eyes. “Ava was handling the … logistics, shall we say. My blood would be the starting point, but not a requirement.”

She scoffed in utter disbelief. “And you took her word for it… blindly. You simply trusted some monster hunter with a blood fetish? This is ridiculous even for you.”

He was definitely a passionate admirer of the ‘laugh now, cry later’ school of thought, which also meant that when the consequences hit… they would hit hard.

“It's not like progress was being made with the Wish spell, sweetheart,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I saw an opportunity and I took it.”

A chill rushed through you like a knife. “Only a few weeks had passed, Astarion. All you had to do was wait–”

And then he snapped. His seemingly calm demeanour finally cracking open and revealing the hurt underneath.

“For centuries, all I did was wait! There were times I wished he would just destroy me once and for all to rid me of the burden of being ‘alive’ under such conditions,” he snarled, rising from the chair as he faced you. “I turned away from all that power I could have – the ritual… everything! I – I just…” His voice faltered and he heaved a sigh, reining back his outrage as his face softened into that expression that just broke you. “Is it such a crime that I want better for myself?”

You shook your head, feeling for him, but… “These things take time. Despair leads to rushed actions.”

He grimaced. “So you'd have me turn to hope?”

“Yes.”

He clicked his tongue. “There's nothing quite as cruel as hope, darling.”

You heard Wyll let out an exasperated sigh from across the room. “Astarion, I will not judge you for the decision you made to mingle with Ava – you had your reasons. But the consequences seem severe enough even if she isn't involved in either of the killings.”

He remained silent.

“It's not just about you anymore. She took an interest in her blood and is now using it as a bargaining chip,” he said. “That is unacceptable.”

“I fully agree with Wyll,” Shadowheart said as she came to sit next to you once again.

“And that is why you'll let me go to her,” Astarion said.

“You're still under house arrest. The Council of Four will–”

“To Hells with them all!” Astarion said through clenched teeth, fangs peeking through. “We're your friends, are we not? And since you're so adamant about my fault in this, allow me to set things right.”

“A good call,” Shadowheart chimed in with a nod.

Wyll seemed taken aback by his words and his frown deepened. “I may have the final word as the Grand Duke, but I cannot consciously go against a collective ruling.”

“The circumstances have changed,” Astarion retorted simply. “I will go to her and you're free to have your Fists point a thousand stakes at me along the way if it eases your mind.”

You could tell Wyll felt torn between duty and reasoning, and you didn't envy him in the slightest.

“You don't understand the consequences of–”

Astarion's face darkened and a devious smile tugged at his lips. “Oh, darling. I do understand. I simply do not care.”

Wyll took a deep breath, clearly realising he was fighting a losing battle.

He turned to face the Fist by his side. “Send word to the Council.”

The tall and broad man nodded before exiting through the front door.

“You can't be serious,” Astarion scoffed. “You should have kept this between us. They don't have to know.”

But Wyll merely shook his head. “We can do things your way and my way.”

Astarion pinched the bridge of his nose with a groan. 

“I'm coming with you,” you said, fully determined..

Shadowheart immediately gripped your arm firmly. “No.”

Wyll rose from his seat. “He shall not go alone, but you don't need to get more involved in this than you already are.”

Astarion turned to face you and raised one hand. “Absolutely not. You stay.”

That made your blood boil almost instantly and a flash of anger crossed your face. “I can fend for myself. Just let me–”

But your words were muffled by a deafening swirling and pulsing sound that came from outside.

In no time, the door was slammed open as a visibly irritated Lae'zel stormed inside.

“Tsk'va! Mages and their nauseating portals,” she grumbled before closing the door shut and plunging the room in candlelight once again. “Almost spilled the contents of my stomach. Twice.”

Both you and Shadowheart flocked to her side and you spoke first, “Are you alright? Where’s Gale?”

She nodded dismissively, placing her esteemed greatsword on the long table. “He stayed behind to converse with a few of his acquaintances, trying to make sense of what happened.”

“Well? What happened, then?” Astarion asked as he approached the three with you with Wyll right behind him.

“The man succumbed to a multitude of slashing wounds.”

Your eyes widened as you gasped.

“Slashing wounds? Was it an animal? A monster?” Wyll immediately pressed.

“We do not know. It was a rather brutal sight even for someone like me,” Lae'zel said with a frown.

A shiver spread across your body and you felt nauseous all of a sudden.

“Was there anything odd about it?” Shadowheart asked.

“Because a man being brutally shredded to pieces isn't odd enough?” Astarion said with a scoff.

She ignored him. “Were there traces of necrotic magic?”

Lae'zel arched a brow. “No. What's with this interrogation?”

Shadowheart was definitely trying to find a common element between the two deaths… and Ava.

And it seemed that there was nothing there.

Yet.

“We are trying to figure out if Ava could have had a hand in this.”

Lae'zel didn't budge. “Who?”

“Ava.”

Lae'zel turned to Astarion. “Your hairdresser?”

This time, Shadowheart clicked her tongue impatiently, hands on her hips. “Astarion struck a deal with some monster hunter turned blood merchant and got her involved.” She extended one arm to at you. “This Ava woman now wants her blood for whatever nefarious reason and might also be the one to blame for the death that led to them getting arrest and – quite possibly – the one from today.”

Your eyes widened, quite astonished that she was able to spill all that information in one swift breath. 

If the circumstances weren't quite so dire, you would also have chuckled from how she sounded like a child who was telling her strict parent on her misbehaving sibling.

Astarion was obviously offended. “Conveniently leaving out the part where I am entitled to mingling with whomever I want, and that I was completely oblivious to Ava's finding and her proposal.”

Lae'zel glanced at you. “What proposal?”

“It's fine. Don't worry. I won't go through with any of it,” you said reassuringly, placing your hand on her wrist, knowing fully well she was itching to swing her sword on him. “This is all one big mess, but he truly didn't know.”

Shadowheart growled. “You do not have to keep defending him!”

Wyll spoke before you could. “Shadowheart. I understand your indignation, but we need to move on from the constant pointless bickering. What is done is done.”

Astarion clapped thrice. “Ah! The voice of reason!”

She threw him a death glare before crossing her arms and tapping her foot irritably on the floor, but not uttering another word.

Lae'zel, on the other hand, had her narrowed eyes set on Astarion. “You are fortunate she adores that pretty head attached to your body.”

“Was that a compliment, Lae'zel?” he taunted.

“Your ability to turn any remark into an opportunity to feed your ego is truly astounding, Astarion.”

He smirked happily in response. “I do my best – or worst, depending on your taste.”

“Enough of this,” you interjected as you stared at Lae'zel. “When is Gale returning?”

She shrugged. “Unclear. He is also trying to find another contact who might help out with the Wish spell.”

“No.”

All heads turned to Astarion.

His brows knitted together. “No. No one else is getting involved until we figure out what is happening.”

Your eyes met his in mingled surprise and confusion. 

Even Shadowheart was stunned silent as her face softened.

“I thought you wanted this more than anything,” Wyll asked.

“Well, yes. But not when people are turning up dead all around me.”

Lae'zel frowned. “So, all of this for nothing? Had a sudden change of heart about your inability to walk in the sun again?”

He rolled his eyes. “Heavens forbid I'm the one pointing the moral compass in the right direction. Don't act so surprised, darling. I still know what I want and what I need to do.”

You closed the distance between you and him, worry brewing in your heart.

“Astarion, the Wish spell isn't easy to come by. It's not easy to find someone willing to teach it and Gale is a powerful wizard and strong candidate,” you said, trying to reason with him as you placed a hand on his arm. “I understand your reluctance, but we might have to wait even longer if this opportunity is disregarded.”

