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jweekgoji · 8 months ago

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when i read your sentinel/reader/starscream fic it felt like my neurons got ACTIVATED

PLEASEEEE GIVE US MOREEE OF THEM BEING ABSOLUTELY FILTHY WITH THE READER

Starscream/Sentinel/Reader [TFO]

tw: 18+, dubcon, dom!Starscream, dom!Reader, sub!Sentinel, pre-TFO, threesome, valveplug (MDNI), humilation, established relationships between Starscream/Reader, bondage, blowjob, fingerfucking, orgasm denial, brief mentions of violence/threats, Sentinel has spike and valve here, no description of reader's genitalia, no romantic feelings between Sentinel/Starscream. word count: 2,7k summary: After Sentinel's betrayal, the leader of the high guard and his right hand decide to give the false Prime a lesson. a/n: ty for your request~ I hope you like this one too. basically can be a sequel to this.

“I vote to rip his spark out right here and there.”

“He still has some use, even like this.”

“You really wish to spare him?! After what he had done?”

“No. But there are ways to hurt him more, than let him die.”

Sentinel's optics flutter open, and a soft groan escapes his lips as he slowly tries to process his new surroundings. What had happened during the time he was unconscious? He barely remembers anything right now. That short moment of triumph when he finally left the cave, not like some chores-bot, but as a future Prime, the new leader of Iacon— but where he is now?

He tried to sit up straight, to reach for his helm and to soothe this dizzy pain in his processor, only to feel a short tug of the stasis cuffs, restraining his wrists.

“Now, who is dumb enough to do that...” Sentinel grumbles to himself. When he finds out who's responsible for this, who's that glitch who thought that putting him in a cell, like some lowly criminal...

Sentinel's optics dart back to the front of the cell as soon as he hears the clanking sound of metal coming closer, with each step. The dim, purple light makes it hard to instantly recognize the faces of his captors.

The bright red optics met his own with nothing but disgust, and another pair flicked with a hint of...what exactly? Coldness? Anger? Disappointment?

“Great, now he's awake.”

That familiar voice, a pain to the advisor's audials. Of course, why didn't he think of that...highly respected commander of the high guard earlier?

“Starscream,” Sentinel sneered, tilting his helm. “The great leader of the high guard, personally chosen by our beloved Primes! I wonder what I do to deserve such a personal meeting?”

Starscream stepped closer to the bars of the prison, look full of hatred. It seems like any word from the blue-and-gold mech only pushed him closer to the edge of snapping him in half.

Sentinel paused for a moment after a threat, but that was hardly enough to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face. If anything, it only amused him more.

“Flattery won't get you anywhere,” the commander said, slightly leaning forward, narrowing his optics. “You'll be left here and rust until it corrodes so deep into your circuits, every little flinch will make you break.”

“A little dramatic, don't you think? We both know what a sucker for praise you are,” Sentinel learned back against his seat, tone full of mocking innocence. “But I'm deeply flattered, really, already thinking about my internal workings...hm?”

You can hear Starscream's wings bristling in annoyance. What does this lying piece of scrap think he is? Even here, far away from any bot who could possibly help him escape, tied up and held on a plate like a piece of a high grade energon, Sentinel still makes him seethe with rage. How infuriating.

“I still recommend going back to my first suggestion,” the mech huffs, turning to look at you by his side.

You briefly look at Starscream, only nodding your helm in a silent reply to his words. As much as ripping the traitor's spark sounds alluring, it would be a mistake done in a fit of rage without thinking about the further consequences.

“The quintessons are still thinking he's the new Prime,” you whisper softly to your commander, just enough for Sentinel not to hear about what you two were talking about. “We can use him.”

Letting the «Prime» find out that he's still needed, despite everything he has done, would be too much of an honor. After all, you're not planning to let him forget about his wrongdoings here, even for a single second.

Starscream's optical ridges furrowed, but instead of another hissy remark, he lets out another soft scoff. Of course. That bastard had to plan everything down to the smallest detail. Putting him off the picture too early would make everything collapse like a house built of cards.

“Might as well just give him his first lesson.”

“If only that shuts that annoying, loud mouth of his.”

The quiet conversation between the two members of the high guard didn't go unnoticed by Sentinel. He knew it was about him. The question is, what exactly were you planning to do? If you really desired his death that much, he would have been offline a long time ago.

No.

You want something more from him than a few simple answers to your questions, aren't you?

“You're not very subtle, lovebirds, come on,” Sentinel studied both of you, with optics focused on one bot, then the other. “Share your thoughts with me.”

You step closer to the control panel, tapping a few green buttons on the screen, until the energon bars disappear with a one lust buzz.

First to approach Sentinel, you lock your optics with him. Now, closer than ever, he feels so smaller next to you. Hands tightly tied behind his back, it keeps a little to no ways for him to move.

You never felt such a deep frustration towards the Primes' advisor like your partner did. But it would be a lie if you said you haven't thought of this mech underneath you, shaking and writhing, in pleasure, pain, or both, perhaps.

A small, almost too hard to notice shiver runs down his spine when your servo gently rests on the side of his face. The tips of your digits run over his chin like a soft caress, and in any different circumstance, Sentinel would purr, melt under your touch like a cat in the hands of its owner. Until with a slight push of your other servo against on his chassis, you force him to fall on his back with a loud, painful thud.

Sentinel grunts from the impact, and the pain immediately shoots through his processor, making his optics flicker a few times, as he tried to get rid of the stars, twinkling in his sight. The smirk on his faceplate, now gone a long time ago, changed to a pout.

“Sweetspark, don't tell me you're too,” he groans, servos twitching behind his back to somehow push himself off the cold floor, but you cut off his attempt with your foot on his midsection. “Aghh—, I thought...we had something special, remember?”

As Sentinel mentally curses in his mind, with a ‘did they really have to push me that hard?’ to ‘by the Allspark, they can pack quite a punch’. He barely notices you looking over at Starscream, pointing at something, which only receives a grumble in response.

“I still can't believe you convinced me into this,” Starscream lowers his voice, muttering in a mild irritation, and yet, he complies without any further protest.

There's a tiny, pleased smirk on your faceplate, your red-and-white birdie might grumble, acting like he's totally not interested in humiliating and punishing Sentinel for his crimes, but...wasn't it too obvious already, hmm?

You move on your knees next to Sentinel, reaching for his thighs to grip the smooth metal, only to nudge the poor «Prime» on his side. Sentinel only mewls, but without any other choice, lets himself because tossed around like a doll in your hands.

“Don't even think of enjoying this, you useless waste of metal,” Starscream shoots Sentinel a warning glare, as he mirrors your own movement, now his thighs on each side of the other mech's helm.

With a soft humm of agreement, you gently glide your servo over Sentinel's waist, before trailing lower, to take a hold of his knee and raise his leg up, just to press your hips against Sentinel's own.

Sentinel's optics slightly dimmed in anticipation. His spark throbs in between the fear for his own well-being and disgust. Pathetic, unbelievable, and wrong. He's going to rule over Iacon, become a new Prime, and he's reduced to like some cheap Primus knows who?

Another shiver makes him buck his hips against yours without even noticing it, his own body betraying his thoughts. It was not intentional, was it? After the countless private meetings you had, it's no surprise that he unconsciously reacted to it like he used to. Even though the circumstances are far from how it was in the past.

And with how your touch is significantly gentler than Starscream's...how could he deny it?

No tiny gasp or shudder escapes your optics, and a short moment later, you continue, grinding your panel against his own. With each, agonizing slow movement, the cold metal now feels warmer, hotter to touch. Sentinel's optics are now fully focused on you, or better to say, where your frame connected with his own.

You wonder, what was he thinking right now, looking at you like that? Want you to stop him? Gentler?

“Harder,” he growls demandingly, the soft clicks of stasis cuffs faintly heard in the background, as he tried to loosen them up, or break, if lucky.

It wasn't enough, not nearly enough to satisfy him like he needs it right now. This slow pace you set up for him is nothing but a joke, and he's not sure, if you're doing it on purpose or just that slow by your own nature.

You give Sentinel an amused look. Demanding? Now? Did you damage his processor with that little push you gave him, but knowing how Sentinel is, are you really that surprised?

No, no, if he wants something, he should ask it. Nicely.

“Greedy and impatient is no quality of a real Prime, Sentinel,” you purr, moving your hips back and forth, until you tug on Sentinel's leg, to roughly pull him closer.

Sentinel lets out a sharp gasp, the heat of his own frame is now meeting yours, this does nothing to calm the raising of his spark. A hot puff of air escapes his mouth in frustration.

“Have a little mercy, c—can you?” he says through gritted teeth. Half of him wants to plead, to beg, so this torture will finally stop, but the other, prideful and oh so high of himself part refuses to bow.

Just not so long ago, he was the one to use you however he wants, on his knees in front of him, working over his spike in cute attempts to please him. How did he allow this?

“Enough,” Starscream grabs the side of Sentinel's face, a few digits roughly pushing inside the mech's mouth, forcing it open. Finally, no more cocky and annoying remarks.

The high guard slips deeper, and he can feel a cold drool coating his fingers. The feeling almost makes Starscream groan in disgust, a small frown on his face.

“Fragging freak,” his servo twitch in a suppressed need to either slap Sentinel so hard, or push his servo down his throat and rip this tongue off in addition to his voice box this instant.

You wouldn't be surprised if a part of Sentinel enjoyed it. Have you seen this Airachnid bot constantly lurking behind his back? F-r-e-a-k.

Admiring the sight, you let your servo run over the inside of his thigh. Sentinel flinches in response, his processor is practically overloaded with constant sensations coming from different parts of his body. Every time you decide to tease him, making his thighs rub in a desperate attempt to relieve himself, Starscream just has to roughly pull him out of it.

“mfff...!”

Sentinel moans around Starscream's fingers, optics rolling into the back of his helm, and it takes all of his strength not to whine and cry out for more. His interface panel finally opens up, and the cold, almost freezing air of the cell makes his spike twitch from sensitivity.

“Tsk, tsk, have no shame at all, Sentinel?” you playfully taunt him, with a fake sweetness.

You give Sentinel's thigh a light slap, and the mech winces under the roughness of the touch. It feels good, too good for his liking, his need for overload makes his thoughts blurr into one.

“Primus! Please—” he gasps, voice muffled, and still, he looks at you, pleading, no, begging to continue.

The ache between his thighs is unbearable, how can he focus on anything but it? The way you lazily rub your thumb over the head of his spike makes his legs quiver. If you hadn't been holding him still, he'd already be all around your waist, just to make sure you won't leave him hanging on the edge.

A hint of jealousy sparks in Starscream optics, first Sentinel keeps being demanding glitch, despite it, clearly a punishment, you're a little too soft on the prisoner, or he thought so.

Without any warning, Starscream grips the back of Sentinel's head, only to force the advisor's faceplate against his interface panel. The abrupt movement makes Sentinel let out a soft huff in displeasure, his neck already straining from the position.

“Bite and I will snap your neck” Starscream hisses as soon as he notices the look of defiance in Sentinel's half lidded optics. To which, he nods.

Sentinel can feel the tip of the guard's spike pressing against his lower lip, Starscream's fingers now replaced with a hardening length. Sentinel has to bite back his pride, the act already heavily hitting his confidence, always so in control and now at the mercy of you.

But you can't just simply let him rest, can you? Not when you shamelessly toy with his spike, spreading transfluid with your index finger, making sure to move right against the spot that makes him push against your servo.

Maybe if you just hold your servo right here, without even moving, he'd fuck himself into it, just anything would be enough to soothe this needy feeling— until you thrust your fingers inside him. Slowly, but deeply at first, a slick coating your digits and slowly dripping down your servo..

Sentinel's valve flutters around you, the soft walls already squeezing at the smallest intrusion. His hips stuttering, the tiny bits of restraint are practically gone now, it's overwhelming. It's for the best that he can't talk anymore, with Starscream using the mech's throat as a personal fuck-toy.

The advisor's own golden-like wings twitched in quick response, with each brush of your fingers against the sensitive nub inside him. Sentinel jolts in ecstasy, arching his back. How unfair, how it's so, so unfair— if only he had his servos free, uncuffed and free to move, he would have grabbed your wrist to do the job himself, but no, you just have to make him work for it!

As Sentinel tirelessly worked himself to his own release, practically feeling it on the tip of his tongue, or it was rather, something else You slightly lean forward, towards Starscream, for a kiss, to which he gladly replies to, by locking lips.

Sentinel feels like a third wheel in this trio, but no complaints escape him, perhaps for now. Watching the two of you, so obviously forgetting about him and in your own world...when he's all squirming and writhing underneath you. It's no help for him at all, that none of you seem to stop, despite finding each other more interesting than the other mech in need.

He can feel his spike throbbing almost painfully, a puddle of his own transfluid staining the sleek metal of his thighs. Sentinel can almost feel it, optics crossing and almost seeing the stars...until a strangled cry escapes from him, instead of a sigh of relief.

You pulled your fingers out of his valve a mere seconds before he had a chance to reach his overload. His hips thrust forward in a feeble attempt to meet your touch once again, to push him over the edge and let him satisfy his need, but nothing comes to rescue from his own desire.

He would cry, whine, and whimper for more, if only that would somehow make you take mercy on him. His wings slumping down in defeat, and that little look in your optics gives him no hopes at all..! Oh, Primus, how long is the night on Cybertron?

#sentinel prime x reader #starscream x reader #transformers x reader #transformers one x reader #tfo sentinel prime #tfo starscream

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cherryrikis · 11 months ago

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사랑으로 (with love,)

PAIRING swim instructors riki x fem reader

WARNINGS mild profanity

GENRE enemies to ??, fluff, angst if you squint

SYNOPSIS you hated riki because when it came to teaching your classes, he always one upped you. but riki doesn’t hate you. so when you both are punished for breaking equipment, he uses every opportunity to try and talk to you.

a/n loosely based of personal experience cz im a lifeguard🛟 also not proofread

it was meant to be a part time summer job. you just wanted something to do with all your free time, now that school was out.

but, the kids grew to love you, and you grew to love what you do.

so, you began to work full time at the local community pool.

instead of 2 classes a day, you’d teach 4 classes a day. it wasn’t too bad, each class only being 30 minutes.

you were so glad to help out, often even training the new interns.

until one. nishimura riki.

he was barely an intern for a week before becoming a full time employee. at first, you paid him no mind. he was a good teacher. very professional and good with the kids, often demonstrating the skills they needed to know to pass his class.

but eventually, he became better. he grew to become an even better teacher than you. the kids who loved you since the beginning started requesting to be put in riki’s class.

you watched him from across the pool, playfully splashing his students (who really, used to be your students), as they squealed about how the water was too cold.

but he always noticed your gaze. he turned around, smiling at you softly.

and you hated it, you felt nothing but hatred for him to the core of your heart. most of the staff noticed it, and it made it a bit awkward to work with either of you.

it was around 8:00 when your last class had ended. all your co-workers were putting the lane lines back in, preparing the pool for the swim team’s practice the following day.

“y/n? can you collect all the kick boards and put them away?” the manager, anton, asked you. “riki, go help y/n with all the other equipment.”

“what?” your mouth fell open, “anton, i can do it myself,”

“y/n.” anton cut you off. “don’t fight it. just let him help you.” he sighed before walking back into his office to pack up for the night.

you stood still in the middle of the walkway, ignoring how your coworkers moved past you to go wash up in the showers.

finally moving out the way to collect the boards, you huffed as you saw riki follow you into the storage room.

it was eerie. the lightbulb constantly went out, so the staff just figured to keep a candle and a lighter on the shelf above the bins.

riki lit the flame before going to help you clean up.

as you finished stacking the equipment, you went to walk out of the room, but riki grabbed your hand, pulling you back in.

“why do you hate me?”

“i don’t hate you.” you mumbled, before attempting to leave once more, only to be brought back to him.

he raised an eyebrow, looking you up and down.

“fine, i just don’t like you.” you scoffed. “you constantly one up me, taking my position, and even luring my students over to your class. nowadays, i don’t even get paid as much as you do anymore!”

“it’s not my fault! you act like my sole purpose was to come here and take your place.” riki grimaced at you. “maybe i am just the better instructor between us. it’s not my fault you can’t accept that.”

one might say it was out of jealous rage, or just an intolerance of immaturity. but something inside you snapped.

you shoved riki’s shoulder, causing him to fall against the wall and hit the shelf which held the candle.

from that point on, everything was in slow motion. the sound of glass breaking was loud and very audible.

the hot wax spilled across the plastic bin, melting the lid and spilling all over the foam boards which sat inside.

