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novaursa · 10 months ago

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Chasing the Inferno

- Summary: It was during Rhaenyra’s and Laenor’s wedding feast, that the king noticed something he was blind to for far too long.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Harwin Strong

This whole work is inspired by this brilliant anonymous ask:

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, has striking resemblance to her late grandmother Alyssa and is younger sister of Rhaenyra. These events happen after The Flames We Hide. To read all the chapters in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 3 532

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The evening air carries the scents of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fresh flowers into the grand hall, mingling with the vibrant sounds of revelry. The hall is a living tapestry of silks, banners, and candlelight, casting everything in hues of crimson and gold. A sea of finely dressed lords and ladies flows beneath the arched ceiling, the thrumming heart of the grand wedding feast of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon.

You arrive with the grace and splendor expected of a Targaryen princess, a vision that commands the attention of every eye that lands on you. The dress you wear is a rich deep plum, the color of ripened plums at dusk, lined with golden thread that shimmers in the light. The sleeves are long and bell-shaped, flowing with each movement, while the bodice is tightly laced with intricate embroidery of dragons in flight. Around your neck, a delicate chain bears a pendant of a dragon curled around a glittering ruby—a gift from your father. Your silver hair is braided in intricate patterns, falling down your back with hints of shimmering ribbons intertwined through each strand.

You sit beside Rhaenyra at the high table, your twin sister glowing with happiness under her finely woven veil. She leans toward you with a playful smirk. “I see you’ve decided to steal the attention for yourself tonight, Y/N. Not even the newlywed princess is safe from your charms.”

You laugh softly, returning her smirk. “It’s not stealing, dearest sister, merely borrowing for the evening.” Your eyes flick toward the bustling crowd, scanning the faces, seeking a particular one even as you engage in idle conversation.

You find him across the hall—Ser Harwin Strong, the Breakbones, the man who has captured your heart in ways you would never openly admit. His broad shoulders and easy smile cut a striking figure amidst the revelers. He leans against a pillar, eyes fixed on you with a heat that makes your pulse quicken. Even from here, you can feel the intensity of his gaze, the unspoken challenge in those dark eyes. A smirk pulls at your lips. Tonight is not just about celebrating your sister’s marriage—it is a dance, a game of fire and shadow that you and Harwin have played many times before.

As the feast progresses, the lords and ladies rise from their seats, drawn to the center of the hall where the dancing begins. You stand, gracefully gliding down the steps, the train of your gown trailing like liquid night behind you. Many lords vie for your attention, each more eager than the last to have the honor of a dance with the daughter of the King.

You indulge them—one by one, offering your hand with a practiced smile that promises nothing but amusement. Lord Beesbury twirls you first, his steps light but unremarkable. Lord Tyrell is next, his flattery sweet yet forgettable. Each time the music swells, you shift, gliding seamlessly into the arms of another suitor, all while casting sly glances over your shoulder to see if Harwin is watching.

And he is. His eyes never leave you, following every step, every spin, the set of his jaw tightening each time you turn away just as he moves closer. You can feel his impatience building like a storm, the tension of the game heightening with every dance.

Finally, after what feels like endless teasing, you find yourself caught in a whirl of movement, spinning until you are only steps away from him. Harwin’s expression is a mix of hunger and frustration as he makes his move to claim you at last.

But just as his hand reaches for yours, you slip away, turning instead into the arms of a young knight from the Westerlands, offering him a dazzling smile that is only for show. “My, Ser Harwin, are you growing weary of this dance already?” you tease, your voice lilting as you catch his gaze. You can see the fire in his eyes, a silent vow that he will not let you slip away so easily next time.

When the dance ends, the Westerlander knight bows low, eyes filled with admiration as he releases you. And as you turn, Harwin is there—closer than before, a step ahead of any other. This time, you do not pull away when his hand grasps yours, his grip firm and warm, sending a shiver down your spine. His voice is low, rough with suppressed desire, as he murmurs into your ear. “Do you truly believe you can keep running from me, Y/N?”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a smirk as you meet his gaze fully, violet and brown heat clashing. “Run, Ser Harwin? I am only leading the chase.”

Without giving him the satisfaction of a response, you spin away from him, the hem of your dress sweeping across the floor as you are swallowed back into the crowd. You glance back over your shoulder just long enough to catch the frustration in his expression before disappearing into the throng of lords and ladies once more. Harwin will catch you like he always does—of that you have no doubt. The thrill is in making him work for it.

But for now, the game continues, and you savor every moment of it.

The night is young, and so are you—dragon-blooded and bold, playing with fire and reveling in the heat that comes with it.

The music swells, a lively tune that fills the hall with mirth and energy, but it does little to settle the unease that creeps into King Viserys’ chest. Seated at the high table, he holds a goblet of wine, though he has barely touched it. His gaze drifts from one side of the room to the other, watching the mingling guests, the lords and ladies spinning in intricate dances. Yet his eyes keep returning to the center of the hall, where Rhaenyra and Daemon move together with a fluid grace that borders on impropriety.

His brow furrows as he watches them—his daughter and his brother. The distance between them is too narrow, the smiles exchanged too familiar. Even now, after all these years, Viserys cannot fully discern what lies behind those shared glances. His hand tightens on the armrest of his seat, his knuckles whitening with the effort to maintain composure. The court is watching; he cannot afford to let his concerns show. Not here. Not tonight.

But then, from the corner of his eye, something else catches his attention—a flash of deep plum silk, a braid of silver hair glinting in the candlelight. His eyes shift, narrowing as he tracks the movement, and there you are, his younger daughter, Y/N, weaving through the crowd with that same effortless grace, the very image of your late mother Alyssa in her youth.

Viserys watches as you glide from one partner to the next, a playful smile ever present on your lips. Each lord who steps forward is charmed, entranced even, but there is one figure whose presence never strays far from your orbit—Ser Harwin Strong. The son of his current Hand, a man known for his strength and loyalty, but also for the intensity of his gaze, a gaze that now rests solely on you.

Viserys leans forward slightly, frowning as he observes the exchange unfolding before him. Harwin moves closer, clearly intent on catching you, and you—ever the playful one—tease him with fleeting glances, spinning just out of his reach each time he draws near. The way your eyes gleam with mischief, the way you turn your back only to glance over your shoulder at him, invites more than just a dance. It’s a game, and one that is all too familiar to Viserys, who remembers his own youth, and the thrill of such pursuits.

But then Harwin catches you. His large hand wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, closer than what is proper for a dance in front of the entire court. Your laughter rings out like silver bells, light and teasing as you push back against him, yet the way Harwin’s hand lingers—fingers splayed possessively against the silk of your gown—does not escape your father’s notice. The look on Harwin’s face is far too unguarded, a mixture of admiration and longing that sends a jolt of concern racing through Viserys.

Viserys’ chest tightens as he watches you lean in, saying something that makes Harwin’s smile sharpen, though the words are lost to the music and laughter that fills the hall. Then, just as quickly as he caught you, you slip away again, your skirts swirling as you twirl out of his grasp, leaving Harwin standing in the middle of the floor with a look of mingled frustration and desire. The scene plays out before Viserys like a vivid memory, like something he should have noticed sooner, something he should have acted upon long before tonight.

His eyes narrow as he follows the thread of events with growing unease. You laugh and dance your way out of the hall, light-footed and swift, and though Harwin remains behind for a few moments, his gaze tracks you with the keen eye of a falcon. Then, as discreetly as he can manage, Harwin moves toward the exit, following you.

Viserys’ grip on his goblet tightens until he fears it might shatter in his hand. He remains rooted to his seat, unwilling to cause a scene, yet the implications churn in his mind like a dark tide. The daughter who bears his blood, a Targaryen of pure lineage, slipping away with the son of his Hand? It is unthinkable—and yet, Viserys cannot ignore the undeniable connection between the two of you. The way you moved in tandem, how easily you played off one another as if you were two parts of a whole. It stirs something in Viserys, a deep-seated dread that this could lead to something more—something he has not prepared for.

His gaze shifts, and he meets the eyes of Lord Lyonel Strong. The Hand is seated farther down the table, looking distinctly uncomfortable, as though he too is aware of the precarious position his son is placing him in. When their eyes lock, Viserys does not miss the brief flash of unease in Lyonel’s expression, followed quickly by a nod of acknowledgment, as if to say he understands what Viserys is thinking. And, undoubtedly, he does.

The memory rushes back, clear as day—months ago, when Lyonel Strong came to him with a proposition a second time. “Your Grace,” Lyonel had said, his voice steady and filled with the gravity of a man who understood the weight of his words, “there are many fine matches to be made for your daughter, Y/N, from prominent houses across the realm. But I would humbly suggest that what my son Harwin offers may be worth more than mere lineage. His devotion to the princess is unwavering, and his love is without question. He would be a husband who honors her above all else, a union built on something deeper than mere alliances.”

At the time, Viserys had dismissed the notion—politely, but firmly. His daughter was a Targaryen, and surely she deserved a match that would strengthen their house politically, not merely satisfy matters of the heart. Yet now, watching the scene unfold before him, Viserys finds himself second-guessing his decision. Could there be merit in such a match after all? Could Lyonel’s words hold more truth than Viserys had been willing to see? But then again, to allow such a thing would be to acknowledge a love affair that has clearly grown far beyond simple courtly affection.

Viserys’ thoughts whirl, torn between the duty of a king and the love of a father. He knows that if he raises the matter now, it could cast a shadow over the entire evening, drawing unwelcome attention to something that should remain hidden, if only for the sake of peace. And yet, can he afford to remain silent, knowing the path that such unchecked desire could lead his daughter down? His gaze flicks back to the entrance where you vanished, and a part of him itches to rise from his seat, to go after you and demand answers.

But he stays rooted in place, forced into inaction by the eyes of the court and the weight of his crown. Instead, his gaze returns to Lyonel, and he sees the older man swallow nervously before looking away, clearly wishing to be anywhere else. The tension between them is palpable, unspoken yet undeniable.

Viserys takes a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. The decision he makes next could have lasting consequences, for both you and the realm. As the music swells and the laughter of the court continues around him, the king’s mind churns, trapped in a web of duty, love, and fear.

For now, he decides to wait—he will watch, and if Harwin oversteps again, then the matter will be brought to light. But the seed of doubt has already taken root in Viserys’ heart, and it will not be easily dismissed.

The night is long, but Viserys’ thoughts are longer still.

You slip through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, your heart thrumming in your chest as you make your way deeper into its shadowed recesses. The sound of music and laughter fades behind you as you reach a secluded passage, hidden away from the eyes of the court. This path is familiar, a secret shared only between the two of you. You’ve met here before, during stolen moments when the weight of duty and the eyes of others became too much to bear. The flickering torchlight casts long shadows along the stone walls, giving the space an almost dreamlike quality. Yet there is nothing dreamlike about the tension that crackles in the air as you wait, anticipation coiling like a serpent beneath your skin.

Footsteps echo faintly down the passage, the heavy tread unmistakable. A smirk tugs at your lips as you press your back against the cool stone, the thrill of the chase still buzzing in your veins. He always catches you in the end; it’s a part of the game, a part of the dance you both know so well. You hear him approach, his steps purposeful, a hunter closing in on his prey. You hold your breath, relishing the thrill of being caught, knowing what comes next.

And then he’s there—Ser Harwin Strong, towering and fierce, the firelight casting sharp angles across his rugged features. He looks at you with that smoldering gaze, dark and intense, his chest heaving as he closes the distance between you. “You run from me as if you ever wanted to get away,” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

You don’t reply with words, only a wicked smile that dares him to come closer. And he does, with a predatory grace, until his body is pressed against yours, trapping you between the stone wall and his broad chest. “Caught you,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw while the other grips your waist possessively.

Before you can retort, his lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s all fire and hunger, the pent-up tension of the night spilling over as he devours you with a need that’s impossible to hide. You kiss him back with equal fervor, fingers tangling in his dark curls as you pull him closer, desperate to close the distance that’s been kept between you all night. Every touch, every bite and nip, is laced with the emotions you can’t express openly—a love too dangerous to voice in the light of day, but undeniable in moments like this.

Harwin’s hands roam over your body with a familiarity that sends heat pooling in your core. He tugs at the laces of your gown, his fingers rough but practiced, until the fabric loosens and falls away, exposing the soft skin of your neck and shoulders. You gasp against his lips as he nips at your throat, the scrape of his teeth drawing a moan from your lips. His own garments follow suit—his tunic and belt discarded hastily, the sound of cloth hitting stone echoing faintly in the small space.

The air between you crackles with a desperate need, the kind that’s built up over countless stolen moments, secret touches, and longing glances. There’s no pretense here, no titles or duties—only the raw, unfiltered connection between you. Harwin’s hands slide down your waist, gripping your hips firmly as he lifts you, pressing you harder against the wall. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, gasping as you feel him against you, hard and ready. The anticipation coils tightly in your belly, every nerve alive with want.

His eyes meet yours for a fleeting moment, and in them, you see everything he can’t say aloud—devotion, desire, and the promise that he would burn the world for you if you asked. But words are unnecessary now. You reach down, guiding him until he’s pressed right where you need him most. There’s a brief, charged pause—a moment where everything hangs on the edge—and then he pushes into you in one smooth, powerful motion.

The world tilts, pleasure and need blurring everything else as he sets a rhythm, hard and fast, the way he knows you both like it. It’s familiar and yet never loses its edge—each thrust, each gasp, sending sparks of electricity through you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, biting down on the rough skin to muffle your cries, while his own growls of pleasure vibrate against your ear. His hands grip you tightly, fingers digging into your flesh as he moves, driving into you with a force that leaves you breathless.

But it’s not just the physical pleasure that binds you in this moment. It’s the intimacy, the shared understanding that this is where you both belong—together, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world. Here, you are not a princess, and he is not merely the son of the Hand. Here, you are simply two people who have found something rare and precious, something that defies the rules of the world you live in.

He kisses you again, slower this time, a searing heat beneath the tenderness as he deepens the connection between you. Your bodies move in sync, finding that perfect rhythm that drives you both higher, closer to the edge. You can feel it building, a tightening coil of pleasure that threatens to snap at any moment. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, a desperate plea, and he responds with your name in kind, low and reverent.

The world narrows to just the two of you—the heat of his body, the rough press of stone at your back, the intoxicating scent of sweat and desire. And then, with one final thrust, the tension breaks, pleasure crashing over you like a wave, drowning you in bliss. Harwin follows a heartbeat later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep, his body trembling with the force of his release.

For a long moment, neither of you move, the air thick with the aftermath of your passion. You stay entwined, foreheads pressed together as you catch your breath, your heartbeats slowing in tandem. His hands are still on you, holding you as if he’s afraid you might slip away even now. And for a moment, the world is quiet, all worries and responsibilities forgotten in the haze of sated desire.

But reality is never far away. Slowly, you both come back to yourselves, and he reluctantly pulls back, letting you slide down until your feet touch the ground once more. There’s a flicker of regret in his eyes, a wish that this moment could last longer, but he says nothing as he helps you adjust your gown, his touch gentle now.

You smooth down your skirts, fixing your hair with a practiced ease, though the flush of your skin and the brightness in your eyes would give you away to anyone who looked closely enough. Harwin lingers, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a soft, almost reverent caress. “You always make me chase you,” he murmurs, his voice laced with fondness.“

And you always catch me,” you reply, the smile on your lips tinged with affection. “Perhaps I simply enjoy the chase.”

He chuckles, but there’s a seriousness in his gaze as he cups your face in his hands, holding you still for a moment longer. “One day, I won’t let you run again,” he says quietly, the promise heavy in the air.