He didn't even flinch. “This is ultimately my choice, and I choose to wait. I've had it with others dictating how I should feel and act. This is the sensible thing to do.”

For centuries, he had belonged to everyone – to anyone – but himself. 

Both in body and mind. 

So, if this was what he truly thought was best for him, who were you to deny him of it? Maybe you would have chosen differently, but this wasn't truly about you, was it?

He would tell you otherwise, of course. That you had been the stepping stone to his healing process since the nautiloid crash, but you couldn't and wouldn't take full credit for it.

This was a joint effort and you would empower him all the way through.

“I stand with you,” you said eventually said, breaking the silence.

He gradually relaxed under your touch.

Shadowheart spoke next, “I respect your decision, Astarion. We need to see if there is a link between the two deaths. I can go ahead through the portal and ask Gale to return.”

He nodded. 

“Very well,” she said with a curt smile.

Wyll approached the door. “I will inform the guards to accompany you once dusk hits, Astarion.”

He nodded again. “Thank you.”

Lae'zel then cursed and left the room with a loud bang behind her as the door closed shut.

Your hand came to his shoulder and his crimson eyes were on you again. “Let me come with you.”

“No.”

You scowled. “I'm not some frail sorcerer. I can stand by your side and help.”

This time, he chuckled. “Sweetheart, you are more capable than most of us combined here. My reluctance doesn't stem from my lack of faith in your abilities,” he said, voice firm and collected. “If anything were to happen to you because of me, I'd never forgive myself. Allow me to handle this.”

Your heart was hammering fast in your chest from his words, and even though you wanted to argue with his decision, you held your tongue back.

In truth, you were mostly scared Ava would have something up her sleeve and hurt him. That was what was eating at your nerves.

But still, you nodded

It was settled then.

You made your way down the corridor, coming to a halt as the faint glow spilled from inside his room.

The door was open for a change.

A comforting smile curled your lips, knowing you'd find him inside.

As you approached the doorway, you spotted Astarion across the room, flicking through a few pieces of cloth placed on the round table.

You knocked twice on the wood “May I?”

He nodded. “It's your house.”

“Well, it's your room,” you retorted. “For now, at least,” you quickly added, not wanting to seem overbearing. After all, he wasn't ultimately here on his own volition.

“You don't have to keep asking,” he said with a faint smile.

Your eyes landed on his bed as you walked in, causing your heart to skip a beat.

A few hours ago, the two of you had been lost in each other's pleasure on that very same spot. Now, the bedclothes had been laid sprawled across it, no creases or any remaining proof of your earlier endeavour.

The two of you had been robbed of after care and a much needed talk about what had happened.

Even if he had seemed quite content during and after all of it, you found yourself always hung on the fear that you had rushed through it all.

So, you needed the affirmation. You needed to hear his thoughts on it and to ensure no boundaries had been crossed.

You approached the table and your gaze roamed cross the clear vials that he had placed by his twin daggers. 

Odourless.

Colourless.

Poison.

“Lethal?”

He dabbed a selected piece of cloth on the clear liquid. “No.”

An uneasy feeling began to take root. “Do you think she'll try to hurt you?”

“It would be rather foolish of her,” he mused, dragging the damp fabric along each blade, coating them in a fine layer of poison. “But I've been wrong before about people, so – as they say – better safe than sorry.”

It wasn’t the reassurance you were seeking, but Astarion was more than capable when it came to self-defence.

“Besides, she needs me more than I need her,” he concluded, inspecting the glinting blade close to his eyes. “And if she fails to provide satisfactory answers, the Fists will deal with her.”

You nodded, but still failing to push your fear aside. “What if there is really someone after us? What if she's not connected to any of this?”

You had purposefully let out the faint implication that maybe there was a connection to Cazador. He didn't need to be troubled with that in case Ava was bluffing. 

Astarion sheathed both daggers on either side of his waist before his eyes landed on you. “If that is the case, then she will tell me who it is. And she better have a godsdamned good justification for why she thought I would allow you to be involved.”

You absentmindedly bit your lip and he smiled warmly, coming to stand in front of you, wiping his hands clean from any trace of poison.

Silently, he leaned to press a lingering kiss on your forehead, his cool lips making you flinch slightly.

It was as if a surge of lightning had been cast throughout your body, setting you alight.

“About earlier…” you said, swallowing your nervousness.

He traced your jawline with his thumb before tipping your head back so you could properly meet his gaze.

“Darling, already back for another round?”

You broke into laughter. “No! No… that wasn't what I trying to say.”

He tapped your nose lovingly and it was as if the two of you were long-time lovers, used to each other's teases and mannerisms.

Your heart skipped yet another beat.

“I know. Just couldn't miss the opportunity to have you all flustered for me again,” he said with a devious grin. “But do go on.”

“I just want to make sure… it was alright… what we did, I mean,” you said in a whisper.

Astarion's brows furrowed together. “I thought that was pretty much evident…”

A lump swelled in your throat.

You truly didn't want to overstep any lines.

But you had to know. You had to hear it.

“I am talking about… up here,” you said, pressing a finger softly to his temple. “I… just want to make sure you're truly fine. That we're truly fine.”

You held your breath for a moment, dreading a worrisome reply.

He caught hold of your hand and pressed your finger to his lips. “I will always tell you if it's too much.”

A wave of relief washed over you and you allowed yourself to breathe normally.

Still…

You swallowed again. “Promise?”

“I promise, sweetheart,” he said, using your own finger to tap the tip of your nose, earning a heartfelt giggle from you. 

“So… it wasn't too much?”

“No,” he said truthfully.

You nodded as he gripped your chin. “How did it feel?”

He paused for a while, pondering. “It felt… right.”

Your stomach turned and your heart sped up from how close he was to you.

How close he felt to you.

“I want to kiss you,” he said all of a sudden. “May I?”

You felt as though you would melt into a puddle from how desperate he sounded.

“You don't have to always ask,” you said truthfully.

He then pressed his cool lips to the corner of your mouth and you instinctively gasped. “I just adore the sound of your voice when you let me in.”

His lips moved to the opposite side, lingering there, and a rush of heat pooled in your cheeks.

“May I kiss you, darling?” he asked once more, pulling back just enough for his lips to barely touch yours. “May I taste you?”

Gods…

“Please do.”

He didn't need to be told twice.

The kiss started off slow at first as his lips molded into yours. But as soon as you made way for his tongue to slide inside, Astarion became the image of hunger.

He cradled your face in his hands and pressed both thumbs on your chin, so you'd open up wider for him.

A flash of memory filled your mind and you recalled how he used to do the same whenever you were on your knees, struggling to fit his thick cock in your mouth.

“You can take more of me, can't you, my sweet?” he'd say, voice dripping with lust.

You'd always struggle at first. Always. But he was such a caring lover and he would always ensure you took your time.

You quickly shuddered as your clit began throbbing evenly. 

His tongue was as relentless against yours as his cock had once been, but his eagerness and hunger had his razor-like fang nip at your lower lip, drawing blood.

“Shit,” you groaned from the sharp sting.

Astarion immediately pulled back and you stared at him in confusion.

You felt a few drops dribbling down your chin.

Why wasn't he tasting you?

His eyes were fixed on your lips and his eyes narrowed with bloodlust.

“You're letting it go to waste?” you asked, swiping your finger across the bleeding wound.

He swallowed with a strained smile. 

Oh, he was struggling to hold back…

“Well, darling… I don't intend on leaving the house with my cock hard with your blood.”

You clenched so hard you felt a gush of wetness being squeezed out.

But there was only so much Astarion could withstand, so you couldn't fight the moan that tore through your throat as he placed the softest kiss to your lip.

“Just before I go,” he whispered. “So I can take you with me.”

