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llondonfog · 12 days ago

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waltz right in

work really took it out of me this week. here’s some papa vanrouge. wc 1.3k who am i you can waltz right in; i was made for you.

Lilia’s hearing was once legendary.

Baul used to proudly remark to anyone hapless to the barrage of his booming voice how their own General Vanrouge had once determined the exact number of approaching troops, their accompanying horses, and the precise location of a squeaky cart wheel (rear, to the left) pulled by a three-legged donkey clinging to the foggy shroud of the Briar Valley forests blindfolded, tied to a tree trunk, and more than a little inebriated.

(That had been in the early days. The early days when Meleanor would roll her eyes with a smitten indulgence Lilia had not known she was capable of at Raverne’s earnest declarations of how to entreat the humans, how to enter into a new century of peace unlike any previously thought possible.

The early days, before any of them, with their brilliant youth and unlimited power, understood the true costs of war.)

His hearing is still quite keen, one of the few abilities left to him that has not begun to deteriorate so cruelly with time, only now he does not find himself attuned to the clanking of armor rattling the tranquil mountainside peace, the soft whisper of a sword unsheathing beneath the cover of darkness, or the curious and foreboding absence of animal chatter in the dense underbrush.

Lilia wonders what the General would think, to know that his battle-hewed senses have so seamlessly shifted to listen for the quiet shuffle of socked feet over a wood floor and the stifled breaths haunted by the ghost of tears.

He knows what, or rather who, he will find as he glances up from the half-finished letter he’d been writing to acknowledge the small figure lingering at the doorway to their living room, half-skulking in the shadows all the while gazing out at Lilia as if he might be the dawn itself.

“Another nightmare?”

Silver nods, eyes large and wet in the flickering light of the fire, and Lilia wonders again what the General might think, to hear how soft his voice has become, to know that the sight of a child, this one in particular, so in distress pains him worse than any iron-tipped spear driven deep into his heart.

It startles him at odd times, frightens him even, how quickly he’s adjusted to this.

The letter is easily forgotten, pen and parchment left aside on the table next to his current, lumpy armchair, as he wordlessly opens his arms to welcome the gangly bundle of tiny, sharp-edged limbs that wriggles its way into his lap, his own chin settling into a tufted cloud of hair that seems iridescent in the flame, catching the light as if Lilia held the sun itself in his embrace.

(The sun or the moon, some days it is hard to decide which Silver takes after most. Either way, it’s blinding and Lilia has long made peace with the fact that he’s never cared much about his own health.)

Satisfied that the boy has made himself comfortable, Lilia coaxes a blanket from the sofa to float across the room and drape itself around them, swallowing a grin to himself at the rather adorable sight of only Silver’s eyes visible over his makeshift cloak. Their light and wonder has yet to return, and he nudges the boy gently until he can direct Silver’s gaze over to the shadows dancing together against the backdrop of the hearth. It’s easy magic, barely a drop in his dwindling reserves; a bunny hops carefree in a meadow of swaying flowers, a bird flutters its wings joyfully in an invisible breeze before soaring through the skies to return to its nest, a squirrel gaily scampering about the forest floor, collecting acorns— Lilia’s heart does an odd beat at that.

But it does the trick. Silver’s tense posture has begun to melt in his arms, and he’s even participating, calling out requests and giggling even when a shadowy butterfly breaks free of its scene to land on his nose, tickling his face with its intangible feelers before bursting into a soft shower of multi-colored sparkles. Lilia joins in his laughter, releasing the spell as they both sink back into the armchair, a tangled up bundle of smiles and limbs.

“It was so dark,” Silver whispers suddenly after their laughter has subsided and Lilia’s found himself absently stroking through that spider-silk hair with his claws, and the sheer ache of loneliness in his voice nearly takes Lilia’s breath away that he has to check to ensure he hasn’t accidentally pierced the boy’s arm. “And so quiet, Toto, there was— it was like I was the only person left in the whole world. I didn’t think anyone would ever find me again, I didn’t know how they even could.”

Lilia doesn’t know which is worse; the fact that Silver never dreams about that awful night when he was spelled into sleep for his own protection, or the fact that he dreams about the aftermath, about the long and lonely wait.

But he knows a little something about darkness. And a little something about loneliness too.

“ . . . do you remember what you told me about the groundhog? What does he do each winter?”

Silver scrunches up his face in confusion at the question, but instantly replies, hard-pressed to forget anything that involves his dear animal companions. “Hibernation?” His tongue trips over the word clumsily as he looks up for Lilia’s approving nod.

“And as I recall, Malleus was out with you in the forest, so you asked him what that meant. Can you tell me what he said?”

Lilia watches with no small trace of fondness as the boy begins to parrot the words perfectly, amused by how completely Malleus’ words have been committed to memory.

“He said that groundhogs are a type of animal called a mammal, and that they burrow deep in the ground to keep themselves warm and safe during the winter,” Silver recites, a finger curling around a loose thread in the blanket while he thinks on the prince’s explanation. “They eat a lot of food before they do so that they can stay healthy, and then they sleep and sleep and sleep until the snow has all melted for good.”

Simplistic enough for his purposes. Lilia nods in confirmation as Silver settles back in his arms, the question remaining clear enough on his little face. “Don’t you think hibernation sounds a lot like your dream?” he murmurs, and the boy’s eyes widen now in wonder. “I imagine it’s pretty scary at first for your groundhog friend. He’s deep in a dark burrow, alone and away from all of his friends, and he knows it’ll be a long time before he wakes up.”

He lets Silver ruminate on that, and can see the awed appreciation in his gaze for the bravery of all the little creatures that know they must subject themselves to the order of nature for the chance to see a new spring.

“But there’s a difference you should be aware of,” he continues, and Silver’s head snaps up in confusion, mouth open— “You, my dear, are not a groundhog!” Lilia declares with a gentle tickle of his fingertips against the boy’s side and grins openly when full giggles erupt from the blanketed bundle in his lap, Silver squirming and laughing as he unsuccessfully tries to wriggle away from Lilia’s inescapable torment until the last of the worry pinched around his face vanishes for good.

“You are not a groundhog,” he repeats softly, and bends forward to press a kiss to the boy’s head. “And I will always find you when winter ends.”

“Always?” Silver asks him sleepily, fully spent from their conversation, and Lilia thinks about how much he used to hate the melting snow, the warmth of the sun in spring.

“Always.”

#lettie writes #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland silver #twst silver #lilia vanrouge #twst lilia #diasomnia #tldr baby silver has a nightmare #lilia has a lot of introspection #see i AM capable of writing something...somewhat sweet

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hoodreader · 6 months ago

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cat women — vedic astrology.

i think cat woman is one of the most inspiring vigilantes for the ‘dark feminine’. she’s mystical, intuitive, cunning, flirtatious, & seductive. so when my friend & i were talking about the krittika nakshatra. she made a connection between krittika & animal textiles then i had the sudden realization that krittika reoccurs in the charts of people who play or dress as her.

i think this is because krittika is the blade; it means “the cutter.” whether the native has aries krittika or taurus krittika, the qualities persist. there’s always an iconic cat woman scene where cat woman uses her razor-sharp nails to cut a hole through glass. this also shows not only physical blades, but blades of the tongue, ie being “silver tongued” and/or having a “sharp” mind. the krittika nakshatra is very cutthroat. this also reminds me of that iconic whip scene, and the phrase “sharp as a whip.” sharpness is commonly used as a term to also describe someone’s intelligence… but also them being good-looking.

i also find that krittika nakshatra in women is highly sexy & desired, but due to the dark nature of krittika, a krittika woman is not wanted without adversity. this nakshatra is also associated with “splitting / cutting” up relationships & being “the other woman.” in a way, men deal with an inner conflict when being involved with the krittika woman. i think it’s because martian or solar qualities over a woman causes insecurity in men who are not secure with themselves. the type of men who hate you because they hate themselves. so these men project. there’s no way a woman like that could simply be liked, she must’ve seduced him.

and i feel that’s because the krittika woman is not the “ideal” woman. she’s not demure, she’s not passive, she’s not insecure, and she doesn’t depend heavily on the men around her. instead, she’s dominant, assertive, flirtatious. she cuts her hair short. and she’s sometimes androgynous in presentation, but still so sexy. and it drives men and women crazy. the presence of other planets being in anuradha, ashlesha, jyeshtha, bharani, mrigashira, etc can also strengthen these “dark” qualities in a krittika woman.

