#mama like smoldering fire

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#tfw you realize Hulk and Thor arguing in Thor:Ragnarok is you and your 5yo son.

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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

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! 💜

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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.

[lunarmoonanons]

The Dragon’s Rose

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕  

YN asks her husband for a favor. One he wouldn’t like. 

Sequel to Little Rose

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕  

Masterlist

YN bit her thumb as she stood outside her husband’s room. Asking Maegor for anything was always a gamble. Even though she had given him several boys and girls, the leash kept on her neck was always short. He’d always tug too hard when it came to her asking for freedoms, occasionally he would grant her requests but they always came with a service she’d have to give him. Once she asked for a ride around Kingslanding either by dragon or carriage, in exchange she had to give him a 5th son before she was allowed her wish. 

This was to be her biggest request yet, and she steadied herself as best she could. She didn’t know what she'd have to pay to get her wish, but she knew she’d pay it just for a chance. With a quick breath in and out, YN pushed her way inside ready to face her husband. Maegor was sitting by the fire, one of their sons was on his lap as the two read a book about the Valyrian empire. 

“Mama!” Rhaegar exclaimed and hopped off his father’s lap. YN smiled tightly, kneeling down and hugging her small boy. “Father and I were reading about the Valyrians. Can you read with us?”

“Not tonight my love. Go play with your brothers, mama needs to talk to father.” YN said, patting the boy on his back and sending him away. YN felt her composure shake a bit as she saw her husband stand in front of her. 

“What do you need to speak about, my darling rose?” Maegor asked, his purple eyes glancing over her body with lust. His appetite never seemed to be satiated. 

“I.. I wanted to ask you of something.” YN slightly stuttered out, fingers fiddling with each other. 

“My darling wife wants a favor.” Maegor sighed and played with a strand of her hair. 

“Yes. I…” YN clenched her fist tightly. “I want to visit my family.”

That made his hand stop his twirling on her strand of hair. YN swallowed and dared to flicker her gaze up to his face. He was cold and stared far ahead. He looked angry, but he always looked angry, though he held his soft gaze for her. Now there was no soft gaze. 

“Maegor-”

“No.” He cut her off quickly. 

“Please. I miss my mother, I miss my father. I won’t run away, I just want to see them for a brief while.” YN tried to beg. She would say anything for her chance to talk about this. 

“I said no.” Maegor stepped away and walked toward the fireplace before he suddenly turned back to look at her. “Do I not treat you well? Am I that terribly cruel that you would abandon our children as well?”

“NO! No I just want to-”

“Cause I can be cruel. I can be even crueler than I am now.” He then stomped to her and held her soft face in his hands. “I can burn all of highgarden to smoldering ash if I wanted.” 

“Maegor stop!” Yn tried to push away but he held her tight in his arms. “I just miss my family. I don’t want to leave our children, I just wanted to see my family.”

“If it bothers you that much, then I can have them relocated to Kingslanding.” That made YN freeze, while she loved and missed her family, she’d never subject them to the terror of Kingslanding under Maegor's rule. 

“No. No please just leave them alone.” YN begged and placed her hand on his cheek in an effort to placate him. 

“Those are your choices. You either leave it alone or I can move house Tyrell to the capital.” Maegor stated and looked deep in her eyes that watered at the sight of him, 

“I’ll leave it alone. I promise.” YN whispered and let her hand fall. 

Maegor smiled and leaned forth to plant a kiss on her soft lips. “Good. My precious wife, you are the only one I would burn the world for. And I will burn the world just for you. Remember that.” 

YN nodded and pulled away from her terrifying husband, she knew this was a big favor to ask and for the next few weeks she’d have to play the doting wife to appease his wrath. YN left her husband and quickly made her way to her children’s rooms. Her family may have been in highgarden but her children were here. Maegor would ensure that she’d remember that.

[lovingdilfs]

The late phone call (smut)

Guys here is a consolation gift for y’all, after last night. Love you all.

Come with some request people!!

Warning: 18+ content, sex, p licking.

He is talking to me guys.. look at that smirk

You held the phone to your ear, trying to keep your voice low as you whispered, "Elvis, what the hell are you doing?"

His response came through the phone, a chuckle in his voice as he replied, "Nothing, baby. I just wanted to hear your voice."

Your eyes flicked over to your sleeping husband in the bed beside you, and you hissed into the phone, "At 3 a.m.? Elvis, you can't do this."

"Oh, relax, little mama," he said, his words sounding like honey over the line. "He ain't gonna wake up."

But you weren't convinced, and you couldn't help the way your heart was racing in your chest. "You don't know that," you whispered back.

"Honey, I made you scream my name in the room right beside yours, so don't worry," he said, his voice laced with a smug satisfaction that made your blood boil. "Come to my room, baby," he said, his voice low and husky. It sent shivers down your spine, and you felt a rush of heat spread through your body. “Elvis I can’t” you said, a little sigh come from the end of the phone. “Now listen here, baby. I didn't just ask for it, I demanded it from you.” You hesitated for a moment, looking over at your sleeping husband in the bed beside you. You could feel your resistance beginning to crumble, the sound of his voice sending shivers down your spine. "I know you want me, baby," Elvis continued, his voice silky and seductive. "I can feel it in the way you breathe, in the way your heart races whenever I'm near you. So why deny yourself what you really want?"

Slipping out of bed, you tiptoed across the room and made your way to Elvis's room. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you stood outside his door, wondering what awaited you on the other side.

With a deep breath, you pushed open the door and stepped inside, the scent of his cologne washing over you. And there he was, man spreading on the couch with a glass of whiskey in his hand with a devilish grin on his face, waiting for you.

“This is the last time Elvis I swear to god” you closed the door gently. Elvis's grin only widened, his eyes dancing with mischief. "That's what you always say, little mama," he replied, taking a sip of his whiskey. "But we both know you can't resist me." He said while walking slowly towards you. Your heart skipped a beat as Elvis took a step closer, his eyes locked onto yours. You tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. The room felt smaller, the air thicker with anticipation. "You know you're playing with fire, Elvis," you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

But he only chuckled, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "I like it hot, little mama," he replied, his eyes smoldering with a dangerous heat. "And you know you want it too." You felt yourself getting lost in Elvis's gaze, unable to look away as he moved even closer, his breath hot against your cheek. The intensity of his gaze was overwhelming, and you found yourself giving into the desire that had been building between you.

In a moment of weakness, you gave in to his seduction, allowing him to pull you into his arms. His lips were hot against yours, his touch sending sparks of pleasure through your body.

Elvis's hands roamed over your body, his touch setting every nerve ending on fire. You moaned into his kiss, unable to resist the pull of his desire. Elvis's hands continued to explore every inch of your body, sending waves of pleasure through you with every touch. You were lost in the moment, your senses overwhelmed by the intensity of his desire.

As his lips trailed down your neck, you let out a soft gasp, the pleasure too much to bear.

You felt a wave of heat rush through your body as Elvis continued to explore your neck with his lips and tongue. Your mind was clouded with desire, unable to focus on anything else but the feeling of his touch.

You ran your hands through his hair, pulling him closer to you, lost in the sensation of his touch. Elvis's hands moved down your body, his touch sending shivers of pleasure through you. You moaned softly, your body arching against his. “Touch me Elvis!” You patten out, Elvis's lips curled into a devilish grin as he heard your desperate plea. "Oh, I love it when you get so desperate, little mama," he whispered into your ear, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine.

Your heart raced as Elvis's hands moved down to the hem of your nightgown, trailing kisses along your skin. You could feel the heat of his breath against your thigh as he slowly pulled your panties down, exposing your throbbing cunt to his gaze.

You let out a soft moan as he buried his face between your thighs, his tongue tracing a path of pleasure along your folds. Your fingers tangled in his hair, urging him on with a desperate intensity. The pleasure was building within you, growing stronger with every touch, every lick, until you thought you might explode with ecstasy. "Oh fuck Elvis!" you screamed, your body writhing beneath him.