You don’t answer, not with words. Instead, you lean up to kiss him one last time, slow and lingering, tasting the bittersweet mix of what you have and what you cannot yet fully claim. When you pull away, you give him a final smile before slipping out of the shadows and back into the world where duty and decorum await.

Harwin remains behind, watching you go with a look that holds both longing and resolve. He knows this is far from over.

#house of the dragon #hotd harwin #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd x you #harwin x reader #harwin x y/n #harwin x you #harwin breakbones #ser harwin #harwin strong #rhaenyra targaryen #hotd viserys #viserys targaryen

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failbettergames · 1 year ago

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any games you'd recommend? could be for any reason! (similarity to fallen london, you know the people who made it, you just think it's neat, etc.) besides your own, of course, I already own all of those :)

Yes, here's a list of all of the games we talked about in our newsletter last year:

Birth: an adventure puzzle game about constructing a creature from spare bones & organs.

Scarlet Hollow: an immersive, episodic horror-mystery.

Egypt: Old Kingdom: a strategy simulator of the Great Pyramids period.

The Past Within is a fun, eerie way to spend an hour with a friend.

The Pale Beyond: high stakes on the frozen wastes, Sunless Sea feelings.

King of the Castle: medieval monarch party game.

Stray Gods: an urban fantasy, musical visual novel featuring the gods of Greek myth.

Vampire Survivors: so moreish.

Knotwords: extremely satisfying crossword-anagram-puzzle game.

The Banished Vault: so gorgeous it actually makes us a bit cross.

Astronaut the Best: an anarchic comedy about assembling a team of hapless astronauts.

El Paso, Elsewhere: supernatural neo-noir shooter, in which you must destroy the villain you loved - even if it means dying yourself.

Thank Goodness You're Here: may be the only game that’s more British than the ones we make.

The Fabulous Fear Machine: pulpy horror narrative strategy.

WORLD OF HORROR: Junji Ito-adjacent roguelike.

Lies of P: tickles your Fromsoft fancy.

The Lamplighters League: essentially 1930s supernatural XCOM

Tails Noir (formerly known as Backbone): gorgeous, bleak, compelling and unsatisfying in equal measure.

Mediterrea Inferno: a spicy story about finding yourself after isolation.

DotAGE: manage a village where the Village Elder has helpfully precise visions of the future.

Slay the Princess: the princess is very bad and you have to kill her.

VR remake of The 7th Guest: very fun, silly and far less punishing than the original.

Astrea: Six-sided Oracles: interesting dice-and-deckbuilding system.

Return of the Obra Dinn: truly a modern classic.

#fallen london #sunless sea #sunless skies #games #indie games #wait i have more things to say

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goldenamaranthe-blog · 1 year ago

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Who Dares Summon Me: Human Vaggie & Charlie

Vaggie: (sitting in the living room of a piece of shit apartment and reading from a "demon summoning" book. the sound of gunfire and police sirens barely even registers to her ears anymore)

Vaggie: Okay, so I got the Pentagram, a goat (glances at two goat plushies she stole from a name brand toy store) Fuckers will live..... they make millions in a day.

Vaggie: Candles... (glances at the Bath & Body Works, cinnamon and vanilla scented candles)

Vaggie: And... blood.... uh.... (Looks at the bucket filled with water, corn syrup, red food coloring, and cocoa powder to help create a blood effect) Fuck... demons can tell the difference between real and fake blood, right? Dammit.

Vaggie: (cuts her finger with her pocket knife and lets] a few drops fall into the bucket) There. That should work. Now, let's see-

Lute: (comes out of her room half naked and throws a pair of panties at Vaggie) Yo, Vagina! Adam stole your underwear again as a prank, I guess. Here.

Vaggie: (gawks as she catches the garment and spikes it to the floor) Lute! What the fuck?! Can't you control your fucking boyfriend??? How did he even get into my room?! I keep it locked for that reason.

Lute: (grabs a beer out of the fridge, pops the cap off on the counter, starts chugging, and flips off Vaggie as she returns to her room for whatever round she and Adam are on)

Vaggie: Sick perverted sons of bitches... (turns back to the book) Read the forbidden script and make a pact. (Scoffs) Okay, edge lords. I'll give it a go.

Vaggie: (recites the script with some difficulty)

..........

Vaggie: (relaxes her back against the couch) Can't say I'm surprised. I literally bought this online for six-

-Fire tornado erupts from the Pentagram and burning red eyes stare down at Vaggie from the inferno-

Demon Charlie: WHO dares summon the powerful Princess of Hell- Oh, fuck!!! (Trips over the bucket and falls face first into Vaggie's lap, revealing that she is wearing a red dress with black thigh high stockings)

Vaggie: Jesus Fucking Christ!!!

Demon Charlie: (face still pressed against Vaggie's crotch) You have a very comfortable lap.

Vaggie: (grabs demon's horns and pulls her up so they're sitting in front of each other) You're actually a demon?

Demon Charlie: (blinks) Considering the fact that you're still holding my horns, I have this adorable little tail (waves her heart-shaped tail in hello), and I came straight up from Hell because of your summoning circle. Yup! (Sees the plushies and gasps) Oh! You even gave Razzle and Dazzle their own conduits! You're so sweet!

Vaggie: ...........Who?

Demon Charlie: Razzle and Dazzle! You know. My pets. It's written in chatper six, paragraph five, sentence three. (Snaps her fingers and the two goat plushies turn into two living goat demons with wings)

Vaggie: (scouring the book) What?!

Demon Charlie: (snuggling her boys) Also, I know you had to use a little of your own blood to make this work, which I promise to help heal that cut on your finger by the way, but Thank You So Much for just using fake blood! I always feel so bad when people actually use a bucket of real blood. I usually let my dad take those summonings.

Vaggie: (glances at the bucket rolling across the floor then back to the demon) Y-Youre dad?

Demon Charlie: Lucifer, the King of Hell. (Light bulb goes off) Oh! I never completed my introduction! I'm Charlie Morningstar, Princess of Hell and heir to the throne. Pleased to meet you!

Vaggie: Uh.... Vaggie.... I never would have expected the Princess of Hell to be so..... bubbly....

Demon Charlie: I get that a lot. Now! What can I do for you? How can I help? Do you need money? Power? A soul you'd like for me to devour?

Vaggie: N-No... nothing quite like that....

Demon Charlie: Oh, thank Satan! I hate eating souls. Most of them taste so bad!

Vaggie: Uh-huh.... Well.... I don't really have anything for you. I got bored and decided I'd try this out...

Demon Charlie: (disappointed) Really? But you sold me your virginity. Surely, there's something you want in exchange!

Vaggie: I'm sorry. WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?

Demon Charlie: Drop of virgin blood and (holds up Vaggies lavender panties) an article of clothing that covers your most intimate desire.

Vaggie: (silently screaming)

Demon Charlie: H-Hey! If it makes you feel any better, I'm still a virgin, too! (Under her breath) Not from lack of trying on other asshole's accunts, but still....

Vaggie: Ay, Dios mio!

Demon Charlie: Well, I can't take your payment until you come up with something you want, soooooooo! (Transforms into a human)

Charlie: (snuggles up to Vaggie's side) I'll just have to stay here with you until you come up with something!

Vaggie: (catatonic)

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel incorrect quotes #chaggie #charlie #demon charlie #vaggie #human vaggie #lute #adam #lute and adam are assholes #demon summoning

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that-guy-sleepy-miles · 9 months ago

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Red King Design Notes

I got a single request to explain Red King's design, so I'm going feral! This will have notes based on AU lore (events), 'lore' (character relationships), and things I noticed in the show! (This one is for you, @daikon-dimes <3)

Let's start from the top and move down!

‎Red King's horns!

Firstly, her "Proud Horns"! The color is a deep-red version of DBK's old horn color, and the shape is based on Princess Iron Fan's bull-horn hairstyle!

And then her "Transportation Horns". These are a slightly darker color than the Proud Horns and their shape is based on PIF's hair and also vaguely based on DBK's horns.

That actually brings us to...

Bangs like Mama and Red King's tiara!

Okay, horn lore:

Red King had eaten a monk and then took a killer fucking nap—like she CONKED OUT—and she woke up with big ol bull horns (magical power expression* has to go somewhere, and she's not really using it or feeling anything right then) and she was like "oh, dude, what the fuck", and then freaks out because she can't balance herself anymore

After being freaked out for a while, she demanded that the nearest bull clone get her a mirror.

She looks at herself in the mirror (she's learned how to balance at this point, good for her), she touches her horns, and she goes,

"Heh. Like Mother's hair."

And, even though she and her mother are in the middle of essentially a Cold War, she finds her mother's old tiara and puts her hair around her horns like her mom's… decorative hairstyle? whatever we'd call that. like the way her mom serves massive cunt 25/8—because she loves her mom more than anything else. (No matter how much of a raging ******* PIF is being. God, why is she like that sometimes???)

(The Eternal Fire design has sidebangs that are reminiscent of PIF's but more silky and flowy.)

Bull Fam Huadian and Bindi

The Eternal Slumber design has a huadian (a form of traditional Chinese ornamental forehead makeup, which is located between the eyebrows and sometimes on the cheeks, the temples, and the dimples) shaped like the Demon Bull family crest instead of the traditional flower petals. This is because of the idea that Red Son's "red dot" is a huadian, which I've seen floating around quite a bit, but I'm 99% sure it's a bindi.

It's in the right spot for a bindi and the wrong spot for a huadian, it looks like a bindi and doesn't look like a huadian—it's a bindi. I don't know if this is still going on (people thinking it's a huadian/saying it's a huadian/drawing it as a huadian), but it's a bindi. It's a bindi guys.

(Because of Red Son's tendency for overly expressive downturned eyebrows and the inconsistency of hand-drawn animation, it's hard to tell, but the "red dot" is seemingly intended to be slightly above and between his eyebrows, not high above on his forehead. You can tell on screenshots where it's on his forehead that it's in the wrong spot, it's actually really fun.)

Also, the people on the wiki call it a "forehead dot" and I'm so...

Anyway, in her Eternal Fire design, Red King's bindi returns! This is because her time with MK has "reignited her inferno", and she is returning to herself! With her bindi! Welcome back, pookie bear!!!

and on the note of her "reigniting her inferno", her Eternal Fire design has the same eyebrow makeup as the Red Son minifig!

Her Samadhi Ring

In the Red King AU, Red Son is allowed to keep his/her ring of Samadhi for a number of reasons. Importantly, DBK and PIF let Red Son their ring because it is their power—Red Son was born with the Samadhi Fire, and it's an expression of their power. They are a family obsessed with power for a good while, so in the Red King AU, DBK and PIF felt it cruel to strip their only child of their power and of the remainder of it. The thought also was that, as the creator of the fire, Red Son would have the most incentive to keep the ring safe. They'd certainly never lose it, like some people.

(Fun fact, this means that DBK's nose ring is the other way around like it was in his younger years. That's just a really silly detail, but like... they match <3)

Red King's Hair Highlights (and Their Relation to Red Son’s Magic Expression and the Samadhi Fire)

(By the way, the Eternal Slumber design has more chaotic shines because her hair isn't brushed, and the Eternal Fire design has more uniform/put-together shines because her hair is being taken care of.)

Red King has shiny hair, and that's not just to look cool. To explain why, I had to make a giant post about the LEGO Monkie Kid Magic System. I go in-depth about Red Son at the end of that post, but I'll give a TLDR here:

Red Son has a wholly unique form of expressing magic among demons, gods, dragons, descendants, reincarnations, and everything in-between (the in-between being Red Son himself, MK, Wukong, and Macaque [Red Son is half-god, half-demon; MK was intended to be a mystic monkey but got his genetics messed with; Wukong and Macaque are mystic monkeys outside of any of the 10 species, they just need to be noted here [Their magic is completely conventional, they're just crazy strong]). His body, and specifically his hair, is directly connected to his magic in a way that's different from other characters for reasons we can only speculate.

Because Red King is stronger than Red Son (and has a link to the Samadhi Fire), she has many large hair highlights! Generally, they're condensed into one or two large shapes, but smaller highlights around a large shape are also acceptable. :]

Outfits

Eternal Slumber wears zhong yi (middle clothes), a longer version of Red Son's robe from season 3, and Red Son's sandals from season 3. (I call those house shoes but the model sheet says sandals.)

Zhong yi were worn under normal clothing in Hanfu, and often worn to bed. Some posts about zhong yi: 1, 2, 3. Because Red King is... well... sleeping often but in a regal way, she wears zhong yi instead of modern sleepwear. Her robe is also longer to evoke the fact that it is a robe and she is a king.

Eternal Fire wears a sleeveless version of Red Son's coat with a gold trim. This gold trim is actually because of something on Red Son's page on the Monkie Kid Wiki! Okay, so, I'm so autistic that part of my LMK Special Interest (it's been 4 years, so this is officially a special interest) actually extends to the Wiki... and on Red Son's Wiki page, there is something so fun!!

On Red Son's Minifigure–show comparison, the screenshot used to compare contains a coloring error! Red Son's collar is actually his skin tone! And I LOVE THAT. NOBODY TELL THEM. IF YOU ARE A WIKI EDITOR AND YOU'RE READING THIS, DON'T FIX IT!!!

I love coloring errors and I love mistakes. Not only is there the original coloring error (the mark of a human being; someone worked on this scene and they made a mistake and now we can see it and see them! It's as if their memory is saying hello, and that's why I love coloring errors), but someone else missed it, and now it has been used to represent this character's design as a whole (a SECOND human being!! Hello!! You've been here, and you didn't catch something, and now I'll always remember you were here!).

And that's why I don't want it to be fixed. I know it should be fixed, and I know the Wiki is a source of knowledge, but I also just... love people so much... and I decided to remember the coloring error by giving Red King's coat a gold trim. <3 (I was going to keep it to the collar like the coloring error, but it didn't look good.)

Other notes:

She's wearing armbands like she did when she was a baby because the Eternal Fire design is her "returning to herself."

The ballroom gloves are just sexy like that. Make MK go Looney Tunes. (And the wristbands are for the same purpose.)

S H A N T S

Uhhh that's it! Thank you!! <3 <3 <3 <3!!

155 notes · View notes

tootoomanycats · 4 months ago

Text

The Plan

Chapter One: Best Laid Plans...

Pairing:

Gil-Galad x Human Reader Fem

Word Count: 6,415 words

If you prefer to read on AO3 its HERE

Summary: (SET IN THE RINGS OF POWER TV SERIES) (Takes place years before the first episode) As time settles the world’s chaos, Gil-Galad begins to feel an unusual boredom. After centuries of war, his days are now filled with mundane paperwork, the ink on the parchment mocking him with its monotony. When he receives a letter from Master Boat Builder Cirdan, asking for aid for a small group of humans whose ship has sunk, Gil-Galad agrees, recognizing his duty to help. Upon meeting the High King, you are caught off guard by an unexpected attraction. With your ship at the bottom of the bay, you aim to use your charm to secure a new vessel for yourself and your crew. However, as days go by, Gil-Galad's genuine compassion and kindness complicate things. The initial plan to flirt and deceive begins to clash with the genuine emotions that develop. You find yourself torn between the charming facade and emerging feelings for the High King. As the truth looms closer, the question remains—how will Gil-Galad react when he learns the real reason behind your visit?

Warnings:

Mentions of fire

Descriptions of injuries

Descriptions of partial nudity

Reader is not a holy good person.

Two ideots pining and refusing to acknowledge it.

Not Beta Read

(smut stuff will be in chapter two, promise)

Author Notes:

Hello Everyone!