! halle berry is probably the most iconic cat woman in modern pop culture. she’s a krittika rahu, with an ashlesha sun.

halle berry’s role was so iconic, i think she informs the way modern actresses give their takes on cat woman, which is why we see so many of them having krittika placements. for example:

— ariana grande recreated cat woman in her “the boy is mine” music video. she’s a krittika venus & jyeshtha north node. — normani dressed up as cat woman for one halloween. she’s a krittika mars, as well as a bharani mercury. — zoë kravitz is a krittika jupiter & anuradha sun + mercury. — saweetie dressed as cat woman for halloween [?] and she’s another krittika venus. — naomi campbell did a shoot as cat woman, and she’s a krittika sun. i don’t know if that naomi shoot was before after halle berry’s movie but i digress.

kinda unrelated side note. my point about “the other woman” rings so true for the reputation ariana got. halle berry also applies, as she’s been in three marriages thus at least two separations. saweetie for her allegations with cheating. and so on. krittika can be a little romantically corrupted, but i think that’s why it translates into something so irresistible. in a “i’m not supposed to be doing this” way. i myself am a krittika venus, and i never cheated on someone or have been “the other woman” bc why the fuck would i do that to myself lol. buttt i will say that people usually start liking me when they know they shouldn’t. as a rebound, while they’re involved with someone, rebellious fetish, them pursuing me but hating the type of person i am because they want me to conform. like an exercise of conquest.

anyways… this is what i noticed of krittika and cat woman. hope y’all enjoyed my ramble. :P

#astro community #astrology #astro notes #astro observations #rambles #vedic

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zyonsay · 1 year ago

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hellooo, can i requ some headcannons of max verstappen having a bf that is rly pretty (i'm talking rbr seb vettel or nico rosberg 2000s pretty)

Pretty Boy MV1

Fem aligned people may read but not f3tishize my work!!

Summary: One scenario of Max talking about his boyfriend in an interview and then three headcanons with scenarios

Reader: Male

Warnings: Max Emilian Verstappen

Now playing: 'Me Gustas Tu' by Manu Chao

AN: Hey anon! I combined your request with another one, which asked for a scenario of Max talking about reader in an Interview. Hope that's alright! ALSO Seb/Nico in their teenage dirtbag era was SOMETHING. (something great, im foaming at the mouth)

“So, Max, you’ve been very active online recently. Especially your partner has made many appearances in your posts. What are you two up to?”, the Interviewer glanced at his silver watch before looking back up into Max’s blue eyes. He had anticipated this question for the whole weekend. The press liked to stick their noses into his private life, especially because he was not in a straight relationship. All eyes were on him, as per usual. “My gorgeous boyfriend?”, a sly grin tugged at his lips. “We’ve been spending loads of quality time together. Over the break we planned a little trip. I love him with all my heart and am excited to spend time with that amazing person”, his mouth pulled into a slight smile before the Interviewer crossed another question from his mental list.

Yes, Max likes to keep part of his private life to himself, but he can’t resist posting candid pictures of you all the time. Maybe he’ll even create a separate account besides his main one just for pictures of you and you guys’ daily life. Your phone buzzed and you quickly held it up to your face while laying on your bed. It was a notification from Instagram, Max had posted something. The phone unlocked and led you to the new post your dearest made. It was from this morning when the two of you went out on a hike and spotted a few cute deer. The picture showed your back while you were crouching and watching the animals. With a giggle you turned to Max, who was laying behind you. "That's a cute pic!"

Even though he appreciates your looks, he makes sure you know that you are the first reason why he’s in love with you. Your beautiful face and soft hair is the cherry on top! With gentle hands he held your face, while leaving kisses on your nose. His sweet upside-down smile adorned his face while he whispered, “My beautiful schatje.” Max gently pushed a strand of your hair behind you ear before leaning in for another peck.

That said, he’ll still compliment you at any given chance. Something he likes to do is leave little post it notes on the fridge when he has to leave early. ‘Good morning beautiful! I saw that you used the last bag of your favorite tea, go check in the cabinet above the dishwasher!’, Max had left a little yellow note on the door of your fridge, he even scribbled a wonky heart on it. You opened the cabinet only to find way too many packs of your favorite tea stacked up. God, how you loved that idiot.

#maxie <3 #ZyonsRequests #male reader insert #reader insert #f1 fanfic #f1 x male reader #f1 x reader #x reader #male reader #male x male #male!reader #x male reader #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x male reader #max verstappen fic #gay

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 1: Am I More Than You Bargained For Yet]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the lair of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, a brief history of burn treatments, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), a wild Sunfyre appears, catching feelings for literally the single most inappropriate man on the planet.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Sugar, We're Goin' Down" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

💜 I’m going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world! 💜

@doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis @juliavilu1 @amiraisgoingthruit @lauraneedstochill @wintrr13 @r0segard3n @seabasscevans @tsujifreya @helaenaluvr @hiraethrhapsody @backyardfolklore

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters!

You scream when he grabs you, this lightning strike of a man with a grip like an animal trap that splits bones. He pulls you away from the soldier you’re soothing—a young dark-haired Norcross, disoriented, doomed, his intestines spilling out onto the grass and blood on his lips—and through the forest of smoke and corpses and pine trees. Your eyes sting and water, your boots snag on gnarled roots. When you yelp and stumble to the earth, the man drags you upright again. You struggle like a beast with a blade at its throat, cold, serrated, pressure on the jugular. You shove and scratch at him, trying to plant your boots in soil strewn with gore and glowing embers.

“Stop, stop it, you’re hurting me!”

“Hurry up.”

“You’re going to break my wrist—!”

He wrenches you around to look you full in the face, and only now do you know who he is. A gasp hisses through your teeth; the acrid air in your lungs vanishes. Every muscle and tendon and ligament of you is taut with horror, tight enough to snap. It’s like meeting one of the Seven, the Warrior or Stranger or Smith, a shade you know only from myths and nightmares. It’s like being led to the executioner’s scaffold. His long silver braid hangs over one shoulder. His eyepatch conceals the childhood maiming that left him half-blind. There’s blood and ash on his scarred face, a ruthless breed of fear in his remaining eye, icy blue, creek-shallow, soulless. The man clasping your wrist is Prince Aemond Targaryen. “I’ll break your neck if you don’t come with me now.”

He does not wait for your protest or acquiescence. You couldn’t give it anyway. Your muddied boots move numbly as he tugs you forward, this man they call Aemond One-Eye, a monster, a murderer, a kinslayer. The earth is littered with carnage from the battle, charred ribcages and disemboweled horses, scattered armor and severed limbs. Ashes fall from the smoldering treetops like dark snow.

What does he want from me?

Rape seems unlikely; everyone knows Prince Aemond’s deviancies do not run in that direction. He is cold, hateful, dispassionate, made of stone. He does not lust for anything but power and retribution, fire and blood.

To kill me?

But why not do it here, now? There is a sword hanging from his belt, a dagger in one fist. There is no reason to wait.

To take me prisoner? To feed me to his dragon? To torture me for information?

Surely there are more knowledgeable people around to torture. What use could you be, a healer, a woman? Unless…

Unless he knows who my father is.

You glance down at the fabric band looped around the upper half of your right arm, the only mark you wear of your house, stark white banner, skittering red crabs. It is soaked through with blood. It is unreadable.

Someone is shrieking, but not like a dying man. He has too much fight in him for that, too much glass-clear agony, unwanted blistering consciousness. He screams like someone being flayed, gutted, burned alive. You’ve only ever heard this sound once before. You choke on the greasy, putrid, metallic sweetness of scorched human flesh as it sears down your throat, not knowing if it is real or remembered.

There is a tent in the midst of the pine trees, fluttering canvas that’s green like emeralds or jade. The wind is picking up; you will need to evacuate soon. The cinders will spread and the forest will blaze. Somewhere a dragon is roaring, wounded and mournful like the cry of a lost child. The screams of the man grow louder; they fill your skull like a fever, scalding and senseless and red. Aemond yanks the tent flap aside and pulls you in. And when you breathe it is nothing but the sickening miasma of burnt flesh, coppery blood, suffering, sweat, ruin.

He’s writhing on a wooden table, the man the Greens call king. It has to be him: white-blond hair down to his shoulders, blue eyes and fine aristocratic bones. Two ancient, shaky-handed maesters—hastily commandeered from the defeated House Staunton, you assume—confer nearby, clutching glass bottles of milk of the poppy. A man in armor is cutting tatters of clothing from the so-called king. When he lifts the fabric away, skin sloughs off with it. Aegon wails, struggles, begs him to stop. Aemond goes to his brother and carves away scraps of melted leather and charred cotton with the swift blade of his dagger.

“Shh, shh, don’t fight us, we’re trying to help—”

“Aemond, let me die,” the burned man rasps. He is trembling violently, he is half-mad with pain. Meleys’ flames claimed a swath of his right cheek, his neck and chest and back, his arms down to his wrists, his belly to the crests of his hip bones. “Please. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want it to hurt anymore. Don’t try to help me. Just let me die.”

Aemond looks back at you. “Can you treat this?”