In response, Elvis quickly moved his fingers to your mouth, pushing two fingers inside to stop you from moaning too loudly. He looked up at you with a wicked grin, his eyes shining with desire.

"You're gonna make the whole damn floor hear you, honey," he whispered, his voice rough with desire.

Despite his warning, you couldn't help but let out a soft moan as he continued to explore your body with his tongue. "Oh God, Elvis," you moaned, unable to hold back the sounds of pleasure that escaped your lips.

Elvis looked up at you with a wicked grin,"I told you to be quiet, little mama," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "But it looks like you just can't help yourself."

You wanted to respond, to tell him how much you needed him, but the pleasure was too much. Elvis stood up and leaned in close, his lips brushing against yours as he made you taste yourself on his mouth. You couldn't help but moan as he kissed you, his tongue teasing and exploring your mouth with a fierce intensity.

The taste of yourself on his lips only fueled your desire for him, making you crave more of his touch. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as he deepened the kiss, Your hands traveled down the waistband of his pants, slipping underneath to feel the length of him. You couldn't help but gasp at the feel of his hard length in your hands.

Elvis groaned against your mouth as you began to stroke him, your fingers moving in a slow, steady rhythm that drove him wild with desire. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer as he pressed his body against yours. "You really can't wait, huh honey?" Elvis said with a smirk as he lifted you up by your legs, wrapping them around his waist. He carried you over to the bed, laying you down gently on the soft sheets.

You couldn't help but giggle at his comment, the thrill of the moment making you feel giddy with desire. Elvis climbed on top of you, his body pressing against yours as he trailed kisses down your neck and chest. Elvis's eyes traveled over your body, taking in every inch of your curves. As he removed your nightgown completely, your breasts were exposed to him, causing a shiver of desire to run through your body.

"Oh gosh baby, you’re so perfect," he murmured, his hands trailing over your skin. His lips moved to your breasts, kissing and licking until your nipples were hard and aching. You let out a soft moan, your body arching towards him, desperate for more.

Elvis positioned himself between your legs, his body towering over yours. You could feel the heat radiating off him, his hard length pressing against your slick opening, begging for entrance. With a gasp, he pushed into you, filling you completely with his passion.

The sensation was overwhelming, sending shivers down your spine as he started to move, his thrusts deep and urgent, as if he couldn't get enough of you. The sound of your moans mixed with his grunts filled the room, the air thick with the heady scent of sex.

You clung to him desperately, your nails digging into his skin as you rode the waves of pleasure. Every touch, every kiss, every thrust sent you higher and higher, until you were consumed by the fire of your desire for him.

The room was a blur of sensations, the only thing that mattered was the feeling of him inside you, filling you completely. You could feel his muscles ripple beneath his skin as he moved, his body a perfect match for yours.

Finally, with a deep groan, Elvis reached his climax, and you could feel him pulsing inside of you, filling you completely. You collapsed into each other's arms, both of you panting and sweating. Elvis kissed you softly on the lips, his eyes filled with adoration. "Goddamn it baby you have done it again," he said, his voice husky with emotion. You smiled up at him, feeling content and fulfilled. "Done what?" you asked, curious.

"Taken my breath away," he replied, a smile spreading across his face.

[fangirls-fanfiction]

I just finished up chapter two lol

Story below undercut:

"Will you quit crying?"

The Devil dragged a sobbing Queen Dice into her office, looking her over just to make sure all the fire was completely out. Aside from a small ember on the top of her head, everything seemed to be fine. Though what wasn't fine was Dice's clothes being burnt and smoldered, along with a good portion of her hair burnt much shorter. She was a downright mess.

"I don't know what you were thinking—" The Devil scoffed as she closed the bedroom door behind her. "What were you expecting to happen when you got close to Hellfire?!"

"I— I— "

"Do you have any idea what could've happened if I hadn't gotten there in time? You could've died! Or worse!"

"... W— Worse than dying...?" Queen Dice asked.

"The point is that I told you to stay put!"

"I— I know... I should've listened... I'm sorry..."

"Damn right."

The Devil rolled her eyes, quickly changing the subject. She put the small flame out atop Dice's head, taking care of the rest if the fire.

"Are you alright?" She asked, impatiently.

"I was— I— I was nearly burnt to— To— To smithereens by y— Your Hellfire, do you think I'm— I'm ok?" Queen Dice hiccuped as she spoke through her tears, though still managed to sneak in the snide comments.

"Hey, I don't need the sass." The demon snarled back at her. "Now, let's get you cleaned up."

"What— What am I gonna do?" Dice sniffed, looking down to her ruined dress. "This was one of my m— Mamas favorite dresses..."

"Well, I think you could used a new style anyway. A show woman like you doesn't wear things like..." The Devil gestured to her dress. "That."

"But... B— But I've always worn dresses like these... If— If my mama were to find out I disobeyed her, she would— She— She would— "

Queen Dice was cut of by a loud groan from the Devil.

"For Hellfire's sake, following your parents' rules is so... Boring." The demon rolled her eyes. "What's life without getting to choose things for yourself, huh? For Hell's Sake! You're a grown woman, you don't need your mommy's approval."

Queen Dice thought for a moment, but didn't say anything.

"So what do you want to do? You can wear that stupid dress, or you can try to think for yourself for a change."

Lucifer sighed, noticing her rather unsure expression. "Look, why don't we start with the hair? Hm? Why don't we cut it all at the same length, and if you don't like it, I'll turn it back to normal. Deal?"

"O— Ok..."

"Great, now let me see."

Hesitantly turning around, Queen Dice gave the demon a better look at what she was working with. Though to the demon's horror, it was going to be a rather tough battle.

"I'm going to have to cut a lot off of this to make it even."

"What are you, a hair stylist?" Queen Dice asked.

"When living on this miserable planet for so long, one must have different hobbies." The demon explained nonchalantly.

"Besides stealing souls?"

"Yes, besides stealing souls. Now, hold still."

With a simple wave of her hand, a pair of scissors and a comb appeared in the demon's hands and she got to work. Queen Dice flinched as she cut her hair. The scissors being about level with her shoulders; quite a bit was being cut off indeed. Dice began crying again, obviously trying to keep her emotions at bay but letting a few hiccups slip through.

"I said hold still." The demon tugged on her hair slightly.

"S— Sorry." Queen Dice wiped the tears away.

"Can't you do things right the first time you're asked to?"

"So— Sorry..."

"Stop apologizing."

"S— I mean... Ok..."

Rolling her eyes, the Devil continued. A few minutes later, the demon finished, putting the scissors and comb aside.

"Turn around, let me see."

Dice's curls were much more pronounced with the shorter hair, giving it less weight and more freedom for the locks to curl every which way. The poor girl's hair looked an absolute mess. She'd hate for Dice not to feel confident about her new haircut, especially to prove her point. So she thought up a way to make it look better at its current shoulder length compared to the long length it was.

"Hold still."

She took Dice by a couple of locks of hair in each side of her face, pulling her hair out of her eyes. Those beautiful, emerald green eyes. The demon stared, tilting her head to one side for a moment. She really did look nice with the shorter hair, even with her longer hair Dice was a very attractive lady. A very very attractive lady. Especially her green eyes. They complimented the purplish-pink color to her hair so well, especially with this short hair. A familiar feeling began to grow in the pit of the demon's stomach.

Though, realizing she'd been staring for too long, the demon let go of her hair

"Turn back around for a second."

Doing as she was told again without even a word, the only sound Queen Dice made was a small sniffle as she seemed to be still crying.

Summoning a hair clip, the demon did her best to pull back Dice's hair to keep it out of her face. Satisfied with her work, a mirror appeared, the Devil facing Dice towards it.

"How is that? Do you like it or do you want to change it back?"