It’s finally here! Thank you for being so patient while I finally got this done and posted. In my overeagerness, I was hoping to get this finished on New Year’s Day, but sadly, life and depression got a hold of me. I have entirely rewritten this chapter and how it plays out over four times. This time, I finally had to reel my worry that this wasn't good enough and just be okay with where it was. Please note that I'm writing this without sitting to very strict guidelines of what elves are commonly like in the book. I am writing Gil-Galad and Elves with the idea that history books and lore always paint figureheads and royalty as if they lived by strict morals and values. And I think it's much more interesting if we see what Gil-Galad would have experienced if he had fallen in love, and it, in the end, was kept secret from history. You'll notice that Elrond isn't going to be in this; that is because at the same time this story is going on- I have a one-shot of what Elrond is doing elsewhere. I am working on it, but I have no set date for finishing it as of right now. As always if you like what you have read please remember that fanfic writers live off of likes, comments and reblogs- we wont admit it but we all have praise kinks. Have you fed your starving artist today?

Tea.

Every night since his arrival in Grey Havens, the Master Boat Builder has made a point to enjoy a cup of tea before heading off to bed. Be it rain, snow, or shine, that cup of tea will always be had.

The weather was sublime this evening: cool temperatures, clear skies, and a calm breeze. Weather being what it is, he opened the workshop’s doors to watch as the sun’s last glow gave way to darkness.

Once the last sip was finished, he reached for the large doors to close them for the night. But as he pulled the last one, a shimmer of light in the water caught his attention; its reflection was unusually bright.

Leaning out the side, hand gripping the door handle for balance, he gasped in shock at finding the source. Just a few leagues away was a double-masted ship- inflamed.

Its bow was raised dramatically into the cool night air, exposing an accumulation of maritime fauna. The vessels aft dragged along the sea bed, echoing whenever it hit high points of rocks. What wood was visible was already ashes or becoming the next fuel source for the inferno. Screams and bodies jumping into the river could be heard above all else.

Running out of the boat house, Cirdan reached the town’s warning bell. Its massive size was stuck from disuse and rust. He kicked hard and kept kicking until his ankle and foot burned in protest, until finally, it groaned in movement. The piercing sound of the tocsin woke and alerted those who lived nearby as he shouted, “FIRE!”

It became chaos as orders were given, supplies packed, and horses mounted. The few elves who could, followed the older one, sprinting to offer aid to the tragedy’s survivors.

——

Wet, freezing, and homeless.

The strength it had taken to carry your first mate from the ship’s bowls to the deck had caused more than one muscle to pull. Short as he is, the man is surprisingly heavy.

Unfortunately, jumping from a burning ship was more manageable than carrying him to shore. As the line of buoyancy and gravity met, a new struggle began as you started to stand halfway out of the water.

Heavy, wet clothes worked against frozen, numb limbs with each soaking step to dry land and out of its icy grip. Ankles almost twisting with each slippery step on the shore rocks before finally collapsing onto soft sand.

A small blessing was the man you had carried came too with only a few short chest compressions. You joined him on the sand once he could fully sit up and catch his breath.

What was left of the crew watched as the top of the crow’s nest disappeared, the bay groaning and gurgling in its consumption. The ship you and many others once called home had been swallowed into the water’s depths.

A hand gently pressed into your left shoulder, its callouses felt through the singed holes of your shirt—the contact causing you to look at the much shorter man. “I’m sorry, Captain. You did your best.”

The words meant well, but instead of commiserating, they reminded you that this was your failure. When the sensation of your throat tightening and eyes misting began, you shook your head. There would be no grieving until a new home was acquired.

Looking back at the shorter man, face composed and emotions pushed to the side. “Do we know where we’ve landed, Sal? I didn’t have time to look at the map; when I saw the opening, I thought it would be the only chance for our escape.”

Sal’s singular green eye widened before looking around the visible area, knowing he would be the only one of you to see in such darkness. “Not sure, we’ve never been this far north before.”

Not good.

Standing up, you internally shivered as the sensation of wet, sandy, cloth peeled from your damp, chilled skin. The only possessions left were on everyone’s backs, holes and all.

A strike of panic set in at that realization. Taking inventory, a hand reached up to count the baubles that adorned your earnings, relieved to feel all was accounted for. Looking down at the blistered and burned fingers, you grimaced at the thought of how bad the pain would be when removing the various roughly smithed rings. One of the bands looked almost embedded past the first few layers of skin, potentially touching bone.

Sal had followed in checking his personage for anything of value, even lifting his eye patch and ensuring that the smooth, unpolished diamond he kept was still hidden in the empty socket.

“We’re going to be stuck on land until a new home can be procured.” Turning, you saw the group huddled together for warmth, teeth chattering as they shivered.

“From here on out, it’s dry land rules and roles. We’re starting from nothing, so best behaviors until that changes.” At the nods given in response, you turned to your first mate. “We need to start a fire; we don’t need anyone dying of hypothermia-“ Everyone froze at a distinct sound.

Hoof-beats.

The sound rumbled further up into the tree line, accompanied by voices that called out, echoing into the fjord. Lanterns swayed and grew brighter with each moment the owners grew closer.

Head snapping back to the others, you whispered, “Remember the rules. No one speaks until I say so.” A groan caught your attention just before Sal almost lost his balance. “What's wrong? Why-“ Pulling your hand away from the back of his head, you felt the warmth just as you smelt its metallic scent.

Your hand was entirely coated in bright red blood from just that moment of contact; a quick glance back at the sand where he had first laid showed a small puddle where the ground's compression had helped to pause the bleeding, only momentarily. “Why didn't you say anything?” you hissed before trying to apply what little pressure your pain-filled hand could tolerate. A gruff whisper was his only response: “Didn't want to worry you.”

“Idiot” was the only word that could be mustered while ideas sprinted in your mind at what to do next. The lanterns were getting closer, the voices becoming more evident each second. It was a gamble, but it was the only possible choice you could see.

“Someone, help us!” Shouting into the night air, voice raising louder with the following sentence. “Pirates have attacked us!” At first, the crew members' confusion read clearly on their faces, until your stern glare made them realize what was happening. One by one, they began clutching various parts of their bodies, crying out and groaning in pain.

Sal chuckled in your arms, shaking his head before he lost consciousness, his full weight now on you to hold up. Once the owners of the lanterns broke through the bushes, they rushed in to help. But it was clear that there was surprise on both parties’ sides when seeing who the other was.

Elves? Just how far north had you drifted?

Cirdan was genuinely shocked at what he and his townspeople stumbled upon. When first spotting the burning ship, the assumption was that the sailors aboard would be his own kind—not humans. As the others rushed to those rolling in agony on the sand, he quickly made his way to where you were struggling to maintain balance while holding a relatively short man.

Finally, you allowed the tears to flow, teeth chattering as the adrenalin began to wear off and what little warmth you had dissipated. “Please, help us.” The older elf’s heart broke at the sight before him, and within the hour, you and your crew had been taken back to town to be tended to.

By midnight, Sal’s head had been stitched and bandaged. Once asleep, the shorter man's snoring rattled the walls of the boat builders' small home. The other members' wounds had been cleaned before special herbs that none of you recognized were placed over them. With no spare rooms, Cirdan was left to care for the ship’s captain on his dining table.

The first rinse to clean the wounds on your palms had not been too painful. But as the elf used various instruments to take out the bits of splintered wood, broken threads of rope, and shattered glass, you began to think that he was torturing you instead of healing.

At another flinch, Cirdan’s focus shifted to take in your exhausted face. The grimacing expression telling how much you were ready to be done with the tedious task before you both. “Almost done. I am pleased to say you will still have full use of your hands.” He whispered.

As everyone else slept, only a few candles lit the small area needed to see as he worked. In search of distraction from the sensitive and tender discomfort, attention shifted to the papers scattered around the table he had you perched on. The first few were just lists and notes, but something caught your eye.

It was beautiful.

Triple-masted, square-cut sales, the hull was designed in such detail that it felt like, with one good shake, it would drop out of the page into the water.

As you became further engrossed with the drawing, you unknowingly leaned further and further. Cirdan looked up, ready to ask you to sit still again. But when he followed where your attention had gone, he smiled softly before gently guiding your palms back into the position needed. Focusing back on digging out a particularly stubborn glass shard, he egged on your curiosity. “If you enjoy that one, you should see the one you are sitting on.”

When a deep blush of embarrassment spread across your face, he chuckled. “Here, let me help.” With the boat master’s aid to lean to the opposite side now, he pulled free the design to lay the now crinkled paper on the table for easier viewing.

Just like the previous design, this, too, was stunning. Were such ships possible to build? Once back to work on your hands, you took the opportunity to shift your attention from the design to begin admiring the unique features of the elf's home.

Intricate hand-carved details were everywhere. Spiraled door handles, doorway arches with such delicate flowers and vines it was a wonder they didn’t break, and the wall next to the dining table was carved from ceiling to floor, detailing a flock of cranes surrounded by tall standing trees.

“Did you design them?” Attention back to the page that had previously been sat on. An idea began to form in your mind at his nod and smile. “They’re beautiful; building something as grand as those must take a lifetime.”

“They are, though I am not sure if they will ever be brought into existence.” The tone of his voice tells of the pride in his creations and the enjoyment of such praise.

Allowing your voice to soften, your head tilting, and your lips turning up at the corners as you spoke, “They’re unique. It's so clear in everything you touch that this is what you were meant to do.”

As you continued, the tips of pointed ears peeking out from silver hair tinged in a faint blush. “Every detail thought through so clearly,” Cirdan gulped as he nervously tried to focus on the task before him.

But the poor boat builder struggled even more when you teasingly smiled while praising his work. “Even your door handles and chairs adorn your touches.” Your eyes locked for a moment, just long enough to see the faint tinge of a flustered blush topping the apples of his cheeks. A single fluter of your lashes and you glanced at his lips for a moment before returning to the pages laid out.

“Um, Y-yes. Yes, I feel such joy and fulfillment in what I do and what it means for my people.” He placed the metal instruments down on the woven cloth that held other items, ones that looked sharper and more intimidating the longer you looked. The response was a murmured thank you as he began placing crushed herbs over the now clean wounds. As the gauze was wrapped around each finger delicately, it was Cirdan’s turn to ask a question.

“I am curious about your ship; it saddens me that I did not have a chance to see its beauty.” The fingers he still wrapped tensed in his hands; at looking up, he saw how the color left your face, eyes turned down; it was clear you weren't there with him at that moment. “Oh, I am sorry,” turning, he brought a warm cup of tea to your lips, your hands still unable to hold anything. “In my curiosity, I did not think of your pain and loss.”

The elves' eyes watched subtly as your lips curled and then relaxed to part, observing how your throat swallowed the warm liquid he had provided. Patiently waiting until you had your fill before putting the cup down and turning back to finish bandaging up to your wrists.

Cirdan finished the bandaging with the last wrap around your wrist. In the time it took to stand, gather the instruments, and look between you and his designs on the table, an idea began to form at the front of his mind. “Is it difficult to ascertain a new vessel in your homelands?” His back faced you as he cleaned the blood from the metal objects in the sink.

His shoulders dropped as your voice broke. “My home is very far from here.” For the second time in the night, the boat master felt his heartbreak at such sadness.

That settles it, then. He had to do something. There was only so long and so little room that Grey Haven’s harbor could offer hospitality, not to mention there being no clear path ahead for you. “What I say next, you must know, is not meant to push you out.” He watches the way you curl into yourself, preparing in resignation already.

“My home is small, not suited to provide the proper healing your crew needs. I will send a message to my king-,” Your eyes widen, shaking your head as you tell him no. But he will hear none of it. Raising a hand to stop your protests, the elf continues, “I will write to my king and ask that he finds it in his heart to show compassion, especially to those that deserve it.”

You tell him you don't know how to repay his kindness; he scoffs and drinks the now-cold tea to hide the blush dusting the apple of his cheeks. The rest of the night is spent playing a few games of chess. It would have just been one, but with your hands being as they are, you kept accidentally bumping multiple pieces around. With each game, the conversation turned back to ships, elven ships.

As the darkness of night began to give way to the first glow of dawn on the horizon, Cirdan excused himself to write the letter that would be sent ahead to Lindon’s Capital. At that same time, you went to Sal. Gently, you slinked into the bedroom so as not to wake the rest of the crew before sitting on the edge of the bed that was so graciously granted to your first mate.

“Sal, Sal!” You voiced louder than planned at the shorter man’s deep sleep, which refused to release him. Finally, the rough shake to his shoulder roused him. “Wha-Whats going on?” With a quick hand over his mouth to quiet him down, you pressed a finger to your lips before whispering. “I have just spent the last few hours speaking with our new friend. He has been very kind.”

You couldn't help but chuckle at the responding wiggling eyebrows, his single eye wide in excitement. “How kind?” You leaned in to reply with a whisper, a wicked smile its companion. “Kind enough to ask if his king would help us.” Sal’s jaw dropped in shock before punching your shoulder. “How in the hell did you pull that off?”

Sitting straight, the back of your hand pressed to your forehead, sighing dramatically before speaking, “Who will take pity on little ole me, a female captain with no ship to call home? My poor crew, so ill, that even elven healers struggle to help them.”

Shaking his head while chuckling, Sal crossed his arms while wiggling more comfortably into the bed’s soft feather pillows. “So what’s the plan?”

Your smirk grew at the question.

———————

With the first rays of morning light, a plan in motion, and rules set in place, you met with Cirdan and the escort outside his home, where a hiccup had already appeared.

You nervously approached the giant beast, flinching back when its large nostrils grunted out a rush of breath. “I’ve never ridden a horse before. Can I not just walk behind?” A sympathetic smile graced the boat master’s lips as the other elf mounted their steed. “Walking would take extra days that your crew may not have. If you are unsure of riding alone, ride with the escort; they will ensure your safe arrival.”

Anxiously, you nodded in agreement, unable to see a different path around the logic presented. A few awkward jumps and one petrified yelp later saw you and the expert rider heading up the road to the capital—the poor elf at the mercy of your fearfully white-knuckled grip in their ribs. The pain in your hands be damned.

Lindon’s Palace

My Dear King,

I write to you earnestly, asking that aid be offered to someone deserving of such compassion. A pirate attack has left my new friend without a ship or home, and a crew suffering from ailments beyond my healing capabilities. The ship's Captain will arrive with an escort so that you yourself can make sound judgments of their character.

Gil-Galad re-read the letter. In his years of friendship with the Lord of Grey Haven, only a handful of times had the elder asked for royal assistance, unlike some of the other stewards of his kingdom, who seemed to lack such abstention.

He sighed when sid-eyeing the pile of letters and scrolls stacked high upon the oak desk, still awaiting answers. Fiddling with the paper’s edge, unrolling it further as he sat in thought, a previously unseen line of penmanship caught his attention.

I suggest conversing over a game of chess; you may be pleasantly surprised as I was in their company.

Your Faithful Friend, Cirdan

With a scoff, he flicked the paper back to its place on the desk's clutter. It had been hours, and barely a dent had been made in the mountain of documents that had arrived the day before.

With his kingdom settling into a gentle rhythm after so many years of war, the High King started feeling something unexpected- boredom. Gone were the days of extreme stress, battle planning, and mourning for his people. Now, they were filled with small pleasantries, mastering crafts, and, unfortunately, paperwork.

Leaning back into the hand-carved chair, fingers rubbed along the pulsing ache of his forehead, pain caused by the hours of eyes straining on documents.

A groan left his chest when an unfortunately familiar warmth spread across the top of a kneecap. The morning’s rays had started to inch into his room, their gentle cares on his vestige announcing that another sleepless night had passed.

Muscles ached and throbbed as he stood to stretch before walking to the window to watch the sunrise. His attention to the sunrise over the horizon was shifted down from his room in the tower at the arrival of a horse carrying two persons.