He thinks I’m a Green, you realize with panic, with relief, with terror. And of course he would: you had wandered into the Greens’ side of the battlefield and therefore did not surrender or flee or die with the other Blacks, you were tending to a Green soldier when he found you. Aemond the Kinslayer would not comprehend the notion of service to humankind without a line drawn down the middle of it, of uncategorical compassion.

“Can you help him or not?!” Aemond shouts; and you know that he is not just afraid but shattering, spider-leg cracks inching across a window or a mirror. Perhaps the Greens have souls after all.

You shed your paralysis like daylight erases the stars and approach to examine the so-called king. You do not touch him; still, he whimpers, sobs, quakes like waves in a storm. “He needs more milk of the poppy. A lot more of it.”

“Yes,” Aegon agrees immediately. His streaming eyes—a bleak, murky blue like the sea off Claw Isle—list to you, agonized and grateful.

The maesters gape. “More could kill him,” one says. And they are petrified of being blamed for it. They are plagued by visions of Aemond hacking off their heads and displaying them on spikes above the stone walls of captured Rook’s Rest.

“No drawbacks at all then?” Aegon manages between moans.

“If his pain does not abate, he will die of shock,” you say. “He must be unconscious.”

“Knock me out,” Aegon pleads, pawing at Aemond. “Tell them, tell them.”

Aemond looks to the man in armor: dark-haired, olive-skinned, Dornish. Sir Criston Cole, you realize. The Hand of the King. The Kingmaker. After a moment, Criston nods. “Do it now,” Aemond orders the maesters.

Grimacing, grim, they pour the opalescent liquid into Aegon’s mouth. He gulps it down as quickly as he can. “Enough,” you tell the maesters. Instinctively, you reach out to comfort Aegon: a palm rested lightly on his forehead, fingers threaded through silvery hair that’s filthy with soot and blood. You should hate him, but you don’t. When you look at the Greens’ broken king, you cannot see a murderer, a usurper, a depraved hedonist, a consumer of innocence. You can only see a man worn threadbare by ill-advised bravery.

“Hello, angel,” Aegon murmurs as he gazes up at you, a ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes really do remind you of home: ocean currents like iron, fog like flint. “Welcome to the end of the world.” And then he’s out, extinguished, eclipsed.

Servants bustle into the tent carrying heavy buckets. “What is that?” you ask.

“Pork lard,” one of the maesters says. “For his wounds.”

“No, no, no, some of these burns are nearly down to the muscle. They’re too deep, too fresh. Lard is for later, to help with scarring, although olive oil or rose oil would be better. He needs to be cleaned with vinegar diluted with water. Or red wine, if that’s all that can be found.”

“Vinegar?!” one of the maesters exclaims.

“It helps prevent infection. Nobody knows why.”

The same maester turns to Aemond, imploring him. “My prince, I can assure you, the Citadel recommends pork lard or cow dung as topical cures, or both used alternatingly. There are also reports of cases where frogs have been helpful, warmed in oil and then rubbed on the affected area.”

Criston blinks. “I’m sorry, you do what with the frogs…?!”

They’re going to kill him, you think. Not with malice, but with stupidity. A wasted life, a wasted death. You demand of the maester: “When was the last time you treated burns this severe?”

He glowers at you, sharp dark eyes like flecks of onyx in a nest of wrinkles. And you know you’ve won when he replies: “When have you?”

“My brother was burned in a housefire started by an upturned lantern. It was five years ago, but I remember the direness his injuries. And what was done to save him.”

Silence in this tent the color of summer: green grass, unsinged trees. Aemond waits for the maesters to produce some astute rebuttal. When they cannot, he orders the servants: “Vinegar, water, rags. Now.” They dash off to oblige him, wide-eyed and quivering like small dogs. Then Aemond looks to you. “What next?”

“His wounds should be treated with honey and then bandaged. The dressings must be changed frequently, at least once per day. He must be repositioned so the scar tissue does not immobilize his joints. He will suffer, it cannot be avoided, but he should suffer as little as possible. Listen to him when he says the pain is too much. Let him sleep. When he is awake, he must drink plenty of fluids. He is losing water through his burns, and it must be replaced. Milk is preferable. Tea and fruit juices are good as well. Some wine is acceptable if that’s what he likes best.”

“And it certainly is,” Criston mutters. You’ve heard the same: that the Greens’ king is a drunk, an adulterer, a coward, a ghoul. You cannot speak to any of this. You know him only as someone who is horrifically pained and sick to death of fighting. Again, without thinking, you comb your fingertips distractedly through his hair as he lies unconscious on the table, bleeding from everywhere. He’s so young, so breakable, so unlike the monster you’ve been led to believe he is.

“Get honey and bandages,” Aemond tells the maesters. They depart, casting each other incredulous glances: Are these our new overlords? Men who heed the wisdom of impetuous young women filthy with blood and earth?

“I’ve heard salt can be helpful for wounds,” Aemond says. “They used it on me when…” He gestures to his eyepatch, to his scar. Lucerys Velaryon took that part of him in self-defense; at least, that is what you have always been told. But you’ve read enough to know that for every event, there are at least two stories. Whatever the truth is, Luke paid for that eye. He paid, Rhaenyra paid, the world continues to pay the price over and over again.

“Because it dries. It absorbs moisture.” You skim your palm over Aegon’s forehead, without lines of fear or anguish as he sleeps. There is a ring on his left hand, a gold dragon with glinting dots of jade for eyes. You twist off the ring so it will not hinder circulation as his fingers swell and give it to Aemond. “But burns weep as they heal. They need to be wet. If they get too dry, they will crack open and fester.”

“Is that what happened to your brother?” Aemond asks.

“Where we did not pay enough attention. The backs of his knees, the soles of his feet.”

“But he survived.”

“Yes,” you tell Aemond; and you can see how desperately he is searching for hope in your face, your words. “He did.”

The servants return with buckets of water, handfuls of rags, glass bottles of vinegar that is cloudy and rust-colored.

“What’s it made from?” you say.

“Fermented a-a-apples, my lady,” one of the boys sputters. He watches Aemond out of the corner of his eye like sheep look for the shadows of wolves. He shivers, he sweats. This boy, who last night was fetching meat and mead for Lord Staunton, has heard the same stories you have: the degenerate king, his murderous brother.

“That’s fine then.” You haul over one of the water buckets and Criston helps you lift it up onto the table. You empty half a bottle of vinegar into the water, mix it by wobbling the bucket back and forth, and then soak a rag in the pungent liquid. “You can help,” you tell Aemond and Criston. “Dip a rag in the bucket, wring it out, then press it to his wounds. Remove any dirt or scraps of fabric. But don’t rub. Try not to damage the skin he has left.” You demonstrate: dabbing at flesh that is torn and bloody and blistered, a black-and-ruby wasteland that at best will leave him irreparably scarred and at worst will swallow his life like ships sink in storms.

Tentatively—with hands at ease with killing but not tenderness—Aemond and Criston join you, studying your movements and imitating them with great care. There is a sniffle, a teardrop that falls onto Aegon’s filthy but unburned left hand and glistens there like a splinter of glass; you are alarmed to see that the Kingmaker is weeping.

“Criston,” Aemond says gently. “We are doing everything we can for him.”

“Since the day he was born, I promised…”

“I know.”

“Your mother…”

“I know,” Aemond says again, and you think: The Greens aren’t demons, they aren’t savages. They’re just patchworks of memory and flesh and suffering, the same as any of us. “He will live. And his sacrifice won us a victory today.”

As you tended to wounded men caked with blood and pine needles, you saw them tangled above in the overcast sky, scales of scarlet and gold and an ancient muddy viridescence. There were flames and shouts, and then all three dragons hurdled towards the earth and out of view. “The Red Queen?” you ask Aemond, mindful to keep your voice perfectly level.

“Dead,” he says: dark satisfaction, fearsome pride. “And so is her rider.”

“The gods are good.” You are amazed at how easily it slips out, a reflex of self-preservation while your mind is elsewhere. Does my father know yet? Does Rhaenyra, does Daemon, does Corlys? People will be searching for you soon. If you do not appear from the smoke and chaos of the battlefield, your eldest brother Clement will come looking with his sword in hand. Everett, scarred and unagile but clever, will be pouring over maps to see where you might have ended up.

There is no suspicion in Aemond’s face when he glances over at you. He is gingerly cleaning soot and charred strips of ruined skin from Aegon’s chest, which rises and falls in deep, slow breaths. “Which family is yours?”

House Celtigar, but you can’t tell him that. You scramble for a noble family of the Crownlands whose accent you share, whose history you have been taught, whose men fight for the Greens but are not so distinguished that Aemond will know them well. “House Thorne.”

He nods. “Are you one of Sir Rickard’s sisters?”

You startle. Perhaps you have chosen the wrong disguise. “Far less illustrious than that. Just a cousin.”