Queen Dice stared at her reflection, blinking. She seemed surprised, intrigued even. She stared for so long that the Devil was convinced she hated it.

"Look," The demon sighed. "If you don't like it, you don't have to give me the silent treatment."

"No!" Queen Dice turned around to face her. "I love it. Thank you... Boss."

The Devil's narrow gaze widened slightly, her ember eyes staring at Dice for a moment. That feeling in her gut returned unexpectedly, this time accompanied by a weird sensation in her chest. Though strange, it wasn't a feeling that the demon particularly hated. It felt nice. Scary, but nice. Perhaps it was because— No, it was a simple thing that she'd never experienced before;

She'd never been thanked before. Not that she regularly did nice things but in the occasion that she did, she didn't usually receive very positive feedback. Why, just the other day, some dumb baby had dropped its favorite toy without the mother realizing. Feeling rather kind that day, the Devil decided to return it to its rightful owner... Only to receive a blood curdling scream and a smack across the face from the mother's purse in return. Mortals were just too quick to jump to conclusions when it came to the ruler of Hell.

The demon's neutral expression returned with that thought.

"Whatever." The Devil rolled her eyes as she began to walk away. "Go get yourself cleaned up and come back to my office." She stopped as she opened the door for Dice. "I have a special job for you; if a self-proclaimed, show-woman such as yourself can do it right."

"Wh..." Queen Dice decided to ignore the comment. "What 'special job' do you mean?"

"If you're such a connoisseur of music and dance, then you're going to use that to get me souls. A lot of souls."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Get yourself dressed, you look like you just crawled out of a house fire."

"Ok..." Queen Dice walked out the door, the demon slamming it behind her.

Once she heard Dice's footsteps far enough away, the Devil sighed loudly, slouching back to her desk.

"C'mon, Dev, get ahold of yourself... You can't do this to yourself again..." She told herself as she sat down in her comfy chair behind her desk and leaned her chin on her hand.

"It's never worth it when you're the Devil..."

♠️ ♠️ ♠️

Queen Dice let out a deep breath, knocking on the door of her new Boss' office. Her nerves were a wreck. Especially after a near-death experience, making a deal with the literal Devil, nearly getting burnt alive from Hellfire, and getting this new haircut and style in roughly the same week— She was particularly tense.

Though after wearing this new suit her boss had so generously given to her, she found a new sense of self. All her life, she was just another Dice from that family of hers. But looking in that mirror, her name meant something. It gave her a new found confidence.

But that confidence was quickly lost when she knocked on her Boss' door. What was left slipped through her fingertips when the door opened.

Offering a smile at the demon, Lucifer only seemed to glare at her as she opened the door wider and walked off back to her desk.

"So, Dice," The Queen of Hell started, sitting on her rather comfy-looking chair. "About that job I was talking about?"

"Yes?"

"You're a Dice, right? You've lived your life on the stage. And you've got talent like no other."

"Y— Yes? You know about my family...?"

"Let's just say that I've gotten to know your father pretty well." The demon smirked.

Queen Dice blinked, grimacing at that thought, though not saying anything.

"Not in that way." The Devil frowned, seeming to read the woman's mind. "I mean that he's made quite a few deals with me. Where'd you think he got all his money?"

"Hard work and dedication?"

Old Scratch rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

"Anyways, about that job."

"Yes?"

"I want a way to bring in unsuspecting souls. In a town as bland as Inkwell, no one can resist a pretty little lady who dances and sings."

Queen Dice didn't say anything, still she felt the heat rise to her face. Something about her Boss calling her a 'pretty little lady' left her rather speechless and surprisingly flattered.

"A game show. One that no one can lose. Hosted by a pretty doll no one can say no to."

"M— Me?" Queen Dice asked, pointing to herself.

"Yes, you, you blockhead!"

Backing a step away, Dice shut her mouth, nodding.

"A person plays three games— Incredibly easy, anyone, even the most incompetent person can win them— " The Devil continued to explain, standing from her seat. "And after they win, they get to go to the... The..." The demon stopped, seeming to have not thought up the finishing detail.

"The... Mystery... Surprise Room...?" Queen Dice offered on the spot.

"Yes! The Mystery Surprise Room!" Lucifer seemed excited by that idea, putting a smile on Dice's face.

The things that seemed to make the Devil happy were very... Odd. Not everyone was obsessed with getting their hands on every soul in the world. Though seeing that spark of excitement and joy on her Boss' face made Dice want to keep her happy. Please her in any way possible, even if the things that made her happy were very... Unorthodox.

"And do you know what the surprise will be, Dice?" The Devil got closer, her smile turning to a sneer.

"What?"

"That's when I snatch their soul."

"O— Oh..." Dice's gaze fell to the floor.

It felt wrong. So wrong. Just plain evil to lure people in with her charm and talent just for them to get their soul snatched away from them.

"I'm— I'm not so sure if I can— "

"When you work for me, you do as I say. And you do it perfectly. Unless you'd like to know what Hellhounds eat for their breakfast."

"N— No! I'll do it— I'll host the show for you." Queen Dice panicked.

"Good, good... Now you'd better go get some rest. Opening night is tomorrow night." The demon started back to her desk.

"T— Tomorrow?! B— But I can't— How am I supposed to know what to do by tomorrow?! Don't I get a script or— Or— Or something?!"

"You're the show woman, figure it out."

"Buh— But— Boss!"

"But Boss!" The Devil mocked her. "I'm not the one who made the deal. You work for me, you follow my rules."

Queen Dice was close to tears at this point. She hated her Boss. God she hated her. There was no reasoning with her, no matter how batshit insane her standards were, there was no talking her out of it. Still, Dice refused to cry in front of her Boss, she hated to see what would happen if she found Dice crying. No doubt mockery would come soon after. So she held them back, only letting a small, shaken breath slip.

"Yes, Boss." She managed to choke out as she walked out of the office.

The door clicking behind her, a few tears ran down her face. Silently crying, she quickly wiped them away, in fear that a demon or an imp might see her.

Every moment since the beginning of all this, the same question ran through Dice's mind.

Was death really worse than this?

[friendshipgirl]

Pool Brawl

( as the three were chilling out at the pool area, Salazar suddenly came with a magazine )

Salazar: You know… You know Natsumi, I have just had it with you and your boyfriend's little… ( closes the door ) …mind games.

Wakko: What is that?

Salazar: Italian Vogue…

Wakko: Mama Mia, that’s a lot of pages…

Salazar: It’s a lot of ads.

Wakko: Remember what Fuyuki said. Why is your life any more valuable than ours?

Salazar: Oh, that’s weird. I just can’t seem to ( tries to hit them ) RECALL THAT!!!

( the three scream as Natsumi tries to hit back with a chair )

Salazar: I think something STINKS in here! ( sprays honey perfume at Giroro )

Giroro: Ha! I like the smell of honey!

Salazar: Yeah? ( puts a lighter in front of it ) HOW DO YOU LIKE THE SMELL OF FLAMES!?

Giroro: Not as much!

( The red frog screams as he barely dodged a burst of fire. Natsumi's eyes grew wide with terror, as she watched Giroro, now ablaze, stumble backward into the pool. The water around him hissed and steamed, extinguishing the flames. Giroro coughed and sputtered, his swim wear smoldering. Wakko, acting on instinct, snatched up a pool noodle and began to whip it around like a makeshift flail, keeping Salazar at bay. Salazar backs up into the swim toys and falls, yelling as each toy, a snorkel, a ball, and finally a rubber duck, landed on his head. He then grabs a water nozzle and aimed at Natsumi )

Natsumi: Hey! Look at me! I’m wearing a pail for a hat! This is pathetic!

Salazar: I’ve got issues!

( he squirts at Natsumi, causing her to fall back into the pool. Natsumi comes up and spits water before activating the whirlpool by accident )

Natsumi: Oh no! AHH! ( spins around )

( Wakko tries to grab his mother, but when he did, Salazar pushes him in. Luckily, Wakko grabbed a board and surfs the whirlpool )

Wakko: Yeah! Surfs up, dude! ( spits water in Salazar's face )

Salazar: ( exclaims in disgust ) AHH! SPIT WATER!