You clenched again and you could feel your clit swell up with each throb.

He eventually parted from you, licking his blood-stained lips as his eyes held that lustful gaze you adored.

“I'll be back soon.”

You were left petrified in place as he swiftly made his way out.

It wasn’t fair how soaked you were.

How soaked he had left you.

You glanced over your shoulder and realised the door had been left open all along and you rushed to the window, tugging on the curtain.

The sun had set as he appeared down below, followed closely by two Fists.

And the single mage slayer.

The three of them trailed after his steps and darted off into the distance.

And you realised that without a mage slayer around to keep your magic at bay, you could simply vanish.

You glanced at the vials of poison on the nearby table and smiled.

TBC

Series masterlist

Ao3

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 9: Blue Jays and Red-Tailed Hawks]

A/N: Thank you so much for your patience! Life got hectic but I am back, besties. Only 1 chapter left!!! 🥳❤️💙🦇

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

Chapter warnings: Language, mentions of sexual content (18+ readers only), blood and violence and warfare, character deaths, chaotic giant lizards.

Word count: 5.5k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

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

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

He reaches for his game piece, the shadowcat, although it isn’t purple but only a plain, crudely-carved chunk of oak wood, a makeshift imitation of its twin back in the Red Keep, assuming that Rhaenyra hasn’t stumbled upon and destroyed it. Daeron has sculpted the beast himself; he used a dagger that Aemond gave him as a gift before he was sent away to Oldtown, its hilt embellished with dark blue stones the color of Tessarion’s scales. He has made dice and a board too, and the other four pieces, homely little animals, proxies of his long-lost siblings. Daeron wonders if they miss him as much as he has always missed them. None of them ever said that in their letters, not in words so explicit. Aegon never really wrote at all; instead, he would scrawl barely-legible postscripts at the bottom of other people’s letters: Don’t drink too much, Learn some High Valyrian, Try not to get anyone pregnant.

“I am always the shadowcat,” Daeron explains, grinning. He shows the talisman to his companions, four soldiers fighting in the Hightower army, his closest friends. Then he places it at the starting line he has etched into the board.

“Why do you get the best one?” says Anthony of House Ambrose.

Daeron blinks. This has never occurred to him before. “Is the shadowcat the best piece?”

“Obviously.”

“I don’t know,” teases Josiah of House Roxton of the Ring, scratching his beard. “That butterfly is mighty fearsome.”

Now they’re all laughing. “Then you shall have the butterfly,” Daeron proclaims, handing it to Josiah. “That was my gentle sister Helaena’s piece. And you will never be as good as her, not if you pray to the Seven for a thousand years.”

“No,” Josiah agrees somberly, bowing his head in the firelight. It is just after dusk, and even here in the south, even within the cloth walls of the tent, the metallic chill of winter is creeping into every room like a vermin, like a spider or a rat.

“And Anthony, because you are clever yet envious and ever-grasping, I bequeath you Aemond’s wolf.” Daeron drops it into his open, calloused palm.

“I hope he doesn’t come looking for it,” Anthony chuckles. “I’m quite skilled with the sword, but I would be loath to meet the prince in combat.”

“I don’t want the worm,” slurs Oliver of House Fossoway of Cider Hall. Oli is quite drunk.

“It’s a snake, you idiot,” Josiah says.

“And it’s yours, Oli.” Daeron gives the tiny wooden snake to him. Oli accepts it reluctantly. “The snake was Aegon’s piece.”

“Long live the king!” Oli bellows with sudden fervor, and raises his cup of ale. Everyone toasts to the king’s health.

“Wherever he may be,” Daeron says before draining his cup and sweeping his silver hair out of his eyes, blue like a Targaryen’s, large and expressive like Mother’s. He feels that Aegon is still alive somewhere. He believes that if his eldest brother was dead, he would know it in his bones; there would be invisible, unbearable wounds like the ones that opened up when Helaena and Dreamfyre fell from the sky, days before Daeron received a raven carrying the news.

“What about my game piece?” asks Laurence of House Redwyne of the Arbor. He is a bowman and a healer as well, adept at herbal remedies and stitching. He would have preferred to be a maester or a septon, but as his parents’ only son he was compelled to endure the life of a lord. A squire arrives, refills all the cups with ale, departs with a swift bow.

“You are a Redwyne, and so you shall have Red’s bat,” Daeron says, entrusting the inanimate beast to Laurence. They know who he is talking about; they have heard more fireside stories of Daeron’s siblings than they could count. “And you are nothing like her. You are pious and poised, and you have never made your parents blush with shame. My Mother would have loved to have you for a son.”

“I’ll take your place,” Laurence says mildly, smiling. “You can be my parents’ dashing warrior, and I can accompany Queen Alicent when she prays in the sept.”

Daeron rolls first. He reads the dice and moves his shadowcat forward seven spaces. His brow knits together with determination. “I’m not leaving my mother there.”

“What? In the city?” Anthony asks, startled but not opposed. He is not one to shy away from battle. He believes that is where men find glory, where they ascend from mortals to something more, legends, heroes, gods.

Josiah snickers. “Not going to wait for Prince Aemond’s permission, huh?”

“The people of King’s Landing are in rebellion,” Daeron says, firelight flickering on his face. “Rhaenyra is desperate, and she is grieving Jace’s death, and she has my mother, Jaehaera, and Maelor in her grasp. What if Rhaenyra flees the city on Syrax and evades punishment for her treason? What if she executes my family, or if they are killed somehow when mobs overrun the Red Keep? I will not wait idly. Tessarion and I will recapture King’s Landing for the Greens.”

Oli raises his cup of ale again. “And we will fight with you!”