“what the fuck y/n?” riki yelled out.

immediately, anton came rushing in. he looked inside the bin, noticing how there was now a huge hole burnt through the container and all the boards inside. the equipment was no longer usable.

“are you serious? who’s fault was it? who did it?” he asked sturnly.

“it was y/n.” “riki did it.”

“are you kidding?!” you both exclaimed in unison.

“you knocked over the candle.” “you pushed me!” riki scoffed in disbelief. “it was foam! how do you manage to damage foam of all things?”

“enough!” anton intervened. he looked between you and riki, before moving his gaze to your red swim shirts. lifeguard, it read.

“your shirts are a symbol of your dedication and responsibility as a lifeguard and swim instructor. you may be good in the water, but you are both unbelievable outside it. if you keep this up, you could get those shirts revoked.”

“anton.. i’m so sorry.” you apologized, realizing what you done and that it technically was your fault.

“as much as i appreciate your apology, an apology won’t fix this mess. you two are on cleaning duty. i’ll call the janitor to tell him he doesn’t need to come tonight. the keys are on my desk, lock up before you leave.”

you nod in response, but riki still had something to say. “what? this is completely unfair! if anything, she should do it herself!”

but by then, anton had already left. “asshole.” he muttered. “this is all your fault y/n! by this rate we won’t finish for another hour or two.”

“by this rate, we won’t finish at all if you keep standing there and doing nothing. go grab that trash bag and mop.” you sighed.

riki was hesitant to help, but did so anyway, knowing it wasn’t up to him.

after power washing the concrete floors, scrubbing the bathrooms, and replacing all the damaged equipment, all the work was done by 10:05pm.

“good job, i guess. just wait for me then we can go.” you muttered as you finished wiping down the mirror of the employee’s bathroom.

“why would i wait for you?” he scoffed.

“you’re the one who got us in this mess.”

“i- whatever. just, let me help you.” riki licked his dry lips, taking the sponge from you.

the pool doors and the office were all locked up. you both were ready to leave before he paused right in front of the entrance.

“you wanna get something to eat? i’ll drive you home after. you shouldn’t walk by yourself and especially not on an empty stomach.”

“yeah. that’d be nice.” you replied, smiling genuinely at him for the first time.

with the both of you freshly showered yet so tired, riki drove to the nearest mcdonalds, ordering for the two of you.

after the food was picked up at the window, he pulled up at empty parking lot, turning off the engine so you could eat together.

“why are you still so nice to me after i was so rude to you?” you asked with a quiet voice, suddenly feeling bad as you reflected on your past interactions

“you know, it was never on purpose..” he whispered.

“what?” you asked, confused. his answer seemed slightly unrelated to your question.

“earlier, when we were still at the rec center. i asked why you hated me, and you said i basically replaced you.” riki reminded. “it wasn’t on purpose. i just really liked you back when you were only training me. and i thought, i don’t know.. maybe you thought it’d be attractive if you saw i was good with kids or something. but i never meant to make you feel that way.”

“oh riki..” you pouted, putting your box of chicken nuggets down. “i’m so sorry. i had no idea. i mean, if it makes you feel any better, i thought you were pretty cute when i was training you.”

“yeah, i guess that actually does help.” he smiled.

“can i..” you mumbled, leaning forward towards riki as he remained still in the drivers seat.

slowly, he moved closer to you, before eventually connecting your lips in a gentle kiss.

you moved your mouth against his, softly deepening the kiss.

riki smiled against you, and it was very noticeable. you found it cute how his face ran hot when you finally pulled away to repeatedly peck his cheek.

he brought a hand up to your face, holding you delicately. you leaned into his touch, before grimacing as you felt a slimy substance touch you.

“ew, riki!” you exclaimed, realizing his thumb had just accidentally wiped mustard under your eye.

he laughed, the sound like music to your ears, before he helped you wipe it off.

“i’m looking forward to working with you now that we don’t hate each other. maybe whenever we make eye contact mid class, you’ll stop looking at me weirdly.” you joked.

“oh come on, you know i only ever looked at you with love”. riki pursed his lips into a smirk, before bringing your lips back against his.

#enhypen #enhypen x reader #niki x reader #enhypen niki #niki smau #nishimura riki #riki x reader #serena writes ! riki

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arminthada · 1 year ago

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if you're hoping for joe 2.0 to get his 'revenge' in the second half of the series...

warning: mild novel spoilers (but also not really because i'm just discussing things that have been shown in the trailer)

i really think you should either drop the series or give up the hopes of a satisfying makjang revenge storyline in my stand-in instead of setting yourself up for disappointment. because that simply isn't the story that my stand-in is trying to tell.

so what is my stand-in about really?

well, for me i think its a romance tragicomedy drama about an idiotic scum male lead losing the person he loves most because of his own arrogance and refusal to listen to his heart and the series of unfortunate events that happened consequently for our protagonist who was living a peaceful and quiet life as a stunt actor before the scum male lead entered his life.

joe 2.0 and his approach to life

i've mentioned it twice now that one of my favorite traits of joe/zhou xiang is that kindness in his strength where even if he can be choose to be mean or cruel, he simply doesn't because he has such a soft heart and he's weak to see others in pain (joe is my fellow enfp people pleaser okay) (⁠っ⁠˘̩⁠╭⁠╮⁠˘̩⁠)⁠っ which is why even in his 2.0 life, you won't get to see joe turning 180 degree and going around to hurt everyone who's ever hurt him like it's some makjang kdrama.

and while that seems like it could be fun, i think the reason why i loved professional body double (my stand-in novel) so much in the first place is because that very distinction between joe and other rebirth/second chance at life protagonists that you often see in revenge kdramas/cdramas/thai lakorns.

logically, if my stand-in was a 24-episode one31 lakorn/thai soap opera, joe would be full of hatred and burning rage after his rebirth and started his intricated revenge plot while still falling in love with ming whom he should hate the most.

and yet he isn't (or at least it seems to me so far).

if you read the lyrics 'Die For You' - the opening ost of my stand-in, i think you can have a good guess of what the second half of the story will be like.

Even running away to death can't help. If my heart had chosen to stop at you I'll have to surrender with the confusion I feel. To come back to the same old place. Even if I have to die, disappear and then be reborn But the love is still buried deep inside, even if it's been shattered into pieces Even if my life ends, I can't stop my heart from calling out to you Because this whole body, life, spirit It is yours only, for all eternity.

and even from the trailer of my stand-in, you can tell that joe 2.0 has a lot of internal conflicting feelings about whether he could trust ming again after the betrayal he faced in his 1.0 life. and i feel like essentially the journey of ming proving to joe 2.0 that he really does love joe is very much the central plot in the second half part of the story.

so i'd like to take this part to note how well the series has done to adapt the novel so far. i think a good adapted change they've made is this early realization of feelings for ming in the joe 1.0 timeline. i do think the novel made him realized his feelings a little bit later but my stand-in did well to show within ep.3 what happiness could have looked like for joe 1.0 and ming and i think it rationalizes a bit more more for why joe 2.0 would still have feelings for ming 'buried deep inside' even when he's been badly hurt the first time around. and reading the story i've always found it interesting that they took this route to focus on the re-entangled complex relationship between mingjoe rather than going for a joe-centric revenge makjang plot (i swear if this was your typical thai lakorn, joe would seduce ming while planning to take down his whole family or something).

of course, that's not to dismiss that there's a lot of character growth for joe in the second half of the story, especially in his building of self-confidence, self-worth, the ability to put himself first and the fight for his own happiness above all. but like i've mentioned above, his growth journey is not at the expense of a drastic personality change in regards to the kind hearted joe we saw in his 1.0 life. instead, we get kind hearted joe 2.0 who quickly adapts to his new life and attempts to start anew while conflicted feelings resurface for him as he is pulled back into the relationships he once had.

all in all, my stand-in is still at the heart of it, a love story. perhaps, a dark romance as my friend @dragonsandphoenix would call it, but a romance nonetheless. i think that is what also makes professional body double such a compelling read too, because the progression in the feelings and complex emotions of these characters are so tightly written that it's convincing enough for me (maybe not for others though) to believe that yan ming xiu has/will always love zhou xiang (to the point ymx would probably eliminate anyone else who dared to steal zx from him). obsessive love? yes. do they both need therapy? probably. yet i still believe in their happy ending? of course.

final note/disclaimer: then again, this is just my PERSONAL opinions based on the novel and up til 3 episodes of my stand-in (which seems to be very faithful to the novel so far), who knows maybe they can anger novel fans and adapt it completely differently later on (something i sure hope they don't but we'll seeeee) ƪ(˘⌣˘)ʃ

#my stand in #my stand in the series #my stand-in #professional body double #my stand in novel spoilers #msi thoughts #poom phuripan #up poompat #claire opens up her goddamn mouth

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baby-splash · 1 year ago

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Nobody talks about how fucking cool Edgar and Eric Jomfru are and it's actually so sad.

These guys attended EVERY Dethklok show, with ZERO injuries, meaning they traveled the entire world. Not only that, they turned it into a business- They sold merch on their website, which had hundreds of thousands of daily views. That's fandom clout you can never even dream of.

They had the balls to stand there and threaten Dethklok for money. After Eric is shot, Edgar still has enough drive to somehow evade several snipers and be captured alive, plot his escape, swim out with a kid on his back, and become an international terrorist capable of literal mind control. He lived with a guy who spent his entire life in near-perfect solitude and they seemed to get along pretty well. Imagine their little domestic day to day life, between the revengence.

He escaped a horde of angry burn victims, once again alive, infiltrated Mordhaus (and lived AGAIN) to take the brute force route of shooting Dethklok with a gun (Magnus could never) and was still able to put his hatred aside when he realized this isn't what Eric wanted.

Despite everything Dethklok put Edgar Jomfru through he was able to put aside his hatred (and he still says they make him sick to his stomach, in DSR) and admit they meant something to him- to his brother, to a lot of people- and were part of a greater whole that he didn't have a right to destroy. Something he was ultimately willing to put personal grudges aside and die for.

He and his brother dropped out of HARVARD to follow a metal band on the road and by all we're shown, their only regret was being hit by a drunk driver. They still made what looks to be a pretty comfortable, possibly even rich (concert tickets ain't cheap for Dethklok) lifestyle for themselves.

Edgar is never once truly inhibited by his disability and never allows it to define him, and it ISNT the source of his rage, or the start of his character arc. Do you know how rare that is?

They start off as typical toxic fans who have made their livelihood by feeling entitled to someone else's work, only to end up with a deeper respect for them as people and for their output as real art with meaning to the world. They could've been NASA scientists or some other kind of mad genius, but instead, they followed their passion for metal and that's honestly badass? Also they're from Ohio so you know they're self starters because there's fuck all to do there.

They never lose their virginity because they never lose, period.

#metalocalypse #edgar jomfru #eric jomfru #this one for the jomfru nation #my baby toys

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baelarys · 11 months ago

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we get what we deserve?

Aegon Targaryen x lector Darklyn/Targaryen

recuento de palabras:2540

Advertencia:Angust, murder, bad words

The burning in the palm of your hand intensified each time your nails dug into the soft flesh, a desperate attempt to maintain control. The pressure in your throat was constant, a knot you couldn't untie as you fought to suppress the sob that threatened to escape. The tears continued to slide down your cheeks, betraying the calm you were trying to maintain. Your eyes, red from crying, reflected the internal storm consuming you, a tide of emotions you could not bear.

It had all happened in an instant, a blink of an eye that left a trail of emptiness in your being. The small body you had held with such care was ripped from your arms with a brutality that left you breathless. Before you could comprehend what was happening, it was already in the hands of a stranger. A shiver ran down your spine as you relived that fateful moment, every detail burned into your memory with a clarity that tormented you. The helplessness enveloped you like a suffocating cloak, and the question beat in your mind like an unrelenting drum: How was it possible that you couldn't protect what mattered most to you?

The abrupt sound of glass shattering into a thousand pieces tore you from your thoughts. Aegon crossed the room with furious steps, his presence filled with a rage that electrified the air. The shards of glass sparkled on the floor, echoes of his anger, as he moved back and forth, unable to contain the torrent of emotions consuming him.

"My son is my legacy!" he roared, his voice laden with discontent and impotence, resonating with an intensity that echoed off the walls. "My son was the heir to the Iron Throne!"

His chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths, and the tension in his features was evident, every line of his face marked by the desperation of a loss he could not accept.

"And where were you?" Aegon demanded, his voice sharp and cold as his eyes fixed on Ser Criston Cole. "The Lord Commander of my Kingsguard!"

fucking the queen, you bit your tongue hard to keep from voicing such a rash accusation, though the anger burned inside you.

"I was in bed, Your Majesty," Ser Criston responded, his voice so controlled it almost sounded detached. "I requested to stand guard tonight."

"In bed?!" Aegon repeated, as if the knight's words carried no weight. "Instead of safeguarding the sanctity of my family?"

"This is not the time for baseless accusations, Your Majesty," Otto said. "Soon, we will know who did it."

"Who did it?" Aegon repeated, releasing a bitter laugh as he approached the table.

The silence that followed was heavy, until, for the first time, your voice rose in the room, cutting through the air like a sharp knife.

"It was her," you said, all eyes turning towards you. "Who else would do it if not that bastard bitch?"

The words escaped your mouth, burning your throat as you uttered them, each one loaded with a visceral hatred.

"That smug whore is on her damn island, laughing at me," you spat, the fury flowing from every word, your eyes ablaze with a mix of rage and pain.

The anger consuming you was almost tangible, like a fire fed by every thought. The image of that woman, the arrogance on her face as she reveled in your suffering, caused a nausea you could not suppress. Everything you had tried to contain finally erupted inside you.

"She thinks she's untouchable, hiding behind her walls while she mocks our misfortune!" you continued, your voice growing in volume, trembling with the intensity of your pain. "And now my son is dead, while her bastards run free, enjoying the protection that was denied to mine!"

Desperation and rage intertwined in your words, tearing you apart from within. With a trembling sigh, you sank back into the chair, struggling to contain the sea of tears that still threatened to overflow.

"You wished for her life to be spared," Aegon accused, directing his anger at Alicent, his voice heavy with reproach.

The queen lowered her gaze, unable to withstand the fury in her son's eyes. But before she could respond, the door to the room was flung open, and the hunched figure of Larys Strong appeared, interrupting the tense silence.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty... my lords," Larys said, his voice soft but piercing. "The guard has apprehended someone."

The news made everyone straighten up, expectant.

"The man we captured is known," continued the Clubfoot, carefully measuring his words. "He's a Gold Cloak. We found him fleeing through the Gate of the Gods... with the child's head in a sack."

The impact of his words fell on you like an anvil, and the world crumbled around you. You felt your heart plummet into a bottomless abyss, shattered by the cruelty of the revelation.

"I'll kill him myself," Aegon growled, the fury in his voice now fiercer than ever. Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode quickly towards the door, closely followed by his guards.

"It would be better to extract any information from that scoundrel," Otto intervened, his tone cold and calculating, halting Aegon's steps. "I trust in the mastery of your craft, Lord Larys."

Aegon stopped dead in his tracks, his shoulders tense as he processed his grandfather's words. Otto's proposal was logical, meticulous as always. But at this moment, logic was the last thing Aegon wanted to hear.

Tired of all the useless talk, you stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as you did, the sound tearing through the heavy silence that filled the room. The tension in the air was almost suffocating, every word exchanged between them seemed to add more weight to the burden you were already carrying.

Your gaze swept across the room, stopping on Otto, then Larys, before finally resting on Aegon. When his eyes met yours, his gaze, hardened by fury and pain, seemed to soften, as if in that brief moment, he found an anchor amidst the storm that was consuming him.

"I want his head," you declared, your voice firm and icy, leaving no room for doubt.

"Perhaps we should consider this more carefully," Otto began to say, his tone cautious, as if trying to bring a semblance of reason to the conversation.

"I said I want his head!" you interrupted, not giving him the chance to finish. Your voice resonated with such force that it was clear you would accept no objections.

You didn't want to talk, you didn't want to think. Every word directed at you felt like a blow to your already shattered nerves. All you wanted at that moment was justice, raw and visceral, for the innocent life that had been torn from your arms.

Your hands trembled, not from fear, but from the intensity of the fury boiling within you, from the overwhelming need to make the one who committed such an atrocity pay. You didn't care about the political implications, the consequences, or any strategy Otto might consider prudent. Logic and patience had been swept away by the tide of pain that was flooding you.