The two maesters return, their archaic hands piled high with linen bandages and glass jars of honey, a fiery gold like sunset. “Set them down over there,” Aemond orders, pointing. He has a presence, it cannot be denied. He is tall, fierce, swift yet calculated. He moves like a man who has killed once, twice, again until it is no longer something that keeps him awake at night. It is something that has become a part of him like arteries or bones. “Prepare a room in the castle.”

“For Prince Aegon?” one of the maesters says, then quickly corrects himself. “I mean, for the king?”

“For until we decide what to do with him.” Aemond stares at Criston. Criston stares back, his dark eyes huge and shiny. There is a war to be waged, but Aegon will not be able to help them. Not for months, at least. Not ever, if he dies. The maesters disappear again, grumbling to each other. Unwelcome tasks, unwelcome guests.

Rhaenys is dead, you think as you work. It doesn’t feel real. Meleys is dead. Hundreds of Black soldiers are dead. Rook’s Rest is the Greens’ greatest victory yet, and one they desperately needed. This war is nowhere near over. And the betting odds keep changing.

You say to Aemond and Criston: “Help me turn him. We must clean the burns on his back as well.”

They listen, they obey, they help you because helping you means helping Aegon. When he is washed as well as he can be, you spread a thin sheen of shimmering honey over his wounds—an amber river that will trap moisture and discourage inflammation—and wrap him in bandages. The only burn you leave uncovered is the one on his right cheek. It creeps up over his pale face like red tentacles, curling and grasping, hungry, insatiable. They match now, you think. Two brothers, two scars.

Criston assembles a group of Green soldiers and Aegon is carried in a litter to the castle that serves as the seat of House Staunton, once allies of Rhaenyra, now traitors, now dead men walking. Outside rain has begun to fall, putting out flames born from dragonfire. The pine forest is saved; wounded men lie in the dirt with their mouths open hoping to quench their thirst. By the time Aegon is placed in an opulent bedroom with a view of Blackwater Bay, he has already bled through his bandages. You clean him again, bandage him, dribble milk of the poppy down his throat when he begins to stir and whimper. Aemond gives you command of a makeshift fleet of caretakers: the two requisitioned maesters, three maids, servants to bring food, drink, bandages, wood for the crackling fireplace.

My family is searching for me, you know as you battle to save their enemy’s life, this maybe-king with silver hair and eyes like deep water.And then: I cannot leave him. Not now, not yet.

In the night, as cool rain patters against the ocean and Aemond and Criston are slaughtering House Staunton men down in the castle courtyard, you dose Aegon with milk of the poppy every few hours. The maesters refuse to take responsibility for it; if the king is poisoned, it will be you who swings from a rope for it. You hold cloths dripping with cold water to his forehead. You feed him nibbles of bread and venison when he is conscious enough to eat, cinnamon tea, pomegranate juice, goat milk. You inspect him for any signs of infection. You braid a small lock of his hair before you’ve stopped to consider why you’re doing it.

And when no one else is watching, you untie the bloodstained armband of your own house and burn it to ashes in the fire.

~~~~~~~~~~

Someone is jostling you, grabbing at you. You fell into an exhausted, sporadic sleep in the next room long after midnight. It’s morning now; warm sunlight blooms like flowers on your face, yellow roses and buttercups and daffodils. When your eyes open, they are sore and unfocused. Aemond is a blur of white hair and black leather. He is tugging on you again, his lithe fingers like a vice around your forearm.

“Stop it, get off me!” You shove him away. He waits, bemused. “You can’t keep dragging me around like this!”

“Why not?”

Because my father is one of the wealthiest men in the Seven Kingdoms. Because I may not have silver hair or a dragon, but if you cut me open the blood of Old Valyria would spill out like red waves. Because the man I am pledged to marry is good at killing, very good at killing, maybe even better than you. “Because I’m a noblewoman. I’m a lady.”

“You don’t act like one,” Aemond counters. “Ladies flee from blood and gore. Ladies are nowhere to be found on battlefields.”

“I like being useful.”

“Then I have brought you a gift. You are needed now. Aegon is asking for you.” And then, when you hurry out of bed, finding your footing on chilly wood floors: “Well, that certainly got you moving quickly.”

“He’s in pain?”

“Not especially, from what I can tell. I think he just wants you.” Aemond glides out of the bedroom. You follow him to Aegon’s chamber. The Greens’ king is propped up in bed on a great mass of pillows, bandaged, limp, eyes glazed and barely open. There are men huddled around him. You recognize Criston, though not the other ones, some old and some young and all in armor. You hope that none of them are Sir Rickard Thorne.

You feel Aegon’s forehead for fever. To your relief, he is no more than modestly warm. He catches your hand, holds it tightly, doesn’t let go. After a moment’s hesitation, you sit down beside him on the edge of the bed. There is a curl of his lips, just a whisper of a smile, just a phantom of one. Aemond glances at you and Aegon with mild interest, then turns his attention to Criston.

“Aegon,” Criston informs the king, patiently, like a good father would. “We have to move you back to King’s Landing.”

“No,” Aegon says. His voice is so low and weak that he’s difficult to hear.

“Your recovery will be long and arduous,” Criston explains. “Aemond and I will be needed in combat. We cannot stay to guard you. The Blacks may try to retake Rook’s Rest. You staying here is not an option. King’s Landing is safer. It is well-supplied, it is protected. And we have our own maesters there who will help tend to you.”

“Can’t leave,” Aegon croaks. “Sunfyre.”

“Aegon—”

“I can’t leave without Sunfyre,” he forces out with immense effort. Then he gasps and moans, tears pooling in his eyes. You offer him milk of the poppy; he guzzles as much as you’ll allow him to have.

Criston sighs. “You can’t stay. And Sunfyre can’t leave. One of his wings was nearly ripped off, he’ll never fly again. We have no way to transport him, he’s too heavy.”

One of the armored men mutters: “And that’s assuming he wouldn’t incinerate anyone who ventured close enough to try.”

“Where is he now?” Aemond asks the man.

“Down on the beach, my prince. Eating dead soldiers.”

Criston shudders. Working in close proximity to dragons has not given him a liking for them.

“Can’t leave him here,” Aegon whispers, shaking his head.

“You must,” Aemond says.

“What if it was Vhagar?”

“I’d leave her. I’d have no choice.”

Aegon frowns, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s all too much for him. “Not the same.”

No, perhaps not; Aemond’s dragon may be the largest and most lethal in the world, but Aegon’s bond with Sunfyre is said to be what legends are built of, words written in ink and stone. You watch the agonized confliction on Aegon’s drawn face: can’t leave, can’t stay, can’t fight, can’t run. You say softly: “Could Sunfyre be assigned a detachment of guards?”

Aemond looks at you as if just remembering you’re here. “What?”

“Men could be tasked with ensuring the dragon is secure and fed. From a safe distance, of course. They could report on his health. Then perhaps when he is stronger, he can be reunited with the king.” The king. Again, it stuns you how easily the treason rolls out, like waves bubbling over rocks and sand.

Aemond turns to Criston. “Could it be done?”

“I don’t foresee many men volunteering for the task. But it could be done, yes. Sure.”

Aemond asks his brother: “Would that make a difference?”

Aegon’s eyes drift to you. They are churning with sluggish, clunky thoughts, heavy burdens to bear on raw shoulders. The braid that you wove absentmindedly into his hair is still there. “Alright,” Aegon agrees at last. “I’ll go.”

“Good,” Aemond says. “We leave at dawn tomorrow.” Then he looks to you. “You will come south with us.” His tone invites no argument. He doesn’t even conceive of it as a possibility. Why would you refuse? Why would you, a purportedly devout Green, shy away from the opportunity to nurse your king back to health? You bow your head in compliance. You wonder what is being discussed in the Black Council; you wonder what your father is thinking, what Everett believes happened to you.

“But I have to see him first,” Aegon says.

Aemond does not understand. “See who?”

“Sunfyre.”

“But you can’t walk to the beach,” Criston says. “You can’t walk anywhere.”

Aegon grins, showing his teeth. His dazed, deep blue eyes glitter mischieviously. His hand has not disentangled itself from yours. “Then carry me.”

The deal is struck, like a face minted onto a coin or a bolt of lightning meeting the earth. Soldiers transport Aegon down to the stony, mist-sopped shoreline. Blade-sharp agony is flooding back into his face, but he refuses more milk of the poppy. He wants to be awake when he gets there. He wants to be himself.

The soldiers cannot get too close to Sunfyre; no one besides Aegon can. He is helped off the litter and then tries to amble across the wet, grey sand. After a few steps he collapses. You rush to him, dodging Aemond and Criston’s grasps as they try to stop you.

“No,” Aegon says when you attempt to help him to his feet. He is panting from the pain, his face flushed with torment and exertion. His white-blond hair whips in the wind. “Do not follow me. Not even if I pass out, not even if I’m dead. I don’t know what Sunfyre would do to you.” And then he crawls forward alone on his hands and knees.

Waves crash, spraying saltwater into the air. Crabs scuttle over rocks. Gulls swoop low to claim mouthfuls of flesh from bloated corpses in worthless uniforms. The dragon known as Sunfyre the Golden is curled up on the beach. Many of his metallic scales are singed; the pink membranes of his wings are tattered like lace. His right wing hangs at a ruinously odd angle. You would know how to set that if he was a human. And you could do it without the threat of being reduced to ash and history.

Sunfyre unravels as Aegon nears him, long angular face rising, frayed wings settling by his sides. You have seen dragons before, of course—Syrax, Caraxes, Arrax, Vermax, Meleys—though never from this close. They horrify you. You cannot look at them without thinking of the devastation they sow like a plague, of how they so unmistakably no longer belong in this world.

Sunfyre’s head stretches out towards his rider, a half-dead man kneeling in wet sand and wearing only bandages and loose cotton trousers. Beside you, Sir Criston Cole sucks in a noisy, nervous breath. Aemond watches Aegon, his face like stone. His hair hangs in long, damp waves.

Aegon embraces Sunfyre, clinging to him, resting his face against the dragon’s. They stay like that for what feels like a very long time. Then Aegon crawls back to you, sobbing with pain by the time he is lifted into the litter. You give him milk of the poppy and he accepts it eagerly. He is unconscious again within seconds. Down the beach, Sunfyre looses a soft desolate cry like a plea: Don’t go. Don’t leave me. You might never come back.