One was an elf, and the other a human woman. It was hard not to chuckle while watching as her arms shakily reached out to the escort to assist in the dismount from their horse, legs wobbling once on solid ground. As the escort walked off with the creature to announce their arrival, she stayed in place, observing the entry area's flora and white-barked trees.

It was rare to see a human in his kingdom. Even in memory, it was a struggle to gleam the last one and when they came. It was not surprising, as curiosity peaked about the mortal creature that had appeared at random.

That is what he told himself, at least, as his eyes fixated on the wild wind-swept hair that glowed from the crepuscular rays of morning. And repeated internally again, when observing the silhouette outlined from the sheer fabrics she wore when bending to smell a vine of jasmine.

The voice was not repeated a third time when his eyes honed in on the gentle slopes of her bust; nipples pebbled hard by the cold morning's dew. Each movement allowed more and more to be revealed by the fabric's owner. The tall elf’s heart rate panicked at admiring rounded hips that harmonized with the tops of plush, strong thighs and a waist--

When a knock raps at the bedroom door, he jumps, placing a wide palm to his chest, letting out a breath he was unaware was being held. With a final glance back at the woman, he shakes his head and asks the attendant to come in.

“High King, a visitor has arrived from Grey Haven to speak with you. Master Cirdan has sent them.” Gil-Galad froze, and his heart rate, still yet to calm down from moments ago, increased.

A quick glance to the desk where Cirdan’s note sat, as its words read out in his mind. Certainly, she was not the captain he spoke of. What in the world was that blasted boatmaker thinking? The shorter elf’s expression made Gil-Galad realize he took longer than usual to respond.

“I will be there in but a moment. Please see that our guest is attended to until then.” Gil-Galad’s eyebrow quirked as his attendant paused awkwardly, a tilt of his head letting the shorter elf know to speak. “Sire, your meeting with the human may need to wait a few days so that-“ Gil-Galad held up his hand as the memory of sheer fabric flashed away just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Master Cirdan has informed me that the aid needed for the human stands on the direness of time. I will meet with them first during my morning meal; that should allow a better inclusion of my schedule.”

With a swift nod, the shorter elf leaves to inform the morning staff of the changes. In the reflection across from where he stood, exhausted eyes and a stern expression looked back. In a singular sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Just when it seems a moment to himself has appeared, the morning maids come in to prepare a bath and lay out the royal robes.

In toe behind them, the royal retainer began listing the days itinerary, explaining how every minute of the hours were filled with meetings, agreements, and document signatures. With a singular sigh and torpid blink, he turns to take the prepared bath and begrudgingly get the day started.

When an attendant had come to gather you and usher the way to an empty grand dining room to wait, it felt like a small gift.

Palpations had been occurring every few minutes since the moment your feet touched the ground after riding for hours. Hopefully, this would give time to help calm them. Chalking the rapid heart rate up to nerves and still feeling so tired, you reminded yourself that rest, food, and sleep would come eventually. But the plan took precedence over everything, no matter the cost.

The first few minutes were spent sitting at the opposite end of the room’s expansive stone table, until those nerves raised back up—skin itching, and not just on the slowly scabbing wounds of your hands. Legs crossed only to un-cross and then cross again. The liquid in the glass of wine on the table rippled from how hard your knee bounced. When all this did nothing to aid in the growing feeling of unease, you resorted to pacing back and forth, back and forth, until the feeling of dizziness came on.

At the sound of your stomach echoing into the quiet room, you side-eyed the table. The temptation was hard to resist at the site of the varying fruits, cheeses, bread, and dishes for breakfast. While subtle, the aromas still had made their way to your nose.

With a head shake, you continued pacing; by now, you were sure that a grove had been worked into the floor. Glancing back to the chair at the opposite end of the table, a small tremor corded its way from where the palpations started to both of your poor, still wobbling legs. One misstep, one accidental insult, and the plan would be over before it could be put into motion.

With a deep breath, you hoped to calm your heart’s racing; nervousness would not be an ally. Another breath, followed by many more in succession. Still, the beating thrummed with such intensity it felt as if the betraying organ was in your throat, determined to expel itself and do a jig at your feet to taunt you.

Distraction.

Distraction would help, you hoped. Turning around, you desperately tried to focus now on the grandiose tapestry that hung twenty feet in the air. Its textured masterpiece taking so much space that the raw threadbare edges touched the flooring and side walls.

Red, look for something red. Rose bushes came into clarity on the lower section. A breath, this one a little easier- but still, your chest held tight. Animals, find the animals. Swans were flying in the open sky of the fibers- was that a unicorn?

Each detail of the textile artwork helped to distract from the sensation that rattled against your ribs. In a further attempt to add comfort, you wrapped your arms around yourself, desperately hoping to soothe the nerves that struggled to dissipate.

____

Even after the warmth of a bath and fresh clothes, Gil-Galad found his heart rate had yet to slow since looking out the window. Surely it was just another sleepless night of work that made it hard to calm such a tempestuous beating? Obviously, this peculiar feeling was not brought on by how his mind's eye sought to wave the memory of curves, backlit in a warm glow—always right when mental clarity was needed.

When reaching the dining hall, Gil-Galad held up a hand to let his attendant know he would be entering the room alone, unannounced. Cirdan had made it clear that he should make a sound and solid judgment of the Captain's character before making any decisions in the offer of aid. A wisdom he would heed. Speaking would also be better without extra eyes watching. However, it would have been better if his mind had been allowed to think of questions to ask before this moment.

Quietly, the private royal entrance opened, its door only opening for him and him alone. Stone that once lay flat and blended into the wall shifted back, then slid just enough for his size to squeeze into the room—unnoticed. The internal expectation from past interactions with mortals was that his guest would be gorging themselves on the food laid before them. But once inside, surprise met that expectation. The only other chair besides his sat empty, the dishes untouched.

There, at the other end of the room, unaware of his presence, you stood. Elven ears picked up the sounds of deep breathing, eyes watching as your heavily bandaged hands rubbed your arms while swaying gently from side to side. Gil-Galad’s eyes trailed once more to the clothes draped on your figure. Cirdan had dressed you in something so sheer?

Perhaps the boat builder had not realized that the gift offered to you had been- No. Cirdan was too bright and observant to have missed something like this. That old perverted- at the memory of this morning, the realization he had no hill to stand on and judge hit him.

Yet, he could not look away. The tension came back to his chest, and just as it began to crawl its way down, inch by inch, to an area of his body that he refused to acknowledge, panic set in and forced the moment to break.

“You have yet to eat.”

With a yelp of shock, you nearly jumped out of your skin. Turning with wide eyes and a hand to your poor, overworked, thumping heart. Finding the voice’s owner standing at the opposite end of the room.

When first trying to picture what an elven king might have looked like, your imagination pulled from what was known of your own kind. Rulers that were repugnant, rotund, and gangrenous from a life of riches and idleness.

What you did not anticipate was to be greeted with the amused expression of a very tall elf, whose attractiveness you pretended not to feel any way about. It took a moment for the shock to pass before finding yourself. “N-no.” A breath. “No, I felt it would be rude to eat before my host arrived.”

It was as if time had frozen for a moment, two statues unmoving as they visually memorized what was in front of them. Sheer fabric clashed with the opulent, almost excessive layers of gold on the opposite side. Warm brown eyes, unblinking in their seriousness, scrutinized the shocked hesitancy in your own.

When you both tried to speak simultaneously, a polite smile graced his lips as he motioned for you to go first. A thanks would be the best choice, grateful that such a renowned, elven king would spare an hour to hear a poor human captain’s woes. Pleasantries to be embellished so prettily in their bestowment.

Sadly, that option would be ruined by a comically loud growl from your stomach, no doubt retaliation at being teased for so long by such appetizing smells. Gil-Galad watched as your eyes shut laggardly before opening again, now refusing to meet his own from embarrassment.

He gave you a gift of mercy in finding the strength to choke back a laugh. “It would appear that, as a host, I have been discourteous to test the patience of such a considerate guest.” Motioning for you to sit, he continued, “Please, eat. I would ask if you are hungry, but I believe that answer has already been given.”

Unlike the High King, you did not find the strength to choke back a laugh from the jest. When your eyes met again, an expression of mirth greeted the faint blush of your cheeks. Gods have mercy; this was going to be a challenge. The elf barely said two sentences, and already, you were struggling.

Gil-Galad gulped as you pulled up your chair to sit more comfortably; he could not understand the reasons for his nerves. His gaze trailed once more to the unexpected guest across the table, unknowingly unaware of the detail being taken in of your personage.

In the earnings that dangled down to the tops of your collar bones, polished beads of sea glass glowed, backlit by the candles behind you. Indigo-dyed whalebone and sea urchin spines brandished with petrified beads of amber hung on uneven lengths of fishing wire.

Rough and raw cut jewels adorned roughly smithed mental bands, assorted in the widths of rings that hung from your neck while your fingers healed. He would admit that such ornaments are much more maximal and eclectic than is commonly seen of his own kind.

His heart rate, which had just calmed, began racing again as he watched your lips part, tongue welcoming a bite of food. His vision tunneled to take in greater detail when your brows knit together in pleasure as the flavors danced across your palate.

Blinking, he pulled himself out of the hyper-focus when reaching forward to grip the golden handle of a wine glass. Trying to calm the returning tension he had felt when watching you from when he first entered the room. This was going to be a problem.

Light filtered off your fork, hand tremoring in hunger as the choices become overwhelming. It felt as if the room was getting darker and hazy around its edges. Cirdan had offered food when playing chess, but between the pain in your hands and the nausea from still coming down from the adrenalin of survival, any thought of eating was quickly turned down.

On top of that, the ship had floated for two days into the fjord without a bite of food or water. To say you were starving was an understatement. It took every ounce of self-control not to gorge like a wild animal after the first bite into a roasted pear with salted honey, its juices bursting in your mouth.

“Lord Cirdan wrote that your ship and crew were attacked by pirates and are in further need of aid.” The question caught you off guard, cheeks chipmunk-ed out at trying to fit as many roasted butter beans into your mouth as physically possible. Peeking up, it was obvious the elf knew exactly what he had done from the smirk that pulled from the edges of his lips.

As desperate as you were to swallow your way out of this, chewing was the only option. Could you simply spit out the beans? Yes, but that would only cause further humiliation for him to watch the act. Quickly grabbing the napkin laid under the other silverware, you covered your lips and cheeks as you chewed quickly, jaw clicking from the strain.

When finally able to get the last bit down to respond, another question was put forth. “What exactly happened to your ship, the- what was its name?”

Cirdan had been correct in knowing his king would hold no punches in the judgment of your character. Gil-Galad knew that his questioning was starting to get under your skin. And what better way to begin seeing someone for who they are than by seeing how they handle their frustration?

As the minutes passed and no response was given, his eyebrow raised expectantly. Were you trying to formulate a lie? At the tilt of his head, his eyes hardened. “Are you alright?”

You chuckled hollowly, feeling a spark of enjoyment in watching Gil-Galad’s expression change to irritation as you spoke. Two could play at that game. “Only waiting to see if there are other questions, Your Majesty. I do not wish to offend such a curious mind by interrupting its thoughts.”

Gil-Galad knew that if he were here, Elrond would snort out his wine. It appears that the High King would also be judged on how his temper would be handled. Raising his palm, he gave the motion to speak.

With a deep sigh, you tried to calm the frustration that had been brought forth. “My crew and I were set upon by pirates three days ago; their cannons tore holes into the hull of my ship. By some miracle, we escaped from being boarded, but in our escape, I had steered us into a waterway that none of us recognized.”

When no interruption came, you continued. “Lord Cirdan had seen my ship just as it began taking on more water than we could bucket out.” It was unnerving being watched so intensely, warm eyes unblinking in their judgment of every word uttered into the air. “He was kind enough to offer aid. But he realized we have no way of getting home, at least not any way that would not take years on foot.”

Still not a blink from the scrutinizing gaze, you gulped to wet your now cotton-dry throat as sweat dripped down your neck. “Asking for help is not something I have any practice in. But for the people that depend on me, I will do anything in my capabilities to see that they survive.”

Silence stretched between you both. Gil-Galad contemplated your tale, sight now set on the wine glass before him. When speaking of your crew and their care, he could sense no lies, but why was his gut tightening, waiting, and expecting? It felt as if something was missing. Perhaps speaking of such a harrowing escape was not something you wished to delve into further detail.

Or -gods forgive him- the tightening that was felt had nothing to do with your words, and more to do with the internal befuddlement trying to be ignored since your arrival.

You watched as golden fibers wrapped around the barrel waist in front of you strained against expanding ribs. A deep, belly-filled breath was exhaled slowly and quietly in contemplation. As his lips parted to speak, the dining room’s doors opened. The shorter elf that first guided you in giving a small bow.

“High King, I apologize for the interruption, but the lords are gathered and waiting for you.” Whatever tension that had been building was broken instantly. Fresh air from the outside corridor wafted in, and both of you took the opportunity to breathe.

The sound of chair legs scraped against the floor as he stood, an air of equanimity held in his stance as he stared down at where you still sat, slouched back into your seat. “Please forgive my sudden departure. I would like to continue this discussion later this evening if you are amenable to the offer.” He continued at the single nod you gave while walking over to his attendant.

“Please see that our guest is given a room and fed.” At the bow of the shorter elf, the two of them slowly walked out into the hall, leaving you to watch as the door closed behind them. Once Gil-Galad was certain that you could not hear, he leaned down to whisper one last order. “And see to it that she has…warmer attire prepared. I would not wish for our guest to take a chill from the temperature tonight.” At the hesitant bow given before the shorter elf left, Gil-Galad realized he was not the only one struggling whenever what you were wearing was seen.

Once alone, he sighed while pinching the bridge of his nose. It had only been a singular hour of the morning, and already, it was obvious that the day would be as long as it was stressful.

I have this idea that Gil-Galad is never truly content. War? -Hate it. Calm and tranquil? - Bored out of his mind. So when this Captain comes around he both loves and hates how hes feeling. I'm working on outlining the next chapter but it may take a bit before its edited and posted. So please be patient. Love you all and hope you enjoy and are surviging my friends!

Tag list below ⬇️ If you would like to be added to The Plan's tag list please comment to let me know.

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@morganas-pendragons @clairevoyant813 @wild-typo-turtle @liar-anubiass-blog @0heimwaerts0 @melithril @yesnessieme @perse-cora @xcrybaby555x @angel-astre @aliives @inyx-writes44 @lifthy70-caladiel @charcoai-gray @supernaturalcat7 @moifcuv @ladyoflindon @affabletimelady @ladygrimmx @somethingabitspecial-blog @tjada-works-the-nightshift @kateris-world @99sunflower99 @vampireinadumpsterfire @chaotic-tes-posting @stardustcasey @fandomsbecausewhynot @small-carbon-lifeform @amblingmuse

All cat art used on this blog are by the artist Valioart found on pintrest.

#gil galad #tootoomanycats #the rings of power #ereinion gil galad #gil galad fanfic #gil galad x reader #high king gil galad #gil galad x you #gil galad smut #erenion gil galad #rings of power smut

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earthlybeam · 6 months ago

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Requested by @grand-admiral-ano

how would the elves react to this?

↓

Gil-galad, haldir Versions are below.

👑𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

🜲 Trapped in a Burning Building in Lindon While defending Lindon against an invasion, Gil-galad is trapped in a building that catches fire after an enemy attack. He’s knocked unconscious by falling debris, and the fire spreads quickly. The reader risks their own life, rushing through the smoke-filled building and dragging him out of the flames just as the walls begin to collapse.

