#masked beast war
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where-skies-end · 11 months ago
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the shepherd's dog
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ben-talks-art · 21 days ago
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My Childhood
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What did you watch when you were a kid?
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quibbs126 · 4 days ago
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Honestly I don’t know why I’m showing this now. I don’t think I’m done drawing Dinobot, and sure, it’s a page I probably won’t ever fully finish knowing me, but still
Uh, Dinobot
I first drew him for that meme redraw, and then when I went to work later that day, I decided to keep drawing him in my spare time. As such, I’ve grown somewhat adept at drawing him, or at least I have a process to drawing him now
Admittedly I think I have his body shape wrong. I want to make him on the slimmer side, but in reality he’s the current largest Maximal and has some width to him. I don’t really know how to draw him properly, I don’t have much of a concept of every character’s general body type in this show yet. It’s also difficult for me to get good references for the characters in this show
I also have no clue how to do his stripes. I need them simplified for my sake
Also, with Dinobot, I didn’t use the 3D box method I’ve been doing with the Transformers One people. I just didn’t feel like it here. Honestly, I think they look pretty good. Dinobot’s head might still be too big compared to his body but he isn’t horrible looking
I think I’ll need to find some sort of balance between the 3D box method and my normal, since admittedly I have a tendency to make the boxes a certain way, or like the characters are stuck at certain angles
Anyways, on to what I actually drew
Scrolling through tumblr yesterday during work makes me like dinoprimal/doop, even if I’m not too far into the show yet. It’s not that I won’t like it (I probably will), but it’s already stuck itself in my brain. Originally Dinobot’s thought was about killing Megatron, but I didn’t know how to draw Megatron, so doop yaoi instead. The only objective was that it was funny
Also I know the second thing isn’t accurate, Dinobot is actually pretty competent. But I think it’s funny. I want him to think he’s doing a good job, being a proper Maximal, meanwhile war crimes have been committed
Tumblr told me the dude’s a weird freak. He will apparently eat his clone later, and I am looking forward to it
Anyways so yeah, this
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tank041 · 5 days ago
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Petition for Ultra Magnus to be a Brachiosaurus in Beast Wars: Rise of the Dino Knights
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thelocalbard-blog · 2 years ago
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Kenner Beast Wars Megatron
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Kenner really started Beast Wars off strong with Megatron here. I remember my original toy and I think I didn't like how he had no hands. But now that I've learned better I love it just like this! The reissue here has a different paint job, but that doesn't bother me. Still 100% awesome and I can't put him down!
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prythianpages · 1 month ago
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Tonight, the Light of Love is in Your Eyes
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Azriel x Rhysand's Sister (reader) | You find yourself in the middle of a political affair, where you seek refuge in a dance with Azriel. And in the spur of the moment, Azriel tells you he loves you for the first time.
warnings: secret love, implied smut (brief mention), you and az being impulsive and risking it all
word count: 1,900
a/n: I used the dialogue of this scene from The Witcher as a prompt for this fic.
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“Hybern is still close to Spring. Though they’ve lost the war, it seems their alliance still stands. Bradwell has shown interest in her, it’d be best if she takes his favor tonight. Or even Tamlin’s, they are closer in age.”
Your gaze is fixed forward, but your mind drifts, creeping into the quiet mental conversation between your father and brother. They speak of you, as if your own desires are inconsequential, and it stings more than you let show.
“Why should she? When the High Lord of Autumn, who fought alongside our armies, has six sons and one on the way…”
Breathe in, breathe out. You force the command on yourself, struggling to maintain the composure you’ve perfected over years of courtly life. The mask you wear feels more fragile tonight, your heart threatening to crack the facade. 
You allow your eyes to wander and regret it when you meet the gaze of Bradwell–the eldest son of Spring. He is watching you, green eyes gleaming with a predatory sharpness, his smirk oozing arrogance. As if you’re a prize to be won–a prize already won. The sight of it turns your stomach. 
It’s instinctual almost–the way your eyes gravitate toward Azriel as they always do at the slightest discomfort. He’s been your anchor, your safety blanket for years. He stands just a few steps below you, tall and stoic. 
His hands are clenched into fists, shadows weaving and writhing along his limbs in a frenzy, whispering secrets to him that you ache to hear. His head is turned toward Bradwell and there’s no doubt his gaze is hardened into an icy composure when the eldest of Spring suddenly peels his gaze off of you.  
As you pull your gaze away from the Night Court’s Spymaster, you catch your mother’s eye. She sits beside your father on a much simpler throne. She sends you a sympathetic smile and you cast your gaze down, mask faltering as a blush creeps up your neck.
By the Cauldron, how you wish you could be anywhere but here. You’d much rather be alongside Cassian and Mor, who are most likely indulging in the fine wine and cheeses. The only redeeming part of these insufferable court parties.
“Is it not best to keep our most at-risk enemies close? Spring–”
Your body tenses, each muscle coiling as you listen to the words between your brother and father, their minds still unaware of your presence within them. It’s laughable, almost. Rhysand taught you well. You were a later bloomer when it came to the manifestation of your powers but the daemati power runs strong in you. 
Movement catches your eye. It’s Bradwell. He begins to make his way toward you, one hand already reaching for the sage-green handkerchief embroidered with a golden beast. A token you know he plans to offer. The sight of it makes something in you snap. You can’t take it anymore.
You whip your head around, your heart pounding, and your gaze finds Azriel once more—the only one you want. The only one you’ve ever wanted.
“Azriel, will you dance with me?”
The words escape your lips before you even realize you’ve said them. There’s a brief moment where the world seems to still as Azriel turns to meet your gaze. His eyes widen slightly, shadows pausing briefly in midair–the only sign of emotion he shows. 
But you feel a flutter in your chest.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’s danced with you. The two of you have danced plenty of times before. However, it’d be the first time you’d give him your first dance. A notion that seems silly but held to a high esteem in the Court of Nightmares.
You feel your father’s and Rhysand’s gaze also on you–the latter’s eyes narrowing at you. He’s already sensed the lingering presence you left in his mind, and you can feel his talons scratching at the edges of your mental walls. But you hold steady, just as he taught you and push him away.
Azriel keeps his eyes on you yet his shadows peer over his shoulders, the dark tendrils darting back and forth between your brother and father. Cautious and a bit defensive.