All five men toast, drink deeply, resume the game. Daeron wins; he has always been lucky.

~~~~~~~~~~

You stumble upstairs together, you supporting Aegon’s weight as best you can, tripping on the stone steps as lightning flashes outside the windows. Rain pours in sheets, wind howls through the cracked walls of the castle, and for a moment you think you are back at Heart’s Home, and that at the top of the tower you will find Luca waiting for you, safe and without pain and grinning his toothless little smile at you over Jace’s shoulder. Then—through the wine, through the torchlight and the thunder—you remember, and you feel the loss of them all over again, and when your knees buckle on the staircase Aegon drags you to your feet. You can sense that Alys Rivers is following you both, sweeping near-silently in her mossy green gown, peering fixedly with those strange silvery eyes like mirrors, haunting doorways and corridors. When you look back you catch glimpses of her, deformed shadows with long white fingers like the skeleton of a bat.

“I’m not a man anymore,” Aegon is blubbering as he collapses into his bed. His half-unbuttoned shirt is damp with spilled cider; tears gleam on his disfigured face.

“Shh, yes you are,” you soothe, lying down beside him. You rest a palm on his chest, gnarled grotesque scar tissue the color of a flayed man. Hazily, you think of the Bolton soldiers who must have marched south with Cregan Stark, and you wonder if when they sharpen their knives they are thinking of Aegon, or Daeron, or Aemond, or Mother, or maybe even you.

“I used to be,” Aegon sobs. “Now I’m just a useless, mutilated, flaccid freak.”

You burrow into him, drunk and drowsy. “Whatever you are, I’m glad you’re still alive.”

Aegon slings a scarred arm over your shoulder. Your ribs throb, your skull aches. “I used to love whoring,” he says miserably.

“The sport is not lost to you entirely. A working cock is not required to satisfy a woman.”

He laughs. “No, I suppose you’re right.”

“Perhaps you will recover. Perhaps you will find new ways to experience pleasure.”

“Perhaps,” Aegon agrees in a soft murmur, and then he dozes off.

And as the room spirals around you and thunder booms outside, you are carried back to other times and places, fleeting visions like the windows you once peered through into Aemond’s mind. You are a child being shoved into a wooden trunk and entombed there. You are tapping your little red bat around the game board. You are under the arbor grown over with roses and thorns, sunlight bleeding through the leaves in golden trickles. You are watching blue jays flit through a blue sky and bathe in the water of the fountains. You are playing with Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor, building fortresses of stones and sticks, collecting seashells with them on the beach. You are catching your bats when they soar in through the open window to land in your palms. You are watching Aemond ride back from hunting with one of his red-tailed hawks still perched on his glove. You are feeling your mattress shift beneath his weight, his hand on your thigh, his teeth on your neck; you hear a reverent whisper of High Valyrian. And then you hear the blistering shrieks of all the people he has killed, and you are reminded of Mother’s words about what you once shared with him: It’s strange, and violent, and obsessive and profane and…and…unnatural.

Was she right? She must have been. All it has led to is suffering.

If I had never loved Aemond, Luca and Jace would still be alive. If I had married some ordinary nobleman like Mother and Grandsire always wanted—his bloodline an inheritance from the Andals or the First Men, not the treacherous smoldering embers of Old Valyria—my children would be safe, and Helaena never would have tried to escape King’s Landing, and Aemond would have wed a Baratheon girl and perhaps accepted Lord Borros’ offer of dinner and rest that night in Storm’s End, and maybe Luke wouldn’t have been killed over Shipbreaker Bay, and there is a chance the war would never have happened at all.

But you didn’t listen to Mother and Grandsire, because you have never been tame, gentle, dutiful, ladylike. Jace saw this clearly; you were hungry.

You don’t fall sleep until dawn, and when you wake it is night again. The maids bring food, bread and butter and stew thick with fish and crab, but neither you or Aegon want it. You are marooned here together, not useful like Aemond or Daeron, not holy like Helaena, and the only remedy is cider that flows like molten gold, heat that burns in your throat like the fire of a dragon.

Now there is bleak grey midday light streaming in through the windows, and Aegon is screaming downstairs. You sit up, startled and bleary-eyed, your tangled silver hair strewn carelessly all around you. Alys is standing beside the bed. You yelp in alarm when you see her.

“A raven has arrived,” Alys says tonelessly. She has a red ribbon laced through her moon-white fingers and is toying with it.

“What? Why are you in here…?”

“I think it’s bad news.” Then she floats to the doorway and turns back to make sure you’re following, her hand with the ribbon resting on her rounded belly.

At the bottom of the staircase, Aegon is writhing on the stone floor, a piece of parchment—doubtlessly sent by one of his loyalists on the mainland, one of the very few who know where he is now, perhaps somebody at Rook’s Rest or Crackclaw Point—crumpled in his fist. Several maids are trying futilely to comfort him. You take the letter from Aegon so you can read it.

What is written there in black ink is a tale of triumph and ruin. Under the cover of darkness the Hightower army marched on King’s Landing, and the smallfolk rose up to join them when the soldiers breached the city walls, and the capital has been retaken by the Greens and Mother freed from her cell. Ulf the White was found drunk and senseless, and promptly murdered. Silverwing fled from the Dragonpit in the midst of the chaos. Daeron and Tessarion flew directly to the Red Keep and attacked Syrax where she had been kept in the courtyard, killing the dragon and thus destroying Rhaenyra’s chance to escape. The woman the Blacks call queen was captured and imprisoned, and the men of her council executed; but not before her bowmen shot Daeron through the chest and throat and he tumbled from the saddle and died alone, bleeding to death within the castle walls he once called home. Tessarion screeched in grief and would not leave his body, incinerating the archers when they dared to shoot at her next.

It’s in your pounding skull, a memory that fills your vision, harsh and luminous like lightning: Daeron as a child moving his little purple shadowcat around the board, how the rest of you packed up the game and never played again after he was sent to Oldtown.

“He was supposed to wait for Aemond,” Aegon is sobbing. “He wasn’t supposed to try to retake the city alone, he knew that, he was just a kid…”

You see Daeron falling from the sky, riddled with arrows and stained red with blood. You see Helaena and Dreamfyre plummeting down towards the beach where you once played with her children. And then you see Aemond plunging into the Gods Eye and being swallowed up by cold dark currents, sinking to the floor of the lake, dissolving into silt, disappearing from history.

I love him, you realize, an abrupt and agonizing laceration down to the bone. I might hate him, but I love him too. And hasn’t it always been that way?

You feel the heat of blood drawn on your cheek, taste the iron and copper of it on Aemond’s lips. Your skull aches, always on the left side.

“Why are we the ones still alive?!” Aegon wails at you. “You and me and Aemond were the monsters. But Helaena and Daeron, they were good, they were pure, they deserved to be here when the war is over!”

“It’s not over yet,” Alys says ominously.

“Go away, witch,” Aegon moans, covering his face with his hands. “Go away, go away, go away…”

Outside where soft rain is falling—you can see droplets on the windows and endless opaque fog—you hear the distant snarl of a dragon. And you have the overwhelming sensation that you are being called to.

Above the Gods Eye, the red and the blue, Alys had said. Aemond was blue…but who was red? Caraxes, Daemon, me?

The dragon growls again, not Sunfyre or Grey Ghost or Vermithor the Bronze Fury but the Cannibal, never ridden, never tamed, always hungry. Alys Rivers is holding something out to you. It is the red ribbon.

“He flies to his death,” she says levelly. “Unless you are there to catch him.”

Luca and Jace are gone. Helaena and Daeron are gone. Jaehaerys and Grandsire are gone. But I don’t have to lose Aemond too.

You take the ribbon and swiftly weave your hair into an untidy braid, then tie it off at the end with the strip of red. It is the first color besides black you have worn since you left Heart’s Home. Then you pad towards the castle entranceway in your bare feet.

Aegon is sniffling as the maids try to console him. He peers up at you from where he is still collapsed on the floor, a heap of marred skin and weak bones. “Where are you going?”

In answer, the Cannibal roars outside, immense and gravelly and malevolent.