🜲 The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke, swirling around you in suffocating tendrils. The once grand halls of Lindon, now under siege, were quickly becoming a hellish inferno. The sound of battle echoed through the streets, but here, inside the burning structure, it was a different kind of chaos. The roar of flames filled the air, licking at the wooden beams above and sending splinters of burning debris raining down. The heat was unbearable, searing the very stones beneath your feet, and the choking smoke blurred your vision. Gil-galad, ever the leader, had been at the forefront of the defense, his sword in hand, his face a mask of determination. His presence had been a beacon to his people, his calm authority inspiring strength in the midst of chaos. But even he was not immune to the fury of the enemy’s onslaught.

🜲 Amidst the chaos, a blast had rocked the building, shaking the very foundation. A mass of timber and stone had fallen from above, striking Gil-galad across the back and sending him sprawling to the floor with a sharp, painful crack. His body had crumpled under the weight, his breath knocked from his lungs in a heavy gasp. The sound of the collapse had reverberated in your ears, and when you rushed toward him, you saw the High King sprawled motionless beneath the debris.The fire, fueled by the invaders’ attacks, quickly spread, and it was clear that there was no time to waste. The air grew hotter, the smoke thicker, and the danger more immediate with each passing moment. His normally stoic face was hidden beneath layers of dust, and his form lay still—too still. You didn’t hesitate. You couldn’t. Every moment you spent contemplating the situation was one that could have been too long. The weight of the rubble didn’t matter. With sheer force, you wrenched the stones from his body, your hands burning from the heat as you pulled him toward you. His head lolled to the side, the blood from a cut on his temple staining the ground beneath him. His breathing was shallow, and there was a faint pulse beneath your fingertips—but he was unconscious.

🜲 The building groaned ominously as another burst of flame tore through the walls, and you knew that time was running out. The floor beneath you creaked in protest, the walls threatening to collapse in on themselves at any moment. Every instinct told you to leave—to save yourself, but you couldn’t. Not when Gil-galad, the King of the Noldor, lay helpless before you, his life in your hands. With effort, you dragged him across the smoke-choked room, your heart pounding in your chest as the flames licked at your heels. The roar of the fire was deafening, and every second felt like an eternity as you carried him toward the exit, the weight of his body making it harder to move with each step. The hall, once filled with the soft murmur of Elven voices, now only held the sound of destruction—the crackling fire, the rumble of collapsing stones, the fierce wind of a building in its death throes.

🜲 When you finally reached the doorway, the wood above you cracked, splintering as if it were alive and eager to consume you both. You stumbled, nearly losing your footing as a piece of the burning ceiling came crashing down behind you. With a final burst of strength, you pulled Gil-galad into the open air, out of the fire’s reach, and collapsed with him onto the grass beyond the building. You lay there for a moment, gasping for breath, your lungs burning as you fought to clear the smoke from your throat. Gil-galad, though unconscious, had been saved. His chest rose and fell, weakly but steadily. He was alive. As you caught your breath, the High King slowly stirred, his eyes fluttering open, the smoke and debris still clouding his vision. He blinked, disoriented, as the full weight of the situation began to register. The fire raged behind you, but here, in the cool air, the world seemed to slow down for just a moment.

🜲 Gil-galad, though weak and disoriented, tried to push himself up, his body protesting the movement. His once-pristine armor was singed and scarred, the elegant golden cloak now frayed and scorched. His normally impeccable appearance was marred by soot and blood, and the usually composed expression on his face faltered as he took in the destruction around him. His breath was shallow, and he winced in pain, but when his eyes met yours, there was something different in them—a raw, vulnerable gratitude. “You… saved me,” he murmured hoarsely, his voice barely audible over the lingering crackle of the fire. His gaze, though weak, held yours with a steady intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. There was no pride in his words, no authority—only quiet, humble acknowledgment. His fingers twitched slightly, as if he wanted to reach for you, but he lacked the strength to do so. Instead, he offered a small, respectful nod—barely perceptible, but it spoke volumes.

🜲 In that moment, the High King of the Noldor, the legendary ruler who had seen centuries pass, who had led armies and fought countless battles, looked at you with something that could almost be called… awe. It wasn’t just the gratitude of a king to his subject—it was the recognition of a fellow soul who had risked everything for him, a moment of vulnerability that even Gil-galad could not hide. His chest heaved with another labored breath, but despite the shock of the close call, his usual composure began to return. He would not let the fire have the satisfaction of claiming him. Not when there were still battles to be won, still people to protect. And yet, for the briefest moment, he was simply Gil-galad—alive, fragile, and deeply indebted to the one who had saved him.

🏹𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓭𝓲𝓻

➳ Tackled to Safety During a Storm While patrolling Lothlórien during a violent storm, Haldir narrowly avoids being crushed by a falling tree when the reader/you tackles him to the ground just in time. The two land in an awkward, close position, leaving Haldir uncharacteristically flustered.

➳ The storm raged through the woods, the wind howling like a feral beast as rain lashed the canopy above. Haldir moved with silent precision through the underbrush, his sharp eyes scanning the darkened landscape for any signs of disturbance. The weather had grown increasingly violent, but his duty as Marchwarden left no room for retreat. Even in the worst of conditions, the borders of Lothlórien had to be protected. Lightning lit up the forest in blinding flashes, momentarily painting the world in stark white before plunging it back into shadow. Haldir’s silver hair clung to his face, the relentless rain plastering it to his skin. His usual elegance was somewhat diminished by the storm, his cloak soaked through, boots caked in mud, yet his posture remained firm, his focus unbroken. The storm did not intimidate him—it was but another obstacle to overcome.

➳ Suddenly, a deafening crack split the air, so loud it seemed to vibrate through the earth itself. Haldir’s head snapped to the side, his sharp elven hearing pinpointing the source of the sound. A towering tree not far from where he stood had been struck by lightning, its mighty trunk splintering under the force. Time seemed to slow as he watched the massive tree begin to fall, its thick branches clawing through the air, the weight of it careening directly toward him. For a fraction of a second, he froze. Not out of fear, but because the situation was so sudden, so precise, that even his elven reflexes couldn’t save him in time. He prepared to dive, but before he could move, something collided with him from the side—a force strong enough to knock the air from his lungs. He hit the ground hard, water splashing around him as he was tackled into the wet, mossy earth. The crash of the tree landing mere inches from where he had stood was deafening, the impact sending shockwaves through the ground. The storm howled around them, but all Haldir could focus on was the weight pressed against him, the warmth of another body shielding him from the cold, rain-soaked earth.

➳ He blinked, his vision adjusting to the dim light, only to find himself nose-to-nose with the one who had saved him. You. For a moment, neither of you moved, the world around you drowned out by the pounding of rain and the hammering of your hearts. Your face hovered just above his, your breath mingling with his in the narrow space between you. Haldir’s silver-blue eyes, normally so composed and unreadable, were wide with surprise. His lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words came. You were drenched, rain dripping from your hair onto his face, and you suddenly realized the compromising position you were in. You were lying directly on top of him, your hands braced against his chest, the soaked fabric of his tunic clinging to the hard muscles beneath. His expression was utterly unguarded, caught somewhere between disbelief and astonishment.

➳ Finally, he spoke, his voice low and tinged with faint amusement. “You… tackled me.” You blinked, struggling to catch your breath. “I saved your life!” you countered, trying to shift your weight off him. However, the rain-slicked ground betrayed you, and you slipped, your hands sliding awkwardly, leaving you pressed even closer against him. Haldir exhaled sharply, the barest hint of a blush rising to his cheeks—though it could have been attributed to the cold or the exertion of the moment. His tone was wry, but the faint crack in his usually calm demeanor betrayed him. “And nearly crushed me in the process.” You pushed yourself up again, this time managing to regain your footing, and extended a hand to help him up. He hesitated for the briefest moment before accepting, his strong fingers gripping yours as you pulled him to his feet. The two of you stood there, drenched and panting, the storm raging around you.

➳ Haldir brushed himself off with as much dignity as he could muster, though the faint blush on his face remained. He ran a hand through his wet hair, smoothing it back as he regarded you with a mixture of exasperation and reluctant gratitude. “I suppose I owe you thanks,” he admitted, his voice steady now, though his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. “Next time, however, a simple warning will suffice.” You opened your mouth to retort, but his words carried a faint warmth that wasn’t lost on you. His usual air of detachment had cracked, just slightly, revealing something softer beneath. As he turned back toward the fallen tree, the corners of his lips twitched into the faintest ghost of a smile—a rare expression that made your heart skip a beat. “Though,” he added, glancing back at you with a smirk that sent a spark through your chest, “your form was… effective.”

➳ Despite the storm, despite the near-death experience, you couldn’t help but smile. Haldir’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, as though he were memorizing the details of your drenched and disheveled appearance, before he turned back to the task at hand. But even as the two of you moved to navigate the storm-drenched forest, you couldn’t shake the memory of the way he had looked at you—unguarded, surprised, and, perhaps, just a little bit enchanted.

#Gil-galad #gil galad of lindon #elvenking gil galad #gil galad x reader #gil galad headcanons #gil galad #Gil-galad high king #Gil-galad rings of power #haldir #haldir marchwarden #haldir of lothlórien #haldir of lorien #haldir x reader #haldir headcanons #lord of the rings #the hobbit #lotr elves

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sugar-crash · 21 days ago

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🪲👑CYBUG King Candy (Wreck-It Ralph) x (gn) Reader🍭🕷️

(Unknowing Reader Edition)

(Picture’s not mine!)

(Ask here! This gross buggy fuck… What if I threw him into a meat grinder?)

- I think one of the ways the reader isn’t able to see King Candy’s big villain reveal before getting his Cybug transformation would have to be if the reader was actively in the race as a racer as well, and seemingly far enough behind Vanellope and King Candy not to see the whole conflict.

- In a situation in which the absolute chaos of all the cybugs bursting from the ground, swarming around, ruining everything in their vicinity as various racers and npcs scream and flee away mindlessly, the reader finds themselves right in the middle of it, who could’ve known a seemingly normal race after hours could go bad so quickly?

- Or… More simply they’re not from Sugar Rush and were simply late to the party and ran in when they saw all the cutesy candy npcs scramble out of there when Calhoun and Felix were making them evacuate, ignoring the yells of caution in worry of King Candy.

- It’s like walking into Dante’s fucking Inferno, carnage to the left of them and disaster to the right, it’s like fucking against an unmovable and hostile current that’s more than eager to try to eat them up.

- The amount of… The emotional damage of finding out their seemingly sweet albeit sassy and sarcastic king becoming a weird fucked glitchy bug monster whose face constantly shifts from the one they had spent for who knows how long fearing alongside everyone else in the arcade that’s nothing short of feral would be astronomical, I mean, it’s basically what Calhoun went through, and we saw how she reacted.

- I do see him being joyous but in an insidious way when their eyes meet in the field of anarchy and chaos, face brightening at the sight of them with a sadistic tint of glee.

- Breaking the distance with no hesitation slyly asking them if they like his “new look”. And if they react negatively?? Loves it. He relishes in “toying” with them, dragging them around if they try to flee and cackling wildly when they try to fight in his grip—

- High off the feeling of holding life in his hands, not so gently wracking his large claw against their cheek, delighting in the droplets of blood that seep from the cuts he makes.

- During this time he’d be so patronizing, teasingly cooing at them, giving them thinly veiled insults as he shows them the carnage, bragging about his newly found power and his grand plan of making the arcade his playground, to have all the attention to himself.

- Shushing the reader if they try to reason with him, to try to think about the destruction— To learn from his mistakes, but he’s too far gone. He’s so caught up in the moment he doesn’t even think about the future which would be even more catastrophic than what he had done all those years ago.

- Protective of the reader for all the wrong reasons, wants them to be helpless and powerless in comparison to him, his controlling behaviors no longer controlled.

- Logic is out the window, and he’s not going to accept it, not anymore, thinks he’s beyond it now.

- The idea that King Candy and Turbo are the same person is no longer a secret, it can’t even be hidden anymore considering his unstable glitching to go alongside his even more unstable behavior.

- To say he’s possessive would be an understatement, keeping them trapped in some way, maybe underneath the ground of Sugar Rush, never let them see the light of day whenever he’s not there, just insanely invasive and intense behavior. Then again he’s always been invasive and intense.

- Everything is amplified by a 100 now besides his size and height, and his ego has long since swallowed him, infesting every part of him, feasting upon the love he demands from the reader.

- He wants them to rely on him, fear him, respect him, be their everything, something he’s always desired but never had the means to fully get but now?? He’s certain he can.

- I believe that stake would make him more adamant to not have any obstacles in his goals, be more vicious, be more… More, if that makes sense, not wanting Vanellope or Ralph putting yet another wrench into his plan.

- Thinks his reputation is in the pits so, why not?? Why not be utterly transparent? Why not let the reader know just who they fell in love with? They should be thanking him in his eyes.

- The delusion is real and he simply refuses to acknowledge it, calling the reader naive and ignorant all the while holding them painfully tight close to cold bug like body.

- A mockery of how they used to hold onto each other during those rare moments of quiet between them.

(I usually don’t take like a day to do these but I felt a bit inspired. Enjoy. Or not, like what you like. ^^)

#Spotify #turbo wreck it ralph #turbotastic #wreck it ralph turbo #turbo #king candy #x reader #king candy x reader #turbo x reader #wir #cybug king candy x reader

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masterjedilenawrites · 1 year ago

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List of books below, taken from the Star Wars wiki. Only included: Original Novels, Novel Adaptations, Script Books, and Young Adult Novels. Please no comments about books that are missing from the list... it is what it is.

The High Republic: Convergence - Zoraida Cordova

The High Republic: Path of Deceit - Tessa Gratton, Justina Ireland

The High Republic: The Battle of Jedha - George Mann

The High Republic: Path of Vengeance - Cavan Scott

The High Republic: Cataclysm - Lydia Kang

The High Republic: Into the Dark - Claudia Gray

The High Republic: Light of the Jedi - Charles Soule

The High Republic: The Rising Storm - Cavan Scott

The High Republic: Out of the Shadows - Justina Ireland

The High Republic: Tempest Runner - Cavan Scott

The High Republic: Midnight Horizon - Daniel Jose Older

The High Republic: The Fallen Star - Claudia Gray

The High Republic: The Eye of Darkness - George Mann

The High Republic: Defy the Storm - Tessa Gratton, Justina Ireland

The Vow of Silver Dawn - His Majesty the King

Dooku: Jedi Lost - Cavan Scott

Padawan - Kiersten White

Master & Apprentice - Claudia Gray

The Living Force - John Jackson Miller

Queen's Peril - E.K. Johnston

Queen's Shadow - E.K. Johnston

Inquisitor: Rise of the Red Blade - Delilah S. Dawson

Queen's Hope - E.K. Johnston

Brotherhood - Mike Chen

Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel - James Luceno

Thrawn Ascendancy: Chaos Rising - Timothy Zahn

Dark Disciple - Christie Golden

Thrawn Ascendancy: Greater Good - Timothy Zahn

Thrawn Ascendancy: Lesser Evil - Timothy Zahn

Ahsoka - E.K. Johnston

Thrawn - Timothy Zahn

Lords of the Sith - Paul S. Kemp

Tarkin - James Luceno

Most Wanted - Rae Carson

Solo: A Star Wars Story: Expanded Edition - Mur Lafferty

Rebel Rising - Beth Revis

Crimson Climb - E.K. Johnston

A New Dawn - John Jackson Miller

Jedi: Battle Scars - Sam Maggs

Lost Stars - Claudia Gray

Leia, Princess of Alderaan - Claudia Gray

Thrawn: Alliances - Timothy Zahn

Thrawn: Treason - Timothy Zahn

Rogue One: A Star Wars Story - Alexander Freed

Battlefront II: Inferno Squad - Christie Golden

Heir to the Jedi - Kevin Hearne

Doctor Aphra - Sarah Kuhn

Battlefront: Twilight Company - Alexander Freed

The Princess and the Scoundrel - Beth Revis

Alphabet Squadron - Alexander Freed

Aftermath - Chuck Wendig

Shadow Fall - Alexander Freed

Aftermath: Life Debt - Chuck Wendig

Victory's Price - Alexander Freed

Aftermath: Empire's End - Chuck Wendig

Last Shot - Daniel Jose Older

Poe Dameron: Free Fall - Alex Segura

Shadow of the Sith - Adam Christopher

Bloodline - Claudia Gray

Force Collector - Kevin Scinick

Phasma - Delilah S. Dawson

Star Wars: The Force Awakens - Alan Dean Foster

Galaxy's Edge: Black Spire - Delilah S. Dawson

Star Wars: The Last Jedi: Expanded Edition - Jason Fry

Resistance Reborn - Rebecca Roanhorse

A Crash of Fate - Zoraida Cordova

Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker: Expanded Edition - Rae Carson

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noyasbunny · 4 months ago

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***𝕓𝕝𝕒𝕫𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥***

𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚞 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚋 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 (𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛)

𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎!