It’s your mother who breaks the silence. She had kept her gaze on the dance floor in front of her, that same knowing smile playing on her lips. “It is impolite to keep a lady waiting.”
Azriel nods his head. “Of course.”
He shifts forward–one foot resting on the first step while the other remains on the ground floor. He extends his scarred hand to you, his shadows barely able to contain their excitement, betraying the cool mask he dons.
You smile—truly smile—as you place your hand in his, and together, you walk toward the dance floor. Your heart swells with defiance as you purposefully avert your eyes when passing Bradwell, chin held high. Rhysand’s mental claws scratch harder, desperate to break through your defenses. You continue to shut him out, strengthening the walls of your mind. 
The Cauldron simmers in your favor. As you reach the dance floor, the music shifts to a slower, more romantic melody. Azriel’s hand wraps around yours, his fingers enclosing around your palm while his other hand rests gently at the small of your back. The tension in your body melts under his touch and you find yourself leaning in closer to him, your body always yearning to be with his.
Shadows slither softly around you, hiding within the seams of your black dress like a protective shield. Azriel’s eyebrows furrow and you recognize the brief distant look in his eyes. “Rhys is not happy,” he murmurs. “Your first dance was supposed to be with the eldest son of Spring.”
His jaw clenches and you see the way his shadows curl tighter around him as if to suffocate the jealousy he dares not voice.
“Let him sulk. I get to decide who to dance with, who to be with.”
Azriel was the master of composure. He’s always calm, steady, controlled. But tonight, something in his gaze feels different. There’s something vulnerable there, something pained. He looks away for a moment, as if trying to keep his emotions from manifesting further. 
“I can’t offer you what he can..."
His hand twitches in yours, like he’s about to pull away, but you hold him tighter. “Good,” you respond without hesitation. “I don’t want anything that arrogant ass has to offer.”
Azriel’s eyes snap back to yours, searching, conflicted. He hesitates, as if still grappling with the part of himself that believes he doesn’t deserve this. That you deserve more, much better than him. Someone who can give you the world, not someone who only knows to live in the shadows.
You intertwine your fingers with his, lips curling into a small grin. “Your ass is the only one I want,” you add, your power reaching out to him and gently slipping past his defenses to show him the marvelous view you had of his backside earlier.
And as your thoughts drift to the last night you shared together, where you got to see all of him, Azriel lets out an exhale, his lips mirroring the upwards curl to yours. Taking advantage of the grip you have on his mind, you show him more memories from that night. The way his scarred hands had caressed every inch of your body, his lips following the path his hands made…
 “I can’t give you much,” Azriel’s voice had dropped to a whisper, barely a rasp as he leaned his forehead against yours. His nose brushed with yours, lips hovering right over your own.  “But I can give you everything I have.”
You smiled softly at him, your fingers brushing the side of his face, tracing every line and contour of the male who held your heart. So beautiful, so perfect. 
“That’s all I’ll ever need,” you replied and then closed the small gap between you to kiss him.
The pained look in his hazel eyes melts into something warmer, something sweeter, as he takes in the memories of that night through your eyes. He had never doubted your love, but the weight of his own insecurities—his belief that he was beneath you—constantly gnawed at him.
Every time he touched you in secret, every night you spent hidden away together, he feared that someday you might wake up and realize he wasn’t enough.
But here, dancing with you, the way your eyes held him, he felt that overwhelming doubt ease. To see and feel the depth of your sincerity, as if your very soul called out to his…
“I love you.”
Your heart stilled at the words, your step faltering. In a smooth maneuver, Azriel spins you around, catching you effortlessly before you could stumble. His hands steady you as you face him once more.
 “That’s the first time you’ve said that,” you breathe, your voice barely a whisper, though you know Azriel’s shadows are already ensuring no one else can hear your words.
“It can’t be,” Azriel murmurs in disbelief, brows furrowing slightly. 
“You used to think it,” you quietly admit, your gaze dropping for a moment before returning to his. It wasn’t that you had ever meant to pry, but when it was just the two of you, his mind was often at ease, unguarded. Sometimes, his thoughts would be too loud for you to ignore. “But tonight, you finally said it.”
The shadows hidden within the lacey seams of your dress stir and you watch as one of the shadows lingering over Azriel’s shoulders slithers up and curls around his ear. His grip on you tightens and your ears perk up. 
The song is coming to an end and though couples continue to dance and whirl around you, your nose picks up on an approaching scent. Fresh wildflowers and oak—rich and lovely, exuding the essence of Spring. Yet it fills you with dread. You don’t want this moment to end. You’re tired of pretending, of living this life of secrecy.
“Azriel,” you say, one hand reaching out toward his face to turn his attention back to you. A bold move but tonight, you’re ready to be even bolder. “Kiss me.”
His shadows stir, swirling anxiously around him, their whispers warning that too many eyes are upon you both. You can feel his hesitation, the unspoken question in his gaze as he searches your face.
“In front of everyone,” you confirm. Show them I’m yours, you speak into his mind, and only yours.
Azriel pauses, his chest tightening at the implication of your words. He can feel Rhysand’s presence–furious and demanding– trying to slip into his mind. No doubt trying to steer him away from this impulsive display and away from you. 
He feels the weight of the room pressing down on him—the sons of Spring and Autumn watching his every breath.
But all of that falls away when he meets your eyes again. 
There is only you in this moment.
The one who had always been able to see through his walls, the one who made him feel like the most precious thing in the room, the only one he cared about.
“Kiss me,” you whisper again.
And Azriel is not going to let you ask a third time.
Not when the light of love is shining so brightly in your eyes. His hand covers yours on his cheek, and then, he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that silences the room.
Whatever comes next, you’ll face it together.
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a/n: It's been awhile since I wrote for Az. Miss this shadow daddy lol. Part 2 is already up 🫶🏽 you can find it here.
General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho
@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe
@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette
fic tag: @noisyinfluencerstrawberry
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novaursa · 3 months ago
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hello !! i hope ur doing amazing and i wanted to say how much i rlly enjoy reading ur work like its always amazing and just MWAH chef’s kiss fr fr !!
do you think you can do a short writing for either aemond or aegon and how they betray their mother and grandsire for the reader <3 ! sorry if it’s not detailed this is my first time requesting 😔💕
oh and if u can’t i completely understand bookie !!