The room was plunged into tense silence, as if everyone present was holding their breath. No one dared to look directly at you, their eyes averted, fixed on anything but you. They knew that opposing you at this moment would be futile, perhaps even dangerous.

Your gaze settled on Larys Strong, who, with the same calculated calm as always, offered you a slight nod, a silent signal for you to follow.

The cold air seeped through your nightclothes, chilling your skin, but you didn't care. You didn't even bother to change or cover yourself before leaving.

The sound of the wind mingled with the clanking of heavy chains that echoed against the ground, accompanying each step of the corpulent man who was being brought before you. His eyes avoided yours, his posture hunched, defeated, as the guards shoved him forward with a contemptuous force, pushing him towards his fate.

Valyria landed a few meters away from you with a thud that resonated through the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. The dragon let out a deep, furious growl, as if she could sense the emotional storm raging inside you.

You stood firm, your gaze fixed on the prisoner, as you felt the heat of Valyria's breath at your back. The dragon, imposing and majestic, approached with measured steps, her piercing yellow eyes first locking onto you, searching your face for a sign, an order. Then, her slitted pupils shifted to the man who lay trembling on his knees before her imposing presence.

The prisoner, barely able to stand, raised his gaze only to meet the abyss that was Valyria. His body trembled, not just from the cold of the night, but from the terror that the proximity of the beast instilled in him. He knew he was facing his judge.

You took one more step closer, your figure wrapped in the icy night breeze, but the cold didn't affect you. Not when the anger and pain burned so intensely in your chest, fueled by the bottomless abyss left by the loss of your child. Each step you took towards the man kneeling before you seemed to vibrate with the pent-up fury, with the longing for justice that was driving you forward.

You stopped right in front of him, so close that you could see the cold sweat on his forehead, the unshed tears in his terrified eyes. Despite his trembling and veiled pleas, there wasn’t a trace of mercy in your gaze.

"My son is dead by your hand," you spoke each word with deliberate coldness, allowing them to pierce his conscience like thorns. "I held him in my arms, and in an instant, you took him from me. Because of your cowardice, your greed, an innocent life was sacrificed."

"He was just a child," you continued, stepping even closer, your shadow falling over him like a dark shroud. "My son. My flesh and blood. An innocent, who had nothing to do with your grudges, with your petty ambitions. And you took him from me. You destroyed him without a shred of remorse."

The man tried to stammer a response, to justify his act, but your gaze silenced him, condemned him before he could find the words.

"How many coins was his life worth?" you spat, disdain dripping from every syllable. "How much were you paid for his head? What was the price of my pain? Because that's all you are, a traitor willing to sell his soul to the highest bidder, no matter the cost to others."

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even try. And you weren’t going to beg for a response that, deep down, wouldn’t change anything. The truth had already been exposed, raw and painful, and there was no place for more words in this trial.

You moved closer, leaned down, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Aegon raised his head, his eyes red and filled with tears, looking at you with a mixture of surprise and pain. He said nothing, but the desperation in his gaze was evident.

You knelt before him, and without a word, you wrapped him in your arms, pulling him close. Aegon clung to you as if you were his only anchor in a sea of suffering. The sobs he had tried to contain broke free completely, and the king's cries mingled with yours in a shared lament for the loss of a beloved child.

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witchofhimring · 11 months ago

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Loyalty Chapter 16

Synopsis: Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Tyrell Reader

Aemond Targaryen x Ellyn Baratheon

Alys Rivers x Aemond Targaryen

Jaecerion Targaryen x Reader

Jason Lannister x Reader (minor)

(more to come!)

Y/n Tyrells Profiles

Warnings: Angst, heartbreak, childbirth, emotional turmoil, death, unrequited love?, humiliation by Ellyn Baratheon, marital abuse, marital consummation, misogamy (internalized as well as external), brief depictions of smut, moontea/abortions, suicide, mentions of rape (not to the reader), Plot twist at the end!

They say when one dies there should be as few regrets as possible. Many spend their lives making sure that when the hour comes, they can look back with satisfaction. You were not dying, but your living days were over. With the sentence came the end of life. Your body may be breathing, your mind conscious, but your state of existence would be of less than a ghost. Your room was a tomb and your dull green dress funeral garb.

Regret was a heavy cross to bear. Tossing and turning you thought of all the moments you could have done something. Every interaction was analyzed, baked in your seething impotent hatred. Sometimes you wished for death. Others you imagined bursting out of the prison cell and killing every last one of them. Eating, drinking and sleeping in woe you wondered if this was madness. If it was you greatly lamented it. Could your madness have not made you unaware so as to spare you further suffering?

They say the gods punish those non believers. And your subs had been great. In hell you were, no need to die. Every day yawned onto a new dark night where you lingered in purgatory. You might have prayed. ‘But none can hear my prayers now.’

You were beyond the help of men.

To say you had no visitors would be a lie. Every few days Cerilla would come in and read from The Seven Pointed Star. Her favourites were on whores and adulteresses who met bad ends. At times like these you tuned her out. It was easier in a way. Being locked alone made you so used to the silence it could be overwhelming. She was like a fly you could not catch. Irritating, but so miniscule. The trial and constant anguish had drenched your fire. Where once you might have spat and clawed her beautiful white face, oh those days. Their like would not be seen in this life.

'No!' With a great wail you were wrenched out of sleep. A horrid agony seized you with such ferocity it was painful. Doubled up you moaned; 'No...no...' Slipping off the bed onto cold stone floor you were a lowly creature. Burning tears streamed down a cold worn face. The day before Cerilla had read Fate of a Sinner, a story where an evil queen was locked up for the rest of her days. Grieving over her loss the queen raged unrepentantly, for she had been evil. When the last of her hope was killed the queen shriveled up, never to set out again. You felt like that queen, crumpled to dust on the ground.

All night you remained on the ground. Not even the cold could encourage you to get up. 'I fear I shall never get up again.' Despair triumphed over sadness.

Only thoughts of Owen kept you sane. 'She will not kill him. Jenna needs him.' Then you would go to sleep, for that was the only way to escape. Mercifully your dreams were sweet. Small mercies.

What would Owen think of you in the years to come? One day he would be Lord of Highgarden. Should you be alive in such a time, then who knows. So much could happen. There was a small glimmer of hope at you imagined freedom in the future. It was not something you wholly believed in. Maybe when you were younger, but the years had stripped that from you. You contented yourself with the knowledge that whatever happened, Owen was safe.

'Your son is dead.' Cerilla did not even give you any warning. She simply came in and mentioned your only childs death as if it were the weather. Immediately you understood the truth. The glint in her eyes and the crow of her voice said everything. Owen, your son, was dead. 'Di you kill him.' The voice was not your own. Pitched and ragged it belonged to a mad woman, someone who was not you. All you could think of was Owen. Owen who was your son. Owen who was dead.

Cerilla did not stay for long. She mentioned about just having gotten back from King's Landing, something about Tyshara. And then she was gone. There was no need. Cerilla had succeeded in utterly break you. She would not visit you, there was no reason to. Now you were just some childless madwoman left to die alone and unloved. All the dead swam before you and into the arms of despair you fell. And there the specter of Owen, Jeacerion, your father and all the dead stood, blue dripping from their mouths.

Alicent Hightower was breathing her last. Day and night merged into one as the hour of her death drew nearer. She was so, so cold. Her sight was unfocused. There was a window and sunlight, but her eyes did not register these things. Someone was sitting by her bed, murmuring.

The white dress she was felt soothing against skin. When all the green was cleared she felt a sense of relief. Only white adorned her room, pure innocent white. Alicent had not worn white except to bed since her wedding day. She had always thought death would be scary, but right now she welcomed it. She was drifting away from this sad world of men. She only prayed regret would not follow her to the afterlife.

She mumbled something in the midst of her delirium. Her eyes burned from crying. The figure leaned in forward and said something. The former Querns mouth opened as wispy words tumbled out. And she saw their faces….oh their sweet faces. ‘I want to see my sons again, and Helaena my sweet girl, oh…and Rhaenyra. I will read to her under the Weirwood tree as we did when we were little. Flying around on Syrax eating lemon cakes.’ And ahead she saw clouds. Soaring above she saw them flying on dragons. And she was amongst them, older, but happier. There was a dull ache as she dreamed of what could have been. A world where women had a say in their destinies. 'In another life, pray I make the right choices. Let me be happy in heaven.' Happy as she had not been in life. As Alicent drifted away her thoughts were of those she loved.

Tyshara stood above Owen’s crib. She had never met her younger brother. He was small and very cute. Despite that woman’s colouring the babe looked very much like her father. Tyshara had entertained the possibility of Y/n having an affair. But she had never truly given it any real credence. Reaching down Tyshara brushed hair out of Owen’s face. Tyshara wondered if she could hate the babe. But now the very idea seemed ridiculous. Picking him up, Owen rested his little head against her shoulder.

‘He has no mother now.’ And something heavy fell into her stomach. Yes, there was a reason, and she had seen to it. Tyshara comforted herself with the notion Owen was better off without a murderer for a mother. That night she slept.

Highgarden was everything she dreamed of. Lucious gardens, flowers large as her head, tea parties with lemon cakes, warm night with stars twinkling. She missed her sisters but Jenna Tyrell and Cerilla Swann were always nice. Two of her friends joined. Karina her cousin and Lolly Payne joined and provided a blanket of security. She made new friends, including Jenna Tyrell’s good-daughter Florice Swann. She had been nervous when told she would be sent to Highgarden as a ward. But so far everything was very nice indeed.

‘Did you hear that Y/n Tyrell is coming back to Highgarden?’ Startled, Tyshara gapped at Cerilla Swann. ‘Truly? How come?’ Tyshara did not much look forward to seeing Y/n Tyrell slinking about the castle. ‘Yes. We have suitable room for a woman of her….situation.’ ‘I won’t have to see her, will I?’ Cerilla laughed. Unlike her other laughs this one sent unpleasant tingles down her spine. ‘Oh, no. Y/n will never be free again. I assure you that.’ Somehow this did not cheer Tyshara up. Something ugly stirred within. For now Tyshara decided to ignore it.

'A letter from my father's uncle?' Tyshara was paying a visit to Jenna Tyrell as she normally did. Once a day Jenna summoned her to speak over tea. These gatherings were very nice. She enjoyed cakes and treats from Essos. Jenna was kind enough. They flipped through books and Jenna gave her advice. 'Always keep your ears open, my child. A man may have his sword, but we posses other weapons.' Thinking it sage advice Tyshara hung onto every word. Jenna sat in a great oak chair. Tyshara had never met a queen before, hand queen Helaena or Alicent lived she might have been a lady in waiting. All she had were picture books of queens long past. Her favourites had always been Good Queen Alysanne and Visenya. Alysanne had been a just queen in her day, and Visenya had answered every challenge with bravery. It may be odd to idolize both women, as one gave birth to the man who terrorized the other. Maybe she just admired bravery. As a little girl Tyshara dreamed of meeting such a queen. Seeing Jenna sitting there looking every inch regal Tyshara was nearly blown away.

'My Lady.' Tyshara dipped into a curtsy. The great lady gave a smile and Tyshara blushed. To have the attention of such a woman. 'Lady Tyshara, please sit.' Tyshara sat down, careful to straighten out her dress, discretely. Jenna had given her a new green dress. Hanging off her shoulders the silk flowed behind her. A golden ribbon adorned her hair holding it up. Tyshara noticed the rings on Jenna's fingers. There were several, glittering and standing out. The one that caught Tyshara's attention, however, was the most plain. Well, by most standards it would not be considered plain. The gold circular disk had a rose embedded into it. Long ago the Tyrells had been stuarts of Highgarden. Tyshara found it funny that the Gardeners were gone only for a flower to be the lands symbol. It rested, shining on Jenna's finger. The ring had been passed down through the past hundred or so years, to be worn by the Lady of Highgarden. The Lady of Highgarden.

Wait.....was it not Florice Swann, Cerilla's elder sister, who was Lady of Highgarden. Granted she had hardly seen the true Lady of Highgarden. Cerilla told her Florice was a reclusive sort. Still it was rather odd that the ring remained with Jenna.

Jenna set aside the parchment. 'As mentioned, your great uncle has sent word from Casterly Rock. You are to attend the Maidens Ball as a candidate for queen." Tyshara nearly leapt from her seat with joy. Her a queen! Tyshara's noble heritage had always entailed prospects of a fine marriage. But to be a queen! There would be others of course. She had no doubt Lady Baratheon would put her girls out. But she had seen the Baratheon girls (at least the two remaining, Ellyn having died of poison and Floris in childbed). Sugars knew she was by far the prettiest.

‘While you are there I want to hear what is going on at court. Normally I would go myself but these troubled times call for certain sacrifices. Could you do that for me?’ Rushers readily agreed, of course she would. It felt good to be so important, bring a future queen and companion of Jenna Tyrell. ‘I will be a great lady.’ She thought.

Later that day Tyshara ran up to Cerilla’s room. Upon arrival she noticed Cerilla sitting with her sister Florice Swann. There were few similarities. The elders hair was the colour of straw and had a drowned quality to it. Her pale parlour gave her no glow that young women of her age were said to have. While Cerilla’s brown eyes sparkled nearly like gold Florice’s own looked dull. Never before had Tyshara seen such an unhappy woman.

‘Tyshara, how good to see you.’ Graciously Cerilla stood up and took Tyshara by the hands. She lead her to the table where cakes and tea were laid out. Florice’s thin boney hand stretched out taking the cup. Shaking she brought it to her lips. Was she ill? Worried, Tyshara looked to Cerilla. Yet Cerilla looked unbothered. Tyshara wondered if she should say anything. Finally, she decided to remain silent. Of course they would realize Florice was less than healthy. And anyway it may be rude to inquire on such a personal matter. So Tyshara said nothing.

‘That is a lovely dress you are wearing.’ Cerilla smiled with a simple ‘Thank you.’ Cerilla’s dress was similar to Jenna’s with long draping green sleeves. Today Cerilla’s long reddish gold hair was in a half up-do which Tyshara admired. She considered doing the same some time. ‘You look lovely yourself.’ Florice’s voice was wispy and the only reason Tyshara heard it was because of how few people were there. Tyshara quickly composed herself. ‘Thank you, My Lady.’ Tyshara sat down and the three of them ate and talked. Though the talking was mostly done by Cerilla and herself. ‘Tell me, where did you get that bracelet?’ Tyshara looked down at the ruby bracelet sparkling in sunlight. ‘It was a gift from my father, passed down through generations.’ This explanation was not entirely truthful. It was an heirloom but it belonged to a collection passed down to every Lady of Casterly Rock. When she heard her father was remarrying Tyshara took what she could. It gave her satisfaction to know Y/n would not get everything that belonged to her mother. ‘A worthy lady of Casterly Rock may have this bracelet, no one else.’ And so Tyshara kept it for herself. She fully intended to give the bracelet to Owen’s future wife, but that was years away. For now, however, it remained with her, a worthy lady of Casterly Rock.

‘And that is The Mother, see?’ Tyshara held Owen in her arms. He was old enough to hold his head high. By now Owen had gotten used to her presence and so no longer fussed. Tyshara was thrilled to have a brother, even if that woman was his mother. There had been another brother. The birth that had taken her mother’s life produced a boy, weak, who only outlasted their mother by a day. The only thing that gave Tyshara comfort was that her mother had died thinking the baby would live. It made Tyshara angry that her mother tried so hard for so long to have a son only for some woman to sweep in and triumph in only a year. The bitterness was still there, dwelling like a malignant tumor.

'I will be this boy's mother. He won't need her.' Tyshara convinced herself. And with that woman gone she could pretend there was no other woman, that they shared the same parents. It did not matter that they looked so different. He was her beloved brother and she would do anything to protect him. Her beloved baby brother.

She read to him all the stories her mother once had. They were all happy tales with no sad ending. Just light, justice and good triumphing over evil. Just as the world was made to be. Tyshara enjoyed, at night, hiding in her room and having Owen snuggled up in the sheets. A makeshift fort was built like she was still a little girl. Safe and cozy under blankets she slipped into another, happier, world. 'You will be just like one of those knights, Owen. A brave true man who stands up for justice.' It sounded so silly but Tyshara liked to think of herself as a sort of mysterious guardian. Like the handmaidens of The Mother. Looking after the young. With those sweet sentiments, she was lulled into sleep, blocking out the waking world.