The moon hung high in the sky, casting its silver glow over the ruined battlefield. Smoke curled from the ground, and the scent of scorched earth filled the air. Natsu Dragneel stood beside Lucy Heartfilia, both panting from the fierce battle they had just endured.

"You okay, Luce?" Natsu asked, flashing her a grin despite the cut on his cheek.

Lucy nodded, brushing dirt off her celestial keys. "Yeah, but that guy was tough."

Before they could catch their breath, a dark chuckle echoed through the air. From the shadows emerged their opponent—Veranos, a rogue dark mage cloaked in black energy, his crimson eyes gleaming with malice. "You think you’ve won? Pathetic."

With a wave of his hand, dark tendrils shot toward Lucy. She gasped, jumping back, but they moved too fast. Before she could summon a spirit, the darkness wrapped around her, lifting her off the ground.

"Natsu!" she cried, struggling against the restraints.

Natsu's eyes widened as his magic flared. "Let her go!"

Veranos smirked. "Try and stop me, Salamander."

With a roar, flames exploded around Natsu. His anger fueled his magic, turning it white-hot. He shot forward, fists blazing. "Fire Dragon's Iron Fist!"

The punch collided with Veranos, sending the dark mage skidding back. But he still held Lucy captive, his grip tightening. Lucy let out a choked gasp.

Natsu’s heart pounded. He had to end this—fast. Clenching his fists, he took a deep breath and focused all his magic into one final attack. "FIRE DRAGON KING'S BRILLIANT FLAME!"

A massive torrent of fire erupted from his hands, engulfing Veranos in a fiery inferno. The dark mage let out a scream before the flames consumed him. The tendrils disappeared, and Lucy fell.

Before she could hit the ground, strong arms caught her.

Lucy blinked up at Natsu, her breath hitching. His face was close, his warm eyes filled with concern. "You okay, Luce?"

She nodded, gripping his vest to steady herself. "You always catch me."

Natsu chuckled, setting her down but keeping a hand on her waist. "Yeah, well... can’t let my partner get hurt."

Lucy smiled, feeling warmth spread through her chest—not just from his flames, but from him. "Thanks, Natsu."

He rubbed the back of his head, grinning. "Anytime. Now let's smoke the rest of these guys"

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dkimeji · 24 days ago

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Random Crossover Idea

Yep, I pretty much want two of my lovely women to meet and considering how much the DL universe is radiated with corrupted, insane, abusive toxic masculine vampires ruled by their equally, corrupted, insane, abusive, toxic masculine vampire king/father, I think that it's very fitting for me to send in a certain umbran witch into their world as of means of kicking, shooting, smacking or summoning her lovely "friends" from the depths of Inferno on to their high horses and putting them in their place while protecting Yui from them.

Cuz after all, if there is one thing I've learned from watching Bayonetta is to never, EVER, mess with a wicked witch like Bayonetta herself.

#crossover #bayonetta #cereza #yui komori #crossover idea

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novaursa · 9 months ago

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The Price of Fire (Final Chapter)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Pairing: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 17

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @mrsjohnnysuh @your-favorite-god

King’s Landing looms ahead, the sprawling city spread out beneath you like a sprawling beast, its narrow, twisting streets a maze of stone and shadow. Silverwing soars above it all, her powerful wings beating against the wind, her silver scales gleaming in the midday sun. The Sept below, a vast and imposing structure of pale stone and stained glass, stands as a symbol of the Faith’s influence—a symbol that is about to be obliterated.

You guide Silverwing down, your heart a steady, unyielding beat in your chest. The wind whips past you, carrying the distant sounds of the city—cries of alarm, the tolling of bells, the shouts of people fleeing as your shadow falls over them. You can feel Silverwing’s anticipation, the simmering rage that mirrors your own as she descends, her massive form casting a dark shadow over the grand edifice.

“Dracarys,” you whisper, the word a deadly promise, a sentence of destruction.

Silverwing’s roar splits the air, a sound of pure, unbridled fury. Her jaws open wide, and a torrent of flame erupts, a searing wave of heat and fire that engulfs the Sept. The stained glass windows shatter in an explosion of color and sound, shards raining down as the stone walls crack and blacken under the onslaught. The air is filled with the acrid stench of burning wood and melting metal, the screams of those inside drowned out by the roar of the flames.

You guide Silverwing lower, her claws tearing into the roof as she lands, the stone buckling and crumbling beneath her weight. The flames surge around you, the heat searing, the smoke rising in thick, choking plumes. Below, the once grand interior of the Sept is a blazing inferno, the pews and altars consumed by the relentless fire, the sacred tapestries reduced to ash.

Silverwing roars again, a fierce, triumphant sound, and you raise your sword, the blade gleaming in the light of the fire, a symbol of your wrath, your vengeance. “This is what you deserve!” you shout, your voice carrying over the roar of the flames, the destruction. “This is the price of betrayal!”

The city watches in stunned silence, the flames casting eerie, dancing shadows over the rooftops and walls. The Sept, once a place of worship and power, is now a blazing ruin, the Faith’s hold over the city crumbling to ash.

You pull Silverwing up, her wings beating against the smoke-filled air as she rises above the burning structure. Below, the flames continue to rage, the fire spreading, the screams of those trapped inside a haunting counterpoint to the crackling of the inferno.

Your gaze sweeps over the city, taking in the chaos, the panic. This is your city now. The city that once a cheered for you now screams. And you will drive every last remnant of the Faith from it, root and stem, until not even a whisper of their influence remains. And they will scream more.

With a final, defiant roar, Silverwing turns, her powerful wings carrying you away from the smoldering ruins, back toward the Red Keep, where the rest of this grim play is set to unfold.

Within the high, forbidding walls of the Red Keep, the atmosphere is charged, every face pale, every movement edged with fear. Rhaenyra strides through the corridors, her presence a storm of barely contained fury. Daemon walks beside her, his expression that of cold determination, Dark Sister at his hip, ready for whatever comes.

They reach the throne room, the doors swinging open with a heavy, echoing thud. Inside, Aegon sits slumped on the Iron Throne, his crown askew, his face drawn and haggard. Alicent stands before him, her hands clenched in front of her, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and defiance. Beside her, Helaena clutches her children close, her face pale and tear-streaked.

Rhaenyra’s gaze sweeps over them, her eyes hard, unyielding. She steps forward, her voice ringing out clear and cold. “It’s over, Aegon. The city is ours.”

Aegon lets out a bitter, broken laugh, his head dropping back against the cold metal of the throne. “Is it?” he mutters, his voice filled with a hollow mockery. “You have the city, but at what cost?”

Rhaenyra ignores him, her attention shifting to Alicent, who takes a shaky step forward, her face taut with desperation. “Please, Rhaenyra,” she begins, her voice trembling, her eyes pleading. “For the sake of my children, for my grandchildren—”

“It’s not up to me,” Rhaenyra cuts her off, her voice sharp, final. “I am not the one who will decide their fate.”

Alicent blinks, confusion and fear flickering across her face. “What do you mean?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze is steady, unyielding. “It is for my brother-husband to decide. He will decide their fate as he decides the fate of those who betrayed him, who crowned you king in his place.”

Alicent’s face drains of color, her hands trembling. “Please,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “You must stop him. He’ll destroy us all.”

Rhaenyra’s expression doesn’t change, her eyes hard and cold. “He’s finishing what he started. He’s driving the Faith from this city, from his throne. And when he’s done, he’ll come here. And then we’ll see what justice is to be done.”

Daemon steps forward, his gaze locked on Aegon, his voice low, edged with menace. “You thought you could steal the throne, and there would be no price?”

Aegon’s eyes meet his uncle’s, a flicker of defiance in their depths, but it’s weak, hollow. “What would you have me do?” he mutters, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Kneel?”

Daemon’s smile is a thin, dangerous thing. “It’s too late for that, boy.”

The room is silent, the weight of the moment pressing down on them all. Alicent’s eyes fill with tears, her hands clutching at her skirts as she looks from Rhaenyra to Daemon, her voice trembling. “Please… please, I’m begging you…”

Rhaenyra turns away, her expression closed, unreadable. “It’s out of my hands.”

And as the tension thickens, as the silence stretches, you can feel it—the storm building, the moment before the strike, before everything changes forever.

And soon, very soon, the fate of King’s Landing will be sealed in blood and fire.

The heavy, iron-studded doors to the throne room creak open, the sound echoing through the vast, silent space. You stride in, your armor stained with soot and ash, the scent of smoke clinging to you like a second skin. The flames from the Sept still linger in your eyes, a searing, fierce light that draws the gaze of everyone in the room.

Rhaenyra and Daemon stand at the base of the Iron Throne, their faces a mixture of relief and resolve as they watch your approach. Behind them, Alicent and her children are gathered, their expressions ranging from fear to defiance. Aegon sits slouched on the Iron Throne, his face pale, his eyes hollow, his fingers drumming nervously against the armrests.

In your hands, held with reverence despite the blood and grime that stain your gloves, is the crown of Visenya Targaryen, its silver and black jewels gleaming dully in the low light of the throne room. You come to a stop before Rhaenyra, your heart steady, your gaze locked on hers.

“Rhaenyra,” you say, your voice carrying through the stillness. “I found this in the ruins of the Sept.”

Her eyes widen, the breath catching in her throat as she stares at the crown, a mix of sorrow and pride flickering across her face. You step closer, your hands trembling slightly as you raise the crown, placing it gently upon her head. The cold metal settles against her brow, the weight of it a testament to her birthright, to her strength.

“For you, my Queen,” you murmur, your voice filled with a fierce, unyielding love. “For Visenya.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes shine with unshed tears, her hand lifting to touch the crown lightly, her gaze never leaving yours. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “For everything.”

You nod, your heart swelling with a fierce, protective pride, and then your gaze shifts, your eyes hardening as they fall on Aegon, still slumped on the Iron Throne. He looks up at you, his face tightening with fear, his body shrinking back as if trying to meld with the twisted metal of the seat.

You take a step forward, your gaze locked on Aegon, the silence in the room crackling with tension. Aegon’s eyes dart around wildly, his fingers gripping the armrests of the throne so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“Brother,” he begins, his voice wavering, but whatever words he’s trying to find seem to choke in his throat.

You ignore him, your steps slow, deliberate, your gaze never wavering. You can feel the eyes of everyone in the room on you, the air thick with fear and anticipation.

Alicent moves suddenly, her face stricken, tears brimming in her eyes as she steps into your path, her hands outstretched, a desperate, pleading gesture. “Please,” she begs, her voice cracking with desperation. “Don’t do this. I know… I know there’s still a part of you left from when we were young. I know you remember.”

You pause, your eyes meeting hers. There’s a flicker of something—an old memory, a distant echo of a time when things were simpler, when you were different people. But it’s buried beneath the weight of all that has happened, beneath the anger and the loss that have shaped you into the man you are now.

Your gaze shifts past her, to where Helaena stands, clutching her children close, her face pale and tear-streaked. The sight of them tugs at something deep inside you, but it’s not enough to sway you, not enough to pull you back from the path you’ve chosen.

“Step aside, Alicent,” you say quietly, your voice steady, though there’s a dark edge to it, a finality that sends a shudder through her. “This is not your choice.”

Alicent’s face crumples, her hands trembling as she reaches out, her fingers brushing against your arm, her voice breaking. “Please… they’re just children. He’s your brother.”

You pull away, your eyes hardening as you push past her, your steps sure, your gaze fixed on Aegon. The athmosphere in the room is suffocating, every breath a struggle as you ascend the steps toward the Iron Throne, your heart pounding with a fierce, unyielding resolve.

Aegon stares at you, his expression set in fear and confusion, his mouth working soundlessly as he tries to find words, to find some defense against the storm bearing down on him.

“Please, brother,” he finally whispers, his voice breaking, his body hunched as if to shield himself from your wrath. “I didn’t want this. I never wanted any of this.”

You stop before him, your eyes cold, unyielding. “And yet you took it,” you say softly, the words heavy with all the bitterness, all the betrayal that has brought you to this moment. “You took what wasn’t yours.”

Aegon’s face crumples, his body trembling as he shrinks back, his eyes wide with terror. “I was pushed… they made me—”

“No more excuses,” you cut him off, your voice a sharp, unforgiving blade. “You took the crown, you took my throne, and now you will face the consequences.”

The room is silent, the air thick with the weight of what’s to come. You can feel the eyes of everyone on you, can feel the fear and hope and anger swirling around you like a living thing.

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, you reach out, your hand closing around the armrest of the Iron Throne, your gaze never leaving Aegon’s.

“It ends here,” you say, your voice steady, implacable. “The time of the usurper is over.”

The silence that follows in the throne room is suffocating, each breath held in a suspended, uneasy stillness. Aegon sits rigid on the Iron Throne, his knuckles white as he grips the armrests, his eyes darting around the room, fear and confusion written across his pale face. Alicent remains frozen, her expression stricken, Helaena clutching her children, their soft sobs echoing in the stillness.

You turn away from Aegon, your voice carrying a calm, implacable authority as you speak to the guards positioned around the chamber. “Take them to their chambers,” you order, your tone brooking no dissent. “They are to remain there, under watch, until I decide their fate.”

Aegon’s breath leaves him in a shuddering exhale, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of the world has suddenly fallen upon them. He looks up at you, his expression a twisted mix of relief and resignation. “Thank you…” he murmurs, his voice trembling, but you ignore him, your gaze already moving to the next battle ahead.

Daemon steps forward, his presence a looming shadow of grim determination. “Aemond is still at Harrenhal,” he says, his voice carrying the barest hint of a challenge, his eyes fixed on yours.

You nod, your mind already racing ahead, the thought of your younger brother a burning coal in your chest. “I’ll deal with him,” you say, your voice steady, your resolve unyielding.

Daemon’s eyes narrow, the muscles in his jaw tensing. “You almost died last time,” he reminds you, his voice hard, his concern thinly veiled behind a mask of irritation. “You know what Vhagar is capable of. Let me go. I’ll handle Aemond.”

“No,” you say firmly, your gaze meeting his, a silent, fierce determination in your eyes. “I need you here, Daemon. To hold the city, to keep order. If anything happens to me…” You let the words hang, the unspoken possibilities stretching between you.

Daemon’s expression darkens, his eyes searching yours, his mouth tightening with frustration. “You’re risking everything,” he says quietly, the words almost lost in the cavernous silence of the room. “There’s no telling what that mad dog will do. You need to think this through.”

“I have thought it through,” you reply, your voice a low, controlled burn. “Aemond won’t stop. He’ll keep coming, keep fighting, until one of us is dead. This has to end. And it has to end now.”