~~~~~~~~~~

The drivers have been instructed to proceed slowly and with caution; still, the carriage pitches and jolts as you traverse the Rosby Road towards King’s Landing. In addition to the caravan’s most precious cargo—the Greens’ fragile and intermittently sentient king—it transports also two severed heads: Lord Simon Staunton’s in a basket, and Meleys’ in the bed of a mule-drawn wagon. High above in slate-grey clouds, Aemond and Vhagar are safeguarding your progress. Criston rides on a monstrous warhorse just outside the carriage. You are leafing through a book that you found in the castle library at Rook’s Rest: anatomy, surgery, sicknesses and cures. Aegon is bandaged and heavily medicated in the cushioned seat across from you. While servants flit in and out frequently, you are the only passengers in the carriage at the moment. You do not know that Aegon is awake until he speaks.

“Sinful,” he says. His voice is groggy, only half-here. He is gazing blearily at the illustration on the open pages of your book: a quite detailed naked man, his arteries and veins mapped like the roads of Westeros, his cock bare and sizeable.

“It’s informative,” you reply in your own defense, smiling.

“My father would have hit me for looking at something like that. If he’d noticed.” Aegon smirks, resting his head against the back of his velvet seat. His hair has been scrubbed and rinsed by servants, the braid you made for him undone. “He probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Mine has a great love for all books.” Bartimos Celtigar is eternally turning pages: computations, records, revenue. He does not just sit on Rhaenyra’s council. He is her Master of Coin. He funds her war effort, he fuels her like wood to a fire. “Besides, I have seen naked men in person. No book can scandalize me now.”

A little twitch of his silvery eyebrows: fascination, amusement. “He does not lose sleep over your spent innocence?”

“He has other things on his mind presently.”

“Like what?”

Like helping Rhaenyra win the war. You find a different truth to tell him. “Some men consider one daughter to be too many. My father has four. His attention is thoroughly divided.”

“He doesn’t like you?”

“He likes me plenty. He just doesn’t need me.”

Aegon nods. His eyes travel over you slowly and meditatively, not leering but learning, memorizing slopes and angles, taking you in like he’s never been able to before. He is in the brief lull between doses of milk of the poppy: lucid enough to speak but not so much that he can feel the full extent of his injuries. “Are you married?”

This is a bit of a fraught subject. “I am betrothed.”

“Oh,” he says, with what might be disappointment. “And he wouldn’t rather have you home right now? Putting all that knowledge of male anatomy to good use? That’s difficult to believe.”

You peer evasively down at your book. “He has a role to play in the war. I’ve been given permission to serve in my own way until it is over.”

“Permission,” Aegon echoes. He finds this interesting. He studies you for a while before he asks, his voice gentle: “What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing. He’s honorable, he’s brave. He’s marvelously formidable. He could carry you around like a sack of potatoes.”

Aegon chuckles, a slow reflective laugh, curiosity, intrigue, something to think about besides the fact that he’s missing half his skin. “Do you fear marriage?”

What is the answer to that question? Do you even know yourself? “I fear being possessed. And having no remedy if the circumstances are not to my liking.”

“You can’t get one of your three superfluous sisters to marry him instead?”

You smile faintly. “No, we’ve met. He chose me, he favored me. I’m not sure why.”

“Probably because you’ve read all there is to know about cocks.” Aegon grins, drowsy and crooked and playful. “Who is he?”

“Just a man,” you say. You can’t tell Aegon more than that. It would give your Black affiliations away.

You are betrothed to the Warden of the North, Lord Cregan Stark.

#aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #hotd fanfic

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widodiangelo · 10 months ago

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Technically, they weren’t supposed to be in each other's cabins.

But after fighting in two wars in the last two years, Chiron had decided to let some things slide. And so the Poseidon cabin became the go-to meeting place for the older campers: mostly the seven and company.

As a result, the cabin had slowly begun accumulating various comfort items and was morphing into a strange college dorm room-thrift shop hybrid. There was an old, peeling leather couch Jason and Leo had dragged out of the big house a few weeks ago, surrounded by random folding chairs and an assortment of beanbags Nico had totally not shadow traveled in from an ikea in the city. There were two and a half mini fridges (two working, one broken), a strange assortment of video game consoles the stoll brothers had provided and quite a few puzzles.

Since he and Nico had started dating, Will found himself hanging out in Percy’s makeshift common room more and more. That evening, he had just finished a sing-along session with his siblings at the campfire and was making his way across camp to the cabins. The warm summer air was filled with the smells of campfire smoke and sea salt drifting from the shore. A calm smile on his face, Will strolled up to cabin three with an extra s’more in his hand.

The interior was lit up with fairy lights and a blue lamp in the corner: cozy and inviting. Leo and Piper sat in some beanbags, playing some sort of card game. Jason and Percy lounged on the couch, throwing blue jelly beans into each other’s mouths (or at least tried to) while they yelled at the video game on the large tv screen that sat on the floor, leaning against the far wall because someone had forgotten to steal a stand. Nico perched on the edge of a crusty armchair, a controller in his hands and gaze focused on the screen before him.

Will stepped through the door with a soft wave, which Annabeth returned with one hand from where she was braiding back Nico’s hair as he played. Jason popped a jelly bean in his mouth as Will sat down at Nico’s side. “Holy shit. Nico, you’re sub 6 minutes and you’re already at Lernie? What even is this build?”

Nico smirked, not taking his eyes off the game, but leaning into his boyfriend as a hand carded around his waist. “I told you Grace, Beo is bugged on mirage shot. It’s totally OP.”

Percy tried to catch the blue projectile Jason tossed at him, almost falling off the couch in the process. “Yeah but even with the bug I’ve never been able to make use of hunter’s mark like this before. How are you even doing that?”

Nico shrugged, the silver chains that dangled from his ears glinted in the moonlight. “Practice.” He replied, taking down a hydra head in one blow.

Will took a bite of his s’more and squinted at the screen. “What even is this?”

“Hades.” All three boys replied, and Annabeth snorted. “It’s a Greek mythology game.” She supplied with a roll of her eyes. “Nico’s the main character.”

“I am not the main character.” Nico retorted, eyes never leaving the screen. He mumbled under his breath as the screen shifted, “fuck stupid room 34 witches. Dammit.”

Percy tilted his head in thought. “Actually Nico, you kinda are. I mean Zag is the son of Hades, his main weapon is a sword, you both look like you belong in a hot topic ad–”

“Fuck you, Jackson.”

“I said what I said– oh shit smoldering air? No way!”

Jason almost choked on his food. “Dude you’re gonna go sub ten at this rate.”

Will glanced at Annabeth. “Do they always sound like they’re speaking ancient greek when they play this game?”

Annabeth pulled the hair tie around her wrist off with her teeth. “Yup. Hate to break it to you, your boyfriend’s a nerd.”

Nico scowled. “Am not.”

Will pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Oh you totally are.”

“Listen Solace– HA! 9:58!” Nico jumped up and tossed the controller on the floor in victory, flicking off the animated Hades he had just defeated. “Get fucked, dad.”

Will watched him fondly. “Of course you would be good at the greek mythology video game where you get to kill your father.”

Nico dropped back down on the chair and slipped into Will’s side, taking the s’more his boyfriend offered him with a grin. “I’m nothing if not on brand.”