Broken by War
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- Summary: When his mother and grandsire declare you a threat to be rid off, Aemond betrays his family for you.
- Paring: niece!reader/Aemond Targaryen
- Note: The reader is the daughter of Rhaenyra and is bonded with Vermithor.
- Rating: Mature 16+ (just to be safe)
- Next Part: 2
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff
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The pressure in the small council chamber was stifling, every member seated at the long, dark table focused on the map sprawled before them. A heavy silence blanketed the room as Dowager Queen Alicent’s voice echoed through the stone walls, calm but insistent.
"We must strike at Rook’s Rest," she said, her eyes glinting with determination. "Vermithor is a threat that grows with each passing day. We cannot allow her to roam free."
Otto Hightower, standing at her side, nodded in agreement. "Rhaenyra has grown too bold. Your niece wields too much power with that dragon. Vermithor must be neutralized, Aemond. Only Vhagar has the strength to bring the beast down, and only you have the will to do what must be done."
Aemond sat at the far end of the table, silent until now, his one violet eye fixated on the map. His jaw clenched as the voices of his mother and grandfather droned on, discussing tactics to trap her. You. The only person he had loved, the one who haunted his dreams and memories of youth. 
The very mention of your name, though unsaid, sent a ripple of heat through his chest. His gaze shifted from the map to Alicent, then to Otto, as they spoke of you and Vermithor as mere obstacles—just another enemy to be destroyed. 
But you were not a mere enemy. You were his niece, the daughter of Rhaenyra, and the girl who had once shared moments of innocent laughter with him. Before the war, before the bloodshed, before the divide of loyalties had driven them to opposite sides of this cursed Dance. How could they expect him to harm you?
A sharp crack split the air. The sound of his fists slamming against the table reverberated through the chamber, startling everyone into silence. Alicent and Otto turned, eyes wide, as Aemond rose from his seat, his face a mask of anger and resolve.
“I will not harm her.” His voice was low, dangerous, shaking with barely contained fury. “I will not harm my niece.”
“Aemond,” Alicent said softly, her brow furrowing as she reached out a hand as if to calm him. “She is a threat. You must understand—”
“No,” Aemond snapped, cutting her off. His gaze burned as he turned on them. “You expect me to kill her? To kill the one person I have loved since we were children? Vermithor is no more a threat than Vhagar is. And Y/N—she is not the enemy you make her out to be.”
Otto’s face remained impassive, but there was a flicker of something dark in his eyes. “She rides a dragon that is an old menace. Rhaenyra and her supporters will stop at nothing to see the end of this war, even if it means your death. You know this, Aemond. Only you can put an end to this before she burns the realm to ash.”
Aemond’s gaze flicked back to the map, the cold stone beneath his hands, and then to the faces of those who had shaped his life, who had molded him into a weapon. But not for this. Not against you. His chest heaved with barely contained emotion as the weight of everything pressed down on him—his duty, his family, his love for you.
Slowly, he shook his head, his voice low but firm. “No. I will not do it.”
“Aemond,” Alicent’s voice sharpened, desperation edging into it. “Where are you going?”
Aemond had already turned, his long coat sweeping the floor as he strode toward the door, each step heavy with purpose. He didn’t look back as he answered, the words cutting through the air like a blade. “I am going to Dragonstone. I will kneel before Y/N and Rhaenyra. I will beg for their forgiveness. For everything. For Lucerys.”
There was a stunned silence in the room as the weight of his words settled. Otto’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp as steel. “They will kill you the moment you set foot on Dragonstone, Aemond.”
Aemond paused at the door, his hand on the cold iron handle, and turned to face them. His eye gleamed with a fierceness that made Alicent flinch. “Then let them. I would rather die at her hand than live knowing I betrayed her.”
He left without another word, his footsteps echoing through the stone corridors, each one bringing him closer to you and the fate he had chosen. The weight of his family’s expectations, of the crown’s demands, fell away with each step. In its place, only one thing remained—his love for you and the need to right the wrongs that had torn them apart.
As he mounted Vhagar, he knew there was no turning back. His path was set, and for once, it was a path he chose for himself.
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be4chywritez · 4 months ago
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sickness and health | quinn hughes
quinn hughes x fem!reader
quinn catches a stomach bug and you take care of him.
request: Pls do prompt 15 with Quinn!
prompt: "Don't touch me I'm sick.” “That's okay."
beachy’s masterlist🐚
part two
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The gray light of a rainy afternoon filtered through the windows. The lake house was oddly quiet—Luke was staying with friends, and Jack was at his girlfriend’s place. The reason? The walking bacteria cell that was their brother.
You sighed, hearing Quinn gag for what felt like the hundredth time. You raced upstairs, grabbing a bucket that you and Quinn had splayed out around the house. As you entered Quinn’s room, you found him curled up in bed, looking utterly miserable.
“Hey,” you said softly, placing the bucket beside him. “How are you holding up?”
“Like death,” he muttered, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “You shouldn’t be here. I don’t want you to get sick.”
You walked over and sat down beside him, ignoring his protests. “I don’t care, we agreed in sickness and in health,” you murmured, placing a kiss on his forehead.
Your brow furrowed. “Q, you’re burning up.” He sat up in bed, watching as you rushed into the bathroom. He could hear the water starting. He groaned slightly, his joints hurting as he padded to the restroom.
“What are you doing?” he asked, crossing his arms and leaning up against the door.
“Running you a bath,” you replied, checking the water temperature. “It’ll help with the fever.”
He sighed but didn’t protest further. Allowing himself to relax in the warm water seemed to soothe his aching body, and he leaned back with a contented sigh. You reached over to brush a strand of hair out of his face, and he caught your hand gently.
“Don’t touch me, I’m sick.”
“That’s okay,” you said softly, your eyes filled with concern. “I’m here to take care of you.” His eyes closed in content with your cool touch.
After his bath, you helped him back to bed, making sure he was comfortable before heading downstairs to start cleaning up. Just as you were getting into the groove of disinfecting everything, the door opened, and Luke and Jack walked in, wearing gloves and masks.
“You guys look like Martians,” you said, eyeing them.