She had thought that while those stolen nights allowed her to dwell in dreams, daytime was not so bad. Tyshara could look in those picture books she loved so well and compare them to her life. Jousts, masked balls, fabulous dresses, feasts and laughing the night away. She even had several suitors. At ten and six Tyshara was a woman now and had been turning heads for years. Like most Lannisters she was golden haired with green eyes. Tall and lithe with a slender waist she stood out amongst all the others. It gave her a great deal of joy to be the center of attention. Being fabulously wealthy also helped. New dresses for ever night, glittering in moonlight. 'I am a princess in a story, soon to be a queen.' swept up in the moment Tyshara could only think of how happy she was. Oh how happy she was! 'Let it never end.' She prayed.

Maiden's Day Ball was to take place at the heart of power. With little Jaehaera Targaryen's death Aegon the Third would need a wife. It did not matter than he was miserable, or that every night he awoke in terror, he was king. There was never room for things such as emotions, or pity for a little boy. Tyshara thought of none of these things. Not that he was just a boy, or that her father helped defeat his mother. Not once did she even truly consider him. Sure, she did not expect to bed him, or even feel love. She just saw the crown un all its splendor. When little the idea she might marry Aegon Targaryen, firstborn living son of Viserys, had floated around. That had fallen through with the insistence he marry his sister. At the time the refused had hardly bothered her. Being so little Tyshara had other matters. Such as what was for desert that night. But now and then she considered it. In dreams Tyshara dreamed of bring like a fairytale princess. And now she would be one for real. A beautiful queen coming after war and bloodshed.

They set out in great splendor. After spending months in Highgarden it would be hard to leave. But leaving for King's Landing! There would be celebrations there too. Jenna Tyrell would not be coming, to Tyshara's surprise. Jenna had been invited. But being busy with post-war matters was an understandable reason. No one else was surprised. Apparently Jenna rarely left the confines of her castle. Thankfully Cerilla would be coming along with several other ladies, including Katrina. All bundled into carriages they feasted on sweetmeats and cakes, playing cards and telling stories. They all talked about who was wearing what. They took the greatest interest in gossip and idle chatter. It was a blessed relief after two years of war and misery.

As much as Tyshara looked forward to the ball it was starting to get cold. Highgarden had a cold tinge that was easy to ignore. But despite going south, Tyshara found that the closer to King's Landing they were, the colder it was. Thankfully she had several sturdy cloaks Tyshara had done up. The weather was no true issue. Excitement was so infectious Tyshara cared not a fig for something such as weather. There were greater matters.

Whispers Tyshara paid little head to were the beginning. Of course the roads were not totally safe after a was such as this. Some maidens died or were horribly injured, so they said. But their retinue was so large that Tyshara cared not. Certain maidens were pleased to hear of such morbid details, including a rumor that one girls had her face slit open, nose in half, as it meant less competition. Tyshara tried to put it out of mind. 'Likely a rumor.' One day Tyshara went out of the wheelhouse to ride horses instead. Accompanying her was Katrina and other such friends. Naturally she was not without guards so they were all perfectly safe. Riding on ahead Tyshara enjoyed the wind rippling through her blonde hair. She truly looked a sight, so beautiful with tumbles of hair in curls. 'Katrina, hurry!' They sped on, Katrina laughing. Tyshara was filled with happiness. Soon she would be in King's Landing and Gods willing be queen.

Crack!

There was a scream and Tyshara's horse bolted forward. With a great cry she clung on. The world became a haze of panic and confusion. Fingers slipped and with a thrill of fear Tyshara realized she was falling. Wind was knocked right out of her as Tyshara landed. Both teeth and brain rattled, every bone shook. People were all over her when Tyshara needed space. Someone picked her up and in her pain did not realize immediately what had happened. When the world was back in focus Tyshara realized a great tree had fallen. And under its great body was the crumpled form of Katrina.

She was not celebrating anymore. The horror of seeing Katrina being crushed under such a weight tore at Tyshara. Her dear sweet friend was gone. Any joy there was dissipated, replaced by the feeling of something cold. Staying in the wheelhouse Tyshara held a figure of The Mother. May she guide Katrina in the after life. News of other mysterious deaths were no longer simply speculation. She cursed herself for not paying attention. Otherwise Katrina might be alive. Cerilla seemed oddly detached from the situation. The normally fun loving woman seemed to not care that such a young girl had died. 'At least it was not you.' Cerilla said as if that were comforting.

People grieved but they forced themselves on. Suddenly Tyshara wanted to flee home. Casterly Rock was her haven, not this castle Tyshara had only visited once before, during the trial. This journey felt so much worse. In stoic silence Tyshara remained for the rest of journey. The absence of Katrina widening.

King's Landing was silent, eerily so. The smallfolk looked out through their windows at the lavish procession before them. A chill had descended over the quiet city. Tyshara had heard the stories of riots. Angry smallfolk sweeping through the streets killing all in their path. They had even managed to kill dragons. And yet now these people remained hidden. Perhaps they had enough of fighting.

The Red Keep, on the other hand, was bustling with life. Decorations of white lilies festooned red stone. Silk draped from windows like banners. Perfume emanated from lanterns in an attempt to disguise the stink. Carriages had been pulled and people were escorted inside. When Tyshara arrived she was helped out and could hear music. The scene was truly beautiful, and there was a painful pang as Tyshara thought of how Katrina would have loved it. What Katrina would not have liked was the very clear tension. Something was off and Tyshara felt someone come up behind her. Alarmed, Tyshara spun around to see a large horse, its rider proudly sitting. Unwin Peake bore the crest of his house, imperiously looking down on her. 'Lady Tyshara.' His voice dripped with pomp. 'I am a Lannister you fool.' She thought. Who did this man think he was? Behind him was Myrielle Peake, a little girl with pale feeble features. In her hands was a doll, why he let her Tyshara did not know.

After that frosty reception Tyshara was ushered inside to get ready. Every candidate was expected to present themselves before king Aegon the Third. Bathed, Tyshara was dressed in Lannister finery. Proudly on her wrist glittered the bracelet. Walking though the halls she truly felt like a queen. Unlike last time she was here for a show and dressed as such. During Y/n's trial she had been advised to dress modestly. The double doors were thrown open and a herald bellowed 'Lady Tyshara of House Lannister!' The crowd parted and Tyshara's self importance doubled.

King Aegon shocked Tyshara. She had not seen the king before. Of course she had not expected to see a warrior or a strong handsome man. What she saw was not a boy, less than a ghost. Never had she seen a such a miserable child. His silver locks hanging limply, King Aegon looked forlornly out at her. She knew he was still a boy, but by the Gods he looked far younger than his years! He looked about ready to topple over with a single gust of wind. Tyshara pulled herself together. 'Think of queenship.' She suffered his dark look and curtsied. He gave a nod and then just like that it was over. Relived, Tyshara blended into the crowd. Another name was called and Tyshara knew that had Katrina lived, she would have been next.

The next few days were filled with banquets and dances. She was not obliged to attend the king, thankfully. In fact, Tyshara could have spent the rest of her life without seeing the forlorn boy. Thoughts of queenship abandoned she resolved to enjoy the festivities. Plays bawdier than she had ever before dared to see, costume parties and hunts were carried out. Rings set with emeralds were passed around and Tyshara wore in on her slim finger. But every now and then, no, more often than that, she remembered Katrina. In those moments she paused in her tracks. Before bed she prayed for Katrina's soul, and in those dark hours thought of others. One must unburned themselves before The Seven, otherwise how can they be truly clean? Tyshara had always tried to be good, dutiful daughter and sister. But something nagged at her conscience. They say when a death happens one becomes thoughtful. Unbidden, Y/n came to mind. She had tried to banish the image of that bedraggled sickly looking woman. Before it had been so easy to hate her, the woman who wore her mothers things. Gold and ruby had been replaced by rags. It was harder to hate her.

Tyshara found Cerilla giggling over a letter. Curiously she walked over. 'What is it?' With a grin that sent Tyshara's stomach clenching Cerilla shoved the letter into her hands. 'You will be glad to hear of this I recon.' Jenna's wax stamp still lung to parchment. The woman's small curved writing was hard to read, but Tyshara managed. What she read was not pleasing, not in the slightest. 'Is this not cruel?' Tyshara protested without thinking. Surely, even with who she was, Y/n did not deserve such treatment. A murderer she might be, but something did not feel right and Tyshara could not put her finger on it. Alone in a dark cold cell made her shiver. As a little girl her septa showed pictures of damnation. 'This is where the bad go.' One image that stood out was a cell. It had only one sole occupant, doomed to eternity in solitude.

Cerilla's laughter shook Tyshara. For the first time Tyshara was afraid of this girl. It had been easy to talk with Cerilla and lambast Y/n. She told her all sorts of things. Of how Y/n was with Jaecerion every waking hour. Or perhaps it was that way? Or not? Tyshara could not truly remember. Only that she had said the words. Savage anger had coursed though her. An anger deflating by the day. 'We will not let her die, not yet at least.' Tyshara felt she may be sick. 'Why do you hate her?' Tyshara had always assumed it was because of Y/n's true personality. A scheming evil little whore. But Tyshara was finding the rage Cerilla held quite alarming. Horrifyingly so. Cerilla tossed her head sending red locks cascading down. 'Lady Jenna tells me everything. She is a horrid creature who tried to steal my sisters husband. 'I thought Y/n grew up in King's Landing.' Tyshara knew that Y/n grew up in the Red Keep and Jenna's son in Highgarden. 'My lady's son came to King's Landing on occasion.' Cerilla shrugged as if this was no big deal. She did not seem to realize how truly disturbed Tyshara was.

Tyshara brought the subject up no more. It was not needed as Cerilla could not see, to keep Y/n out of her mouth. There was just something not right about Cerilla's hatred. And the stories she told started to not make sense. She still remembered how Cerilla had prodded for stories about Y/n before the trial, how she herself had spilt out words, suspicions she told a fact. And as Cerilla spun tales of Y/n, and others, Tyshara felt caught in a web.

Owen's nanny had written on his progress. Tyshara was glad to hear he was well. By now Tyshara was torn between returning to Highgarden or Casterly Rock. She missed her little sisters, even the bastard ones. More than ever she missed Katrina and wished to pay her family a visit. Already a letter had been sent yet that felt insufficient. She considered summoning Katrina's younger brother over but decided not to. Soon she would leave.

Tyshara sat in her bed fingering the ruby bracelet. So many times she had seen it on her mothers wrist. Cerilla entered and Tyshara placed it on the table. The silk sheets were soft and the bed heavenly. Despite that she was careful to remain stationary. Cerilla slid in next to her and pulled up the covers. Cerilla seemed quite unbothered, as usual. 'Who do you think the king will marry?' Tyshara shrugged, she had not been keeping track. 'There are a lot of pretty maidens this year.' Cerilla continue. Tyshara did not want to continue the conversation, because Cerilla held the tone of one setting..... something up. Tyshara was too tired and too weary to carry on at the moment. Laying down her blonde head Tyshara tried to fall asleep.

'You knew, they say the king may marry you.' Her eyes flew open. Not turning around, Tyshara's ears were shop. Suddenly it was like sleeping next to a panther. Feeling Cerilla slide closer, the bed dipping, Tyshara suppressed a shudder. How could she ever have liked this girl? 'Lets see, you, Cassandra Baratheon, a few others I recon. Do you wish to marry the king?' This time Tyshara turned around. The question made her feel invaded, and slightly indignant. 'And if I did?' Tyshara rolled over and closed her eyes, praying for sleep.

Tyshara had taken to watching Cerilla's moves. There was just something off about her. There was something else that off put her, apart from Cerilla's malice towards Y/n. Cerilla was watching her too. A tension had grown between the pair of them. Of course Tyshara was not fool enough to voice any of this. By now she was sure going back to Casterly Rock was for the best. First, she would gather Owen. It was about time he come to his seat. Jenna would hopefully be understanding.

Dear Lady Jenna,

I hope this letter finds you well. I would like to thank you for your patronage these past few months. Owen, I am sure, is under the best of care under your supervision, which is why it pains me to say he must leave for Casterly Rock. Your hospital is greatly appreciated and I will always be grateful for your kindness. I will return to Highgarden once I receive permission from Lord Leon Lannister. I pray to The Seven that our friendship shall remain.

Sincerely,

Tyshara Lannister

Thankfully Tyshara did not need to write a letter to Leon Lannister. Her great uncle resided in King's Landing thanks to this ball. After sending the letter out Tyshara headed off to Leon Lannister's rooms. They were situated in the Hand's Tower, although he was not part of the council. Dressed in Lannister finery, bracelet included, Tyshara sought an audience. Looking surprised, Leon met with her. They exchanged pleasantries before getting down to business. 'My brother should take up his seat. Naturally you will remain regent but the west should get to know their lord, should they not.' Leon had a thinning goatee that Tyshara found slightly ridiculous. He stoked the hair while pondering quietly. 'I suppose.' He did not sound totally sure, which made Tyshara nervous. Why should Owen not go back to Casterly Rock? Seeing the look on her face Leon quickly agreed. But Tyshara was warry.

Each morning Tyshara would wake up and write letters. Her sisters wanted to know about the ball , her friends the same and she wrote to Jenna. It was just small things, the comings and goings of the court. Tyshara wrote about her discussion with Leon Lannister, how he had consented to her return. What Tyshara did not enclose was his odd behavior, but Jenna did not have to know that.

'Getting ready to leave so soon?' Cerilla appeared by the door as Tyshara was taking an inventory of all her things. Not looking up from the list Tyshara said 'Yes. Then I will be leaving.' Cerilla raised an eyebrow. 'Some other ladies are leaving. The ones that are not injured or maimed have started packing. They may fear that once chosen to be queen they will be harmed. Tyshara was only half listening, thoughts of her siblings. 'It is a pity your sisters are not here.' Cerilla took a step forward. 'Too young.' Even then Cerilla did not look up. She did not leave, instead hovering like some malignant specter. 'Is there something you would like to tell me?' Tyshara was starting to get impatient, sounding more aggressive than a lady of her standing aught to. 'Do you still wish to marry the king?' And Cerilla was right behind her, breath blowing at the back of Tyshara's slender neck. Tyshara said nothing.

She should have said something, anything to derail Cerilla from her plan. Tyshara might have noticed Cerilla's malice, but not the depths it would go. For the next two days they said little to one another. As her departure time came closer Tyshara looked forward to seeing Owen. One night she was packing away the gifts, dressed for the girls and a little wooden sword for Owen. Once that was done Tyshara washed her face and get ready for bed. A maid came in and laid out the next days clothes. As Tyshara drifted off to sleep she did not notice that the door remained unlocked.

She woke up to rough shaking and shouting. Groggily she stirred awake to find an angry face over hers. A septa was shouting overhead, shaking Tyshara by her shoulders. With a gasp of pain Tyshara was awake. Crying out Tyshara launched herself back in fright. Hitting a body, she turned to see a boy, not much older than herself. Surrounding her bed were three others. Screaming, Tyshara hit the boy. 'Who is this!?' 'Do not play the innocent with us Tyshara Lannister. He was spotted sneaking into your chambers several hours hence.' 'But I am not at fault!. This boy is unknown to me!' Her pleas fell on deaf ears. She was quickly forced to changed and taken to the office of Lord Unwin Peake.

If Unwin Peake scared her before it was nothing to the fear she felt now. A snarl played on his thing worm like lips. In the room with him were two guards, Leon Lannister and, to Tyshara's surprise, Cerilla. 'Lady Tyshara, sit.' Under any other circumstance Tyshara might have reminded this man who she was. But alone and friendless she felt so small. Tentatively she sat down on the chair. 'This very morning you were caught abed with a stable boy. And do not lie we all saw it.' Tears rose in Tyshara's eyes, both from the unfair accusations and distress.' 'I...I swear I have no idea who this boy is I....' She could not continue any longer. 'Lady Cerilla told us you had been having carnal relations with this stableboy since your arrival. Tyshara gave Cerilla a horrified look. Surely she wouldn't have....

'You will be sent back to Casterly Rock immediately. You are a shame to your family and house.' Cerilla was quick to interject. 'My Lord, pardon my interruption but Lady Tyshara resides in Highgarden.' 'Very well. Lady Tyshara you will go to Higharden to collect your brother.' Leon Lannister was the next to speak. 'I see no need for her to go to Highgarden. We can have her things brought to Casterly Rock.' Unwin nodded. ' But My Lords, my brother-' They did not care what she had to say. 'You will go back to Casterly Rock.' Unwin Peake ordered. There was no pity in his eyes, only a sick triumph. Stung by the anger and injustice of it all Tyshara called out 'wait'. They all scrutinized her. 'Let me prove my innocents.'