The room seems to close in around you, the weight of your decision pressing down, the air thick with tension. You can see the worry in Daemon’s eyes, the anger, the fear he’s trying so hard to hide. But you also know he understands—better than anyone—the cost of inaction, the price of hesitation.

He exhales sharply, his gaze flicking away, his jaw clenching. “And if you die?”

“Then you’ll do what you have to,” you say, your voice softening, the edge of command giving way to something deeper, something raw. “You’ll protect Rhaenyra, the children, the throne. You’ll finish what we started.”

Daemon’s eyes snap back to yours, his expression fierce, almost defiant. “You’re not dying,” he says, the words a low, harsh growl. “Not like this. Not to him.”

You reach out, gripping his shoulder, the contact solid, grounding. “I’ll be careful,” you promise, a ghost of a smile touching your lips. “But this ends now.”

He looks at you for a long moment, the storm of emotions swirling behind his eyes, and then, with a reluctant nod, he steps back, his hand falling away from the hilt of his sword.

“Fine,” he mutters, his voice thick with reluctant acceptance. “But if you come back with so much as a scratch, I’ll kill you myself.”

You chuckle softly, the sound incongruous in the tense, heavy air of the throne room. “I’ll hold you to that.”

With a final glance around the chamber, your gaze lingering on Rhaenyra, who stands watching, her eyes dark with worry and understanding, you turn and stride from the room, your steps echoing through the silence, the weight of what you must do settling on your shoulders like a shroud.

This is it. The final move in a game that has cost so much, that has left so many scars. You know what you must do, what must be done to end this. To bring peace, or at least, something resembling it, to the realm.

And as you step into the cool, shadowed corridors of the Red Keep, the roar of dragons echoing faintly in the distance, you let yourself feel, just for a moment, the fear, the uncertainty. And then you push it aside, your heart steady, your mind clear.

This will end. One way or another, it will end.

The sky above the God’s Eye is a vast expanse of dark clouds, roiling and churning like the surface of the lake below. The air is filled with the promise of rain, the scent of the storm mingling with the tang of smoke and ash still clinging to your armor. Silverwing’s powerful wings beat rhythmically beneath you, carrying you higher, closer to the heart of the approaching tempest. You know what awaits you in the storm—Aemond, Vhagar, and the final reckoning that has been a long time coming.

You spot them in the distance, a dark silhouette against the storm clouds, Vhagar’s enormous form dwarfing even the vastness of the sky. She is a beast of legend, her wings stretching wide, her body coiled with lethal strength, and Aemond, perched atop her back, is a small, dark figure, his gaze already fixed on you, even from this distance. The sight sends a surge of anger through you, but you force yourself to remain calm, focused. This is what you came for. This is how it must end.

Silverwing roars, her voice a defiant challenge that echoes across the skies, carrying through the thick, stormy air. She pulls back her wings, gaining altitude as you approach, your gaze locked on the monstrous form of Vhagar, her ancient eyes gleaming with a dark, terrible intelligence. Aemond’s face is set into grimace of rage and something else—anticipation, a fierce hunger for the battle he knows is inevitable.

You draw Blackfyre, the blade heavy and familiar in your hand, the dark steel gleaming in the flickering light of the approaching storm. The wind whips around you, tearing at your cloak, but you hold steady, your focus narrowing to the task ahead, to the fight that will determine everything.

“Come on, Aemond,” you mutter under your breath, your voice swallowed by the wind, the storm. “Let’s end this.”

Silverwing surges forward, her wings cutting through the air with a powerful beat, her body coiling and tensing, ready for the clash. Vhagar responds with a deafening roar, her jaws snapping open, flames licking the edges of her teeth as she dives toward you, her massive form a terrifying sight against the darkened sky.

“Dracarys!” Aemond’s voice carries across the distance, his command a whipcrack of fury, and Vhagar unleashes a torrent of flame, the searing heat turning the air around you into a furnace.

“Dive!” you shout, leaning forward, urging Silverwing into a sharp, gut-wrenching descent. She responds instantly, her body twisting and folding as she drops, the flames barely missing you, scorching the air above your head. The force of the dive tears at you, your vision narrowing as the ground rushes up to meet you, but you hold on, gritting your teeth against the pull of gravity, the force of the descent.

Silverwing levels out, her wings beating furiously as she skims the surface of the God’s Eye, the water churning beneath her, the spray dampening your face. You glance up, your gaze tracking Vhagar as she follows, her massive body plummeting toward you, a dark shadow against the storm.

You pull Silverwing up, her wings straining as she climbs, spiraling upward, the water spinning away beneath you. Vhagar follows, her roars shaking the air, her massive form closing in, her claws outstretched, her jaws snapping. You twist in the saddle, raising Blackfyre, the blade catching the dim light, a stark contrast against the darkness of the sky.

Aemond’s face is a mask of fury, his eye blazing with hatred as Vhagar closes the distance, her jaws snapping at Silverwing’s tail, her breath hot and foul. You can feel the heat of her flames, the searing intensity of her rage, but you don’t flinch, your focus locked on Aemond, on the end that is coming.

“Is this what you wanted, brother?” you shout, your voice raw, your words a challenge thrown into the wind, the storm. “Is this the price you’re willing to pay?”

Aemond’s laughter is a harsh, jagged sound, echoing through the storm. “You’ll die here, just like you should have above the Storm’s End,” he snarls, his voice filled with a cold, pitiless fury. “You’ll fall, and your family will burn.”

You grit your teeth, your anger surging, the fury of his words igniting something deep and primal within you. “Not today, Aemond,” you growl, your grip tightening on Blackfyre. “Not today.”

Silverwing roars, her voice a furious, defiant challenge, and she dives again, her body twisting, her wings folding as she drops beneath Vhagar, the wind whistling around you, the ground a blur beneath your feet. You shift in the saddle, raising Blackfyre, the blade gleaming darkly as you aim, your heart pounding, your mind clear.

“Dracarys!” you shout, your voice a command, a promise.

Silverwing’s jaws open, and a torrent of flame erupts, a searing, blinding wave of fire that engulfs Vhagar’s side, the heat of it turning the air to steam, the sound of it a deafening roar that drowns out everything. Vhagar roars, her body turning, her claws slashing through the air, but Silverwing is already moving, her wings beating powerfully as she pulls away, the flames still licking at Vhagar’s scales.

Aemond curses, his voice a harsh, guttural sound, and Vhagar lunges, her massive jaws snapping, her claws tearing at the air. Silverwing twists again, her body coiling, her wings beating furiously as she dodges, her movements fluid and graceful despite the size difference.

You see the opening, a fleeting moment where Vhagar’s massive body shifts, exposing Aemond, his face twisted with rage and frustration. You don’t hesitate, your hand steady as you raise Blackfyre, the blade poised, your heart a steady, unyielding beat.

“This is for my son you wanted to slay!” you roar, your voice carrying over the storm, over the chaos of the battle, and you hurl yourself from the saddle, the wind tearing at you, your body hurtling toward Aemond, Blackfyre gleaming in your hand.

Time seems to slow, the world narrowing to this single moment, this final, irrevocable act. You see the flash of shock in Aemond’s eye, the sudden, dawning realization as you close the distance, your blade aimed straight for his heart.

Blackfyre strikes true, the blade piercing Aemond’s armor, sinking deep into his chest. His eye widens, his mouth opening in a silent scream, his body jerking as the steel drives home. The impact knocks you both from the saddle, Vhagar’s roar of fury and pain a deafening, all-encompassing sound as you fall, the wind tearing at you, the world spinning in a dizzying blur.

You feel Aemond’s body convulse beneath you, his blood hot and slick on your hands, his eye staring up at you, wide and uncomprehending. There is no more hate, no more fury—only shock, only pain, only the cold inevitability of death.

The water of the God’s Eye rushes up to meet you, a dark, churning expanse, and you feel the impact, the icy cold engulfing you, pulling you down, down into the depths. You hold on to Blackfyre, the blade still buried in Aemond’s chest, the weight of him dragging you both down, the world fading to black around you.

And then, there is nothing but the cold, and the dark, and the silence of the deep.

An Excerpt from Fire and Blood by Archmaester Gyldayn

The Reign of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and the Aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons

With the death of Y/N Targaryen, eldest son of King Viserys I, in the skies above the God’s Eye, the Dance of the Dragons reached its final, bloody crescendo. His confrontation with his half-brother, Prince Aemond Targaryen, and the destruction that followed their deadly clash, marked the beginning of the end for the bitter war that had torn the realm asunder. Yet, the consequences of his life and actions would continue to ripple through Westeros for generations to come.

Rhaenyra’s Reign and Legacy

Following her husband’s death, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen held the Iron Throne, her claim uncontested for a time, though her rule was fraught with tension and unrest. The death of King Y/N left her heartbroken and enraged, but she remained resolute in her determination to rule in his memory. Rhaenyra's reign, while short-lived, was marked by a period of brutal consolidation of power.

The destruction of Oldtown, the ancient seat of the Hightowers, and the burning of the Citadel sent shockwaves throughout the realm. The loss of so many maesters and the destruction of centuries of knowledge left a scar that would never truly heal. The Faith of the Seven, deeply weakened by the annihilation of their central seat of power, was forced into a position of subservience, the remnants of their once formidable influence shattered.

For years, Rhaenyra ruled with an iron fist, her sons—Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys—by her side. It was said that she kept Visenya’s crown close, a reminder of the sacrifices made and the blood spilled for her throne.

The Fate of Prince Daemon Targaryen

After the tragic death of King Y/N Targaryen above the God’s Eye, Prince Daemon Targaryen, his uncle and closest confidant, was left to navigate the aftermath of the war that had claimed so many lives. Known as the Rogue Prince, Daemon’s life was marked by bold decisions, fierce loyalty, and unyielding ambition. The loss of his nephew and the violent end to their shared struggle left an indelible mark on the man who had once been the scourge of the Stepstones and the terror of Oldtown.

Daemon's Role in the Aftermath

With Rhaenyra on the Iron Throne, Daemon took up the mantle of protector and enforcer of her reign. As the queen’s most trusted general, he was tasked with maintaining the tenuous peace that had settled over the realm. His presence in King’s Landing, commanding the loyalty of the City Watch and wielding the fearsome authority of his dragon, Caraxes, kept potential dissenters at bay. Despite his age, he remained a formidable figure, his sharp mind and ruthless disposition ensuring that no one dared openly challenge Rhaenyra’s rule.

Daemon's ruthlessness in quelling rebellion, particularly in the aftermath of the war, became a source of both fear and respect. He was instrumental in crushing the remnants of Green loyalists and those who still harbored sympathies for the late Aegon II. His actions were decisive and often brutal, his reputation for dealing harshly with any who threatened his family solidifying his position as Rhaenyra’s enforcer.

The Decline of Daemon Targaryen

As the years passed, the fire that had driven Daemon began to wane. The loss of his nephew and brother-in-arms, combined with the weight of his own advancing age, left him increasingly isolated. Those close to the prince spoke of his growing melancholy, a shadow of regret that seemed to haunt him. The Rogue Prince, once so full of life and passion, began to withdraw from the court and the world he had helped shape.

In his later years, Daemon spent more time at Dragonstone, where he had first made his mark as a young prince. He took solace in the company of his daughters, Baela and Rhaena, and in the memories of his lost loves and lost battles. The fiery spirit that had once driven him to lead men into battle, to carve out his own kingdom in the Stepstones, and to burn Oldtown to the ground in vengeance, seemed to flicker and fade.

The Final Flight of the Rogue Prince

It is said that in the end, Daemon’s last act was one of defiance, an echo of the man he had always been. Mounting Caraxes one final time, he took to the skies above Dragonstone, his dragon’s roars echoing over the island. Where he flew and why is the subject of much speculation among the chroniclers of the time. Some say he flew to the site of the God’s Eye, the place where his nephew had fallen, seeking some form of peace or perhaps simply to rage one last time against the cruel hand of fate.

Others whisper that he flew west, to the lands beyond the Sunset Sea, chasing some distant, unreachable dream. Whatever his final destination, Prince Daemon Targaryen was never seen again in Westeros. Caraxes, too, vanished from the skies, leaving only rumors and legends in his wake.

The Fate of Alicent Hightower and Her Children

After the fall of King’s Landing, Dowager Queen Alicent and her remaining children were confined to their quarters in the Red Keep under constant watch. It was here that the woman who had once been the power behind the throne slowly withered away. Alicent, stripped of her influence and wracked with grief over the loss of her son Aemond and the destruction of her ancestral home, spent her remaining days in isolation, her pleas for mercy unanswered by Rhaenyra.

Aegon II, who had briefly held the Iron Throne, was imprisoned and remained a shadow of his former self. The torments of his mind, compounded by the separation of his dragon Sunfyre and the crushing weight of defeat, left him broken. He spent his final years in a gilded cage, watched over by guards who once knelt before him as their king. His life ended quietly, his body found cold in his chambers, the crown of Aegon the Conqueror resting beside him—untouched and unworn.

Helaena Targaryen, gentle and soft-spoken, was spared much of the cruelty that befell her mother and brother. Allowed to live out her days in the Red Keep, she devoted herself to her children, her love for them a rare light in those dark days. She passed peacefully, though some whispered of a sorrow that had never left her eyes since the day the dragons came.

Daeron Targaryen, the youngest and only survivor of the old king’s sons, was missing for years after the fall of Oldtown and the death of his dragon Tessarion. It was rumored that he had fled to Essos, the scars of war etched deeply into his heart. He never returned to Westeros, and his fate remains one of the many mysteries left in the wake of the Dance.

The Legacy of King Y/N Targaryen

The war on the Faith waged by King Y/N forever altered the relationship between the Iron Throne and the Seven. The destruction of the Starry Sept and the Citadel not only broke the Hightower’s influence but also diminished the power of the Faith of the Seven to challenge the Crown. His brutal campaign, while criticized by many as an act of barbarism, effectively cowed those who might otherwise have stood against Targaryen rule in the name of the Seven.

The maesters of the Citadel, decimated and scattered, struggled for years to rebuild. The loss of so many records and the erasure of much of their accumulated knowledge left a void that could never truly be filled. The Citadel became more cautious, its influence waning as the memory of dragonfire over Oldtown haunted its halls.

The smallfolk, left in the ashes of their burned city, spoke of King Y/N with a mixture of fear and reverence. He was both the dragon who had laid their homes to waste and the warrior who had avenged his daughter, Visenya. His legacy, like his life, was marked by fire and blood, his name etched into the annals of history as one of the most ruthless yet undeniably effective Targaryen princes.

The Line of Succession

After Rhaenyra’s death, her eldest son, Jacaerys Targaryen, ascended the Iron Throne as King Jacaerys I Targaryen. His reign, though challenged by those loyal to the memory of Aegon II, was one of relative stability. He was known for his efforts to heal the scars left by the Dance and to restore the fractured realm his parents had fought so fiercely to claim.

King Lucerys, Jacaerys' younger brother, succeeded him, and his rule was marked by a more peaceful consolidation of the Targaryen legacy, though his life was overshadowed by the tragedies of his youth. The remaining brothers, Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys, played significant roles in the court, their presence ensuring that the Targaryen line remained unbroken, their family ties unassailable.

Conclusion

The Dance of the Dragons left the realm scarred and divided, the shadow of the conflict lingering long after the final dragons had vanished from the skies. Yet, it also forged a new era, one in which the Targaryen dynasty emerged both weakened and strengthened, their hold on the throne unchallenged but their losses incalculable.

The legacy of King Y/N Targaryen, his war against the Faith, and the burning of Oldtown remain topics of fierce debate among the maesters and lords of Westeros. Was he a tyrant, a madman driven by grief, or the necessary fire that cleansed the rot from the realm? Perhaps he was all these things, and more.