( Wakko continues to ride the whirlpool for a bit before coming up to Giroro and Natsumi )

Wakko: Whoo! That hole is gnarly!

Salazar: ( takes out a scrubber ) Except for those soapy, blue, pink, and red, rings!

( Wakko screams as Giroro uses the board as a shield, but Aki and Lauren then come in and stop Salazar )

Lauren ( me ): Salazar! What the hell are you doing!? Are you nuts!?

Salazar: You know what!? I don’t even like canned white chocolate coffee! I don’t drink it!

Aki: ( pulls Salazar out a bit ) We need to talk! This is my daughter, and her son and boyfriend! She’s the new queen of Animaniacs, and I believe she is the greatest queen I have seen in a long time!

Salazar: Long time!? It has been almost a year since Api has been stressing over a movie!

Aki: Well, Lauren does stress out over Wakko’s Wish, because there are things that bug her, and pretty much everyone else, and it is all caused by you being greedy for respect!

Salazar: Oh! That’s how it is! Rotten children, autistic princesses, anime space frogs, chaotic dinner nights, and now this! You’re all against me! It’s getting my nerves fried by riding on this emotional roller coaster!

Aki: Goodbye, Salazar!

( Salazar exclaimed in disbelief before leaving the pool area, but then coming back )

Salazar: ( to Lauren ) And for you information, Princess, I prefer sugar free, no chocolate added, almond milk lattes, MADE BY MAN! ( storms off )

Aki: Sorry about all that Honey.

Salazar: ( comes back one more time ) And those dry strange aftertastes it has, I LIKE IT! ( leaves and slams the door )

[mally0]

Out of the Frying Pan

Introduction | Chapter 1

TW: Blood, guts, and cannibalism. Bugs in the mouth stuff. Vomit. Allusions to SA. Murder.

This is the beginning of a novel I’ve been cooking up. There is, of course, a main plot that hasn’t been revealed yet. I promise.

Set Burner to High Heat

Perhaps my time is short, perhaps I have all the time in the world. I am Gormica, a golem of flesh, iron, and fire. I return to this world for my one constant purpose.

Someone has to die.

There’s a meddler out there, threatening to bend reality with their twisted magics. It will not stand. 

As for a status report, I don’t know who I’m hunting. I remember bits of my previous lives, but this land is strange and changed. I can smell the spirit of the Chimera alive in Castille, the Iron City. I’m sure the target is here. 

When I first woke, I was in the roots of a burning tree, half buried in the muck of a still pond. I tore myself from the ground, the old tree tumbled over with a splash. A dark stain crept into the pool’s green waters around the tree’s smoldering carcass. I rushed to the water’s edge and hacked up what must have been a barrel full of black mud and crawling, nasty vermin. I hate centipedes. There were some in my mouth. 

My reflection in the pool settled to what it had always been. My black iron helm still had the vague approximation of a face burnt through by my violet, flaming eyes. I moved my neck, creaking and shrieking against untold years of rust. The plates desperately needed a drink. I looked around for my weapon. By magical contract, no part of me can be separated from the whole.

Across the pool, I spotted the shape of a skeleton engulfed in purple fire. I was still groggy, but it didn’t take me long to crunch the numbers. The flames whirling around its shape surged upward, igniting more of the weeping trees leaning over the pond. Mounds of flaming bagworms fell. Fish thrashed and floundered in the pond below. The greenery screamed and split against the inferno. It was a picture of the end times, all encased in this little clearing in the swamp. 

I struggled to my feet, and the skeleton ran off. The flames lowered to a flicker. I hauled my clattering legs around the pond and something in my mail must have caught.

I fell face first into the ashy mud. By the time I got my bearings back, a storm conveniently came along to put out the flames.

To my understanding, I have been held together absolutely by magical contract. That’s how it’s always been. I live to hunt, and when I find my quarry, I die. I have always had my trusty weapon at my side.

I lost track of the skeleton. I haven’t been able to find my ax. It disturbs me. 

I’d like to be up front with you, reader. I was initially formed in the leagues of a necromancer’s army. I’m not that monster anymore. I was raised as a weapon of war, but I’m determined to do good with the fleeting glances of life I’m gifted with.

I’m afraid that skeleton is a part of me.

I doubt that it’s my target. That would be silly. I doubt that it’s a problem that’s going to fix itself, however. I also have a feeling that my target and that dreg that crawled out of me are connected. 

I set off in search of civilization. I’m sure that’s not the last I’ve seen of the flaming skeleton, anyway. I have dubbed this demon ‘Frailty.’ This name is my hex upon it. When my blade meets its skull, it will find it a most fitting title.

______________________________________________________________

This is a recipe for a mess.

A Dozen Eggs, Scrambled

Diced Onions and Hash Browns in Olive Oil

Slap Ya’ Mama

Salt and Pepper

Mix it All Together

Seared Until the Ends are Black

Top with Cheese

Let it Melt

Serve and Enjoy

Out of the Frying Pan

______________________________________________________________

Well, can I tell you a secret? I know you're not gonna believe this But something happened to me last night And I may never be the same again                                                  

–“NBTSA,” Joyce Manor  

A Dozen Eggs, Scrambled

I woke up one day to find that the old song was true. There were worms in me. I could feel them burrowing and squirming in and around my nose, in my head. I doubt they were playing pinochle. 

I can only hope you’ve never felt something so terrible. If you’ve ever felt something unwanted digging around in your head, then you know what kind of thrashing I did that morning. 

The wood was soft. The dirt that poured in was hard, and cold. Icy rocks were like razors against my fingertips. My nails split, I lost some in the climb. The heavy coat I was laid down in was no help. It caught against the earth, but I was in no place to take it off. 

Crawling out of the grave took everything from me and bringing Kit’s old coat asked even more. Somehow, I found a way. 

There was a standing pool in the graveyard, and I sprinted to it. I threw myself into the water and I could feel its chill burning against my skin. The water went into my nose, into my head. It itched, and I couldn’t help but scratch and scrub at it feverishly. The worms struggled and died against it. Only I walked out of that horrible bath.

. . .

I was finally able to get my bearings. The sky was a pale gray, the sun was a bleary light behind a veil of winter. The trees were gnarled, and bare. The grass was dead, but there were many graves decorated with still living flowers. 

There’s an old Castellan folk belief that those who die without a proper funeral are given one by the earth. Flowers are said to grow from the corpse, reflective of what kind of person they were in life. It made me wonder if there were any flowers on my grave. 

I had left it a mess, but I didn’t see any flowers or wax paper scraps in the mounds of dirt. My headstone looked affordable, which brought me some comfort. We were never rich, and the last thing I would have wanted was for Kit to go bankrupt over my carelessness. I looked at the sensible concrete slab.

Culita Speardragon

‘Cuffs’

Here lies the greatest detective to ever live.

Born November 6, 20XX. Died October 31, 202X.

A withering vine of bleeding hearts crawled across the marker. The Speardragon Foundation’s emblem was stamped into the concrete’s face, just above my name. There was no shine to the headstone, even in the pale light. It made me wonder if there ever was one. 

My hands weren’t rotting. I pinched my cheek, and it snapped back to my face. It was warm, even. I touched my nose, and there was only a dull pain in the place where it used to be. There was a tickle, like the writhing of worms. I scratched at it, and it stopped.

 I went back to the pool. Everything else was the same, greasy black hair, a constant scowl on my lips, red eyes with heavy bags under them. The big sleep was no help for those.

There was a hole in the middle of my face. I tried not to look at it. 

I wiped the blood from my nose. Only, it wasn’t there.

It curdled like old paint.

It was very dark.

. . .

I could hear the pop behind me, just before I died. I don’t remember hitting the ground. 