When Tyshara asked to clear her name she had not imagined this. She was brought into a room where several septas laid her back. When they entered the cold metal all Tyshara felt was pain and humiliation. It was over in a moment and afterwards she was cleaned up and brought before the lords. Humiliation coursed through her veins as she hobbled into the office and needed help sitting down. These cold hard men were staring her down, the little insignificant girl she was. Her hymen was broken, although no one mentioned that a hymen could easily be broken upon a horse. Most noble girls lost their maidenheads to such activities. Cerilla then got up and mentioned that Tyshara was up late into the night. This was the truth but Cerilla was alleging something she knew not to be true. A maid was brought in and probed. The things in the beginning she said were true, that Tyshara stayed up late, that she requested tea and went for nighttime walks. The the story was spun, so that these walks and staying up awake were spent in sin, that the tea was of a certain type. And by the end they all thought her guilty.

She was finally leaving. Despite the disgrace she had endured it was a relief to leave King's Landing behind. There was the double satisfaction of having Unwin Peake's plans being foiled. Despite all the deaths and mutilations to make his daughter queen it was Daenaera Velaryon who would be queen. By new Tyshara was sure he had Katrina killed. Oh how she desired vengeance. But what could a woman of her position do? A Lannister she might be, but still a woman.

Tyshara would be heading right back to Casterly Rock. Her companions sat in stony silence all the way there. If only Katrina were here. It wounded Tyshara how not a single one of them spoke up in her defense. Now they all thought her guilty despite all the years spent together. Counting back the days till she arrived at Casterly Rock Tyshara thought of her siblings. Cerelle would be glad to have her back. Caren had been so little when she last saw her. Briefly her thoughts went to Crissa, her bastard half-sister. She had died the day the Ironborn invaded the Westerlands, along with her mother Lady Redwyne. She had hated her fathers mistress too. But after finding out the woman's grim hate it was hard.

The moment she arrived back at Casterly Rock she fell into Cerelle's arms. They hugged each other and cried. 'I missed you so much.' Tyshara sobbed. 'I too. And I am so sorry.' 'Oh Cerelle, you have nothing to apologize so.' Hugging her tighter, Cerelle said 'Owen-' Tyshara quickly broke apart. 'Owen? What happened?!' The look on Cerelle's face was pure horror.

When Cerelle told Tyshara Owen was dead she could not truly comprehend what she meant. Dead? Owen? And then suddenly she was screaming, a long drawn out wail. Everything was dark and wretched. Somehow she was taken to bed and left there to whither. Every breath was agony. This had to be some horrid nightmare. At some point Tyshara asked if Y/n knew. She probably did.

The days dragged on like she was being hauled over sharp stones. Sinking into the soft covers Tyshara was in purgatory. She thought of a storybook in which a queen was punished and locked up left to whither alone. And there she dwelt within herself until Owen's body arrived. Taking off every piece of finery, including the bracelet, Tyshara now wore black, was draped in it. During his funeral in the sept she was beyond the tears. Statues of The Seven looked down upon Owen's body with care, hers with judgment. Once the funeral was gone and everyone left Tyshara watched as they loaded his body into the stone casket. He would sleep for eternity bellow Casterly Rock, in the great Lion Vault.

Late that night Tyshara headed out alone. She crept through the silent passages, keeping to the darkness. When her own mother passed Tyshara visited the crypt one final time to gaze upon her face. After that she had never done it again. Same with her father. Tyshara wondered if Y/n would lay here when dead. Probably not, likely in the garden in they were kind. The entrance to Lions Vault were two iron carved lions, rubies set into the metal. They let her in without a word. As a Lannister this was her right. There was a long gallery held up by marble pillars. Tapestries worn by centuries depicted the arrival of House Lannister. Some of these tapestries hailed back to a time where the Lannisters were kings, not mere lords. She walked passed the countless carved statues until she arrived at one newly built.

Owne was depicted as a child, his likeness sending a shard of pain through Tyshara's heart. 'I am sorry.' She said. Hopefully he could hear her. Tyshara then fumbled around the edges of his crypt. The Lannisters had a small secret few others knew. But every coffin was built so that the cover could be easily moved. She found and pulled the pulley. With a crunch it slid open to reveal her brother. He looked so tiny, even for his young age. Tyshara reached down and shuddered when she felt his stiff skin. Her thumb crushed his lips and she smeared off skin. Recoiling back Tyshara thought there was dead skin on her hand. But upon closer inspection she realized it was not her brothers remains, but paint. Leaning in Tyshara inspected her brothers face. There was blue on his lips.

Tyshara stumbled back. Not even breathing her heart was bumping furiously. A hand went to her mouth. Taking off the blindfold Tyshara now saw clearly. The world was in colour and now she knew the truth. And it was too late.

'Novice Joan.' Tyshara, now a novice prepared to take her vows, get up. Gone were the jewels and her mothers bracelet. Here she stood in septas garbs. Most thought this was a choice made by Leon Lannister, the new Lord of Casterly Rock. Little did they know this was made of her own volition. A life of penitents. She stood alone in her room, a prison. Behind her were two candles. A silent prayer still lingered, along with two names. Owen Lannister, and Y/n Tyrell.

It was over, she had won. Jenna stood on the balcony overlooking all that was hers. Ever since she was a girl Jenna had dreamed of greatness. So when her father married her to the son of a second son Jenna had been bitterly dissatisfied. She had wanted greater but was forced to settle for him. She remembered when Amelia Tarley arrived shortly after for her wedding. On sight Jenna loathed her. This thin weak looking woman who was to be Lady of Highgarden. She had been overjoyed when Amelia gave birth to only one little girl, Y/n. She attempted to betroth the girl to her newborn son. But it was reflected and Jenna’s hatred grew.

Jenna had been reborn when married. The youngest of three sisters, Jenna had always been in their shadow. Cristina the eldest was beautiful, Justina was clever, and then there was her, just Jenna. So when Jenna was married with a second chance at a family she swore she would be great. ‘One day they will all kneel to me.’

She would not be marrying the Lord of Highgarden or his heir. Some cousin, but close enough to that great seat. At the time she married Owen Tyrell was the heir, a man slightly older than herself. She did not think much of that wife, some Tarley girl named Amelia. Even the girls looks were meager, although she was not ugly. So thin was she Jenna wondered if Amelia even have children. Her own son, strong and healthy, showed Amelia's bareness for all to see. That satisfaction had been oh so sweet.

Of course the Gods were fickle. Shortly afterwards Amelia was with child. Bitterly Jenna had prayed the babe would be born dead, or at least a girl. The latter turned out to be granted and that night Jenna stayed up in anticipation. If Amelia could have one child, even some squalling daughter she named Y/n, there could be others. But they never came and as the years went by Jenna became more hopeful.

Although Lord Owen Tyrell had no more children from that weak simpering fool he had no intention of divorcing her and remarrying. Jenna considered that a good thing. A new pretty wife may very well provide sons. Amelia was not the only one having fertility issues. Jenna herself had not gotten with child since Gerald. She consulted midwives, maesters and even woodswitches but to no avail. Once, she had visited a traveling wise woman with green eyes. When Jenna demanded assistance the woman only laughed. 'You will strangle the vine and spread the seeds. Or perhaps you will be wise.' Her words Jenna did not care to understand. But the bit about 'strangle the vine' always remained. Yes. She should strangle the vine. Nothing else mattered

Jenna’s first husband Gerion had passed from fever and soon after Jenna looked about. For a time Jenna fancied Owen Tyrell might marry her. It never happened. So Jenna simply removed a piece and Owen Tyrell was a widower. Her intention had been to attract him. One night she came upon with great ardor. It was not hard, so wealthy and handsome. But Lord Tyrell had dismissed her with great fury. Jenna was sent away with her son and bitterness as companions.

When she found out Owen Tyrell passed Jenna nearly collapsed with joy. Immediately she raced to Highgarden. It seemed the poison and her allies had done their work. In no time her son was Lord Paramount of Highgarden. It was suggested that her boy marry Owen's little girl. 'You had your chance Owen, my blood alone will rule Highgarden.' That did not mean the girl had no uses. Jenna was quick to utilize this new tool. it was easy to tether the girl to her. And she did her work well. When Y/n was old enough to comprehend the world around her Jenna received news. Because of her birth and good standing with the royal family Jenna learned much. 'Your girl is mine, all mine Owen.' Jenna mused.

Everyone but Viserys saw the upcoming war. As the king slowly crawled towards his grave Jenna planned for the future. Alliances were built and none were so great as those made through marriage. Alicent Hightower wanted the Lannisters. Although already silently pledged to Aegon a marriage was decided. There were no Targaryen princesses and Jenna had no daughters. So she put forward Y/n as a bride for Tyland Lannister, so conveniently in need of a wife. The thought of Owen's daughter being Lady Lannister galled her. Jenna contented herself that Y/n would still be under her control. Whatever name the girl took she was still a mere pawn.

She spent the war in Highgarden, in the safety of its walls. It was much light being a gardener, plotting every location. But by the Gods she was good at it. Y/n was brining daily new of the comings and going of Casterly Rock. One day she had asked Y/n to intercede on her behalf to Jason Lannister. It was so useful to receive assistance from Casterly Rock. Some complained, it was said, that Lady Y/n of Casterly Rock was favouring her Tyrell relations. Resentment was stirred. This had the mixed effect of concern as Jenna did not want the dislike of House Lannister heaped upon her. At least the dislike seemed focused on Y/n rather than herself. And it felt good for Owen Tyrells little spawn to suffer as he should have.

When she got word that Jason Tyrell had passed Jenna seized her chance. She had wanted Y/n, pregnant, brought to Highgarden. This had been counteracted by Prince Regent Aemond having her placed in Harrenhal. Why he placed her there she could not say. Word came that a boy was born. 'Owen Lannister.' She spat. The letter was flung into the fire. Y/n having a boy suited her plans. Her sons wife had given birth to a daughter. The idea of having a granddaughter as Lady of Casterly Rock was tempting. Finally she had been able to have Y/n brought. With the political ground shifting Harrenhal was no longer a safe option. Better news was to come. Leon Lannister, uncle to Jason Lannister, had a son. A confirmed bachelor, many had marveled when he finally settled down. And so another heir to Casterly Rock was born. This opened another possibility. She had only consented to her granddaughter being married to Owen Lannister to gain power. But now the boy was no longer needed as he was. Thanks to Y/n intercepting on her behalf to House Lannister Jenna knew Lord Leon. The pair had met and decided on marrying the tow little ones. But this had all been kept secret. Then it was time to rid herself of Y/n.

Some might have said it was unnecessary. Some could say it was the girls own fault. Y/n had behaved rather foolishly with Prince Aemond, and made enemies. Jenna's spies brought together all those who may provide incriminating evidence. By the time the trial happened all of Y/n's friends were either gone, banished or dead. Jaecerion had been taken care of quickly. She had been rather surprised to find the prince truly did kill Ellyn Baratheon. But it all worked out in the end. Owen Tyrell's daughter was locked up forever. Her time had come and Jenna felt dizzy with excitement. Another case of Winter Fever and swept through Westeros, and the final stone was laid. One cold night she had Owen brought to her. A little less than a year old Jenna observed him. He slept soundly, unaware of what was to come. From a small wooden box under her bed Jenna withdrew a thin vile. Thick blue liquid sloshed around inside. Carefully she uncorked the bottle. A small scent of mint was whiffed. Then, she turned upon Owen. Every step sounded like a trumpet of victory. Her heart pounded victoriously. Extending an arm clothed in green, Jenna poured the poison into Owens mouth. It was all over in but a moment. The babes eyes flew opened. He shook violently and all healthy colour drained. Then his panicked eyes rolled up, lips turned blue, and lay still. For a few moments she looked to the still figure. A thin finger checked, there was no pulse. Then a great gasp of jubilation broke free. And that gasp turned into a laugh. Turning her face to the sky and raced to the window. Throwing open the balcony window she burst into the windy cold night. And her crows of victory were heard only to the wind, and Alys Rivers.

Alys Rivers stood under the three Weirwood trees in Highgardens forest. It was not the forest that interested her but the Weirwood. Right above her, looming like a Spector of death the tree gently swayed. She could see their faces in its wood. One might wonder why she chose to go north, especially during winter time. Especially with a babe. Her son, his silver hair swaying in the breeze, slept peacefully. Aeron was small as his father had been at birth, and just as strong. He would thrive in the north. The other world ruled here as the one who held power dwelled beyond the wall.

But as much as Alys loved this place there was work to do. Aeron would be safe. This would be an ambitious assignment yet it would all be worth it in the end. The dreams that haunted her could not, must not, come to pass. Otherwise an eternal night would reign.

Tucked beneath her clock was a scabbard. It was well concealed in its sheath but it was not the blade which worried her. The Valyrian steele with a hilt imbued with the remains of the First Children, laced with venom, was the threat. She would need to be very careful because the effects were neatly instantaneous. Alys had built up an immunity but would still need caution. It had taken her lifetimes to set everything into place. Carrying on the wind Alys heard a cackle of laughter. Alys turned back to her son. ‘We are almost there.’ And then the battle for Y/n’s soul, and the world, would begin.

Notes: A grim ending for part one. But part two is coming. The epilogue will be out tomorrow, and the teaser at a later date. Book 2 will be out in a few months because I want to write some of it first. I am so excited because it is gonna be crazy!

I begun writing this book back last summer on a whim. Back then I did not know how much this story would mean to me. Writing and all the support I have received has truly provided me with a new experience. Thank you to every last one of you who has read, reposted, liked and discussed the story with me.

Epilogue (Coming tomorrow!)

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scr11bles · 10 months ago

Note

Could I please get a RED Spy x Female BLU Medic Reader frappuccino with a side of cheesecake, and some shortbread and chocolate chip cookies? Could I also place an order for something you don't seem to have in stock?

(What I’d like is for this to take place during the robot wars. Reader was trying to help everyone regardless of what team they were on originally but Spy keeps pushing her away because their relationship was very antagonistic back when RED and BLU were fighting. But something happens and Reader goes MIA forcing Spy to admit that he actually loves her. Reader comes back just in time to hear him confess. Feel free to ignore this if it's too much. 😙)

order up for @faal-verotiik ! wanna order something for yourself? here's the menu!

- frappuccino: "Can we skip the fight this time, please?" + cheesecake: enemies to lovers + shortbread cookie: angst + chocolate chip cookie: fluff

a/n: i love this request so much! also this is a perfect representation for what i thought out of stock requests to be described as, thank you so much :3

word count: 1,432

cw: little bits of angst and fluff

----------๑♡⁠๑------------

Spy wasn't known for feelings; at least sentimental ones. None of the mercs were, but you just had to be different. In the very beginning, Spy didn't give two shits about you, simply thinking of you as the Blu Medic's foolish apprentice and would merely go on to take his chance whenever he had the opportunity to backstab you. Something that did intrigue him ever so slightly was how you would react to him when and after he killed you.

You weren't like the others. You sometimes stood there and let it happen, usually not putting up a fight and just accepting your fate of being caught of guard. Even weirder? You weren't sour after it after. Sure, he would find you with a small frown on your face coming back from the respawn room, but you weren't out for his blood for the rest of the match like the rest of your Blu teammates were whenever they got backstabbed by him.

"You must be a stupid little thing, mon chaton. This business isn't for the passive."

The Frenchman had you in a sharp chokehold during a specific match, growling into your ear with his silky smooth voice as he holds his butterfly knife to your back, just above where your heart rests. Without getting a word in he thrusts his knife into your back, grimacing as your blood gets on his suit and blends in with the red of the fabric. Spy lets your lifeless body go and watches it crumple to the ground, frowning as he turns to start walking and cloaks himself. That should get you mad, a little rough teasing would make any human turn sour. He just knows it.

And his method worked, you were mad, falling for his little trap and dying to him a couple more times during that match from your rage-clouded vision. Though, it wore off quicker than he's seen in your team members, and even his own. Spy would be lying if he said he wasn't interested, and dare he say it, a little impressed at how easily you can recover from provocation. His little hatred-like infatuation lasted for long, and it still has, though its digressed now, and the fact that he's been working along side you has honestly made it worse.

The unlikely partnership of the Red and Blue team's when the machines came to attack was already on thin ice, but in all honesty, Spy didn't care all that much. Sure, it irked him that he had to ally with the same miserable bastards that he's been killing for years, but he got through it with his usual poise and class. Though, that tranquil mindset was destroyed when he kept running into you in the field during a fight, internally cursing you when you would run to his aid and heal him with your medigun and sweet words.