#pjo hoo toa #pjo #nico di angelo #percy jackson #annabeth chase #jason grace #piper mclean #leo valdez #will solace #solangelo

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taylor-titmouse · 3 months ago

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That calm, nonthreatening looking but deeply malicious silver haired manipulator anime pretty boy type is a long time favorite so I am prepared to Lose It for Osmund. Thank you

we're getting CLAMP up in this bitch

#gave clow reed a dye job #bam new wizard #tt asks

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ashes-writing-corner · 6 days ago

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Dang I'm like super motivated to write this cause yall are getting an update already! Thank you guys do much for all the love for this, it's so so appreciated! <3

Taglist: @exactlyelegantwizard, @xenoanamorph, @hoeia-strigoi, and @arwenkenobi48

If you want to be added to the taglist please let me know!

Chapter features Romanian as translated by Google. I am so sorry if it's not accurate! X.X

Without further ado!

Exile- A Nosferatu Fanfic

Chapter 1

And it took you five whole minutes, to pack us up and leave me with it. Holding all this love out here in the hall…

It was light when she woke again, surrounded not by cold this time but rather comfort. Ellen’s feeling of painless nothingness was pretty much gone, leaving her feeling light and weightless. But there was oddly warmth, comfort, and softness. She rose and looked around, her senses coming to life again one by one. Ellen didn’t know this place and yet there was a strange sense of familiarity. The room was akin to a dream, or maybe something she had seen in one a long time ago. It inspired that weird, familiar feeling: a feeling that this had happened before. That she had been here before.

There was the overall lack of color in the stone walled room. Everything looked so…dull and gray. The curtains surrounding the bed were a deep burgundy, but they were covered in a thick layer of dust…or at least Ellen thought was dust at first. When she touched the curtain, it was like touching winter’s first frost. That was definitely not dust…

She pulled her hand back, almost painfully. No, not pain. Not really. She was just surprised. Ellen knew she wasn’t supposed to feel anything. She was…

She couldn’t even bring herself to think it, let alone say it. Her memory was a bit fuzzy, like looking through a dusty window, but she remembered how everything felt. It was coming back, slowly but surely as she gained more awareness, as each of her senses came to life…or perhaps unlife was the better term.

There was something warm at her feet, something soft. Something…breathing? What did anything here have any need for breath? How curious…

She was almost afraid to look, but was pleasantly surprised when she did. A large black dog laid at her feet, curled up as if attempting to keep them warm. He was shaggy, with long hair and a rather large yet strong body. The ears were triangular, relaxed in a sleeping state and yet so acutely aware. Curious and a little afraid, Ellen reached a hand out to touch the sleeping dog at her feet, moving a little so she could pet his fur. He wasn’t cold, unlike the rest of the room it seemed. It felt like he was…alive almost. She heard a soft ruff from the animal and pulled her hand away as he raised his head. Her eyes found the silver-gold orbs of the canine, and he let out a soft whine.

“Hello there, beauty” Ellen reached her hand out again and petted the dog softly between his ears, “Were you with me this whole time?” she asked, as if he could answer.

The dog wagged his tail, panting softly as if to tell her he did in fact stay with her. He was awfully calm and gentle for such a large animal. Ellen wasn’t used to dogs, though she had a few of them growing up. Felines were more of her interest, as she liked their independent nature. However, she wouldn’t deny that there was indeed a sort of charm to this dog in particular.

“Such a good boy. Thank you” Ellen whispered softly as she petted his back and shoulders, “Now I just…need to figure out where I am”.

She stretched a little and got up, finally pulling the frosted burgundy curtain aside to finally get a glimpse of the room. Just like the rest of the world, it was so…dreary. Everything seemed to be dipped in varying shades of blue and gray. But it seemed the room had everything Ellen needed: bed, wardrobe, a rather nice if antique vanity, a small bookcase full of various books, on top of which were, strangely, various tiny figurines and dolls from her childhood. Things Ellen thought she forgot a long, long time ago. Literally a lifetime ago in this case.

“A place where things go when they’re forgotten, perhaps” Ellen wondered aloud as she stood from the bed, the dog following close behind her.

She touched one of the figurines, a little fairy in a white dress with dark hair. Her father had gotten it for her, calling it a miniature version of her. Ellen remembered she had thought that humorous as a child, but now it seemed he hadn’t been completely wrong. To be honest, she didn’t know exactly what she was anymore, nor was she entirely sure it mattered now.

Not now. Not that she was…

She still couldn’t bring herself to think it. Guilt fed like a ravenous beast in the back of her mind. She had left Thomas. She chose the monster who plagued her for her entire life over him. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. But at the same time, it had to be done. She had to do it, to end the beast’s reign of terror.

A harsh blast of cold pulled her from her gnawing guilt, her thoughts stopping for all of a moment, before she knew: She wasn’t alone, and it wasn’t just the dogs. Ellen held the figurine tightly in her hand, as though somehow it would protect her. It couldn’t be…could it? She watched him perish.

Held him as he perished…

The memory of that last, final moment, that last breath ran through her mind. Ellen held him, trying to somehow convey thoughts of comfort and reassurance despite the pain he felt.

“It’s okay…” she remembered thinking, “It’s okay…we’re together now…let go…let go…” She remembered thinking as the beast, the Count, bled out all over her and her bed.

Ellen blinked, her thoughts coming back to the present. She dared not turn around, the dog at her feet staying close by, but not as guarded. She closed her eyes tight, trying to think of something that didn’t scare her. There was no way he could be here…surely there wasn’t…

“You are…awake” his voice was an all too familiar sound, though it sounded different now.

He sounded different. Gone was the deep wheezing caused by lungs that no longer functioned. The growl was still there but not as prominent. The accent was the same, and it was still slightly monotone…slightly. It wasn’t unpleasant, per se. Just…something Ellen wanted to leave behind her. But it seemed the higher powers, who or whatever they were, had some other ill plan for her and the Beast.

“Get out…” Ellen said quietly, not even looking at him.

She could feel his ice cold glare at her back. “You…do not…command me-”.

“I said get out…now!” Ellen dared to cut him off with a harsher tone.

She heard a growl, but didn’t dare turn around. She would not look at him, refused to face him. The large black dog laid quiet at her feet, ears flat, torn between two masters. Ellen shook her head, her eyes closed tight as if she were in some sort of nightmare.

“Shall you deny me now?! After everything I’ve done?! After I pulled you from Chaos?! This is my repayment?!” the Beast demanded, “After what you did to me?!”

“I had to do it. To save everyone…” she said, “You would’ve killed everyone! Everyone! And i was supposed to sit there idle and let you-”.

“Ah still a neat little trick you do little one…You close off your mind and lies spew from your mouth like venom!”

“I’m not lying!”

“About your intentions! You didn’t do what you did to save everyone. You joined with me because you wanted to”.

“And once more you are a deceiver! If I have a serpent’s venom, then you speak with a serpent’s tongue!” .

“And once more you deceive only yourself, suflet mic!”.

Ellen shuddered at the nickname. “Don’t you ever call me that again! You lost the right to call me that years ago!”.

Suflet mic…

It meant “Little Soul” in Romanian. He had once used it as a term of endearment for her, when they first found each other. He hadn’t called her that in years, not since he stopped coming to her after she married Thomas.

A cold silence overtook the room. The air was icy with both his presence and her hatred. Ellen trembled from the sheer force of it. Her hands balled into fists, even around the little fairy figurine.

“I said leave. You are not welcome in this space…you will NEVER be welcome in this space!” Ellen yelled, tempted to turn around and throw the figurine at him. However, she refrained…just barely.

Without her permission, he couldn’t stay in her room, her space. This was hers and hers alone. It was one of the few rules of this place: Neither could enter the other’s space once it was established to them without consent. He stepped away from her, his footfall heavy. The Beast peered down at the black dog.

“Furie, ține-o în siguranță…” He commanded as he left the room, compelled by this strange realm’s magic and rules.

The dog, Furie apparently, barked in response. He would be her faithful guardian, not that there was much that could harm her here. But even so…the last thing he needed was Ellen finding her way back to the waters of Chaos.

Away from Him…

And ultimately lost to time…

The thought disturbed Orlok in a way he had never known. To be dead was one thing, but to be lost and forgotten was a whole other fear. Chaos could take him if fate demanded, but he would not spend eternity where she wasn’t there. He told her Ever Eternally…and he meant it. She was his until Chaos decided to call for them both. If and when that ever happened…

Thanks so much for reading guys! Please don't forget to like, reblog, and comment! Your support means the world to me ^-^

#fanfiction #nosferatu 2024 #nosferatu #ellen x orlok #lilac fang #future romance #slow burn

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cosmic-ghost-hermit · 7 months ago

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Past Life Reading

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Decks used are the Archetype Oracle, the Anime Tarot, and the Starseed Oracle.

This reading will go over one of your Past Lives and how it affects your current incarnation. Remember reincarnation isn't linear and there are other planets with life on them. HAPPY FULL MOON IN CAPRICORN!! Take what resonates and leave the rest behind but always be open to new experiences!