I was running towards the Speardragon Foundation. That’s the detective agency I worked at. Kit took me in when I was little and taught me the tricks of the trade. I guess I was like his sidekick. 

It was Halloween. I was on Rummy Street. There were freezing cold puddles and slush all over the cobble sidewalk. The crowd of costumed freaks was dense. I slipped and took a kid Dracula down with me. I remember hoping the guy chasing me would just fall and crack his head. I’m pretty sure it was a guy, based on the huffing I heard. I never got a look at his face. 

I had an envelope. I vaguely remember investigating the mayor’s office, something about a big land grab. Terrible, but hardly anything unheard of. People have certainly died over less. 

I tried to drink from the pool, to have anything to fill my empty stomach. I retched it back up. It burned like a cold fire. I could feel my lips begin to crack. My stomach growled.

I had the strangest craving for hardboiled eggs.

I hopped over the graveyard’s fence. There was an archway leading out to a dirt road, into the woods. The archway read “LONESOME HILL.” Reading that brought a morbid smile to my lips. Kit used to tell me ghost stories of this place all the time. 

It was a long walk back to town, but I’d come out to this place enough times growing up. I tried to summon up the old ghosts from Kit’s stories. A train had torn through an orphanage that once stood here. He showed me the kids’ graves, but they were so old the names had all eroded away. I still believed him. 

Me and this guy named Dante brought a Ouija Board out here one night. That’s when I learned that there really was no such thing as ghosts. We sat on a headstone that had a cold concrete bench, with the crickets and lightning bugs. We were out there until 3am like idiots. 

That’s when I got my first kiss. It was alright, I was completely surprised when he asked me if I wanted to make out. As a detective I like to think I’ve always had a good ear for things that go unsaid, but I didn’t pick up on anything like that with Dante. I don’t know, maybe I was just young. I didn’t see other people like that. 

I knew that I had wasted that night though, at least I got a little something out of it. 

The dirt road eventually emptied out into a highway. I passed by a substation I didn’t remember. Soon enough I was walking through a completely new suburb. The city seemed to have expanded out quite a ways, while I slept. 

It really did look more like a city now, too. I could see a pretty remarkable skyline on the horizon. I recognized the Ferris wheel on the docks, the observatory’s dome, but there were some new towers in between them.

I’ve always called Premier a city, but everyone else calls it a small town. All my life, the population was never under 30,000. I don’t know how they kept that mentality up for so long. It choked out the town’s potential. Nothing to do but work in the mines and get drunk or get into trouble. 

The streetlights were different from before. They used to cast a hazy, buzzing orange light over the street. It made it very foreboding. Nowadays, a pure white light spread quite evenly across his face as he crossed the street towards me. 

“Hey, hon! Do you got a light?”

He was dirty enough to have come fresh from the mine, but there was no telling where he’d been. I kept walking, I tried to pt a little more direction in my meandering steps. 

“Hey, I’m talking to you!” He grabbed me from behind and spun me around. Once he saw my face, his tone changed considerably. 

“Oh, erm,” he blustered, and sheepishly backed away. “Sorry, I thought you was someone else.” He jogged back across the street. As I watched him gain speed, something in me clicked. Or, snapped, rather. 

By the time he glanced over his shoulder, I was already upon him. This time I grabbed him from behind, right around the trunk in a bearhug. He yelped out in shock, and I threw him to the ground with a firm twist of the hips. I heard his skull bounce against the black pavement. 

I dropped my full weight upon him, and he screamed. He struggled, but I placed a knee between his shoulder blades and grabbed his hair with two clenched fists. I yanked his neck back, and I sent it with all my light. 

The second time I heard his skull hit the pavement, he gasped and gargled. There was blood on his face. 

The third time I bounced it against the ground, I felt the bone give. Like, when you break open a hardboiled egg. I gripped the edge of the fractured shell and peeled back. It took more effort than an egg might have. 

I couldn’t stop myself. His screams had long since stopped. My arms and face were covered in deep red syrup, and I pulled fistful after greedy, starving fistful of grey matter from the shattered egg on the street. It even tasted like scrambled eggs. Not exactly fluffy, more like clumped up mounds of lukewarm noodles with an eggy sauce all over and in them. The occasional springy bit of cartilage and small bones vaguely reminded me of orange juice with pulp, all of these varied flavors and textures at once.

When there was no more, I broke off a piece of skull and set to licking at the interior. 

Suddenly, I came to my senses. At least, I started to feel bad.

With my stomach full after decades, I was full of so much energy. I felt like I could sprint through a building, so, I ran back the way I came.

I crawled back into my grave dirt. I laid there feeling sorry for myself, hoping no one would ever find me, and that this was but another hellish hallucination. 

In time, the winter’s pale sun rose and shined down on me. I heard what must have been the footsteps of the groundskeeper. I heard the click of a double barrel closing. I heard a voice. 

“Holy shit, Cuffs?”

I buried my face and arms in the dirt. “Keep away. Don’t look at me,” I sobbed through mouthfuls of earth. 

The voice began to pray, and I heard the hammers. I decided to sneak a glance, before I got what I deserved. He was a tall, lanky guy. Heavy, long black hair fell in a mop around his broad shoulders. It had practically become a mane. 

“Dante?” I said.

He looked up. I was sure it was him. 

“Please don’t kill me,” I said. It was crazy. My guilt ridden conscience wanted to die, but there was something in me that burned, something that wanted to smash the skull of whoever did this to me. 

He didn’t say anything for a long while. It's still tough to pull words out of him.

I’m not dead, I’m chained up in his basement.

It’s ok, I asked for this.

______________________________________________________________

Please, bring me to silence Before I'm brought to ash End all my violence Bring me to silence That will last

-“Bring me to Silence,” Fievel Is Glauque

What’s next for OUT OF THE FRYING PAN???

Cuffs starts seeing the shadow of a man in a coat and a hat in the corner of her eye after her first night in the basement.

And then, Zorc and Tilde go a-grave robbin, and they end up whacking Dante over the head! They decide to raid his stuff, and OMG! There’s a girl locked up down here! They take her in, Cuffs reluctantly joins them in a heist. A freaky zombie girl would never do as a cop, right?

Meanwhile, Gormica’s wrecking shop with some spooky monsters all across the ruintown. He fondly remembers a fella named Kit Speardragon. Cuffs’ adoptive dad-tective. Thing is, when Cuffs died, Kit was old. Real old. Now, it’s twenty years after the fact.

Legally speaking, none of the artists whose lyrics are featured are affiliated with OUT OF THE FRYING PAN. Anyone who assumes otherwise is a FOOL.

[alpineandbucky]

I posted 8,540 times in 2022

That's 6,660 more posts than 2021!

389 posts created (5%)

8,151 posts reblogged (95%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@ywecanthavenicethingsanymore

@musette22

@possibleplatypus

@dontcallmebree

@dreadlockholiday

I tagged 5,269 of my posts in 2022

Only 38% of my posts had no tags

#fanart - 1,539 posts

#stevebucky - 1,525 posts

#q - 508 posts

#bucky - 419 posts

#stevie - 376 posts

#chubby dumpling - 344 posts

#chris evans - 336 posts

#fic rec - 313 posts

#allie txt - 149 posts

#about me - 148 posts

Longest Tag: 136 characters

#when i say i'm bi i mean i like ✨women✨.. harry styles.. paul rudd.. harry from one direction.. and [insert pic of seb stan] you big boy

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

why didn't you just stay down mama?

because, and you listen close, steven... you always stand up.