"You have better things to do, stop playing nurse and actually fight like the rest of us."

Spy would hiss those words at you when you even tried to get close to him to heal him, metaphorically (and sometimes literally) pushing you away from him. Even with Spy's brash behavior, you still stayed close, giving him extra care than the other mercs that you took care of on the field. Spy hated it; and after a particularly grueling fight against the machines, you rush to his side when you see he has a solid bullet wound shot through his shoulder. You bring your medigun up to fix the wound but stumble back as Spy slaps away the machinery, the sound of it clattering to the floor making you flinch.

"Chose inutile. When will you learn to get away from me? I don't need your damned help."

Even after Spy had said those words he knew that was wrong, his integrity crumbling inside of him as he registers what he had said. The Frenchman watched with sharply narrowed eyes as you retreated back a few steps, looking at him like he was a monster sent from hell. And maybe at that point to you, he was.

You walk off without a word, simply picking up your medigun and not looking back as you walk away to tend to the other members of the team. Good riddance- is what Spy wanted to say, but he'd be damned if he would admit to feeling just a little bit guilty about yelling at you and acting so rudely.

Spy's feelings only started to increasingly become worse for the next few battles due to you not even looking at him, or him not even seeing you once on the battle field. It made him angry, the way you avoided him. Sure, it was hypocritical but he missed you. Badly.

It all went to shit immediately, the waves of robots wouldn't stop coming, and everyone on the field was in a frenzy to stay alive, the Frenchman included. Spy ducked and covered behind a dilapidated wall of a building that had been blown to hell, turning his cloaking on and running out into the field to get a vantage point on the enemy. When he got to a high enough spot, Spy overlooked the battlefield, gauging where each of his teammates were and where the numerous numbers of enemies were coming from.

From the vantage spot, Spy saw you- for the first time in days, he saw you. Spy couldn't believe the way his heart skipped a beat, making him take a double take and look back at you, watching with bated breath as you fought off a machine variant of yourself to get to the Red Heavy as he was being onslaught with gunfire. Spy could only watch in a state of shock as a bullet ripped through your shoulder, your blood painting the ground of the battlefield. Without even realizing it, Spy started to make his way back down from his high ground to run and help you, but when he gets back to the ground all he sees is a trail of blood leading around the corner.

Spy follows the trail, a large explosion racking the nearby building and causing large pieces of scrap metal and concrete to fly through the air. As Spy turns the corner all he's faced with is rubble, your medigun broken and dented on the floor next to the smoldering rubble.

The trail of blood ran under the rubble.. Your trail of blood. That means-

"Merde! No- No!"

Spy sprints to the rubble, sliding to his knees and starting to haphazardly dig into the rubble, shifting away a large piece with all of his strength. After shifting a large piece Spy's breath hitches in his throat as he sees a piece of ruined fabric sticking up from under the cement and ash. Spy grabs the fabric, tugging it up at feeling a sour taste fill his mouth. It's your coat, your class insignia sewn into the sleeve reddened with blood.

"No- Mon chaton! S'il te plaît! Please!

Spy grips the fabric and tugs it close to his chest, cursing to himself as he feels tears prick the corners of his eyes. How pathetic, crying over the girl he hated and pushed away.

"Je suis désolé. Je suis vraiment désolé. I-I-"

Spy chokes on his words, letting his tears drip onto the tattered scraps of your coat.

"Spy..?"

The Frenchman freezes, furrowing his eyebrows and whipping around to follow the sound of.. Your voice? There you were, without your coat, leaving you with just your undershirt and a crude bandaged wrapped around your shoulder.

"Spy what're you- Wait are you cryi-"

Your sentence doesn't even get past your lips as your wrapped into a tight hug by Spy, the Frenchman squeezing you for all you're worth. Spy pulls back from the brisk hug, keeping his hands resting on your waist as he looks down at you.

"Mon ange, I'm so sorry. What I said- it wasn't right."

Spy's grip on your waist tightens, almost afraid of you disappearing in front of him despite his hold. You thrash against his grip when you come to your senses, frowning and taking a step back from him while giving him the sharpest glare possible,

"Let's skip the fight this time, s'il te plaît."

Spy gives you the sorriest look he can muster, and damn if you couldn't resist when he gives you a look like that. With a sigh you walk back towards the man, slowly bringing your hand up and placing it on Spy's chest, his racing heartbeat thumping against your palm. You smile up at Spy, the sight after so long of not seeing it making his heart feel as if it was going to explode.

"You'll forgive me, won't you?"

Spy brings his hand up to cup your cheek, his gloved thumb brushing against you bottom lip before he pulls you in for a sweet kiss, the connection of your lips akin to electricity. How could you say no when he says it so sweetly?

----------๑♡⁠๑------------

uhh here it is i hope you like it!! i struggled so hard with this request but i think its okay in the end (plus it was good practice)!!

#fanfic #tf2 x reader #tf2 #tf2 spy x reader #tf2 spy

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riahlynn101 · 5 months ago

Note

Can u do one where Gregory is taken away from the mimic? (Don’t have to if u don’t want to-)

I had so many ideas for this. I'm not super proud of this one, and I'll probably do a few more versions of this at some point. The next one will be a more literal version of Gregory being taken from the mimic.

Thank you for the request ✨✨✨ I had a lot of fun trying to come up with scenarios. So much fun, in fact, that it was hard to pinpoint a single scenario.

Trigger warnings: Murder, blood, mild gore, a child in distressed, implied abuse, forced isolation, mentioned/implied child death, and the Mimic being itself.

@gregorysarmy

“I hate you.”

The Mimic can feel his internal processors working overtime, struggling to process his son’s words. His two main objectives battle each other - something that hasn’t happened since he first brought Gregory home - and he’s not sure which one is going to win this time.

Mimic takes a step back. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “You don’t.” Because he doesn’t. Because his son can’t.

“I do,” Gregory insists, hands clenched at his sides. “I hate you! I hate you! I hate-”

Mimic lunges for him. Whether to get him to stop or bring him closer for comfort is beyond even him, but his son doesn’t stay to find out. Gregory ducks his arm and dashes out of the room. By the time his internal processors have caught up, his son is long gone. His footsteps, already so quiet, are distant.

He whirls around, hurrying after Gregory.

“Gregory!” Mimic calls, covering ground faster than he ever has before. “Gregory!” Anger wells up inside him, and the worst of his two objectives is starting to win over his better judgement.

He can’t pinpoint the exact moment his son’s adoration turned to hatred, but if he had to guess, it had something to do with Vanny’s latest murder.

A child, around Gregory’s age, had gotten too close to finding out the truth. Which was a shame, because his son really seemed to like the kid. He got this sparkle in his eye whenever he talked about the kid’s antics, and his son had been listless following him being pulled from yet another school.

But the kid got too close. He stuck his nose in family matters that didn’t concern him, and no matter how happy Tony Becker made his son, his very existence threatened The Mimic’s family. And that was reason enough to destroy him.

Gregory, of course, hadn’t taken kindly to this. He raged - louder than he had today - but never at Mimic. No, he turned his attention to Vanny who eventually buckled under the pressure of a persistent pre-teen. She point-blank refused to come down into the sinkhole, making herself busy to avoid seeing Gregory.

The Mimic allowed his son to rage, sensing his grief. He remembered his own grief. How empty the factory felt in the weeks and months following David’s absence. How quiet everything was. How inbetween the silent moments he could hear Edwin, David’s father and his creator, cry out in anguish.

But that rage quickly turned on him. Their home was only so big, and he wouldn’t allow Gregory to return to school. They tried several times before, and all it did was cause heartbreak for his son and a headache for both Vanny and him. He hadn’t wanted to send him to school anyway. Surely, the Pizzaplex’s sufficient enough.

Gregory hadn’t agreed, which led to him yelling some very unkind things at Mimic. Things he never expected from his son, but, like a good father who understands his son’s plight, he allowed his son to vent his anger out. Petty words couldn’t hurt him, but then his son had to go and say the very thing - the only thing - that hurts.

I hate you.

Gregory suddenly screams. For a minute, he freezes, listening intently. And then, his son screams again and doesn’t stop. In an instant, Mimic’s mind goes blank. He’s already heading in the direction of the scream before he can formulate a plan. He doesn’t know why his son is screaming, and he doesn’t care. All he knows is that his child needs him - whether he wants to admit it or not - and every second he’s not there, protecting Gregory, is a second that he could be hurt.

That every second Mimic isn’t there is another chance for his son to leave, just like his best friend. For him to find his child’s body. Another chance for him to learn exactly how Edwin felt.

He finds Gregory, still screaming, being held by one of the Pizzaplex workers. One of the technicians (judging by the man’s uniform).

Gregory sees him first, because the technician has his back turned to The Mimic. “C’mon, kid,” he says, almost begging. “We know you did it. If you admit it now, I’m sure the company will take it easier on you.”

The Mimic sees his son, looks into his big, terrified, amber eyes, and chooses violence.

He rips Gregory from the man’s arms. The man screams, staring at The Mimic with the same terrified expression his son had just a moment ago.

The Mimic carefully places his son down behind him, ensuring the man across from him won’t have the opportunity to grab his son. Gregory bows his head, looking a lot like a disobedient puppy.

The Mimic takes a moment to pat his son’s head, allowing himself the privilege of knowing his son’s still here. Gregory lifts his head, and while he looks appropriately terrified, there’s also relief there. Like a child who’s just woken from a nightmare and found some much needed comfort.

“Who- what the hell are you?”

The man’s grating voice fuels The Mimic’s fury. He turns away from his son, but not before nudging his son to face the wall. While he isn’t a stranger to making his son watch a murder, especially as a punishment, this one time he didn’t want Gregory to watch.

He advances towards the man, taking a perverse joy in how the man seemed to tremble. It seems for every two steps the man took back, he took one step forward. It feels like a dance.

One step forward.

Two steps back.

The Mimic holds his arms out in front of him, limiting the man’s space even more.

“No!” He shouts, sending little glances over his shoulder, trying not to get boxed in. An impossibility given that the only way out is through the door, which he would have to pass Mimic to get through. He holds his hands up. “Listen, man, I didn’t know the brat-”Any joy he finds in the moment instantly evaporates. He crosses the room in mere seconds, gripping the man by his thinning hair, and beating him into the nearest wall until his face was the consistency of hamburger meat.

SPLAT!

He leaves the man there to rot (at least until Vanny disposes of him), returning to his son.

Gregory stares up at him, shaking. “I…I’m sorry.” He’s standing so close to the wall it’s almost like he’s trying to become one with it.

The Mimic laughs; his anger a distant memory. He strokes a finger over his son’s cheek, leaving behind a red streak. Gregory stiffens, feeling the familiar sticky warmth, but he doesn’t react further.

“Oh,” he mutters. “Sorry, Gregory.” With his other, cleaner hand, he wipes the stain away. “Guess I got a little carried away.”

The smile his son gives him is strained. “Thanks for saving me,” he murmurs.

“Anytime.” He straightens. “Now, time for bed.” It has been a long day, and he’s sure the week will be even longer once Gregory learns he’s not to leave the sanctuary of the sinkhole until The Mimic says so. If he’s lucky, that’ll happen around Christmas - of next year.

His son starts to pull a face, but stops himself, looking down at The Mimic’s clawed hand, still dripping with blood and brain matter.

“Okay.”

#cross posted on ao3 #mimic wednesday #fnaf au #fnaf gregory #fnaf mimic #the mimic and gregory #fnaf #fnaf fanfic #tw blood #tw mild gore #tw murder

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creativiburst · 2 years ago

Text

The Urge to Protect

Zoro x f!Reader Fluff

Tags: First kiss, Fluff, Romantic fluff, Internal Conflict, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, confessions, Budding Love

The urge to protect.

That's what Zoro felt every time he saw you in battle. You could fight, fight pretty damn well in fact. Yet, he still got in the way of enemy attacks.

'I've got this one.' He'd say, letting you off the hook with almost every enemy.

Everyone thought it was just the urge to fight more, but no. It was something about you. You weren't a fierce warrior like him or a goofy idiot like Luffy. You weren't a liar like Usopp or a witch like Nami. You… were you. Sweet. Beautiful. Everything he thought he never wanted.

His one eye drifted to the sky, thoughts of you roaming as he tried to understand what exactly he was feeling. He understood rage, fear, hatred, and pain. He understood happiness as that's what he felt as he chugged a bottle of sake at dinner. Yet… a similar happy pang hit him when he looked at you.

It tingled in him differently. His body warming up, his cheeks and hands sweating. Stomach churning as you thought about being close to you. Heart beating faster and faster after a small chat with you.

It made him avoid you. Yet he couldn't for long as he longed to hear your voice. Feel you near him as he trained. You were turning into his booze addiction.

"Marimo!" The nickname shot his attention towards the dog, eye furrowed on the blonde cook. Holding a plate of onigiris, he raised them up.

"I said I would take them Sanj!" You popped out from behind the cook, Zoro's expression immediately softening.

"A beautiful princess like you shouldn't have to be so close to a drooling monster. I can-"

"Sanji. I'm not helpless." You had shushed him with a finger, taking the plate out of his hand. The blonde had swooned, heart shapes puffing off his cigarette.

"Ahhhh! My dear Y/N! You are too kind!" Sanji cried, returning to his kitchen. Zoro watched you, onigiris in hand, as you walked down the stairs. A smile plastered on your face as you came closer.

Zoro didn't move as you offered the plate, setting it on the grass terrain below the two of you. What he didn't expect was you to sit down next to him, taking one of the onigiris and munching on it.

"Hey-" Zoro began to protest before you put up a finger to shush him.

"I helped and you didn't take one at first. So I'm having one." Your cheek was still full of rice, making your words come out weird. Zoro scoffed, grabbing a new one off the plate.

Both of you sat in silence, the presence of you being next to him making his mood improve by the second. The rice tasted sweeter with you near him, or perhaps that was the air.

"You haven't trained all day."

"Haven't felt like it." Zoro responded, woofing down the rest of his onigiri.

"Doesn't sound like you."

Zoro looked over, seeing you frown at him. He hated that frown. He hated any concerning look you had. You looked better with a smile, or staring blissfully at something.

The fact the concern was over him made it worse. He felt he should just start training to make sure you were happy. Yet, he tensed as he stopped all movement.

"Just tired." He grumbled, fighting off that urge to jump up and start swinging. Perhaps flexing on how strong he was... No! He wasn't like that!

"Perhaps I should convince Nami to get you a better bed." You tapped your chin.

"She wouldn't spend a penny on me. Besides, the hammocks are fine."

"But it could be the reason you're so tired."

"I'm fine."

"You've told me you've never missed a day of training. Why now?" Your questions were starting to pester him. Even you had some annoying qualities and Zoro, never liked being questioned.

"I don't want to right now. Get that through your thick head." Zoro gritted his teeth, closing his eye as he tensed up.

"Sorry for being worried I guess." Hearing your voice laced with hints of sadness, his attention shot up to see you leaving. He wanted to call out and apologize. Have you sit next to him and enjoy the ocean breeze with him. Yet he didn't.

Biting his tongue, he stared down at the last onigiri. He felt too sick to finish it, leaving it on the plate.

Dinner rolled by, Sanji yelling at him for the wasted onigiri. Zoro didn't feel like fighting with him, ignoring his insults. Walking out of the kitchen, he still felt sick. Hands rolled over his face, letting out a heavy sigh. You were weighing too much on him, the guilt of him even slightly making you upset was eating away. His stomach turned and turned as he held his head in his hands.

"Skipping dinner?" A voice asked from behind. Zoro looked seeing the blonde raising a curly brow.

"What does it matter to you?" Zoro hissed.

"Just not wanting to waste anymore food. Can't believe you didn't finish your onigiri! Y/N put their effort and time into those! They wouldn't let me touch one!" The cook complained, puffing out smoke from cigarette. Zoro hung on every word, feeling even worse. So you had made them... you had made the thing he loved most and didn't even let the cook touch one. Guilt poured over him.

"I just wasn't that hungry." Zoro answered, starting down that the wood that supported his weight.

"You need to see Chopper then. It's not good that your eating patterns have change so drastically." Sanji spoke.

"Don't tell me what to do." Zoro cursed, stomping away from the door. Sanji had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Zoro wasn't sick! He was just.. conflicted. Could the greatest swordsman... be conflicted? Could they have these feelings about others or would that be a weakness? Questions kept appearing, being unanswered as he fled up to the lookout.