“We’re here to help,” Luke said, looking around the place and taking in the dirty dishes in the sink. His UMich blanket was in a ball on the floor. He crouched down, taking a whiff of it, then groaned, holding it away from him.
“Yeah, you might want to put that down, Lukey.” He obliged, dropping the blanket back on the floor.
“This place is a war zone,” Jack muttered, wrinkling his nose.
Luke nodded in agreement. “Seriously, how are you not grossed out by this?” he asked, watching you pick up the blanket off the floor, folding it, and throwing it into a hamper.
You shrugged, smiling slightly. “I’ve got it under control. Quinn’s the one who needs the care right now.”
You heard a groan from upstairs, followed by Quinn regurgitating his lunch. Jack and Luke both groaned.
“Can you go get that bucket?” you asked, not looking up from the dishes. Both Luke and Jack pinched their noses.
“You were late,” Jack said, making Luke groan as he walked toward the bedroom.
Luke found Quinn, pale and exhausted, slumped against the bed. He steeled himself, trying not to gag as he picked up the vomit bucket.
Quinn managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Luke. I know it’s gross.”
Luke shook his head head, genuinely concerned. “Don’t worry about it. I just… I hope I find someone as amazing as y/n someday. She’s a beast for handling all this.”
Quinn’s eyes softened, a hint of a smile playing on his lips despite his discomfort. “Yeah, she really is. You’ll find someone, Luke. Just wait.”
Luke nodded, feeling a bit more at ease as he carefully carried the bucket out. “Get some rest, okay? We’ve got this.”
Quinn closed his eyes, the reassurance from his brother making him feel just a bit better. “Thanks, Luke.”
Back downstairs, you continued cleaning with ease, handling the buckets and cloths, making sure everything was spotless. Meanwhile, Luke and Jack worked with exaggerated caution, making sure to avoid any potential contamination.
Quinn had woken up feeling way better than he did a few hours ago, he padded downstairs both Luke and Jack jumping away from him.
“Hey Quinner, how you doing bud,” Jack asked from the other side of the kitchen. You rolled your eyes playfully.
“Much better, thanks,” Quinn replied, though he still looked a bit pale.
Luke glanced at Quinn, then back at you. “Y/n’s been great. I don’t know how she does it.”
“Yeah, she’s pretty incredible,” Quinn said, his voice filled with admiration.
Jack nodded, agreeing. “You’d be a mess without her.”
You smiled at their words, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “Thanks, guys. But I couldn’t do it without you helping out too.”
Luke grinned. “Just don’t get too close to us until you’re sure you’re not sick.”
Quinn chuckled weakly. “You’re gonna come take care of her when she gets sick.”
You rolled your eyes playfully. “Alright, I think we’re done here. Y’all are free to go guys.”
Luke and Jack bid their goodbyes both of them not waiting another second to get out of the house.
Let’s go to bed, Quinn.”
As you laid down Quinn leaned on you slightly, his eyes drooping.
He was already half-asleep, but he opened his eyes when talking to you. “Hey,” he whispered. “Thanks for everything.”
“Of course,” you whispered back, brushing a hand through his hair. “In sickness and in health, right?”
He smiled weakly, his eyes filled with love. “Right.”
You leaned down and kissed his forehead gently. “Get some rest, Quinn. I’ll be right here if you need anything.”
He nodded, closing his eyes again as he drifted off to sleep. You watched him for a moment, feeling contentment.
You eventually closed your eyes letting Quinn’s steady breathing lull you to sleep.
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nihilityuniverse · 4 months ago
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𝟎𝐭𝐡 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 | 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐱 𝐅𝐄𝐌! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
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ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ 𝗦𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁 𝗖𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿 ᴏꜰ ᴛᴇʏᴠᴀᴛ 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗕𝗼𝘀𝘀.
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MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
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Story inspired by Acheron's Lore, Power, and Personality...
ENG is not my First language
I do not own Genshin Impact or any of the pictures used.
Do NOT Repost.
This story is also available on Wattpad: Chapter 0 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6
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Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4
Chapter 0 - Prologue
[Lament of the Fallen]
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"I have lost everything."
The relentless battle against the Honkai beasts rages on, your katana slicing through their monstrous forms with a desperate fury. Explosions erupt around you, the searing heat mixing with the blood and sweat that drips down your temples. The ground is littered with the fallen, comrades who once fought beside you now lifeless amidst the swarming beasts summoned by the Herrschers.
"My family..."
The horrifying sight of humans, transformed into mindless Honkai zombies, fills you with dread. Your grip on the handle of your Divine Key falters as you witness your little sister and brother among them, feasting on the remains of fallen soldiers. Tears blur your vision as you dash towards them, the agony of what you must do tearing at your soul. With a heart-wrenching cry, you end their suffering, beheading the only family you had left. You had promised to protect them, to create a peaceful world for them.
"My dear comrades..."
A wall of flames engulfs the encroaching monsters, giving you a momentary respite. Kalpas, your grey-haired, masked comrade, stands before you, his power saving you once more. Exhaustion is etched on his face, but he urges you to keep moving. Before you can respond, a piercing laser beam shoots through his chest, and he crumples to the ground. One by one, your friends fall, their bodies lifeless on the battlefield. The bonds forged in blood and battle, severed in an instant.
"My world..."
The battlefield is a graveyard of Honkai beasts and fallen soldiers, their bodies buried beneath layers of ash. The sky above is a mournful grey, reflecting the lifeless desolation around you. You stand alone, the sole survivor amidst the ruins. Have you won the war, or merely survived its horrors? The answer eludes you.
"And..."
In your hand, you clutch your new Divine Key, forged from the shattered remains of 70,033 blades and the essence of twelve Herrschers. You gaze up at the bleak, grey sky, the weight of your existence pressing down on you.
"I realize now..." You unsheathe your Divine Key, Nihility, unleashing your Active Honkai Reaction. Golden cracks spread from your right hand, blossoming into ethereal flowers. Your hair turns snow-white, your skin pale as ivory. Golden horns sprout from your head, and your eye color turns into gold.
"I've lost myself."
"...That the ultimate fate of this world is nothingness, and therefore, worthless... or even the whole universe?"
With a final, devastating swing of your Divine Key, you begin to unravel the very fabric of this world, reducing it to void, to nothingness. The ground beneath you crumbles, the sky shatters, and everything you fought for dissolves into oblivion. As the world collapses around you, you raise your katana high.