257 notes - Posted February 12, 2022

#4

See the full post

258 notes - Posted June 17, 2022

#3

put out this fire (burning in my soul)

a collaboration by @alpineandbucky and @thatsmysecretduh for @capreversebb

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationship: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers

Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers, Winnie Barnes, Alpine Barnes, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton

Word Count: 19,110 words

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Firefighter Steve Rogers, Childhood Friends, Reunions, Pining, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Sloppy Makeouts, Dancing, Explicit Sexual Content, Love Confessions, Happy Ending

Summary:

Life for Steve Rogers is looking up. He’s in Brooklyn where he belongs, and has risen through the ranks to become a Fire Captain for the N.Y.F.D. Between his job and his found family, the only thing missing is someone to share this life that he’s built with.  When Steve’s sent up the ladder on his first call as Fire Captain to retrieve a cat, aptly named Alpine, he gets more than he bargained for. Relying on him for a rescue is none other than Bucky Barnes, his childhood best friend and the defining crush of his teenage years. Once his feet are planted firmly on the ground, Steve realizes the embers of his crush from fifteen years ago are still smoldering. Will he be able to fan the old flame, or will it end up being just another fire for him to put out?

Read the entire work on AO3!

318 notes - Posted July 2, 2022

#2

See the full post

324 notes - Posted June 9, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

these delicate ankles making me feel like a thirsty victorian man 😥

636 notes - Posted February 11, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[starlsssankt]

The children lay dead in the water, Sebastian barely paused to care. He scooped Aleksander into his arms looking him over.

Cyrus was at his heels, and he turned to his second.

"Find Azriel."

Cyrus was already moving, pushing through the reeds and other things. He found him, oil and fire smoldering. Sebastian didn't listen, didn't respond beyond to give Azriel and Aleksander to Cyrus.

Natalia would want them to run. To leave the witches. He'd run and agreed for the last 4 years. But something in him snapped and he told Cyrus to do what he needed to do drag their mates and children out.

Sebastian sealed the border down and went to work. Every person in that camp would be dead. He hadn't spared the children, why should he when they hadn't spared him?

It had taken a couple hours but Witches weren't a match for Valg. Especially these weak blooded ones.

Sebastian spat blood and innards in the grass, running a hand through his hair. He didn't look alright, he looked like blood and gore. It would worry him how at home that made him feel.

But the rules here weren't the same as home. Maybe it was -

He stilled, moving to kneel before the back door.

"You should be asleep Aleksander."

𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆, oh so young, but he'd known something wasn't right. Something was far, far from right and Aleksander had watched from the shadows, he'd sneaked downstairs and towards the door--

Watched outside, as the wind blew and the shutters rattled. It was a cold day, an almost frigid day, and even if he'd been told to go to bed--even if his mother had put him and Azriel to bed, his twin sleeping soundly now--Aleksander hadn't been able to.

And what he'd seen--

The darkness inside of him stirred.

❝ I couldn't sleep... ❞ he murmured, eyes wide as he looked up through the shadows at the figure in front of him. He'd never seen his father that way, but it... it called to something in the young boy. ❝ I heard... I couldn't sleep and I couldn't find mama. ❞

[sweet-chimera]

"Yer mama had good tastes in music, duck. She'd beh happy tae know ye remembered it..."

The smile and warm feeling that plagued the monster and joy that was there even minute ago faded in an instance. They were just singing and dancing and enjoying life and their time together and now-- the smell that was supposed to be delicious roasted meats and bond fires-- it was the smoldering remnants of the village. What could possible have happened in less then 24 hours!?

"..." She wished monsters could feel more, it was just a numb emptiness. There was no shock, no rage, nothing to indicate she actually felt this. It was just an empty numb feeling. "N.. no. It wasn't... Ekira lets... lets go-- ye doon't t'ink anybody survoived t'is? What happened?" The monster took a few steps forward. It looked like something tore holes through building, very few of the damage was actually the fires.

"... we should leave."

“Ah, well—“ A light blush dusted the bard’s cheeks, hiding behind their lute as they gave an embarrassed giggle. “Not exactly. It was on one’a th’ records m’ mama used t’ play for me when I was li’l. I only jus’ sang it ‘cause, well… jus’ felt right, was all.”

Their tail became almost a blur at the confirmation from Honey that they’d made it— the village ahead only further sparking their excitement in their restraint to not rush forward. Already their stomach had begun to grumble imagining the kind of foods the town had to serve, and as Ekira trailed behind Honey, awaiting with baited breath to see their destination in full…

…upon seeing the destruction, their face visibly paled, the billowing smoke from the surrounding pink flames sending their heart straight down to their stomach.

“…It— wasn’t like this yesterday?” they manage to croak out after a long silence, unable to pull their eyes away from the damage.

[mrs-gucci]

Do you have any thoughts on the ways that Jacques and Flip would tease you to rile you up? 💛

HC's: Ways that Jacques Le Gris & Flip Zimmerman tease and rile you up

warnings: light smut, sexual teasing & touching, some kissing. *no use of ‘Y/N’ in this fic.*

Jacques Le Gris

Jacques is a master of teasing, just as he’s a master at many other things. He knows all the right buttons of yours to press to get you going.

First, he starts with his touch. Running his hands over your body as you talk with others, nonchalantly groping your breasts and backside right there in front of everyone. He loves how you react and how it flusters you so. 

Then, he moves onto dirty talk. The pure filth that spills from his lips has you burning, your skin hot as the embers of a fire. He always knows the perfect concoction of things to mutter to you in order to have you feeling dizzy and weak in the knees.

He’ll say things like “Do you still have my seed dripping down your legs from when I bent you over the table earlier this evening?” or “Have I ever told you how fucking delicious your sweet cunt tastes? Finer then the most expensive wines in France. Perhaps I can get you wet enough to collect some in a glass, drink it with my morning porridge.”

The other thing he’ll do, once he’s truly got you in the palm of his hands, is sexy eating. He manages to find the most sexual ways to consume food, from mutton to cheese to fruit. He’ll sink his teeth into a leg of mutton and rip the meat from the bone like a wild animal. He’ll slooooowly bite into a cut of cheese while making smoldering eye contact. Etcetera, etcetera. 

Jacques takes great pride in knowing your body and what you like, so he’s all too familiar with your turn-ons. He knows what makes you tick and he’s never shy in reminding you of that fact!

Flip Zimmerman

Flip’s style of teasing can be described in three words: silent but deadly. Meaning, he doesn’t often do much and his actions aren’t “big” in any way shape or form, but each are calculated and incredibly effective.

His go-to teasing move is pressing up against you, usually from behind but really any way he does it is effective. When he presses his pelvis against your backside and rubs up on you juuuust a liiiiiittle bit, enough to get his intentions across but not too much that it draws suspicion.

He loves how you stiffen up a bit and how your breath hitches whenever he presses against you. You always get at least somewhat flustered, no matter how many times he does it, and it never fails to get your feathers ruffled.

You love it when he kisses you, too. Kisses on the lips, the cheeks, your jaw and neck and throat...feeling his beard scratching against your skin, the way it gives you goosebumps, that sensation is so purely erotic.

He’ll also throw in some risque touches, as icing on the cake. Ass, tits, outer & inner thighs, lower stomach...if it’s even remotely titillating, his hands are on it.

Your body is like a banjo, and Flip can pluck each and every string ;)

my masterlist | my ao3 | my taglist form | my current page happenings

my general taglist peeps! @clydesfavoritegirl @simpin-mama @anythingandeverything97 @dirtytissuebox @mrs-zimmerman @ohsolonelyghosts​ @trubluepensfan @safarigirlsp @loganluckylover @bksrcool @einmal-im-traum​ @beachwoodmonet​ @thepalaceofmelanie​ @kylowhowhatwherewhen jacques’ taglist peeps! @scooby-doodoo​ @justlenastuff​ @starryeddie @queeniebee flip’s taglist peeps! @scooby-doodoo @justlenastuff​ @starryeddie​ @queeniebee​ @icarusinthesea​ @strangunddurm

[chishiio]

                         week three ½ update

overall goal: 10k (ish) current word count: 3.2k current mood: determined

i’ve been terrible at consistently updating here because i haven’t been writing as steadily as i would’ve liked. still, i’m trying to be more accountable so cheers to this post ig! i’m working on scene four where marianne and catherine have been reunited and i’m enjoying myself immensely :’) looking forward to the drama that comes next.

excerpt of the week: (below cut)

With wraith-like grace, Catherine crossed through the large room and made for the heavily obscured four-poster bed. Marianne followed, her chest tight with dread. The air was stagnate and thick, oppressive with heat from the fire that still smoldered in the hearth. Moth-eaten curtains peppered in mildew and dust clung around the bed in a grip that choked.