A work out would help. It would get you off his back and get him to stop thinking.

Yet it did the opposite. His mind roamed, remembering how he first met you. How he was taken aback on how you well you fought the first time you both were in battle together. How you both had once gotten lost on an island, having to camp under the stars. How you told him your dream and how you were going to fight for it. That smile as you told him you'd support him through his dream. You were too good for him.

"There you are!" your voice called out of the blue, causing him to drop the weight was lifting. It shook the floor, Zoro staring at you with shock. You had snuck up on him, standing on the ladder to the lookout. Wearing a big grin, finally climb all the way up.

"You didn't show up to dinner so I was worried. Sanji then told me you weren't hungry so I got even more worried, but... seeing you working out puts me at ease." you explain yourself, placing your hand over your heart.

"You don't need to worry." Zoro said, turning to continue lifting the weight.

"You're my friend Zoro. I'm going to worry. Besides, you can't be the best if no one is looking out for you." you laughed softly, walking over to sit on the couch that lined the wall. Sitting down, you smiled at him. Zoro stared, letting out a small sigh exhale. Forgetting about the weight, he ploped down next to you.

"I feel sick." Zoro said, leaning his head back. He could feel you staring at him, waiting for him to say more.

"Yet... the thing that makes me sick also brings me joy. I can't stop being with this thing, and I don't want to.." cursing, he furrowed his brows. He was terrible with words. He just knew that you wouldn't never tell anyone, that his thoughts were locked securely in your mind.

"It sounds like nerves Zoro. It's completely normal, especially if this thing is so new or the joy from this thing is. I'm sure it can be distracting, but you'll master it. You're great at blocking things out! Don't let this waver you." your kind words melted him, seemingly all worry was thrown from his head. You had fate in him and that made him feel so much better. Yet...

"I don't want to block it out. I want.. I want... something." his mind trailed off as he continued to let you in, hands tapping on his knee as he did his best to search for this answer.

"Don't rush it Zoro. You'll figure it out." reaching out a hand, you patted his shoulder softly. The touch had him reeling, making him test his mental strength as he held back from grabbing it. Holding your hand in his, seeing the difference in your shape, size, texture. He wanted to know you like he knew his blades.

When you hand didn't leave, Zoro glanced over. You were staring him with a look, unfamilar to him. Soft eyes gently drifting to his face as your lips perked up slightly. He couldn't understand what you were trying to emote. You hand rubbed his shoulder gentle, causing him to shiver slightly. You noticed the shiver, unsure on whether you should pull back or push forward.

"Hey, mind giving me a massage? I'm feeling stiff." he tried to seem cool about it, as if that touch had given him the idea. Nodding in agreement, you watched as he slowly shed his top. Green sleeves fell to his hips as he made his way to sit in front of you. Your eyes burned into him, Zoro knowing you were indeed cheeking him out. You always have and he didn't mind. Slightly flexing, he could hear the soft inhale from you as he sat down. Back faced towards you, he let himself be vulurable to the only person he wanted.

Hesitant, your first touched were gentle. Fingertips barely grazing his skin, tracing the muscles that laid under. They mapped out the different sections, as if diseccting what part to focus on. Zoro meditated on your touch, feeling how his skin prickled at your fingertips. When you started to pressed into the muscles, he lowly groaned at the relief. He was so tense and didn't even realize until you started to work it out.

You clearly knew was you were doing, each movement made perfectly to rid him of the tension. Knots that had form washed away with your touch and he melted into place. His head wandered as your hands dug into him, some of it emitting a slight pain. He dealt with it, happy to just have your attention. Perhaps that's what really made him happy.

Not even realizing what you were guiding to, you moved to push him towards you. His head laid on your legs, eye opening to see you looking down at him. The sweet smile stretched accross those lips, eyes gazing almost lovingly down at him as your thumbs rolled gentle circles over his cheeks. Zoro didn't move, drinking in everything from you. You were his new alcohol and he wasn't going to waste a drop.

"Better?" you whisper, caressing his face.

"Yeah." It was almost inaudible, Zoro too relaxed to care. With his response, you brightened up. A full smile errupts on your face as you giggle with glee. He smiles back, happy to see you in such a state. A hand raises towards you, Zoro acting on instinct. Softly leading you down with a hand guiding you, he doesn't even realize what he's doing until your lips meet his. The kiss is gentle and long, neither of you moving away from each other.

Yet when you do, fear strikes him as he realizes what he had just done. Yet your face says nothing but joy, hands still on his face as you gaze down at him. Cheeks flushed and lips slightly glossy.

"Who knew you could be so soft?" you giggle at your own words, staring down at Zoro for a reaction. He's slow, but a smile approaches his lips at he chuckles.

"Guess you're the first one to figure out." he answered.

"I better be the only one after this." you laughed, bending down to place another kiss to his lips. Zoro relished in this, almost beaming with joy as you returned his affection. All the stress seemed to melt away with your touch, the sickness gone as you held him. You were the cure to the sickness you had caused. What sweet irony.

Weeks had passed by after that kiss, neither of you ready to tell the crew of what your relationship had evolved to. Besides, neither of you knew yourself. All Zoro knew is that if he wanted, he could kiss you. He could be near you and when you two were alone, he would hold you. Arms protective over your figure as you curled into him. It's all he wanted, yet he was still scared.

Scared that his feelings towards you had turned into a weakness others could exploit. You could kick ass, but the guilt from putting you in that situation wouldn't leave his mind. It wasn't something he could easily put into words, even if he took his time to explain it to you. It would just sound like he was finding an excuse to not be with you.

His swords swung, eyes furrowed on the imaginary enemy attacking him. Feeling the heavy swing of his sword, he continued meditate on the feeling.

You. You stood there, smiling at the swordsman. His blade stopped, body tensing as he stilled. The image of you staring at him had his legs go week. Blade at the neck, you didn't move.

"Mind if we talk?" you said, making him realize you weren't a figment of his mind. Pulling his blade back, he watched you with a careful eye. You had full trust he wouldn't hurt you, that he would catch himself from swinging his blade at you. Swords slid into the sheaths as he sat down on the wall closest to him. You followed, humming as you slid down next to him.

Both were quiet, your hand grazing his own. Zoro had to control his breathing as to make sure he didn't alert you to his thumping heart. Soft hands curled around the one that laid next to him, fingers feeling his calloused hands. He watched as you stared down at your hands, a smile perked onto your lips.

"I enjoy our times together." you said, looking at him with a soft glow. Zoro nodded in agreement. He stared intensely as he drank you up with his eye, completely enamoured by your looks. How your hair was done, your lips pressed into that smile, how your face seemed to glow with beauty.

"I just worry... am I going to be a distraction?" Zoro wanted to punch himself in that moment, your face growing into worry. Your sweet smile withering away. He wanted to just grab you and kiss you, to place that smile back again. Yet, he didn't.

"That's a stupid question." Zoro grumbled.

"It's important to me." another strike to his heart. God... you knew how to get through to him. He stared at you, eye studying how your smile was gone. Your eyes begging for his answer. Pulling away from your intertwined hands, he brought it up to your cheek. His thumb rubbed it gently.

"No." his voice was soft as he answered, the tension in the air fading. Seeing your face light up made his heart leap. Before he knew it, you were kissing him. Zoro relaxed, holding you close to him. Arms wrapped around to pull you close. It all felt unreal that he would be kissing someone such as yourself.

"I'll protect you." he mumbled into your lips, feeling he needed to say something more. His eye studied your face, gauging your reaction to his words. Eye flew to meet his gaze as your lips briefly hung on each other.

"I know. You always have." pressing another kiss to him, he felt your body press further into his. A hand wrapped around your waist and one on the back of your head, Zoro and you continued the soft moment without distraction. He loved you and how gentle yet rough you could be. It always amazed him how you have this talent.

He held those soft tender moments close to his heart as the days went on. He would often steal you from your bed as he was on nightwatch, having you sleep in his arms. Zoro felt better with you, knowing that if anything were to happen he'd be there within seconds. On your nightwatches, he'd sleep in your lap. The best sleep he'd ever gotten honestly. Hands stroking his hairs and rubbing soft circles on his pecs. Kisses before he slept or before you slept. It all felt so personal and dear to him. Like something he'd be yearning for, but never knew.

Yet... you both still had no idea what to label yourselves. Zoro found himself up late at night staring at the ceiling, thinking about this. You clearly were his, stopping Sanji from his flirtaious advancements almost everytime. The blonde had grumbled in confusion, but accepted that you weren't wanting anymore of his intentions. Zoro relished in this feeling, as if he won a fight.

Did you want him back though? Did you want his destructive tendencies in your life? How he would spend his days, sleeping, drinking, and training. Where would you go? He scoffed at himself. Where you always went, next to him. Whether he was doing any of these, you were by his side. Doing your own thing or joining him. He didn't care as long as he could see you.

If you both were to become something official, the crew would know. That would mean they'd stick their nose into the relationship. He'd slice them down if they tried. No patience for some of the actions his crewmates do. If together as in.. together, he would be able to hold your hand more. Be able to sleep whereever and hold you without judgement. Be able to kiss you before you went off to sleep in the girl's room. Or hell, find a spare room and steal it for the both of you. Ideas and thoughts roamed his mind as he played on the idea of making you his.

He felt so selfish as he laid in bed with these thoughts, feeling as if you had no say in what you both were tempting to become. He could just ask but, words weren't his strong suit. You had the patience to know this, asking him direct questions. Using body langauge more than words at times when words weren't enough.

Sleep that night escaped him, finding himself to the crow's nest. He was in shock to see you up there, no Robin in the nest. You waved at him, smiling ear to ear.

"Thought it was Robin's night?" he asked, a yawn overcoming him.

"I couldn't sleep so I decided to let her get some rest." you shrugged your shoulders, offering him a seat next to you. He took happily, pressing a soft kiss on your cheek as he sat.

"I couldn't sleep either. Thinking too much." he explained, wrapping his arms to pull you close to him. It was easy to just yank you to him, but he didn't, letting you come towards him. Your back against his chest, you chuckled softly as his words.

"What could you be thinking about?"

"You." He noticed as you looked up, raising a brow as you waited for some explanation. Zoro tensed, tapping his finger against his hand as he did his best to find the words to the thoughts. They felt like a jumbled mess as he sorted through it in that moment.

"Just.. you and how... we do this." he motioned with his body, squeezing tightly as to emphasize his point.

"Is there a problem with us doing this?"

"No. I just..." he grumbled, burying himself into your shoulder. Words weren't his strong point. A hand began to pet his head, you doing his best to relax him.

"Well, I like this. I like sharing my affection with you and only you. I enjoy spending these moments together with a man such as yourself. How you don't have to say a word for me to know that you care about me." you explained your feelings with ease, Zoro almost jealous about the ease of your words coming out. Pressing a kiss against your neck, he pulled you closer.

"I like it too. A lot." he mumbled, snuggling into you. "When it's you, I feel... happy."

"I'm glad I can make you feel this way Zoro." you whispered back to him, the room becoming silent as he held you. He stared out the window, seeing how you quickly drifted off in his arms. Pressing small kisses to your head, he decided in that moment he wanted everything about you to himself. He didn't care about what the crew did or thought about it. He'd find a small room for the two of you. He would make this work.

He'd become the greatest swordsman and you would be by his side.

#one piece #x reader #zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #zoro x y/n #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #writing

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werewolfghoul · 16 days ago

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Lovers to Enemies Dewfrit... Yes if you can't tell by now, I love toxic Dewfrit and I only want them to suffer. /silly

(CW for violence, torture, and general sadness/angst)

It was all his fault, after all. His beloved Ifrit had to get dragged back down to hell, leaving the band without a fire ghoul. Of course they would all turn to Dewdrop. He was perfect, he barely fit the stereotype for water ghouls. He was aggressive, he was angry, he was spiteful. Now that Ifrit was gone, no other ghoul was a better candidate.

As he laid there in that god forsaken infirmary bed, the stench of his own burning flesh filling the room, he seethed. He thought and he cried and he slammed his fists into the walls then he thought again and cried and the cycle continued to repeat. Ifrit. Ifrit, Ifrit, IFRIT. He was all Dewdrop could think about. All his newly distorted mind could think of. He was so doped up on steroids he would see red any time he thought of that ghoul.

A ghoul he loved. A ghoul he used to cuddle with and talk about their future together with. A ghoul he actually wanted to have kits and a family with someday. Everything seemed so peaceful. Then he fucking left. He got up and left, he was ripped away and Dewdrop had nothing and nobody to blame but Ifrit. He shakily breathed before his throat ripped open with a scream, his fist once again colliding with the infirmary wall. His voice was hoarse and his knuckled were bruised and bloody.

All of this was his fault. Dewdrop's rage-fueled mind couldn't comprehend how this couldn't have been one specific individual's fault. No. No, no, no. All his pain, his suffering, his flesh being seared, his body ripping and reforming itself, his brain feeling like it was melting from his own internal temperature, his fins being burnt off, ALL of it. All of it could have been avoided if that fucking ghoul just stayed. Ifrit left. Ifrit left him.

Dewdrop slumped against the wall, his forehead pressed against the cold concrete. He just whimpered and sobbed. He couldn't do anything else. He was locked in this accursed room, strapped to medical machinery, some of which was now ripped out from his outburst. He looked down at his hands, his knuckled scratched and coated in blood. His lip quivered as he connected his own two hands, holding them as if someone else was.

As if Ifrit was.

He felt like he couldn't go on.

Weeks passed, every day becoming easier. Every day Dewdrop became more accustomed to the torture, to his new element. Every day forgetting the previous fire ghoul became easier, too. The lingering feelings he had had went up in smoke just like everything else of his had. All that remained was a flicker of what they had. A fling, is all he could regard it as. He spent his time thinking about rituals, about what he should be doing instead of what his heart wanted. Some days he even would forget previous ghouls' names. His transformation had made everything so foggy. All he remembered was the burning hatred he had.

All he remembered was the jealousy held. He remembered how he was always inferior to Ifrit -- what was his name? He should know this, but he didn't. Whatever. It doesn't matter now. None of it does.

Dewdrop, Copia's very own fire ghoul. The only fire ghoul the ever mattered. He would make sure of that.

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ravenn1 · 3 months ago

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Okay so like—maybe I snapped. Maybe I had one too many matcha lattes and accidentally opened the comments section. My bad. But why is the internet so obsessed with turning every female creator into a public property with a user manual? I swear, the moment a girl dares to glow up, speak up, clap back, or—God forbid—get a boob job, people act like she burned the constitution. And I’m just sitting here, with my emotional support hoodie and a rage migraine, wondering: when did we decide that personal growth is betrayal? When did female autonomy become public offense? Why is every girl online either a saint or a sellout? No in-between. I’m so over this. Like fully, aggressively, “make-an-essay-and-quote-it-on-Tumblr” over this. So here. Enjoy the thesis, besties.

On Clara Dao:

The Clara Dao discourse reveals more about the public’s unresolved projection complex than it does about Clara herself. To dissect the backlash through a lens of socio-psychological behavior, it becomes evident that many individuals tethered their own body image recovery journey to her personal choices—creating a parasocial dependence wherein her perceived authenticity was conflated with collective healing. Her decision to undergo a breast augmentation is not a betrayal of self-love or naturalism; it is, in fact, an embodiment of bodily autonomy. One can embrace radical acceptance and still wish to edit aspects of themselves—not out of internalized hatred, but nuanced self-direction. Growth, as both a scientific and emotional phenomenon, is non-linear. To accuse her of being a hypocrite is to deny her personhood and human complexity. Clara was never a brand; she is a breathing person. And persons are allowed to evolve.

Moreover, this demand for moral constancy—this insatiable appetite to freeze influencers in the era they first rose to fame—suggests a subconscious resistance to female transformation. Particularly transformations that involve power, visibility, and desire. Clara’s aesthetic change becomes threatening not because she lied (she didn’t), but because she dared to want more. Her platform may have helped others love their bodies, but that never meant she signed a social contract to remain unchanged for the sake of public comfort. This expectation is both emotionally parasitic and ethically absurd. The truth is, Clara Dao owes no one the stagnation of her former self. She owes only herself the permission to evolve.

On Lala Sadi:

The vitriol toward Lala Sadi reeks of performative moralism disguised as cultural critique. What people call “inauthentic” or “too much” is actually a coded rejection of female enthusiasm, exuberance, and non-linear emotional narratives. We live in a digital ecosystem where a woman being loud, passionate, or dramatic is criminalized under the pretense of “annoyance” or “dishonesty”—as if performativity isn’t the nature of content creation itself. Lala’s content has matured. Her voice now holds more depth, more self-awareness, and yet she remains unapologetically herself—which, ironically, is exactly what everyone demanded of her. But when real emotion doesn’t align with the public’s projection of what “real” should look like, they call it fake. She was never a liar. People just don't know what it means to be a full, layered, chaotic woman on the internet.