Aegon says again, frantic now: “Red, where are you going?”

“To claim a dragon.”

“You can’t,” he says, stunned, petrified. “They all refused you.”

“I’m a different person now.”

“No!” he shouts as you turn to leave, lunging and wrapping his arms around your legs, trying to keep you here. “Please don’t go. Please stay. I don’t want to lose you too.”

Tenderly, you touch his tangled locks of silver hair, his mutilated cheek, his slumped shoulder. “If I don’t go, you might lose all of us.”

“It’s suicide. The Cannibal can’t be ridden.”

“But I know what he craves,” you say, and from across the room Alys smiles at you, her pale eyes glinting and her hands stroking the small globe of her belly. “And I want the same thing.”

You pull away from Aegon and escape into the mist, the rain, the cold wind and sea spray that burns in your lungs. He hobbles after you with his walking stick, pleading for you to stop, but he is too slow to catch up. Behind Aegon, Alys trails at a distance, meandering over the rocks. The magma trapped beneath the surface of the island flows like scorching blood through the arteries of the earth; the heat radiates up through the soles of your feet. The marrow glows hot and red in your bones.

You follow the Cannibal’s grunts and snarls and find him down by the water, a shore of jagged volcanic rocks and no sand, volcanic glass, fury hardened and cooled. But yours is still fresh. The Cannibal is feasting on the corpse of Grey Ghost. Gore hangs in crimson shreds from his craggy teeth; he has too many of them, they grow in rows like a shark’s. Frothing seawater laps at his claws. He raises his massive head—black scales and barbed spines, mindless primordial eyes green and luminous—and growls, steam rising from his flaring nostrils.

Fear strikes you, sharp and sudden. Your hands and knees are trembling.

“Let’s go back to the castle!” Aegon yells over the sounds of the sea and the gales of wind.

But you can’t stop now. The Cannibal called and you answered. And here, eighteen years late, you will have the dragon you were denied from birth.

You speak in High Valyrian as the wind gusts and rakes, your black mourning gown billowing, strands of silver hair ripped from your braid. “You hate your kind,” you say to the Cannibal, showing him the empty palms of your hand as you approach, cutting your bare feet on the rocks; and he watches you, eyes blazing, fangs revealed. “And I do too. I hate Rhaenyra for ordering the deaths of Helaena and Daeron and Grandsire. I hate Daemon for sending assassins into my home to murder Jaehaerys. I hate Aemond for killing Luca and Jace. And I hate myself for not being able to stop any of it.”

The Cannibal roars and his jaws open wide, revealing a gaping blood-red throat. From deep within him, lethal flames are building.

“I told you!” Aegon is shouting. “He can’t be tamed, get away from him! Red, come back, please don’t die, please!”

“I was weak!” you scream at the Cannibal in High Valyrian, stumbling over the rocks as you move closer. You bare your teeth at him like you did to Jace the night Rhaenyra took King’s Landing. “I was useless without you. I tried to forget my inheritance as a Targaryen, but it found me. It found me in the Vale, it found me as my son died in my arms. I cannot be gentle and toothless. I can only be the blood of the dragon.”

The Cannibal snaps his jaws shut and stills, his green eyes alight and fixed on you. Aegon and Alys say nothing; perhaps they are afraid to break the spell. You reach out and press your hand to the Cannibal’s muzzle; it comes away covered with Grey Ghost’s blood. You drag your tongue up the length of your palm and drink it. Dragon blood tastes like metal and smoke and the verdant rot of a swamp. The Cannibal growls from low in his enormous chest, but now his radiant eyes are curious.

“Help me kill Daemon and Caraxes,” you say as the wind howls and raindrops run in rivulets down your face. You place both hands on the Cannibal’s bloodied muzzle now. “You’ll kill your kind and I’ll kill mine. Together we will consume them. And I swear to you, my hatred burns every bit as hot as yours.”

You show the Cannibal, picturing it in your mind and knowing he can see: Aemond confessing that he murdered Luke, blood spurting when Jaehaerys was decapitated, Helaena and Dreamfyre crashing down to the beach outside the Red Keep, Jace lying dead in a crumbling stairwell, Luca’s blanket spotted with scarlet and his cries going silent, Daeron pierced with arrows, Aemond disintegrating in the depths of the Gods Eye if you cannot save him.

“I have all this hatred and no way to satisfy it. Let’s fly. Let’s devour.”

The Cannibal wears no saddle and never has. He is wild, and even now you will never own him. What you share will aways be a fight, a push and a pull like the tides, brutal and beloved, but isn’t that how you like it? You move to his side, wading in the shallow water on the shoreline, and hook your fingers around the spines that jut out of his thorax like thorns. His scales gleam like obsidian; he snorts tendrils of searing steam. He does nothing to help you, not stooping lower to the ground, not nudging you along with his snout as you’ve seen Sunfyre do for Aegon. The Cannibal only looks to Grey Ghost’s tattered corpse and takes another bite, crushing the ribcage between his jaws, ropes of gristle and deflated pink lungs gulped down.

Faintly, you hear Aegon say as he whirls to Alys: “Seven hells, I think it’s working.”

You heave yourself upwards and climb until you reach the Cannibal’s knobby spine, and nothing hurts, not your head or your ribs or the cuts on your feet or the scar that begins at your collarbone. As you are still searching for good spots to grab onto so you don’t slide off, crawling over the terrain of his back like stones, the Cannibal jolts forward and you scream when you nearly tumble head-first off of him and into the ocean. You grapple for purchase, eventually finding several large spines near his shoulder blades. You grip these thornlike appendages—your hands are too small to close around them completely—and now the Cannibal is diving into the Narrow Sea.

Aegon shouts something you can’t decipher, and then you are underwater and the world outside is muted. The ocean is ice cold and thrashing violently with the force of the Cannibal’s movement, and you hold on with your eyes squeezed shut, the currents wrenching you roughly, waiting for the dragon to resurface. But the Cannibal plunges deeper and pressure builds in your ears until it feels like they will rupture open and hemorrhage.

Is he trying to drown me??

You consider releasing his spines and paddling blindly for open air, but that would be a surrender. You would be unworthy. You would have no dragon. And the Cannibal would devour you like he did Grey Ghost.

You think in High Valyrian as loudly as you can: I will die here before I let go. I am not afraid of the afterlife. Half of my family is there already. Jace is rocking Luca in his arms, Helaena is placing ladybugs in his tiny wrinkled palms, Daeron is telling him that I’ll be home soon.

And then the Cannibal ascends, and through your eyelids you can tell there is light again, and he bursts through the surf and onto a rocky beach. He scrabbles over the ground, you lurching and blinking seawater from your eyes. The Cannibal’s black wings, ragged from battling other monsters, open like the wings of a raven or a bat. You peer down and the island is growing smaller and the wind is forceful, the ocean rippling under the gusts from the Cannibal’s wings.

You look over your shoulder, and for only a moment you glimpse Aegon standing on the shore and cheering, waving, whistling, and Alys watching with a smile. Then the Cannibal banks and carries you higher into the grey clouds. The air is frigid, and you can’t see anything through the fog, but you are grinning as the wind stings on your teeth. At last, you know what it is like to fly. Dreamfyre bonded to the gentle, Vermithor to the powerful and ambitious, but you were made for a different sort of beast. Your dragon is hateful. Your dragon is hungry.

The Cannibal circles back to Dragonstone, breaks through the sightless mist like a blade through flesh, and lands beside Aegon and Alys and snarls at them, gnashing his gore-stained fangs. Steam blasts from his nostrils and blows through their hair. Alys shrinks away from him, her hands cradling her belly protectively.

Aegon is laughing hysterically. “What now?” he says, marveling at the Cannibal, awed and horrified in equal measure. “All these years you thought there was something wrong with you. Thank the gods your egg never hatched.”

“Aemond is meeting Daemon in battle above the Gods Eye. That’s where I’m going.”

“Do you even know how to get there?!”

“It’s west of here. That’s a start.” But you see a mirage through the Cannibal’s ancient green eyes: a time years ago, decades, centuries, when he flew over the Riverlands and felt the foreign magic of the Old Gods, natural adversaries to Valyrians. He flew away from them then. He can find his way back now.

In High Valyrian, you think: Take me there and we will kill our own.

Yes, an ancient voice rumbles in your skull, wrathful black bottomless gluttony. Yes, yes.