“Mama, look at who has come back.” Catherine pulled aside the cover, revealing the bed-ridden form of her mother within. “Marianne Fallows. Do you remember her? She was your ward before papa died and grief stole you from our lives as surely as death stole him.”

[sassy-radio-hazbin-queen]

Darkwing Duck character doing the Disney Villian Medley.

Isis Vanderchill: Poor Unfortunate souls. in Pain. In Need. That one longer to be thinner. That one wants to get the girl. And do I help them? Yes indeed. Those poor unfortunate souls. So sad. So true. They come flocking to my cauldron crying out spells Isis please. And I help them. Yes I do.

Negaduck: So prepare for a chance at a lifetime. Be prepared for sensational news. A shining new era is tip toeing nearer.

Isis: And where do we feature?

Negaduck: Just listen to teacher. I know it sounds sordid but i am rewarded when at last I am given my dues. And in justice deliciously squared. BE PREPARED!

Taurus Bulba: Beata Maria you know I am a righteous man. Of my virtue I am justly proud.

Chorus: mia coulpin

Taurus: Beata Maria you know I am so much purer than the common weak lisceniois vulgar croud.

Chorus: Baba Zita

Taurus: Then tell me Maria. Why I see her dancing there? Why her smoldering eyes still scorch my soul? I see her. I feel her. The sun caught in her fiery hair is blazing me out of all control! Like fire Hellfire. This fire in my skin. This burning desire. Is turning me to sin.

Ammonia pine: No ones slick as Steelbeak. No one's quick as Steelbeak. No one's neck is as incrediblely thick as Steelbeak.

Steelbeak: For theres no rooster in town half as manly. Perfect a pure paragon

Ammonia: you can ask every Tom Dick and Stanley and there tell you whose team they prefer to be on!

Both: Who throws darts like Steelbeak. Is a kingpin like Steelbeak.

Ammonia: Who has a swell cleft like Steelbeak?

Steelbeak: I'm especially good at expectations.

Both: My what a guy that Steelbeak.

Binkie: Mother Knows Best. Listen to your mother. It's a scary world out there

Chorus: Very Scary.

Binkie: Mother Knows Best one way or another something will go wrong I swear! Ruffians. Thugs. Poison ivy. Quicksand. Cannibals and snakes. The plague

Honker: No!

Binkie: Yes. Also large bugs. Men with pointy teeth and stop no more. Youll just upset me. Mother's right here. Mother will protect you. All I have is one REQUEST! Skip the drama.stay with mama. Mother Knows Best.

Quackerjack: Yes. Are you ready.

Fearsome 3 😂: are you ready

Quackerjack: Are you ready? Transformation central.

Fearsome 3: Transformation central

Quackerjack: Transformatication central.Can you feel it?. Your changing. Your changing. Your changing alright. I hope your satisfied. But if you ain't. Don't blame me. You can blame my friends on the other side!.

Fearsome 3: But you got what you wanted.

Morgana: But you lost what you had. So Ace is turns out to be merely Launchpad. Just a con need I go on take it from me.

Quackerjack: His personality flaws gives me adequate cause.

Both: to send him up on a one way trip where his personal takes a dip. His assets frozen. Is the ends of the earth to be. So long ex prince Ace.

Binkie: Mother Knows Best

Quackerjack: Friends on the other side

Isis: Poor Unfortunate souls

Negaduck: BE PREPARED!

( cast)

Isis Vanderchill as Ursula. Singing to a Mermaid Drake

Negaduck as Scar. Singing about killing Darkwing and Gosalyn.

Taurus Bulba as Judge Claude Frollo. Singing about a much older Gosalyn aka Quiverwing Quack.

Ammonia pine and Steelbeak as Lefou and Gaston. Singing about Steelbeak

Binkie Muddlefoot as Mother Gothel. Singing to Honker Muddlefoot.

Quackerjack and the rest of fearsome 4 as Dr. Facilier. And Shadows. Singing to Negaduck and Nega Herb.

And Morgana Macawber as Fem Jafar. Singing to Ace aka Launchpad, Prince Drake. King Thaddeus Waddlemeyer and Princess Gosalyn.

[daughterofyourdarklord]

Delphini leans against her mother, her head coming to rest against Bellatrix’ chest. Her mother’s heartbeat is calm and steady in her ear - one of the little witch’s favorite lullabies. 

When mummy speaks she is using the same voice that comes out whenever Delphini asks for more sweets after dinner, or to stay up a bit later tonight, or for ‘one more story, mama - pls!’  Delphini would recognize it anywhere. Mama is speaking softly and sweetly to Sirius, inching closer and capturing more of his attention with every step. 

Manipulation is a language Delphini is well familiar with.

She understands it perfectly and understands that more often than not there can be benefits for both parties involved. Carefully, Delphi studies the look in the heir's eye; he seems tempted, like whatever decision that sits before him could be oh so easy if only he were to make it. 

“Come home.” Mama says. Home. Delphini can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want to be where they belong? 

Sirius looks torn, an angry and aching expression taking residency across his features. He makes to speak but stops himself, hand tightening around his wand. Still, he does not flinch away from her mother’s gentle fingers.

Delphini still cannot figure why anyone wouldn’t want to be with their family. She wants to be with her’s always.  

“I love mummy so much - all the way to the constellations and back again! I always want to be with her.” Delphini tells him, glancing up at her mother briefly before turning back to Sirius. “Don’t you want to be with your mummy, too?”

Sirius's dark gaze turns to Delphini them, a fire in his eyes that wasn't there before:

"Walburga and I don't exactly see things the same way."

For a moment, Delphini can very clearly see a dark smolder burning into the tapestry at 12 Grimmuald.

"-And please, Bella. Walburga was - no, is - more than happy to be through with me. I was never anything but a stain that she produced. A blemish amongst our ancient and noble family. Fraternizing with all the wrongs friends - Gryffindor was more of a home for me than Grimmuald ever was." Even Delphini could tell that last part wasn't entirely true. His eyes are back on Bella now, leaving the little witch looking at him curiously. "You and I both know that there's no more forgiveness in her heart for me. Nor, is there any in mine for her."

Neither of them speak. That same shade of grey locked in a battle of wills. Finally, Sirius' gaze turns back to the little girl still wrapped up in her mummy’s arms.

"Tell me, Bella… would you ever be able to so easily throw little Delphini away the same way Walburga let go of me? The same way this precious family shunned Andromeda?"

Delphini buries her face into her mother’s collarbone, trying to hide the tears that continue to carve a path down her cheeks. Delphi hates when she cries - Father hates crying.

It takes a few shaky breathes before she can will some of the tears away. Being wrapped up in her mother’s arms - surrounded by that assuaging magic - is always the most comforting feeling and right now it brings with it all the relief in the world.

Distantly, Delphini is aware that mama is asking her if she is okay. She is still a bit overwhelmed, still seeking the comfort only her mother can offer. It another beat before she leans back, looking up into those grey eyes that are always filled with such love.  

“You’re hurt.” Delphini says between the tears, little hands reaching up to prod at the bruising along Bellatrix’s neck gently. “The wicked man… He hurt you?” It’s not exactly a question. 

Said wicked man takes that as his opening and Delphini can’t help but shrink further into her mother’s embrace as they speak.

She can hear the commotion downstairs, hear other wizards screaming in agony. 