"Yet... I still want to stay..."
With a heavy heart, you turn the blade upon yourself, splitting your soul in half, and embracing the void.
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Snowflakes drift gently from the dull, grey sky, their delicate forms hitting softly against your window. You stare blankly at the wintry landscape, your mind lost in the endless dance of the snow. Your right hand, adorned with claw-like metallic finger guards, rests against the cold glass. As you blink, the serene snowflakes transform into ashen rain, and the snowy ground becomes a graveyard, littered with swords and corpses.
Startled, you stumble back, your heart pounding in your chest. The haunting vision fades as quickly as it appeared, leaving you standing in the quiet room. A single tear escapes your eye, tracing a cold line down your cheek. You wipe it away, confusion mingling with the sorrow etched on your face.
"... A forgotten memory?" you whisper, your breath fogging the glass.
Before you can ponder the vision further, a knock on the door pulls you from your thoughts. You turn away from the window, your expression hardening. "Come in," you command, your voice firm yet distant.
The door creaks open, and a Fatui Skirmisher steps in, bowing deeply. He holds a letter in his trembling hand, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. "Lord Innamorati," he begins, his voice wavering with fear. "A letter from Her Royal Highness."
'Her Highness?' The title feels foreign, a distant echo in your mind. You frown, trying to grasp the fleeting memory.
"Can you remind me of her name?" you ask, your tone soft yet icy, sending a shiver through the skirmisher despite his thick winter coat.
"H-Her Royal Highness Tsaritsa, the Cryo Archon," he stammers, his voice barely above a whisper.
You nod slowly, the name stirring something within you. A fleeting sense of purpose, lost in the haze of your fragmented memories. "Thank you," you say, your voice carrying a trace of melancholy. "My memory... it often fails me."
The skirmisher quickly hands you the letter and exits the room, his relief palpable. You turn to your desk, the weight of the message heavy in your hand. If the Cryo Archon herself has written to you, it must be of grave importance. Did something terrible happen? Or have you forgotten another mission?
You break the seal and unfold the letter, your eyes scanning the contents. With a sigh, you crumple it and toss it into the trash. Your hand instinctively moves to the scabbard where your Divine Key, Nihility, rests.
"A funeral..., huh?" The words hang in the air, heavy with sorrow and resignation.
You move to the window once more, the snowy landscape a stark contrast to the inner turmoil you feel. The snow outside is pure and untouched, but in your mind, the vision of the dead and the desolate ground lingers. You know that each snowflake, each fleeting memory, is a piece of the past that you can never fully grasp.
In the quiet of your room, you can't shake the feeling that you're losing more than just memories. You're losing yourself, piece by piece, like the snow melting away under the weight of the ashes.
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where-skies-end · 1 year ago
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working on new matching toyhouse icons for all of wob
here's the FENCE and non-academy venture citizens
Captain Celbalrai Constella - Lieutenant Draconis Constella
Dame Artemis Shire - Dame Astra Pike - Sir Jeremiah Fangmire
Laika of Venture - Rockwell of Venture
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vivwritesfics · 6 months ago
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Sleepless
She's struggling to sleep, and it's all Bucky's fault
warnings: violence, choking, nightmares, angst
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Her hands clawed at his wrist, trying to pry his metal hand away from her neck. As desperate as she was to suck in deep breaths, air wasn't reaching her lungs. Oh God, she was so damn dizzy.
There he stood before her, mask covering his mouth. His dark hair hung limp around his face and his blue eyes stared at her, furious. Metal fingers wrapped around her neck, his grip bruising. He was gonna kill her, and he didn't even care.
"Please," she gasped as she dropped her hands away from his wrist. But she just couldn't hold on anymore.
"Bucky!"
His head whipped to the left. A second later he dropped her, body falling as he released her neck. Even as she hit the ground she was sucking in desperate gasps of air as her attacker ran.
She awoke with a gasp, desperately trying to suck in deep breaths. Her hand was against her chest but, every time she shut her eyes, she saw her attacker.
"Doll?" Her husband asked, voice groggy as he reached towards her. But the moment his metal fingers brushed against the skin of her thigh, she was flinching away.
Bucky sat up at that. He couldn't hide the flash of hurt in his eyes, but he couldn't exactly blame her.
He didn't remember what he'd done, didn't remember who or what he was during that stage of his life. He wasn't Bucky. He was some mindless beast who killed whoever got between him and his mission.
They met again a good few years after this. He was a different person when they met again. He was Bucky Barnes, a war hero (several times over), a soldier, and a man who had celebrated his one hundred and something birthday.
The bruises had long since faded from her neck when she met him again. She hadn't forgotten the man that had choked her, but she hadn't seen enough of his face to pick him out in the crowd. But still, she'd never forget the way his hair fell around his face, just how angry his eyes were.
She didn't recognise him and Bucky didn't recognise her, even once he'd helped clean the coffee that he'd spilled on her. (Now, you might be thinking, how didn't she see his arm and freak? It wasn't something Bucky liked to just have out and about as he walked around. No, he wore long sleeves and had a single, leather glove covering his hand. His hair was cut and his eyes were so sweet). He asked her on a date and the rest was, well, history.
Even on the date, Bucky wore long sleeves and that glove. He saw her gaze lingering on his hand, but she didn't ask. And Bucky wasn't ready to tell.
She didn't find out until the first time she took him back to her apartment. Her legs were wrapped around him as he stumbled back into her couch, sitting down and placing her on his lap. Groans left his lips as she kissed down his neck.
But then he stopped her, gently pulled her away. "Doll," he said as his flesh hand cradled her head. "I need to show you something."
It was early in the relationship, but it was something Bucky couldn't hide anymore. He picked her up from his lap and sat her down beside him.
His leg bounced and he dug his nails into his thighs. "Before I show you, I need to explain," he said. He tried to being his sentence a couple of times over, but it wasn't happening. Giving up, he let out a sigh, head dropping forward. "Have you ever heard of the Winter Soldier?"
A dry laugh left her lips. "Are you kidding me, Buck? That psycho tried to kill me," she said as she looked at him, head falling against the back of the sofa.
He swallowed, mouth dry. But he had to keep going.