~~~~~~~~~~

It gleams like a sapphire in the face of the earth, the Gods Eye as you descend through dense clouds that taste like metal when you breathe the winter sky into your lungs. You have flown through the night, and you both would be exhausted if not fueled by hatred the way wood feeds a fire.

The Cannibal shows you things through his archaic reptilian eyes—the Targaryens arriving on the doorstep of his lair after heeding Daenys the Dreamer’s vision of the Doom of Valyria, Aegon’s Conquest and Visenya’s scheming, Maegor the Cruel’s ashes being interred on the island where he was raised, the Old King Jaehaerys fleeing with Alysanne to Dragonstone so they could marry against the wishes of his advisors, Rhaenyra and Daemon’s wedding and happiness there before the war began, dragons coming and going, storms and eruptions and shipwrecks, claws and fangs and raw meat—and so you learn what it means to be a dragon. You show him your comparatively few memories in return, your momentary existence, and he begins to understand you too.

The dark skeletal remnants of Harrenhal, promised to Alys and the son she shares with Aemond, appear as the Cannibal flies lower. On the fields by the lakeshore, armies are clashing in battle; you see the banners of House Stark, House Lannister, and the dual factions of House Targaryen. High above the murky blue water, Vhagar and Caraxes are twisted in lethal combat, flames pouring from their jaws, claws scraping away scales.

Aemond, you think, and you wonder if he has already felt that you’re here.

The Cannibal glides with his vast, frayed wings over the Green soldiers, and you spot Criston among them, astride a galloping white horse and wielding a sword. He stares up as the Cannibal’s shadow falls over him, and he sees what you have brought with you, and he is so staggered he cannot look away. Men are pointing and shouting. The Northmen are pulling up their horses, their infantry bolting for the trees. In front of you are thousands of enemy combatants, anonymous and swarming like ants.

“Dracarys,” you whisper, and the Cannibal opens his jaws and spills a river of fire down on the Northman. Their banners burn, their horses scream and scatter, their men are cooked in their armor and stumble towards the water to extinguish themselves. You feel the Cannibal’s malevolent satisfaction. He feels your hatred turning lighter, anemic, easier to carry.

He swoops up into the sky where Vhagar and Caraxes are intertwined. Vhagar has the Blood Wyrm’s long, serpentine neck clenched between her fangs, but Caraxes is not dead yet; he has clawed through the scales of Vhagar’s belly and opened her, unspooled her, disemboweled her. Vhagar’s intestines cascade from her abdomen and tangle around her kicking feet. She is bleeding to death. She will fall soon.

Daemon knows there is no escape. He has Dark Sister in his fist and is preparing to jump from his saddle and deliver the deathblow to Aemond. You remember Daemon stalking you around the courtyard of the Red Keep with the same sword, twirling it in his hands and fantasizing about slitting your throat. The Cannibal understands this as if it is his own memory and unleashes crimson flames upon Caraxes. In his final seconds, Daemon turns and sees you, and the last thing he feels is not triumph but shock and heat and excruciating, incinerating pain, a fire that burns ruinously clean, leaving not even the bones.

Vhagar is dying. She releases Caraxes and the smoldering, broken dragon tumbles resistlessly into the lake. Aemond is calling your name. The Cannibal soars towards them, almost close enough now. Vhagar goes limp as she exsanguinates, her wings stop flapping, her colossal body spirals down towards the Gods Eye. Aemond unfastens his chains and leaps from the saddle. It is his only chance; if he hits the water with Vhagar, he will be knocked unconscious and drown, sink, vanish. His long hair is a ribbon of silver. His hands grasp for you and the Cannibal, catching nothing but empty air.