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PILE ONE

Astrology: Taurus, Cancer, Scorpio

Past Life Song: Pale Blue Dot by TWRP

Current Life Song: 3 Strange Days by School Of Fish

Vibes: Black, white, ocean blue, pearl, moldavite, coral reef, seagulls, gold rings, gray hair, globe, strong aura, childlike wonder, peanuts, almonds, sunflower seeds, Zues, Posideon

Cards: The Fool, The Hierophant, Queen of Cups, Justice, The One, The Seed, Perspective, Child of the Cosmos

Welcome, pile one! I am feeling some kind of royalty from this previous life. I think you were a spiritual leader in this life too or you were very involved with spirituality. I think you were probably really superstitious and trusted the divine more than you trusted humans. You had a strong faith in tradition and routine. I see this is a huge contrast to your current life. In this previous life, you were very connected with your guides. I see you could probably communicate with them easily and often. You have many sea spirits that look after you that you connected to in this past life. They followed you because of how much spiritual work you did in this past life. I see in this life you were guided by your living ancestors into the role you took. You had to learn that walking a path for the sake of the collective is a high honor and it is not a role for the weak. You had to give up a lot of opportunities that would have been for selfish gain for the sake of others. You have lots of built-up anger from this past life of sacrifice. You were extremely noble in this past life. In your current life, this behavior still pops up from time to time. You are learning how to serve yourself over serving others. I see you have some people-pleaser tendencies that leak into this life. You are still meant to be spiritual but you are also meant to learn about your own opinions/morals and hold them above the beliefs of the many. I see in this life you are finding your own moral compass. I see you have been betrayed by mentors you thought you could trust with everything. They withheld information that would have been extremely helpful if you had known ahead of time. I see that your parents were not kind to you. Despite these hardships' you still have a pure heart. Except now you are more capable of ruthlessness. Be ruthless in your morals. Serve justice out on a silver plater so your enemies look at their reflection while they face your wrath. In this life, you will release the anger you held from the last. You must be selfish. You must harness your wrath. Seek truth. Do not follow without knowing why you follow.

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PILE TWO

Astrology: Libra, Aquarius, Leo

Past Life Song: Run Boy Run by Woodkid

Current Life Song: Being Real is the New Fake by Toni Jones

Vibes: Mint green, lavender, pink, gold, painting, flower crown, lightning, Celtic knots, ribbon, modesty, alchemy, museums, strawberry, smoking, drinking, dive bars, Hermes, Persephone

Cards: The Empress, The World, Death, 2 of Swords, The Creator, The Riddle, You're Not Alone, Cracked Open

Hello, pile two! I see you were a traveler in this specific past life. I see you traveled in style and luxury. You didn't start in luxury though. You earned it. You worked hard for the opportunities you gained. I see you had to jump many obstacles that didn't make much sense, in the moment. Some of them were difficult for you to pass but others were a breeze. I think you were a pilot for the military. You earned many awards while in service. You saw the most beautiful sights in situations that didn't allow you to appreciate them. You lost so many friends to a nasty war. This made you feel really alone. After you finished serving in the military, I think you became an airline pilot. This allowed you to be in the sky and make more friends along the way. I see you enjoying tourism and seeing the sights. You got to experience so many different cultures and learned to love every part of the planet for its different aspects. I see you took many lovers in your travels but never settled down. You picked up a creative hobby in your travels. I see maybe a martial art also became a hobby of yours in this life. You learned in that life that humans can be scary and life can be hell but you also learned that humans are wonderfully creative and life can be heaven. You had the pleasure of seeing every part of what it is like to be alive. The good and the bad. In your current life, I see you still are quite creative. You pull a lot of inspiration from other cultures. I feel you miss the sky a lot. You might create lots of art relating to the sky. In this life, you are learning how to connect with your fellow humans. You traveled so much in your past life, this definitely made it hard to make permanent connections. Now you must adjust to stay grounded and learn to live in mostly one spot. Don't fret though. You will still travel spiritually. Your soul is a free one and needs to see the stars once more.

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PILE THREE

Astrology: Sagittarius, Virgo, Pisces

Past Life Song: Sunday Candy by Nico Segal

Current Life Song: Live Your Life by MIKA

Vibes: Cyan, periwinkle, peach, orange, butterflies, Jupiter, Saturn, tigers-eye, winter, sports, yen coins, peregrine falcon, feminity, Hestia, Hera

Cards: Page of Wands, 10 of Cups, 5 of Pentacles, 4 of Swords, Agape, Gnosis, You're Not For Everyone, The Void

Hey there, pile three! Welcome to your reading. I see in this past life you were a romantic. You were perhaps a mother in this life or you took the role of one to your community. You had an abundance of love that you handed out like candy. I see you were very spiritual and read many religious texts in your spare time but this wasn't something you shared like your love. You supported many youngins in their dreams but never got to fulfill your own. You were too busy making food for your children and community. You were planning events and hosting parties for your family reunions. You were the glue that held together your loved ones. I see you went under-appreciated a lot of the time but you were immensely respected by everyone you knew. Even when you grew old you still had the heart of a spry little one. It surprised everyone how active of a person you were. I see you lived a loooooong life. You learned how to lead and how to see the love everywhere you went. In this life, you are meant to fulfill the dreams you couldn't in the last one. I see you seeking knowledge. Maybe you are a student. I see you putting aside your studies to help teach others. Old habits die hard I guess. Make sure you are spending your current life on yourself. Your community was assisted enough in your previous life. You definitely reincarnated into the same family. I see you have both a grand trine or a grand square in your astral chart. Allow yourself to learn for the sake of you. Learn that selfishness isn't as evil as people say it is. I hope you find the information you are looking for in this life. Your soul is determined to gain knowledge so allow it to learn. Allow yourself to be an oddity. Allow yourself to be the black sheep that isn't understood. You don't have to take the same role you took in your last life. You can serve yourself. You should be your priority.

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PILE FOUR

Astrology: Capricorn, Aries, Gemini

Past Life Song: Discovery Album by Daft Punk (yes the whole album)

Current Life Song: Me@U by Middle Milk

Vibes: Soft pink, rainbows, yellow, owl, pyramid, egg, horns, mountains, quartz, karma, star clusters, long hair, short bangs, malachite, copper, Sirius, mental health issues, Iris, Apollo

Cards: The Devil, Queen of Swords, Ace of Pentacles, 8 of Wands, The Vision, The Starborn, Messenger, Star Ancestors

Hey there, pile four. Welcome to your past life reading! You had it pretty rough in your past life. You spent a lot of it seeing weird visions and remembering other worlds. I see you could have been suffering from intense mental health issues. You were most likely hospitalized for a lot of your previous life. Your body was chained to earth but your mind was elsewhere. Your soul was being pulled into the astral realm by your guides and ancestors. Meanwhile, your body was facing incarceration. You could have other past lives on other planets and your last life consisted mostly of your soul adjusting to Earth's energy. Your soul is not new at all but it is semi-new to Earth. You were learning how wild Earth can be. You had to acclimate to the lower vibrations. There is nothing wrong with low vibrations by the way. They were just different than what you were used to. I see in this life you still have crazy dreams and visions. You are really attuned to the spirit realm. You are just now experiencing Earth for the first time consciously. You are meant to be a seer on earth while simultaneously learning all you can about what it is like to be human. You serve as a messenger for those who don't have the skill to hear the spirit realm as well as you do. You are learning very fast that it is rough out here. You are just starting to feel the weight of karmic connections. You will be learning a lot here but your main mission is to bring as much harmony and balance as possible to Earth. You understand how sick Earth is right now and it hurts you to think about but you have the wisdom to help her feel better. You have the wisdom to assist humans. It is hidden in your soul, friend. This is an opportunity to heal her and her citizens. I know it is tough out here and I'm really sorry that it is. I wish you could have had a warmer welcome but this is a fantastic opportunity.

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fanonimus · 5 months ago

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I bring you another dream I remember! Mostly.

The first one

Context: Sometimes I dream up random episodes about media I am obsessed with at the time with proper animation and dialogue and stuff.

So this is TimKon, which is less surprising bc I was reading Timkon fanfics before going to sleep.

The animation style is Teet Titans.

The dream is blurry, but I can fill in the gaps. Mostly.

There was no intro this time.

The scene opens with Dick, Bruce, and Damian talking to a nervous looking Tim Drake, who's in a white tux with golden accents. He looks nervous as Dick fits a golden flower crown on top of his black hair.

"You okay, chum?" Bruce asks.

"I'm nervous. What if he leaves before we can do this?" Tim asks, fiddling with the sleeve of his button up shirt. Damian batts his hand away, currently doing Tims makeup.

"Kon is a good man, Tim. You two are good for each other." Dick says.

"And Todd is armed with cryptonite bullets, if he does leave." Damian adds as he finishes off, closing the makeup kit.