Delphini knows father is down there; she knows that father will kill anyone who hurts mama. 

Her mother’s arms tighten considerably for a moment, twisting her little witch away from the wizard who is now addressing her.

‘Introduce me.’ He demands and Delphi can’t help her own curiosity.

It’s a few heartbeats before mother makes her decision, turning Delphini back around so that she can see this stranger more properly. 

Sirius Black. 

Delphini scrutinizes him, head turned slightly to the side, dark eyes narrowing - there's an awareness to them that shouldn’t be there for one so young.

For a moment, she does not look so much like Bellatrix Black.

It is more than clear that this little witch is very much a product of Voldemort.

The notion makes Sirius uncomfortable. Other members of the Order loved to joke with Sirius how Bella was so obviously the most comfortable under He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

He'd laughed then.

Now...

“You’re bleeding.” The little witch tells him, the back of his arms littered with scratches - cuts Delphini had indirectly caused. He hums, lifting his arms to get a better look. 

“I suppose, I am.” 

Delphini is very tense in her mother’s arms. Still assessing this Sirius Black. He looks like family - like mama.

“Auntie Walburga talks about you.” She offers, not realizing she’s not supposed to. A strange look takes over in Sirius’ eyes, it’s not exactly sad but it’s not angry either.

“Yes… I’m sure she has a lot to say.” 

“Not really,” Delphini says, still watching closely. “But... I think she is angry with you?” 

Finally, she looks away. Glancing up at her mother for confirmation. Bella’s eyes haven’t left Sirius, her wand still drawn tight and hot against Delphini’s back. 

Delphi frowns, trying to remember anything she can about the elusive Sirius Black. His name is not unfamiliar to her, she thinks even maybe mummy has talked about him a few times.

She can’t remember much else. 

“She plays dolls with me sometimes, Auntie Walburga.”

“Really?" He seems genuinely surprised. "Usually, mum likes to conserve her energy for screaming and insults - not for silly little toys.”

Delphini gets the sense he’s no longer speaking to her.  

“Auntie doesn’t yell!” She corrects him regardless. "And my dolls aren't silly - they're witches!" This time, she knows he isn’t speaking to her: 

"Does He go to Grimmuald with you?"

[motherednature]

@ulfhrafnx​ said: “ happy birthday , mama ! ” she brings her far more gifts than she can carry in one go , though somehow she manages , ranging from homemade treats to the finest handmade adornments for the great earth mother’s hair. gifts that to others may seem insignificant but held a great deal of love and respect from lira. 

its miss nature’s bday!

        LIKE ANY GOD who is true, mother nature is slow. a pulse of warmth radiates from her soul outwards as she registers that she has been called, and for a brief moment to all creatures on the earth, the air would lose its winter bite. it would smell of rich spices, of the ashes still smoldering in a home’s cooking fire. but the world and its human inhabitants do not pay attention like they used to. this stray moment where a mother reaches for her children is lost on them.

          but lira is not human.

          the offering is taken some days after. some of the foodstuffs remain, but all treasures are gone. in return, there is the print of a massive wolf, one three times lira’s side. within it rests a single seed -- a gift that to others may seem insignificant.

          but lira will know better.

[1ddotdhq]

🌅 Thurs 22 Oct ‘20 🍋

Oh to be looking at the sunset in a lighthouse on the Amalfi coast! Well, if I can’t be there in person, I can at least make myself some golden themed postcards! How, you ask? Well, youraresogolden.com (because youresogolden.com was taken) allows you to make your own postcards with the Amalfi coast in the background. I told my friends that they were “golden”, “lemon over ice”, and “perfect now” (that last one isn’t H I know, I know it’s fiiinnneeee). The postcards have two different backgrounds, one of a cliff overlooking the sea, and one of the road that Harry was seen running on during the filming of the video. Do you think...maybe he’s running to the cliff? And then he’ll jump off? Oh, wait, wrong video, sorry! Anyways, this buildup tells us that Harry’s team is as ready as we are for this video to be available, if the eroda accounts are anything to go by. They posted the same sunny emoji that we did the other day (that’s cheating, guys!) and continue to edit the Eroda website by adding the word “golden” to some of the descriptions of the tourist attractions.

But not everything can be golden, can it? I guess its time to talk about the pigs in the pub: following Celebtm’s rather scathing article, Briana and Nick disabled their accounts, Brett went private, Tammi limited her comments, and deleted every single picture with Nick, including the engagement picture! I say that Briana and Nick have disabled their instagrams rather than deleting because you have the option to temporarily disable your account and reactivate it if you so choose to by logging back in at a later date. I know this because, um, I tried it, and fully locked myself out of my own instagram, just to see what would happen. A few stressful hours, that’s what happened! However, you can easily recover your account after a few hours, and Briana will likely be back. She’s spent too much time and money buying all those followers to throw it all away now, so I would be very surprised if she doesn’t come back when she thinks this has all blown over. It might be a little while longer before this HAS blown over, though, as TMZ picked up yesterday’s article and put it on their platform. We shall see where this goes from there, but goodness knows that TMZ looms large in fandom lore for actively taking on and ridiculing theories around Freddie’s parentage and pushing the narrative of Louis as the happy father back in the day, so for them to post an article actively raising questions concerning Louis’ involvement with Briana and Freddie is pretty exceptional! 

Micheal Straus, the man who claims to be the owner of the boobs that reside in Briana’s chest, came BACK today, in true twitter fashion, with RECEIPTS! Literal ones, as in it also shows his Whole Foods and Walgreens purchases, can you BELIEVE? He can prove that he paid $1500 to a doctor in Beverly Hills, though the reason is not given on the credit card bill he gave to Celebtm. He also told Celebtm to “show her fiance [the receipt]” if he “calls [them] again to say I’m lying”. Did Nick...call Celebtm? Are they going to publish that call too? This is, ACTUALLY, Brand New Information, if you’ll pardon the Friends pun. Michael went on to make some other rather rude comments about Briana, but also refer to himself as the love of her life. Is that enough mama drama for you, H? Because it’s CERTAINLY more than enough for ME! 

Niall kicked off his interview with Ash London with a guitar serenade, then talked about golf (“You can tell that you have a husband,” he tells Ash when correctly identifies golf terminology, which, um. No <3). They also talk about his upcoming show (“it’s going to be...once in a lifetime”) and the logistics of it - the rehearsal will be the whole first week of November, and the set list will mostly be HBW. “It’s about the spectacle,” says Niall, and jokes that he’s gonna show up in full cycling gear. Um, please, PLEASE don’t do that, friend! That’s not a good look on ANYONE! Niall went on to say that, despite wishing that he was on tour, he has enjoyed his time off, and that it lit a fire in his belly. He has also admitted that, for the time being, he will not be putting out any new music because he does not think he can properly roll it out and wants to give it the attention it deserves.

Liam keeps making his rounds on Instagram, promoting his Halloween show and trying out new spooky makeup looks; he’s added a hashtag where you can send in your makeup/costume entry: #LPCostumeComp or #LPMakeUpComp. Hugo has also released a behind the scenes insta story of Liam’s LATAM Esquire shoot, where he’s looking great and smoldering to the camera like a PRO! He looks good, and he looks like he knows it, which, YES!  

Louis remains MIA but a video made by WMA was found and subsequently privated! They were the company behind the social media campaign for the four pre-Walls singles, and the video is three minutes of them hyping themselves up for getting such good fan engagement with their puzzle making skillzzz, but they definitely chose not to mention the way fans actually solved most of their puzzles by bypassing the clues and simply digging into or guessing their code! Finally, Free My Meal stepped up again to ask for the fandom’s assistance to bring attention to the issue of child hunger in the UK following a vote that did not go their way. Louies, of course, stepped up and trended #freemymeal worldwide. After all of the other nonsense happening, I think that this is a solid reminder that there are real things happening in the real world and that this fandom is also capable of showing - and often shows! - kindness on an international scale.