You reach for him as he falls and the wind rushes through your fingers, grey as steel and cold like the descending winter.

~~~~~~~~~~

A year ago, twilight in the garden of the Red Keep, the fountain trickling lazily as you perch on the edge with Blue Jay clinging to your forearm. High above, silver glints of constellations are burning through the indigo sky. On the ground, you kick pebbles around aimlessly with your bare feet. You avoid his gaze because you’re trying to pretend you’re teasing; you don’t want him to see how upset you are. “They’re going to make you marry a Baratheon girl.”

“No they aren’t.”

“Yes, Aemond, they are. I understand that. You don’t have to lie to me.”

“They’re going to try,” he purrs into your ear as he sits down beside you, petting Blue Jay with one lithe hand. “But I won’t do it. If Borros Baratheon needs a marriage to seal his alliance, then Daeron can wed his youngest daughter. I’ve already written to Daeron, and he agreed. He was willing, in fact. If it means he would be coming home to King’s Landing at last.”

“Lord Baratheon will want you,” you insist. “You are older. You are closer to the throne.”

“I’m very close to it,” Aemond agrees, kissing the apple of your cheek and then biting you there, the sharpness of his teeth, the pink warmth of bloodrush. Blue Jay swoops off into the dusk to devour the wheeling white specks of moths and lacewings.

“He will try to tempt you, he will offer you a beautiful bride.”

“Oh, yes, she will be beautiful,” Aemond murmurs, and when you strike at his chest he catches your wrists and yanks you in closer. “And she will be meek, and compliant, and ladylike in every way, and if she was mine she would lie down and spread her legs for me whenever I asked, because that is what is required of a dutiful wife. She will be devout…and decorous…and sinless…”

“Then marry her instead,” you hiss as you battle with him, fighting to get away, not wanting to win. Aemond drags you off the ledge of the fountain and into the cool shallow water. You splash as you struggle, your fingernails raking against his throat and the blind side of his face where he can’t see to defend himself, your long silver braid heavy and sodden, your blood-colored velvet gown drenched and clinging to you like muscles to bones.

“But the Baratheon girl wouldn’t be like me,” Aemond says, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to look at him, and while his hands are rough his voice is soft, almost like a whisper, almost like the prayers that Mother sighs in the sept, pleading for the gods to tame her children. The thrashing water goes still. Your heartbeat is slowing. You gaze into the crystalline blue of his eye and are trapped there like a sailor sinking to the bottom of the sea. “And she wouldn’t be like you either.”

You grin—relief, triumph, hunger—and Aemond kisses you, not like how a lord kisses a lady but how animals devour each other, fierce and biting, insatiable, unashamed.

Aemond says as he kneels in the water of the fountain, bats you named after him flapping overhead in a darkening sky: “I have to leave for Storm’s End at dawn. I won’t be gone long, I won’t sleep there even if I’m invited too. Wait up for me tomorrow night.”

“No,” you answer, taunting him; but you will.

[ygelita]

Gentleness

Characters: Caracalla x F! Reader *Y/N*

Synopsis: Caracalla confesses his intense love for you to Geta, not knowing you’re secretly listening—until you step out and reveal you heard it all.

Warnings: Obsessive & Possessive Behavior, Emotional Intensity, Mild Dark Themes, Romantic Tension, Eavesdropping, etc!

A quiet Roman garden at dusk, behind the palace walls. Geta sits sipping wine, while Caracalla paces, eyes shadowed with something deeper than usual pride or malice. Hidden just beyond the colonnade, you (Y/N) listen, heart caught in the hush of his words.

“She’s not like them, Geta.” Caracalla’s voice was low, almost reverent. He rarely spoke this way—without venom, without steel. “Not like the painted women who circle the court with eyes as sharp as daggers and souls thinner than parchment.”

Geta raised a brow, intrigued. “You speak of her again. Y/N?”

“Yes,” Caracalla breathed, as if even her name was a secret prayer. “She moves like she doesn’t know the world watches her. As if Rome itself isn’t burning to taste her shadow. Do you understand what it does to me, Geta?”

“You sound like a man possessed.”

Caracalla stopped pacing, turning his gaze toward the horizon. “Possessed?” He let out a breathless laugh. “Perhaps. But not in the way you think. It’s not just lust or longing—it’s… peace. When I look at her, I forget the weight of the empire. The whispers, the blood. When she speaks to me, it’s like I’m not the son of Severus. I’m just… a man.”

Geta’s expression softened for a moment, curiosity bleeding into concern. “Do you love her, brother?”

Caracalla’s jaw tightened. “Love is too weak a word for it.” He turned, eyes dark and burning. “She is mine. Not in name, not in law—yet. But in spirit. I know it. The gods know it. I see it in the way she hesitates before leaving the room, like she wants to stay. In the way her hand lingers when it brushes mine.”

From behind the column, your breath caught. You hadn’t realized you were holding it. Every word struck like lightning, soft and aching and wild. He thought you didn’t see him—didn’t feel him. But how could you not? His gaze burned hotter than the Roman sun. His silence screamed louder than any legion.

“I would raze cities for her,” Caracalla continued, quieter now. “I would poison oceans, bleed senators dry, damn the Senate and the gods themselves if they stood between us. And yet… I’ve never touched her.”

Geta looked up, surprised.

Caracalla clenched his fists. “Not once. Because she deserves gentleness, and I was not made to be gentle. But for her—I would try. I would tear the cruelty from my bones, carve a better man out of myself with my own sword if it meant she’d smile for me and mean it.”

Silence.

Then Geta smirked, swirling his wine. “And yet, I wonder if she knows.”

From your place in the shadows, you stepped into the garden light, voice barely above a whisper:

“I do now.”

Caracalla froze, eyes wide as if the very gods had descended. His breath left him slowly, reverently—as if your presence was both a miracle and a curse.

He hadn’t meant for you to hear. But oh, you had. And now, nothing could ever be the same.

[sunnysidevans]

Casual - L.Howlett

to you things were more, to logan it was only casual.

warnings: 18+, mentions of sexual themes, that's mostly it.

“So, what’s going on between you and (y/n)” 

You stop at the mention of your name. Storm is sipping her coffee as Logan gruffs, pouring his own cup. “Nothing, it’s casual” he shrugs as you watch him turn around to face her.

“It doesn’t seem casual” She notes as he shrugs, sipping his piping hot cup of black coffee. “It is” you can’t help but bite back the tears lingering in your waterline, taking a deep breath.

“I missed you so much” his lips are heavy against your own as he backs you through the bedroom door, his hands on your skin, lighting a fire through you. “Missed you” you breath, fingers tangled in his hair as he hoists you up and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.

His scruff was an almost enjoyable burn against your skin, the last few days of the mission preventing him from shaving. Your back arched off the sheets as he grins from between your thighs, growling. 

The sheets were tangled around your legs, as you drew soft shapes on his chest as he took another drag of his cigar. “Really did miss ya bub” he mumbles around it, fingers twirling a piece of your hair gently. “How was the mission” you adjust against the sheets, chin resting on his peck as he grinned. “A mission” he shrugs looking down at you with a smirk. “How was the mansion?” he questions as you shrug, rolling over onto your back, “the mansion” you smirk.

He smiles, leaning over you, cigar in one hand as he cups your cheek with the other, smirk on his lip. “But it wasn't the same without me huh?” he questions, leaning down to leave a peck on your lips, you find yourself chasing his lips. “Hmm” you question with a smirk as he leans down to your lips again. You can’t help but giggle against his lips, tugging on his bottom lip with a smirk. “Maybe”.

You are quick to move away from the kitchen, “Sorry professor” you mumble, quick to move past him and up the stairs. Charles goes to question you but turns his attention to Logan and Storm. “What is wrong with (y/n)?” he questions as Storm shrugs and Logan gruffs into his coffee, brows furrowed. “I’m not sure” Storm notes, eyes shooting daggers into Logan as she looks back at Charles.

You shut the door quickly, sliding down the backside of it and pulling your knees to your chest.

Casual.

That's all the last few months have been to Logan yet to you it was much more. How could you be so naive into thinking a man like Logan wanted more than casual?

You sniffle, wiping your cheeks with the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

Dusk had fallen over the mansion by the time Logan knocks gently on the bedroom door and pushes his way though, tucked into your bed with your back to him, eyes puffy you ignore his presence.

“Hey sweet girl, I haven’t seen you all day” he whispers, making his way to the bed, climbing in behind you slowly. “I’m not in the mood tonight lo” you whisper, shrugging his hand off your shoulder gently. “Hey” he notices the change in your voice, “what is it?” he asks, sitting up as you shake your head. “Nothing, training with jean just got the best of me today” you lied through your teeth. You knew he would catch on eventually.

“Wondered if I'd find you out here” Logan grins, walking out to the garden of the Mansion where you sat with your book and a blanket. You look up from the book, adjusting your glasses with a smile, eyes falling to the take out bag in his hand.

“Got some time for me?” he questions holding the bag up with a smirk. You nod, patting the spot beside you and holding the blanket up. “C’mon Lo” you smile as he sits down beside you, adjusting the blanket around you. “Oh! Fries!” you squeal, reaching over to grab a crispy fry, munching on it happily. “You know me so well Lo” he grins, eating his own burger, “course I do bub” he smiles over at you and then looks back out at the garden.

This was all your doing, your mutation was to grow and manipulate plants. He enjoyed the comfortable silence.

Logan makes his way down the steps. He left you there tucked into bed but his heart ached. It was not like you to even not want to be in his presence. He notices Jean make her way to the study. “Jeanie” he jogs to catch up with her as she turns to him, smiling.

“Logan” she nods as he tilts his head, “you went a little hard on (y/n) today?” he questions as she furrows her brows. “I didn’t train with her today, I actually hadn’t seen her all day” she notes as he nods slowly. “Why Logan?” he shakes his head with furrowed brows.

“I don’t know” he mumbles, “she seems off” he looks up at her as she shrugs, “maybe she’s home sick” he nods, biting his lip.

You squeal as Logan tosses the bra off your shoulders with a smirk, giggling as you attempt to go and pick it up. He catches your waist, quick to lay you back on the bed with a bounce. “This is staying right here, with me” he whispers, hovering over you, “What?! That’s my favorite bra!” you laugh as he shakes his head, “to bad” he smirks, lips hovering over yours. “Mine now” he connects your lips with a growl. You moan against his, pulling his body closer with your thighs. 