"Damian!" All three say in unison, with disbelief. He just shruggs.

Fade to black, then to another room. Kon is admiring himself. He's wearing a black tuxedo with silver details. Jon is excitedly rambling off about all the fun stuff he and Damian will do after the ceremony. Clark is going over Conners confession or whatever while Lois fixes up his makeup.

"He's not going to come." Conner says, sounding dissapointed. Jon frowns.

"He's a bad man. He would surely ruin the whole thing." The boy says.

"I know, but he's still my bio dad, too." Conner says.

"It's Lex Luthor. I would be surprised if he did come." Clark sighs and patts Conners shoulder. "Focus on your husband, son, don't let Lex ruin this for you." Conner nodds, we fade to black.

Wedding music plays, we open to rose petals blowing in the wind. Conner and Tim smiling at each other as they walk down the aisle. Batfam, superfam, and all of their friends are there, cheering. Even some rouges were invited. (Harley vipes a tear in the background, while Ivy is the one contributing the petals. This was strangely specified.)

Jason Todd is the priest.

The ceremony goes on, when the doors open and Lex stepps in.

"I ob-" Before he can say anything, Jason pulls a gun on him.

"Sit down." Lex sitts down. Tim and Kon let out a small giggle.

They say their vows, and all I remember from that is the love in their words. It was warm and nice.

Anyways.

The only other thing I remember is the kiss scene. Tim pulls Conner in, and hey kiss, and then they break apart and touch foreheads, and they are laughing and crying while everyone is cheering, and Harley even lights up some fireworks.

There was also a speech Damian gave, and everyone cried. Damian talked about how he came to care about Tim and how the man helped him realize that his place in the family was his ever since he arrived. He also threatened Kon.

I think Jason and Stephanie also gave speeches, but I don't remember what they said.

This is it. Thank you for tuning in. This was a really nice dream.

Here I made some art for it:

#timkon #tim drake #conner kent #kon el #jason todd #damian wayne #bruce wayne #dick grayson #stephanie brown #poison ivy #harley quinn #jon lane kent #clark kent #lois lane #this was a wild dream

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 year ago

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Rook, Ortho: Princess Power

BRUH 💀 Go figure, giving the guy obsessed with beauty two of the least flattering screenshots in his background frames… But hey, his groovy is very different from everyone else’s so far! ^^ Very relaxed and peaceful.

Cbjssbjsjskendb new tidbits about pre-Pomefiore Rook?? He used to cut his own hair with a knife and focused on keeping his bangs out of his line of sight… and he wasn’t as confident about his style (mood). It’s also interesting to know that he started doing ballet on Vil’s recommendation, and that has helped a lot with his posture, working out muscles he doesn’t normally use, and appreciating the art of performances. We love Pomefiore out here breaking gender norms 👊

A Tale as Old as Time.

Rook drew out a longing sigh, gently easing into the quiet of the museum. The soft sound lingered, coiling around his fingers like thread from a spool. It, too, did not wish to part ways with the stunning beauty laid out bare before it.

A fair maiden was framed in shining platinum. Hair black as ebony, lips as red as the rose, and skin as white as snow... Truly, she was the fairest in all the land.

Her graceful frame was folded, kneeling on the forest floor to greet the woodland creatures that had gathered. The pale yellow skirt of her gown spilled out, blue bodice and puff sleeves fitted well by her figure. Her face round and gentle, in spite of the high collar encircling it, crowed by a petite red bow.

Here was pure innocence, a young girl reveling in nature.

“Beauté,” he marveled—to no one in particular, but such beauty warranted verbal acknowledgement.

“It seems that this painting has captured your interest, Rook Hunt-san!” a voice chirped. A neon blue light emanated from the darkness, accompanied by the silver flash of metal.

“Bonjour!” Rook greeted Ortho. "I must confess, I have been enchanted by this particular work of art! The brush strokes, masterful! The composition, immaculate!! The subject—oh, how it makes my heart quiver with nostalgia!! I am a man close to being moved to tears!!”

Ortho curiously glanced at the girl and her animal friends. No strong emotions arose within up from him. Perhaps he did not feel as much, or perhaps Rook felt too much. “Is there a sentimental experience or memory you have related to this painting…?”

“Oui! It is a tale as old as time.” Rook gestured to the snow white young lady. “They say that this maiden was a princess forced to flee from her home country, as a hostile presence threatened her life. She retreated into the woods and found comfort in a humble life there. Her tenacity is most admirable!!”

“Tenacity… That’s the value that Pomefiore was founded on!” Ortho, floating overhead, beamed at Rook. “I understand why you would like that story. It has a good moral that sticks with you.”

“That is the beauty of telling tales! They inspire those who hear of it, ensuring that the spirit of the story is never truly extinguished.” The huntsman’s eyes held a keep glint to them. “Tell me, Ortho-kun. What do you believe makes a princess?”

The boy blinked. A split second, and he had already input the term into an internal search engine, the formal definition loaded up to recite.

“Prin-cess, noun. The daughter of a monarch or wife to a prince. A woman having sovereign power.”

“An efficient, succinct answer!” Rook applauded, his cheer never faltering. “However, my desire is to know your interpretation. In Ortho-kun’s own words, what makes a princess?”

“My own…?” The words stretched, unsure, on his tongue. Ortho hesitated—seeking, processing, and analyzing. Rook’s heartbeat sounded where there was the space for the boy to think.

Then, finally, Ortho spoke.

“From what I’ve observed in movies and books, the princess is a pop culture icon. She’s usually presented as a role model for little girls. Someone who is beautiful, dainty, and composed, wearing a pretty dress and a glittering crown."

A pause. Ortho assessed Rook’s hard-to-read, bright expression.

“… Is that closer to the response you were looking for, Rook Hunt-san?” he asked.

To this, the third year’s lips quirked. “There is no correct or incorrect answer! I was curious to see your perspective. Everyone holds one that differs, lenses of all designs and colors with which to see the world through! You have my most heartfelt thanks for sharing your view with me.”

"Oh, I see! You're collecting data from a variety of sources to compare to a standard." The android (literally) lit up from within. "Let me ask the same back! Rook Hunt-san, what do you think makes a princess?"

"Mon dieu! You've set my own trap upon me," Rook teased.

The Beautiful Queen, the Fair Maiden, Vil, his peers... So many fragments of beauty in his collection. Plucked, collected, hoarded.

He ran a finger along his chin, contemplating. The thoughts assembled like a collage. Ideas taken, cut up, and pasted together into a new, glorious artwork.

"A princess can be many things," Rook declared with certainty. "They are a princess to their very core, even when their power is stripped from them or they are dressed in only ashes and rags. What defines them is not royal heritage or political influence, but the strength of their character, their values and virtues. They are not bound by a singular trait, but are aspirations to all in their own ways."

Ortho's eyes swelled. "Eh...? That's so broad! By your definition, anyone could be a princess—even you or I!”

The huntsman threw his head back and laughed. "Broad it may be, but I am of the opinion that we all have it in us to live up to the title~”

He indicated the woman in the platinum frame. Ortho’s gaze obediently followed. "Even without a kingdom to call her own, she remained kind-hearted rather than turn to cruelty. That is why she was, and always will be, a noble soul. A princess who puts out good into the world.”

“Rook Hunt-san…”

“Ortho-kun!” Rook dramatically extended an arm to him. He was practically sparkling in the dim room. “I, too, endeavor to put out as much beauty as what is gifted to me! That is my one true calling as the Hunter of Love: to not only seek out beauty, but to cultivate and to contribute to it!”

Ortho silently stared. Nii-san did warn me that Rook Hunt-san could be eccentric, but… maybe there’s some meaning to be found in it.

Cutting through the numbers and the formulas that governed him was a fuzzy warmth. Not the familiar jolt of electricity that powered his circuits. It was too wild, too unpredictable.

Something undeniably human.

Ortho let out a giggle. "Hehe. Then you must be a princess too!"

Rook's mouth formed a small "o". Unsubtle surprise—or perhaps purposefully exaggerated. "Me? Whatever makes you think that?"

"Strength of character!" Ortho parroted mischievously. "I've never met someone as uplifting as you are. Rook Hunt-san is the type of person that sees a princess in everyone."

The boy lowered himself to a few centimeters off of the ground, pretending to dip into a curtsey. "Your majesty!"

"Fufufu. You're quite charming yourself, Princess Ortho-kun!" Rook bent into a deep bow. "Most clever in all the land, computing complex problems in the blink of an eye!”

Upon straightening, the third year laid both hands over his heart. He lifted his head toward the painting of the fair maiden in the forest. A serene smile at his lips.

It was as if he was pledging his allegiance, making a vow. A worshipper at the altar to pray.

“May we all live happily ever after,” Rook whispered raptly, “like the princesses of old.”

Forever and ever.