Slowly, Bucky began peeling off his gloves off of his fingers. "The Winter Soldier is an ordinary man," Bucky began, unable to meet her eye. "The ordinary side of him doesn't know what the Winter Soldier side of him has done. He doesn't know the people he's hurt, doesn't know the ways in which he's hurt them."
He slipped his shoulder down and a gasp left her lips. "No," she gasped, backing away from him.
"Doll, I swear I've never hurt you. I'm not the Winter Soldier," he said quickly. But he didn't reach towards her. "It's.. hard to explain. But I'm not the Winter Soldier. I need you to know that it wasn't me."
It took a lot of time, but Bucky explained it to her. They had to start things again. So early in their relationship and they had to start everything again. But Bucky was willing. As long as she had him, he was gonna do whatever he could to keep it that way.
Here they were a year later.
Clarity overcame her features as she looked down at Bucky. "Fuck," she hissed and wiped at her eyes. "I'm sorry, Buck. I-I had a nightmare."
He sat up slightly. His arms were open, allowing her to crawl inside of them and rest against him if she wanted to. "I know, Doll," he said. Her eyes moved to his metal hand as he own hand reached forwards her throat, feeling for the phantom bruises that had disappeared so long ago.
For a moment she just sat there, knees tucked up to her chest and her cheek resting against her knee. The sight broke Bucky's heart.
What were you meant to do when you were the person that terrified the love of your life more than anything? Bucky wiped his hand over his face and climbed out of the bed. He pulled shorts up his legs to cover himself up and headed out to the kitchen.
She watched him go and her heart dropped. She was fucking everything, and she knew it. Fuck, she loved this man so much. Everything was fine while she was awake, but the moment she shut her eyes, she was terrified.
"Shit," she groaned and wiped her eyes again. She climbed out of bed and grabbed a hold of Bucky's shirt. Pulling it over her head, she pulled it up to her nose and breathed in.
And then she set off, bare feet padding against the floor as she headed to the kitchen. "Buck," she called as she walked down the hall and into the kitchen.
There Bucky was, sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of coffee. "It's the middle of the night," she muttered as she walked over and pulled the cup away from him. "You're not gonna be able to sleep."
He looked at her, but his expression was unreadable. "Bucky," she tried as she stepped into his arms. He didn't move to wrap his arms around her, and her heart leapt into her throat. "I-I love you. You know that, right?"
He gave a nod. "I know, Doll," he mumbled and stood up. "Want me to get you some water?"
Her hand reached up to cup his jaw. "I want you to tell me you love me," she said, head cocked to the side.
Bucky brought his flesh hand up to rest over her own. "I love you, Doll." He to a pause to suck in a breath. "I just wish it wasn't me that you're scared of."
"Buck, I know I'm scared of him, not you. I know you're not him."
She reached down to take his metal hand in her own. Bringing it up to her lips, she kissed his thumb. "You're my everything, Buck," she whispered and dropped his hand. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him. This time, Bucky let his arms wrap around her.
No man had ever looked at her with so much love in his eyes. He dropped his forehead against her own. "I can sleep on the couch tonight," he offered.
"Don't you fucking dare."
A small grin split across his face. "Yes ma'am."
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keikakudori · 2 years ago
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                               Aizen had seen Gin in many states over the years; he had seen him seething with anger and he had seen him playful. He had seen him whining dramatically and he had seen him pouting when he had rebuked him for some behavior or another. There, too, were those nights which had been quieter and he would hold a book in one hand, reading aloud while his other hand played with silver strands of hair or stroked over the sleek back, voice a steady rumbling and divulging into conversations about the contents within. Then the evenings of heat and passion, sometimes ignited through one of their arguments or inspired by teasing, a flirt exuded by sharp blue eyes and a baring of skin that had drawn his full attention. Sometimes a crane of the neck. Sometimes a flicker of thigh and calf beneath one of the yukata that seemed to ever vanish from his wardrobe, stolen by slim hands.
                               Sometimes he wanted to ask Gin about that thievery, inquire as to why he would want to ever steal his yukata. Yet he had never commented on it beyond a lifting of an eyebrow, a hint of a bemused smile. In time, he had grown to love the sight of this young man wrapped in the drapes of fabric which seemed to swallow him up, perpetually sliding from those slim shoulders and inspiring Aizen to develop the absent-minded habit of ever reaching out to pull the fabric into place once more. How many nights of him reaching for Gin had been inspired by the fact that the sight of the viper wearing that garment had stirred something in him?
                               For over a hundred years, they had been entwined together.
                               For over a hundred years, this had been in the making.
                               It had been in the making from the night that a boy out gathering firewood had crouched behind bushes, his sharp blue eyes focused upon a young god accepting an offering presented him by men who had stolen something important. Something precious. That night, he had indeed felt something nearby but had made no move to investigate; residents of the Rukongai often did sleep beneath bushes, out in the open, trying to survive. Trying to live. In those dark hours, he had eluded his captain and departed to take in those offerings. How pleased he had been by that one, he remembered. A fragment pulsating with acute power. A shard that had been added to the Hogyoku's hunger.
                               He remembered Gin asking him a question, once: How do you know when it's done? When will it be enough?
                               A boy, with persimmons in hand, watching him. Always watching, always following in his shadow. How many comments he'd received, of how adorable it was that he was accompanied so closely by the new third seat of the division. He would smile that warm smile of his, eyes gleaming behind the lenses of the glasses which helped diffuse the oddity of his stare. Like a baby chick, someone had said once. All that had been seen was the kind and gentle lieutenant taking in a boy fresh out of Shino'o Academy, teaching him how to be a proper seated officer.
                               The result had been rather entertaining for about five minutes in seeing those that adored him cooing over the image presented. He'd even heard a rumor or two on speculating on whether or not Gin was his son. Gin was indeed HIS -- yet not how those people thought. Not a child spawned from his own loins but the viper that had chosen to coil about his wrist, then slithered up to drape over his shoulders.
                               Yet never, never, had he sought to force Gin to follow him. Not truly. But how the boy had seemed eager, back then.
                               Of course, that had been over a hundred years ago. And now, here, he had reached towards the younger man without thinking.
                               It was habit built into Aizen, a habit formed by their years together. How many times would he reach out to the snake in his bed after one of their bouts of intimacy, soothing sore limbs with his touch or stroking lotion into welts raised thanks to their idea of discipline? How many hours had been spent with those large hands tenderly applying attention to the impressions of ropes or cuffs, tongue easing across some marks, his fingertips over others?