Three days you have brushed Logan off. You barely looked his way and he needed to know why. “Jeanie” he grumbles, making his way into her classroom, sulking. “Logan” Scott looks at him from his position against the desk, arms crossed. “Summers” he grumbles with an eye roll as Jean looks at him. “What is it logan?” she questions as he sighs. “Can you read her mind or something?” he questions as she chuckles. “That would be invading her privacy Logan” he sighs, “she won’t even talk to me” he sighs, shaking his head.

“Try again, don’t give up on her” She encourages as he sighs, running a hand over his face and making his way to your room for the fourth day. He knocks and to his surprise you open the door.

“(y/n)” he can’t help hiding his shock. “Logan” you are shocked as well, thinking he caught on by now. “Can I come in?” he asks as you sigh, opening the door for him to make his way through. “Why have you been avoiding me?” he jumps right to the point after the door closes, you sigh and bite your lip. Turning to face him you cross your arms over your chest. “I haven’t been” you state as he shakes his head, “you lied to me and have been avoiding me” he grumbles.

“You don’t have to know everything Logan” you defend as his eyes narrow. “What does that mean? That's how this works” he motions between the two of you.

“I’m just keeping things casual, Logan”.

a/n: this was meant to be a blurb... uh, got a lil longer than that but uh its been in the ol knoggin for a while so here ya go! thank you chappel roan for the inspo !!!!!!

[gwynslibrary]

I think Antis forget that Mates are always equal. Sarah Maas said this herself. She also shows this in the books.

Gwyn + Azriel

Carynthian warriors ✅

Spy-coded ✅

Moonlight and shadow imagery ✅

Sings ✅

Uses daggers ✅

Not afraid of darkness or violence ✅

Train because sleep is not easy ✅

Competitive ✅

Connected to Dusk Court ✅

Linked to recovering Ilyria and the Prison ✅

Elain + Lucien

Not warrior characters ✅

Emissary-coded ✅

Sun and light imagery ✅

Connected to gardens and flowers ✅

Looking for peace and beauty ✅

Lost past loves ✅

Outgoing and charming ✅

Connected to Day ✅

Linked to Koschei plot ✅

It is almost like Sarah Maas planned this 🤷‍♀️

[rosy-hollow]

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ: Ground Breaker

ᴀ/ɴ: if you saw this yesterday no you didn't... full series masterlist here!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: cursing, death, blood, gore, the hunger games

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Bakugou Katsuki x f!reader

Bakugou never actually wakes you up to take your shift. He lets you sleep through the night while he stays up.

You’re not happy about this.

And you tell him.

The moment you wake up, bleary eyes squinting at the rosy rays of sunlight that peek through the treetops, you freeze—betrayal flashing through you.

“You let me sleep?!”

The blond doesn’t even bother denying it. Just looks at you, eyes raking over your disheveled state before grunting under his breath.

“Go scout the area. Make sure no one’s around. I’m going hunting.”

His voice is clipped. No profanity, no insults. It makes you feel strange inside, your stomach twisting in uncertainty.

You scowl, fully prepared to chew him out, but he’s already gone before you can say a word.

Stupid Bakugou and his stupid broody hero complex.

You don’t know what goes through that thick head of his. He’s as much of an enigma to you as you are an open book to him.

And that pisses you off.

Especially because his question from last night won’t leave you alone.

“Why the fuck didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?”

It unsettles you for two reasons.

One—you could kill someone. That fact alone is enough to rattle you to your core.

Growing up in District 11, you obviously learned to fight. There wasn’t much of a choice. Muscles earned from days under the blistering sun, working from dawn till dusk just to get a scrap of food on the table.

You endured—because that’s all you could do.

But does enduring mean taking life from someone else?

Could you really watch the light fade from someone’s eyes, just so yours can keep shining?

The very thought makes you want to vomit your internal organs and crawl out of your skin.

But the other part of Bakugou’s question digs deeper:

Why didn’t you kill him?

You can’t be going soft. Not in the arena. That’s basically a death sentence.

And yet—you’ve already saved him once. Shared food. Shared stories. Shared silence.

You haven’t even known him two full days.

You scold yourself. You can’t afford to forget where you are. What it means.

Your jaw tightens.

This is just an alliance. A temporary truce.

 Nothing more.

You sigh, eyes scanning the empty camp, remembering what Bakugou told you.

As much as it annoys you to follow orders like some stupid puppy—he’s right. Scouting’s your best bet right now.

Especially since the trees are close enough together that you can stay mostly above ground.

You sigh again, finding a thick bush to stash your backpack—just in case someone raids the camp—and grab your dagger before scaling the nearest tree.

Climbing feels… grounding. Familiar. A small scrap of comfort in a world that offers none.

Because right now, this place?

This place isn’t home.

This is the Hunger Games.

And somehow, the fact that you’re actually in them still hasn’t fully hit you. It’s surreal. You’re physically here, but mentally? You don’t know where the hell you are anymore.

A strange bush catches your eye - off to the side, just barely in your periphery.

You pause. Glance around. No movement.

Slipping down from the branches, you approach the odd plant.

It’s clearly fake. The leaves are too green. Too sharp. Too symmetrical.

You frown. Why the hell would the Gamemakers put a fake bush in the arena?

You swallow thickly.

You’re about to do something really stupid.

You kick it.

The plant topples over easily. No roots. No resistance.

What does catch your attention, though - is the tunnel underneath.

Big enough to fit a person.

You stare, heart hammering. It’s man-made. Deliberate.

But how deep is it? Where does it go?

You don’t know. You don’t like not knowing.

You cover the tunnel back up with the bush, hands shaking slightly.

Kicking it was stupid. It could’ve cost you your life.

You bolt back to camp.

Like a coward.

Bakugou’s already there when you return, one eyebrow raised at your out-of-breath state.

“The fuck happened to you?”

“I—”

SCREECH.

You both freeze.

Eyes wide. Breaths held.

Then you run.

No hesitation. No time to grab your things.

Just run.

Mutts.

Shit.

Your heart slams against your ribcage as the sounds get closer—snarling, screeching, tearing through the forest behind you.

Your lungs burn. Your legs scream. Your eyes sting.

Shit, shit, shit.

You’re going to die.

Fuck.

Wait.

You see it.

That fake bush—once odd, now salvation.

You grab Bakugou’s wrist and yank him toward it, kicking aside the foliage and diving into the tunnel. He follows without question, too focused on surviving to ask how you knew it was there.

The blond yanks the bush back over the hole just in time.

Screeches echo through the forest above.

You don’t let go of his wrist.

And he doesn’t let go of you.

.

.

.

Time passes.

Could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours.

The mutts grow distant. The silence returns.

You both collapse—shoulders heaving, lungs starved of air.

Only now do you really look around.

The tunnel is solid. Packed dirt, expertly carved, walls reinforced like it was meant to last. A row of torches line one side, burning low and steady.

It stretches into the dark. No end in sight.

You lock eyes with Bakugou again.

These Games?

Just got a hell of a lot more interesting.

taglist: @attackonnat @ldk3347 @onlyisaa @luciapiacat @wonubby @snoopyluvrpao @kiromiix @delshmel @nijoll @babypeapoddd @mirajanestrauss1999 @kianatrg @blankk3 @witch-craft-works @midnight-drives-with-sunarin  @samxbaker @xanneeeyyyy @tom-hollands-blog @jazoewazoe @sixxe @poot2234 @beabamboo @yiz5uo @ilikeyyouverymuch @hauntedodette @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @rosekeu @grimm3r @m4y4wasnthere @eyes4bkg @ghostsoapwhore @sunootzrose @ilovemushroomss

[mimayaribie]

Headcanon of the chain and their Zelda

Sky and Sun: Lovers. He doesn’t care that she’s Hylia’s reincarnation or that she used him, he just loves her so much!!! He’ll give her gifts like flowers, love letters, or stuff he finds during his journey. If anyone talks mean about Sun/Hylia, he will give a death stare. This man killed a god for his girlfriend

Four and Dot: Absolute besties! When there was a time Four was actually insecure about his height, Dot gave comfort and helped him overcome hard times and he appreciated it. He forged a dagger just for her and she keeps it on her at all times. Both collect kinstones and will try to match them when they have the time

Time and Lullaby: …complicated. They both definitely respect and appreciate each other and they’ll help the other if they need it, but other than that, they don’t interact with each other that much. Both of them have their own life and they respect that. However, they keep an eye out for mail from them that might be important

Legend and Fable: Siblings. I really like the headcanon that they’re siblings. They’re twins but Fable always says she’s older and will try to boss Legend around. They both annoy each other but care each other a lot. Also, Ravio and Hilda are like family to them and the 2 other heroes from TH are like a far cousin

Hyrule and Dawn and Aurora: Hyrule is a little different because he has 2 Zeldas. He is more closer to Dawn just because he knows her longer but he also cares about Aurora a lot. He’s not interested in being in a romantic relationship with them but he’s always interested in what they like and will always have their back for anything

Twilight and Dusk: Friends(?). They know each other and Twi will visit Dusk every now and then when he has time. They’ll have tea and chat about their day and Midna, both missing her a lot. Dusk thinks Link and Midna would’ve been a cute couple because she knew Midna from a long time, but she doesn’t want to tell him

Wind and Tetra: Partners in crime. Both of them know that the other is strong and is capable of fighting. They have their back and trust each other a lot. Tetra cares about Aryll just like her own younger sister. Part of me likes to think they both have a crush on each other and the chain teases Wind about it. Young love

Warriors and Artemis: More than work partners, less than lovers. Warriors thinks Artemis is beautiful and strong but he can’t exactly tell if it’s a crush or not. Artemis secretly likes him but she keeps it to her self as the leader. Others think they spend a lot of time together, but they’re just coworkers, right?

Wild and Flora: Another complicated relationship. Even tho in the games I ship these 2 together, I think they don’t see each other as a lover in LU. Wild was in a relationship with Mipha and Flora knows it so she stays out of it. They really don’t know how to interact with each other post calamity.