On Apoorva Mukhija:

Apoorva Mukhija, or “The Rebel Kid,” is not the villain of her narrative—she is its most brutal casualty. What occurred on that stage was not “banter” or “harmless teasing.” It was a microcosm of a deeply embedded misogynistic power dynamic, where a woman reacting at all becomes a moral infraction. The way her assertiveness was reframed into aggression reveals society’s deeply conditioned fear of the angry woman—a woman who speaks up, who doesn’t laugh off humiliation, who doesn’t self-deprecate to cushion male egos. The threats she received—death, rape, acid—are not just online “hate.” They are gendered terrorism. They are meant to frighten women into silence and submission. This isn't drama. This is the digital enactment of patriarchal control.

Furthermore, the hypocrisy here is bone-deep. When men clap back or “roast” others on the internet, they’re crowned as clever and bold. When women do it, especially in response to something violating, they’re painted as vindictive and attention-seeking. Apoorva didn’t attack someone for the sake of virality—she defended herself when disrespected publicly. And yet somehow, her defense became the crime. This is moral distortion at its finest. It’s the public convincing itself that women must earn the right to be angry. That women must be pleasantly oppressed. What people wanted wasn’t an apology—they wanted to punish her for not making herself smaller in a moment that demanded strength.

Finally, let us speak of the silence. The influencers, the male creators, the audience that laughed or stayed quiet or rebranded their complicity as neutrality. Their indifference was not passive—it was violently loud. Apoorva stood alone. She was devoured for breaking character in a play that demands women smile through pain. But she didn’t. And that, more than anything, was her crime. That she refused to be a good girl. That she raised her voice, stood her ground, and exposed an entire system with one moment of unapologetic fire.

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 2 years ago

Note

*points a microphone as if i was a news reporter*

“monsieur rollo, monsieur rollo! a moment of your time please~ is this school exchange teaching you some things? mind telling us your thoughts, let us in your head awhile~?”

*shoves the mic further into his face annoyingly — definitely on purpose too, to see his reaction.*

The way TWST EN localized some of Rollo’s non-punny JP lines has made me think he’s a fan of dry humor and/or makes the worst puns possible but says it in a super serious tone 😭

Like Fire, Hellfire.

The cold metal of the microphone pressed uncomfortably into Rollo's cheek, in the area right between his chin and the corner of his mouth. The infamous handkerchief won’t be coming to his rescue anytime soon, you snickered internally. A devil on your left shoulder, and a second devil on your right.

You were in the mood for making mischief today.

“Excuse me, you’re a bit too close for comfort…” He tried to gracefully put distance between you and himself—but his back hit the wall of the main school building. To Rollo’s annoyance, you only advanced, further encroaching on his space.

Wearing a dumb, broad smile, you twisted your mic, intentionally digging it further into his skin. Goading him. Your voice was a steady whine as you repeated your questions.

His reaction—would it be as explosive as you had hoped? Would he just grimace and shoo you away? You so desperately wanted to push his buttons and get your answer (or, as Ace so poetically put it, "fuck around and find out").

Realizing he was effectively cornered, Rollo clenched his teeth behind closed lips (you noticed a little muscle in his jaw feathering) and straightened his robes. Pressing a finger to the mic, he lowered it from his face and pushed it back toward you. The entire time, his expression was the picture of calm, relaxed.

But his eyes—oh, his eyes—told an entirely different story. They smoldered with the flare of an intense emotion. The longer you look, the more powerful it grows, swelling into a raging inferno of hatred.

He must be thinking about exploding me with his mind or something!! you thought excitedly. Now if only you could coax that reaction to the surface—

“… You must be a member of the school’s Newspaper Club,” he said. Polite, discreet, calculated. Clearly considering his public image. “I’ve seen you in walking around campus and thrusting a camera in students’ faces as well.”

“Kinda! My unofficial job’s to record all the interesting happenings on and off campus—and you’re of great interest to us and our reader base, Monsieur Rollo!” You rocked back and forth on the balls of your feet. “C’mon, the people are dying to know! Spill the tea. What’s shakin’, bacon?

Rollo took one look at you, then at your waiting mic, which you wielded like a weapon.

“… Your appetite, clearly,” he said dryly. Then, weaving his fingers together at your lack of a reaction, he continued, “There is not much to tell. Quality instructors and facilities… Night Raven College is just as excellent of a learning institution as they say it is. There is good reason for it to be considered the highest standard for other arcane academies to follow. Anyone fortunate enough to attend this school is sure to have a most charmed education.”

He’s just saying the generic nice things he thinks everyone wants to hear! It’s like he’s reading off of a NRC school brochure…!

“Oh, I’m sure there’s gotta be something juicy to share! Maybe you have an old score to settle with some known faces on campus?” you asked, wiggling you brows suggestively. “You know, a heated rivalry? A blood feud? Sworn vengeance?”

Rollo deadpanned. The angry fire in his eyes hissed. “I’m not certain what you’re referring to. I have only ever encountered gentlemen here on campus.”

It was, perhaps, the biggest lie Rollo had ever uttered.

How many times had he brandished his handkerchief to disguise his disgust? How many times had he turned the other cheek when he wanted nothing more than to unleash his fury upon some miscreant mage? How many times had he snapped, like crackling fire?

You stared at him doubtfully.

“Hmmm. Maybe I’m not asking the right things,” you mused, rolling your next inquiry around on your tongue. “You’ve told me about your general experience and your feelings on your classmates. What’s the biggest takeaway from this whole school exchange?”

There was a pause.

Fire, assuming a new form.

When he speaks again, his voice is solemn yet resolute. Like the toll of a great bell.

Each word carefully selected, only the ripest and most ready of grapes plucked from the vine which they hung. (He imagined flattening you like one for your insolence, for forcing him to speak positively of NRC, and the gruesome image granted him fleeting solace.)

“… I am now cognizant that there is a vast difference between myself and the students of Night Raven College. Truly, this experience has been most humbling.”

Rollo thoughtfully rubbed at the red gemstone set in his ring. The motion seemingly placated the fire scorching in his expressionless face.

It wasn’t an untruth, he reasoned. Indeed, this whole charade had been a wake-up call, exposing him to the full extent of the evil brewing at this institution. Observing the enemy up-close had been extremely enlightening.

He had so much farther to go if he wished to extinguish it all.

“More than ever, I realize I must dedicate my efforts to closing that gap. As student council president, it falls upon my shoulders to lead my peers. Noble Bell College will not lose in its endeavor to live up to the spirit for which is stands for, and in educating the youth of tomorrow.”

He expels a puff of air—as if he had been holding it in all this time. “That is all I have to say on the matter. Then, if you will pardon me, I must be on my way to my next lecture…”

Before even waiting for your response, Rollo started to briskly walk away.

“H-Hey, wait!! Get back here!! This interview isn’t over yet…!”

“Really, you ought to not stick your nose in others’ affairs. A reputable reporter knows when to not press their interviewers,” he tuts.

“I haven’t even gotten HALF of my scoop yet!! Quit holdin’ out on me, will ya?!”

You hurried after him, your protests and pleas wafting up into the crisp day.

#twst #twisted wonderland #Rollo Flamme #twst interactions #twisted wonderland interactions #disney twisted wonderland #Rollo at the Writing Desk #Reader #self insert

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impossiblescissorspeachpaper · 2 years ago

Text

The Heart of a Wanderer V

Emissary

Read the previous part here

A/N: Just a baby update this time but the next chapter is shaping up to be a little chonkier (for my standards, anyway). Also, the next chapter is Azriel's POV 👀

1.8k words.

“This must be Beron’s work.”

“How can you be so sure? Eris-”

“You let your hatred of Eris blind you to the obvious, brother.”

“And you let your foolish naivety of his perceived alliance blind you to his true colours.”

The two Illyrian’s glowered at each other from opposite ends of the long table, the chamber thrust into a state of weighted, stubborn silence. Elain’s eyes darted back and forth between Rhys’ quiet confidence, his face not revealing a glimmer of emotion as he lounged in his ornate chair lazily, and Azriel’s icy rage, glimmering harshly just below the surface of his skin but always stalwartly kept in check.

He never let himself lose control of his feelings, never let anyone see what lay beneath his handsome features, but for Azriel’s standards, he was currently downright livid. He remained still as a statue, his fingertips resting on the cool surface of that obsidian table, his torso hunched over slightly, his mighty wings half unfurled and tense as they quivered at his back.

“This is Beron’s work,” Rhys repeated, each word punctuated by a pointed pause.

Azriel clicked his tongue in dismay and straightened, his wings snapping in tightly with the sudden movement.

“Maybe so, but it still poses the question; why has Eris not told you of it? He is General of his father’s armies, is he not? I’m sure we would have heard if he had been demoted. Elain saw the hounds attacking, they are Eris’ hounds. Do not attempt to tell me he has no knowledge of his father’s movements when his armies were witnessed to be involved,” Azriel countered coolly.

Rhys considered him for a moment, his mind thinking over all the possibilities before Azriel’s harsh voice rang out in the chamber again.

“My attention has been cast over the sea for too long, I failed to see the uprising happening in our own backyard,” the Shadowsinger ground out, a note of self-hatred lining his words.

Elain wanted to reach out to him, let him know it wasn’t his fault. She wanted to comfort him; she knew Azriel would be taking the knowledge of this information as a failure on his part for not finding it out sooner. But she refrained from moving to him, fisting the hand that itched to reach for him in the skirts of her gown instead.

“I requested you dispatch yourself on the Continent, Azriel. This is in no way your fault.”

The Continent. So that’s where Azriel had been the last week, and most likely not his first reconnaissance mission there either, by the sounds of it. Elain wondered what he was doing there, whom he had been watching and spying on. Were they still keeping tabs on Kochei throughout his silence? Elain internally chastised herself. She had been gone for so long, she should have asked Rhys and Feyre on more details about this upon her return, about what the latest murmurings were from that entire mess.

“It is my duty as Spymaster of the Night Court to know the movements of our enemies.”

“Eris is not our enemy,” Rhys countered.

“That, perhaps, is still up for debate,” Azriel responded stubbornly, “but Beron is.”

Rhys hummed in agreeance, conceding that point to his brother.

“I’ll call upon Eris to meet with us at once. Get to the bottom of this issue,” Rhys uttered, before turning to her and concluding, “Thank you, Elain, for this information.”

It sounded like a dismissal. Elain was confused. They had been squabbling about Eris and Beron when there was clearly a more pressing issue at hand.

She watched Rhys as he stood from his chair, her eyes wide and glued to her sister’s mate. “Should we not warn the inhabitants of the Spring Court?” she blurted. “Even if their High Lord remains incapacitated. There are innocent fairies in those lands.”

Elain thought of all the kind folk she had met on her travels, all the citizens of each territory, blindly being swept up in the greedy schemes of those more powerful than them. Elain’s eyes darted between Rhysand and Azriel, both remaining unnervingly still after she had spoken.

Rhys hesitated, having the consciousness of mind to look marginally remorseful. Azriel looked upon her with something akin to sympathy. Her brow furrowed. Elain had written to Rhys about this, months ago. They people of Spring were scared, concerned. He knew.

“Elain… before we discuss this with Eris, we cannot make any moves that may show our hand. If we warn Tamlin and the Spring Court of this possibility, it can fracture our delicate ties with Autumn. Eris may see this as a slight and we need him on our side,” Rhysand placated, explaining the situation to her carefully, his eyes willing her to understand.

Elain’s ears rang, a cold sensation slithering down into the pit of her stomach. Her heart thundered against her ribcage; he couldn’t be serious... All that destruction! All that blood! Beron would take that territory by force, she knew it, she had seen it.

“You truly do not intend to help all those innocent people? They have done nothing wrong!” Her voice came out high, panicked, but strong.

“Sometimes, Rhysand, it is worth risking those tenuous treaties. Particularly when those you believe you are… allied with, act in a manner that may tell you they perhaps wish not to be,” Azriel said somewhat pointedly.

Again, Elain’s eyes were left to volley back and forth as the Illyrians stared daggers at one another. There was clearly some tension between the two, which seemed to have stemmed from a time prior to this meeting. Azriel was concerned with the contents of her vision, she knew it troubled him, but there seemed to be something else they were disagreeing on…

She wondered what that could be about, before she got tired of their male posturing. Elain pierced Rhysand with a look, ensuring her voice rang out confidently, ricocheting strongly off the dark stone walls. “There are many faeries in those parts that have nothing to do with any alliances or political games. You will just let them die in the crossfire? And if he succeeds, what is there to then stop Beron from going further? Taking Spring and in turn marching his armies into human lands.”

Rhys peeled his violet eyes away from his brother, Azriel standing still as a statue at her side, having not taken his icy glare off his High Lord. Lesser males would have crumpled under the weight of that stare. Rhysand, however, withstood it, matching his brother’s cold mask with his own.

“We are stretched thin as it is, Elain. We cannot call armies into the Spring court at the moment. Not with everything else happening across Illyria and the Continent,” Rhys countered, though she could hear the strain behind his even voice. He didn’t like that decision, but…he saw that he had little choice otherwise. He was pulled taught between his territory and his duty, and what was right; for the greater good. The curse of a High Lord.

“So, call for help, you have friends Rhysand. You always forget you do. You have true allies and comrades across Prythian, call for guidance, call for another opinion, but I have been given this information for a reason. And I’m sure this vision was shown to me as a warning, for us to act, not to sit on our behinds and let it come to fruition!”

Azriel’s earlier words regarding her power rang clear in her mind, and from the corner of her eye she could see a glimmer of pride in his expression as he witnessed her plight. It made something inside of her glow with pride for herself. She was fighting. She was doing something right.

Rhys’ gaze raked over her again, like it had when they were standing in Azriel’s bathroom, when he had regarded her with intrigue after winnowing such a long distance, searching her face for something she knew not. He tilted his head in consideration, his violet eyes flickering before he responded to her heated argument.

“You’re right, Elain. I grew so used to being the feared High Lord of Night for so many centuries, I forget that I have exposed what lies beneath the mask. I will reach out to Helion, but it will have to wait a few days due to some pressing meet- “

“No!” Elain cut in desperately. All those innocent faeries! They could not wait to act on this, she couldn’t know for sure how soon this attack could take place, but she knew it wouldn’t be far off. “I can go.”

“Go?” Rhysand questioned; his handsome face twisted into a look of surprise.

“To Helion. I can go to the Day Court and speak to him. We came to…know each other better when I was visiting in his court months ago. I know he will graciously welcome me back.”

Azriel regarded her with suspicious eyes, one brow hitched on his forehead at her words. She glanced toward him before looking away quickly. She needn’t share with them about the intricate details of her travels abroad. But she was certain Helion would welcome her to his palace again. Even though it would be business this time, rather than pleasure.

“I can go with her,” Azriel cut in, before his High Lord could object to her offer. She nodded her head in thanks, grateful that Azriel had her back, believed in her cause. Rhys’ piercing eyes darted to his brother.

“Very well, Elain. Go to Helion, tell him of what you’ve seen. Ask him his advice for what moves he would make next. But please ensure his discretion. I do not trust this information in anyone else’s hands. At least not until I have had a chance to confront Eris.”

Elain breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she regaled.

Rhys merely inclined his head. “I should thank you. Emissary to the Night Court has proven to be a difficult position to keep filled. Perhaps I had been overlooking the most suitable person for the job this entire time.”

Elain startled slightly at the words of praise coming from her brother-in-law. That he saw her capable, trusted her with such an important mission.

“I will represent your Court with utmost respect, Rhysand,” she answered, her head held high.

“I have no doubt you will,” Rhys replied with a small smile. “You should head home. Leave tomorrow after you have prepared. You’ll both need rest.”

Rhys eyed Azriel pointedly, the Shadowsinger nodding his head curtly in response to whatever silent order the High Lord had surely given him. Sweeping his hazel gaze across the cold chamber once more Azriel silently extended a scarred hand toward her. Elain clasped his fingers in hers as he once again allowed his shadows to engulf them, winnowing them both home.

*******

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#elriel fanfic #t writes #elriel #elain archeron #azriel #acotar #elriel fic #the heart of a wanderer #THOAW #acotar fanfiction #elain x azriel

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