                               For all of how heated their sex could be, even in those darker edges when the line of consent had seemed to blur and fold in on itself, even during those nights when their fucking was inspired more by anger, still Aizen would extend his hands forth to touch Gin, ease his partner into relaxing with the aftercare that had seemed built into everything. Even when he had been angry, he would still take time to tend to him afterwards.
                               So was it so strange that Aizen reached to him now?
                               For one moment, Gin's cheek came easily into his hand. For one moment, he felt the way the other man seemed to almost lean into it.
                               But anger -- ah, that red-tinged emotion, that vicious thing that rolled up through him - that was what had been lacking until this point and he found it something hot in his chest. Of course, that could've been the physical ache his body was carrying. He knew he was running on fumes. He knew that he did not have the energy to sustain this fury yet how he gripped at it, clinging like a cockleburr to the tail of a horse. How dreadfully seductive, that feeling. How it churned in chest and stomach.
                               How anger could conceal the aching HURT within his own heart and soul at the words which had been spit at him in the divine wrath so bestowed upon him repeatedly by this serpentine compatriot. How he drew it close to mask the way that something in his chest felt broken. It was as if he had inhaled glass ground into dust, gritty and obstructive; how it made every breath he drew in feel ragged even as Gin launched into another tirade.
                               He tried to speak, to get a word in edge-wise, to break through what he said only for him to find himself frozen for a second as Gin hurled those words at him: I'd like to think I know ya well enough to know y'would've sooner killed me.
                               The world around him seemed to shimmer like waves of heat rising from flat surfaces, rippling and nearly distorting while he seemed to hear the other words through a roaring that rose in sharp crescendo in his hearing. A liability --- not being seen as worth future investment --... knowing about Kyoka Suigetsu's weakness--- Control, overstepping, his anger, still not forgiven you----
                               Black tarmac below his prone body, arms outspread.
                               Blue sky above, with the sun bearing down.
                               Yer gonna---
Blink.
                               Yer gonna---
Blink.
                               Yet what truly made Aizen's face go ashen was not the observation that Gin made about what he would have done, nor of what he said about the purpose of using that as a message for Ichigo. It was not the comment which encapsulated of how he had become WORSE THAN THE SOUL KING -- though that did sting.
                               --- all you've ever done to anyone who's ever gotten even close to you was ruin'em.
                               That pool of brown with its fraternal twin of silver and purple was the only color in a face left gray, his features bloodless as darkness swam at the edges of his vision. Air scraped from his lungs, surprising him only briefly in that it was not expelled in a cloud of red-toned mist, and Aizen was not entirely sure that he drew a breath in again. There was a sense of feeling apart from his body, as if it were distant and far away. How feebly the stump of his right arm twitched even as his left hand fell to his side and he just stared at Gin still, lips slack and white from what had been stirred through him.
                               It was not often that he was a man to struggle with words, yet how he did now and his struggle was all too obvious. Those words cut Aizen to the quick, and that stump moved again as if he were trying to reach to his own face. A moment was taken as he looked down at it, as if confused as to why his arm was not responding, before his gaze moved back to Gin almost as fast. Had the traitor ever looked so before? Not even in those months and years following the sharply-dealt display of anger towards his own captain had he shown anything near this.
                               Not even when Gin had reached out and set his fingertips against Aizen's chest had he ever looked like this.
                               For a man of such tremendous presence, there was something small about the brunet in this moment; if he were capable of sitting up, then he would've curled in on himself. Yet here he was staked out and unable to move, bared to the sharp cruel talons and fangs that so easily tore at him. For a few seconds, that anger he wore was extinguished, snuffed out like a flame in high strong winds. No one had ever been able to cut into him the way that Gin could and no one else would ever have the hold over him that was displayed here.
                               Then the anger was rising again, Aizen starting to openly struggle on getting to his feet while air hissed out between clenched teeth. It was a strange emotion, a ravaging effect of grief and anger and a strange, strange pain that was like molten ice in his throat and chest; it was true that Aizen Sousuke had seen Ichimaru Gin in many states over the years. But never had he seen him show such pain. Not even on that awful, terrible day when he had ripped this man apart with his own hands and bade had he seen him in this sort of pain. And that pain HURT him; it plucked and tugged at the emotion which he had only but some short hours ago been finally forced to admit to.
                               And he could not deny, either, that Gin was correct in what he said.
                               ❝ Oh, that's rich, ❞ he managed, jaw clenched tight as he worked to climb to his feet, ignoring the dribble of blood still running from the stump of his arm as he managed to lift himself up to one knee, the other, feet beneath him. The ruined layers of the shihakusho that Gin had dressed him in sagged in blood-sodden flaps away from his body, revealing the glistening sphere of dulled purple once more, its sheen apparent even despite the blood that covered it. ❝ That's -- rich--- given what you just said, Gin--- ❞
                               The edges of his vision seemed gray now, like a foggy mist creeping into his perception of the world. How it seemed to shimmer in and out of focus, draping around him. He worked to lock his knees even as his posture wavered, feet shifting to work on keeping him upright. This was an anemic energy, likely to be fast exhausted but how he needed to reply, to respond. At his side, his remaining hand shook and there was a feeling of shaking through his body. Yet Aizen ignored it, pushed, seeking to bring up a reply. HIs chest hurt. How his heart labored.
                               ❝ I t-- trusted you--- trusted you with something that I never --- NEVER GAVE TO ANYONE ELSE! I ENTRUSTED A PIECE OF MYSELF TO YOU THAT NO ONE ELSE HAS EVER HAD! I GAVE IT ONLY TO YOU, GIN! ❞
                               It was, perhaps, the deepest intimacy that two Shinigami could share; to reveal the extent of what their powers encompassed. It was the deepest display of trust that could ever be had. In those years following his elevation to the exalted title of captain, they had both learned there was a way to bypass his Kanzen Saimin. How Aizen remembered that boy folding over his blade, grabbing it, the feeling of something shattering----- 
                               ( kudakero, kyoka suigetsu )
                               ❝ And you-- you--- you're standing here and telling me that I--- I-- never opened up to you---? NEVER?! I GAVE YOU A PIECE OF MY VERY SOUL! ❞
                               For Gin, Aizen had slowly opened up, baring himself further and further; for a man who did not trust easily, it had been a significant thing. How many things had he shared with him over the years? How many times had he spoken with him, unsure, halfway to disbelieving that anyone would ever want to know him? Yet Gin had asked him questions and earned that trust, gaining Aizen's favor rapidly until he had become the brunet's right hand. The right hand of the god of Las Noches. The one who would have been his divine spear had he ascended the throne which was his by heritage and bloodlines. In his veins ran blood tainted with the shades of royal purple. A heritage he had never asked for. A power he had loathed.