But one truth remains unchallenged: the fire he unleashed, the blood he spilled, and the throne he fought to defend shaped the destiny of the Seven Kingdoms, and the echoes of his actions will reverberate through the histories of Westeros for generations to come.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra x y/n #rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra x you #rhaenyra x male reader

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ithaqualovers · 2 years ago

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My Eveningstar

Husband! Morningstar (Helel) x Reader

(TW: NSFW!! 18+ only) ((This was requested by a friend of mine, and this is my first writing a smut ToT... If there is a mistake please tell me! And if you don't know the meaning of Eveningstar is 'The brightest' and symbolized that you are an eternal beauty and love of a Roman goddess.)

Meanwhile, above the high tower, the wind howled as it swirled around the spire, bringing with it the distant cries of the people below. You stood atop the tower, surveying the land with a wistful gaze. Then the Morningstar's servant suddenly called you to the tower's chamber, requested by your king, Helel the Morningstar. the servant approached you and spoke solemnly. “King's dear lover, Eveningstar,” they said. “The Morningstar has need of your presence. He awaits you in the tower chamber.” The servant bowed before you and stepped back. You were surprised by their words, but you nodded and set off for the tower.

As you ascended the stairs, you wondered what Helel wanted from you. When you reached the chamber, you saw the king standing in the centre. Your husband, Helel. The sun that centred on his mask shone brightly as he grinned. “My dearest, come closer to your beloved husband.” You slowly walked up to him, your heart pounding in your chest. Helel slowly took his mask off to expose his dull-cream pupils. Helel took your hands in his, his touch comforting and warm. He brought your hands to his lips and kissed them softly. He looked into your eyes and said “You look so beautiful today, my Eveningstar... Your presence shows a goddess-like beauty, and I am blessed to be able to call you mine.” A smirk appeared on his face. You have never felt him call you like this since he is so possessive and obsessive towards you.

You already know what he wants. You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms. You can tell that he has an agenda in mind by the way he is speaking so intimately and romantically to you, and the smirk on his face shows that he knows he is getting to you. His possessive and obsessive nature further confirms that he is after something, and that he expects you to give in to his wishes. “What is that you want to do with me, Helel? I will not let you use me for your own gain again.” You replied, your voice was stern and unwavering. Helel chuckled softly, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous glint as he stepped closer to you. He reached out to gently brush a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Oh, my fiery dove, you are always so quick with your words,” he purred, his voice dripping with desire. “But I see through that facade, Y/n. I know deep down you crave the touch of your beloved husband.” His hand trailed down from your face, caressing your neck and collarbone. “I want you. I want to feel the heat between us ignite into a blazing inferno. To taste the passion that burns within our souls.” His voice grew huskier as he leaned in close, his hot breath washing over your lips. “Give yourself to me completely, my Eveningstar. Let us indulge in pleasures beyond mortal comprehension.”

You hesitated, unsure of what to do. You raised a brow and met his gaze, feeling a tremor of fear and excitement. Taking a deep breath, and sighed. Do you really have to give in to him? You knew that there was no turning back if you said yes. Taking a deep breath, you closed your eyes and nodded, ready to take the plunge. “Hm. So needy...” You smirked, feeling a rush of adrenaline as you opened your eyes as your e/c stared into his dull-creamy eyes. “My needy king wants to fuck his Eveningstar, correct?” You chuckled at your words and a smirk tugging your lips. Helel's eyes narrowed slightly, a mix of amusement and desire dancing within them as he leaned in closer, his voice dripping with dark allure. “Oh, my delectable dove, you always knew how to play with fire. But be warned, for I am the inferno that consumes all in its path.” His hand trailed down your arm before gripping your waist possessively. “Oh, yes. I want nothing more than to claim you as my own once again. To feel our souls entwined in a passionate dance of pleasure and dominance." He pressed himself against you, his breath hot against your ear. “But remember this: it is not just 'fucking' I seek. It is the sheer ecstasy of surrendering ourselves to the darkest desires that reside within us both. Are you ready to lose yourself in the flames?”

You closed your eyes, the excitement coursing through your veins. You were ready to embrace the unknown, to let go of all inhibitions and finally break free. You nodded a silent agreement that sealed your fate. You really give in to him, huh? “Mm... Alright, my Morningstar... Do as you wish.” With your permission granted, Helel grinned, a sinister glint in his golden eyes. He leaned in close, his voice a low whisper in your ear. “Good.” His eyes gleamed with a mix of desire and satisfaction as he felt the heat of your words wash over him. He released a low, rumbling chuckle that resonated through the chamber. “Ah, my insatiable Eveningstar,” he murmured huskily, “your eagerness fuels the fire within me.”

With a swift, fluid motion, he scooped you up into his arms, carrying you effortlessly towards the grand bed adorned with silk sheets and dark velvet drapes. As he laid you down gently, his hands moved with purpose, skillfully removing every garment you wear. His touch was firm yet tantalizingly gentle as he explored every inch of your body, tracing patterns of pleasure along your curves. He slowly removed his heavy cape and settled in next to you, he pulled the bust of his short black coat to his side exposing his bare chest. You shivered as you felt his sharp fingers, caressing your hips. His breath was hot and heavy against your skin as he lifted your hips. His eyes drank in the sight of your body, and you felt your heart race as he leaned closer. His lips brushed against yours, and the intensity of the moment was overwhelming. Helel pulled down his trousers as he positioned himself above you, and you felt the tip of his dick teasing your entrance. His golden eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that could ignite galaxies. Lowering himself onto you, he claimed your lips in a searing kiss while simultaneously entering you with a slow and deliberate thrust without a warning. You gasped as he filled you, your entire body trembling with pleasure.

“Mmf... H-Helel...” You moaned his name in his mouth while his tongue explored your mouth, tasting every corner of it. Feeling your inner muscles clench around his cock, Helel pressed down even further, filling you with his length to the hilt. A low groan escaped his lips as he broke the kiss, his eyes locked onto yours, boring into your very soul. “That's it...” he panted, and his hands roamed over your body, tracing patterns of desire and love across your skin. He began to move within you with a slow, rhythmic intensity, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge of ecstasy. “Let me hear your screams of pleasure as we drown in the inferno that binds us together.” He whispered huskily. You clung to him as the pleasure rose within you, your cries growing louder and louder until you screamed out in pleasure. Oh, your cries are only making him turned even more passionate. Helel let out a deep, throaty moan of pleasure as he felt your inner muscles clench around him. He increased his pace and thrust harder against you, pushing you closer to the edge of ecstasy. “That's it, my Eveningstar,” he growled lowly, “Take me all in... Mmmf– surrender yourself to me.” His hands roamed hungrily over your body as he moved within you with an almost primal intensity. With each thrust came another wave of pleasure that threatened to sweep away any sense of rationality that remained between both of you. “Hah...” He moaned aloud as he felt himself becoming lost in the fire between you two.

You bit your lip and gripped the back of his neck tightly as your nails dug into his flesh and started bleeding. Helel groaned in both pleasure and pain as your nails dug into the back of his neck, fueling the fire that burned within him. His thrusts became more urgent and desperate, matching the intensity of your grip. He gasped and grinned, “You are... enjoying this... aren't you?” His hips moved with a primal rhythm, meeting yours with an unyielding force. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, mingling with the symphony of your moans and breathless cries. “Mmn... I'm almost there..” As you continued to tighten around him, Helel could feel his release building within him, becoming an unstoppable force ready to consume them both. With one final deep thrust, he let out a guttural groan and released himself inside you, filling you with his semen. He collapsed beside you on the bed, his chest rising and falling heavily as he regained his breath. A satisfied smile played on his lips as he turned towards you, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “You feel so good...” he whispered, “My beautiful, Eveningstar.”

Both of you panted heavily as Helel kissed you tenderly, wrapping his arms around you as he pulled you close. You both lay there in silence, savouring the moment and the connection you had just shared. You looked at him and smirked, “Tired already?” you asked. Helel's eyes gleamed with a mischievous glint, his breathing steady. “Tired? Far from it, my love,” he purred, his voice laced with desire. “I am merely catching my breath before I continue to ravish you again.” With a swift and fluid motion, he rolled over, pinning you beneath him once again. His hands traced a path of fire along your body as his lips claimed yours in a hungry kiss. “Prepare yourself, Eveningstar,” he whispered against your lips.

“For I am not done with you yet.”

#identity v ithaqua #idv night watch #ithaqua idv #ithaqua x reader #idv x you #identity v night watch #idv smut #smut #I'M SHAKING #WAIT WHY AM I EVEN SHAKING...?#first smut

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damnedwhispers · 3 months ago

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Princess & Pawn

Rhysand x Original Character

Tropes ~ Enemies to Mates, Forced Proximity, Female Rage

Summary ~ Traded by her father for peace, the Princess of Hybern is given to Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, as his future consort. Forced into enemy territory, she expects hostility—but neither she nor Rhysand anticipate the snap of a mating bond, binding their futures irrevocably. Can enemies bound together by fate ever find common ground, or will their enmity set everything ablaze?

Word Count ~ 1,230

Note ~ This tension filled one-shot is the first in a potential series exploring the complicated and gripping relationship between Rhysand and the Princess of Hybern. Let me know if you'd like to see more of their story!

༶❃༶⋆┈┈⟢⟢⟢⟢⟢✦⟣⟣⟣⟣⟣┈┈⋆༶❃༶

The grand throne room of the Hewn City thrummed with a dark, living pulse, its ink-black walls glistening like the scales of some ancient beast. Shadows writhed in the flickering faelight, curling around the towering obsidian doors that had slammed shut behind her with a clang that still echoed in her bones. Rhysand sprawled across his onyx throne, a god of night and ruin, violet eyes blazing as they raked over her—Hybern’s princess, a crimson-clad offering on a sable altar. The air tasted of iron and cold stone, thick with the anticipation of the kneeling courtiers who lined the polished, midnight-black marble walkway she’d been forced down mere minutes ago.

“You say such atrocious things with that mouth of yours, princess.” His voice was a blade wrapped in silk, slicing through the silence with lethal precision. “Did your king raise you to spew such filth, or is it custom in Hybern for a consort to insult her future husband?”

Snickers and scoffs burst from the Night Court’s denizens, a jagged symphony of delight that ricocheted off the cavernous walls. They savored their High Lord’s cruelty from their knees, safe so long as it wasn’t their blood he craved. Time had slowed to an agonizing crawl after she’d crossed that threshold—shoved forward by Hybern guards, her silver-and-ruby crown glinting like a taunt atop her dark curls. The fae had bowed as she passed, their eyes glinting with hunger and scorn, her gown trailing behind her like spilled blood across the polished marble.

“It’s custom in Hybern for royalty to forge their bloodlines with pure, unbroken power,” she fired back, her voice a low, defiant hymn despite the storm raging in her chest. “Why the king would stoop to a bastard, I’ve yet to unravel.” A smirk carved itself onto her lips, sharp and daring, stoking the inferno that flared in Rhysand’s gaze—malice given flesh, a living, breathing thing that promised retribution. No laughter greeted her words, no jeers, just as there’d been none when she’d stood before them and claimed her title: Princess of Hybern, future consort to the High Lord of bats. The silence was a noose, tightening with every breath.

Rhysand rose, a shadow unfurling, all lethal grace and coiled power as he stalked toward her. “Manners, it seems, were not deemed worthy of your education,” he purred, his voice dropping to a caress that sent shivers racing down her spine. He stopped too close, the heat of him a brand against her skin, his scent—night-blooming jasmine and something darker—flooding her senses. “No matter, princess. We’ll begin your lessons tonight, after the ceremony. We’ll start with what should go in—and come out of—that wicked mouth.” His lips twisted into a smirk, a cruel twin to hers, and the words struck like lightning, searing through her bravado. Her heart lurched, her jaw falling slack as the weight of his promise crashed over her, drowning her in its undertow.

The fight bled out of her, her words crumbling to ash, as useless as the crown perched atop her head. Consort, not queen. Given, not chosen. She’d been her father’s prize, his shadow through Hybern’s cold, echoing halls—trailing him as he penned edicts, sharpened blades, bent the court to his will. She’d mirrored his every move, a child desperate to earn his pride, to one day wield a title of her own. She’d clawed for his approval through endless days of ink-stained fingers and bruised pride, only to be cast aside—a glittering pawn traded for peace. A prize, yes, but one he’d judged unworthy of his hoard.

The throne room’s air thickened, a storm brewing between them as Rhysand’s smirk held, a blade’s edge glinting in the faelight. The princess straightened, her silver-and-ruby crown catching the cold glow, a fragile defiance against the weight of his stare. She refused to drown—not yet.

“Perhaps Hybern’s lessons were less about manners and more about survival,” she mused, her voice a silken taunt, threading through the silence. “A pity you didn’t learn the same, High Lord. Fifty years groveling for Amarantha, and you still don’t know how to wield that tongue effectively.”

A deathly hush gripped the court, the silence broken only by a stalactite’s faint drip, sharp as a pulse. Her words hung, lethal and taut, until Rhysand’s laugh—dark, molten—tore through, sending a shiver down her spine. He moved too fast, a blur of night, and suddenly his fingers twisted in her hair, yanking her face up. His canines gleamed—moon-sharp—as his power crashed into her, night and stardust stealing her breath. Her pulse raced, heat sparking under her skin, his scent—jasmine and shadow—daring her to yield.

“We don’t tolerate brats in this court,” he growled, voice a velvet whisper, violet eyes glinting with wicked delight. “But it would appear your all bark, no bite.”

Her lips curled, canines flashing—small, fierce—as she spat, “Why waste the energy on something so small?” The words barely escaped when it struck—snapped. A silver thread, molten and wild, ignited between them, slamming into her chest with a force that buckled her knees. She gasped, a ragged sound, as the mating bond roared to life, searing through her veins like liquid fire. Her eyes flew wide, disbelief crashing over her—no, not him, not this arrogant, conceited High Lord. Her mate? The thought was a sword, twisting in her gut, as she stared into his face—violet irises flaring, his own shock mirrored there before it melted into something feral, triumphant.

“Well, princess,” he rasped, voice thick with primal heat, “that changes things.” His hand slid from her hair to her wrist, and with a yank, he dragged her toward the obsidian doors, her three-inch heels scraping the opulent marble. She stumbled, caught in his grip and the bond’s dizzying pull, her mind reeling—this can’t be real. Her chest ached, the thread thrumming, alive, binding her to him as the courtiers parted, silent as wraiths, the doors groaning open to swallow them whole.

The corridor’s chill pierced her like an arrow to the chest, torchlight flickering over sable walls. Rhysand let her go, stepping back, and his mask splintered—his grin fading to a raw, unguarded glint. His gaze swept over her—too thin, a tempest caged in crimson silk, her emerald eyes still wide with the bond’s aftershock. “You’re a vicious little creature,” he murmured, voice a low caress, teasing yet laced with a quiet ache. “Tell me, did your king forge you into this weapon, or did you willingly shred yourself to ribbons for a taste of his approval?”

She drew herself up, legs unsteady but chin defiant, disbelief warring with the wildfire in her veins. “Spare me your pity, bat,” she bit out, her voice a jagged edge despite its tremble, the bond thrumming beneath her skin like a drumbeat. “You’re no mate of mine—I’d sooner slit my throat than accept you.”

He lounged against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk curling his lips—wicked yet tender as his eyes lingered on her gaunt cheeks. “Oh, princess, fate doesn’t bend to your whims,” he purred, mischief lacing his concern. “My mate, with a heart sharp as thorns. Food, a bath—let’s keep you breathing long enough to despise me properly.”

#acotar #rhysand #original character #oneshot #enemies to lovers #fanfic #fanfiction #forced proximity #arranged marriage

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