                               How many times had he spoken with him, covered him with blankets, reached to pull the yukata up into place? How many times had he chased Gin down to get medication into him when he'd been ill? How many meals shared together, Aizen silently permitting the younger man to steal food from his dishes in a gesture known and understood only by those who came from the rattle-bone hells of the Rukongai's worst districts? How many times had he shown it over and over and over that he had found his world view encompassed by this young man?
                               How many times had he shown that gentle tender pain called love?
                               ❝ You had plenty of chances to speak to me about this, Gin! Plenty! OR DO YOU PREFER TO THINK THAT I WOULD NOT HAVE LISTENED TO YOU?! DID IT MAKE IT EASIER IF YOU THOUGHT THAT?! AFTER I GAVE YOU THAT PIECE OF MYSELF?! WHEN I KNEW --- WHEN I KNEW WHAT I WAS DOING BY TELLING YOU THAT?! Or did you convince yourself that I wouldn't have ever fucking listened to you?! How many times did I do that! How many times HAVE I done that?! HOW MANY TIMES DID I SHOW YOU THAT I TRUSTED YOU?! ❞
                               Barring one thing.
                               Barring that sphere in his chest.
                               But a hundred years; a hundred years and more together. Decades of how they had been bound to one another. And now he knew. Now he knew why and he saw that pain in Gin, a pain that had been kept hidden from him, concealed. Grief and a sick understanding built atop horror dwelt in him - yet they were superseded by the anger he felt. At last, Aizen had begun to swing back.
                               His voice was a crackling vituperation, seeking to conceal the way that his eyes burned. Again, that broad form swayed, and those legs trembled, forcing him to work on straightening once more. He was not going to collapse in front of Gin once more. Ah, how stubborn he could be. How stubborn they both were. And how they had the power to harm one another tremendously, it seemed. The darkness of Muken seemed to swell around him for a second, blotting out the fire-lit interior of the small cabin and he was all but sure if he looked to his right, he'd see a drifting of white snow cascading there.
                               Another shuddering before he was forcing his shoulders to straighten, his spine to align as he sought to stand at his full height. A ragged, broken man ---- who had broken a boy he had not met for a full year. A boy who had pursued him with all the hunter's intensity.
                               ❝ You could have TRIED to speak with me about it so many times over the years --- you never did. ❞
GIN KNEW HE SHOULDN’T HAVE STRUCK AIZEN AGAIN, not so soon after accidentally killing him… again. But in fairness, he wasn’t thinking straight – hadn’t been since Aizen spoke of that name so casually, so certain of himself, so sure that the conversation thereafter could be done in a civil manner when that was anything but the truth. Gin was vulnerable now and he hated it, raw and bleeding, despite Aizen being the one currently recovering from a beating that left him pulse-less and bloody. He hated that he didn’t pull away, too, when Aizen reached to soothe him. How strange, that, to be the point of all his ire and yet seek to comfort him, seek to alleviate that pain Gin knew was becoming blatantly apparent in himself – how ugly, this state of his, and yet Aizen did not flinch away, even after – everything. It felt stupidly backwards.
But shortlived, the way his final words cracked and seethed all in one, how Ichimaru Gin’s remorse and pains made themselves known in full here and now, over a hundred years in the making. Over a hundred years since he went to collect firewood for a distressed girl struggling to keep warm through the night because something was wrong with her, something was taken, and he saw this man bowed before, being offered up pieces of souls like he was a deity of old. THE FIRST TRUE SEETHE OF KILLING INTENT BY ICHIMARU GIN UNDER THE DARK MASK OF NIGHT. Looking back on it, Gin reckoned Aizen had sensed a blip nearby, a shift of twigs underweight of a child’s foot, and surmised it was of no real consequence if his meeting of those men was overseen by a spying eye. Gin hadn’t been worth a second glance. Only when he gutted a full-grown man a year later did he earn Aizen’s gaze.
I COULD’VE BEEN GOOD –
No, no… no, he wasn’t capable, he hadn’t ever been capable of being good. He was detestable. Deplorable. He shouldn’t have said that, it was a lie, it was a lie – he never turned into that snake, he had always been it, he had always been capable of devouring others with that mouth. Gin couldn’t place the blame on Aizen, no, he withdrew and despaired inwardly – he had always been a monster, a bad omen, chased out with rocks pelting at his small back, a child in appearance alone.
Try as he might, Gin couldn’t reel his anger back in, it was far too intertwined with his hurt, his century-old wound that Aizen had brazenly plucked the scab off of. Yet Aizen dared to look at him, hurt also, shocked, offended, all measures of various things and that question had him all the more ready for a round two of flaring anger. You asked for this! You pushed, you insisted, you cornered me!
Over a hundred years and why, oh why, hadn’t Gin mentioned anything? Oh, he was ready to punch the guy all over again – forget feeling any remorse over that previous strike.
❝ Why didn’t I tell ya? Oh, lemme guess, you would’ve stopped your entire plan and disassembled your precious Hogyoku all ‘cause a kid you just met asked you to? Maybe I’m wrong, but I’d like to think I know ya well enough to know y'would’ve sooner killed me and started from scratch with a new Third Seat. If I told ya too soon, I would’ve been a liability for askin’ for too much and knowing too little and not bein’ seen as worth any further investment. If I asked too late, within another decade or two? I would’ve been a liability to ya too, knowin’ Kyoka Suigetsu’s weakness and now askin’ ya to hand over a soul y'wouldn’t even remember takin’ from a girl you wouldn’t even recognize was in the Gotei 13 at the time. Cause you wouldn’t have cared, all you’d care about was managin’ to get me under control, you’d probably kill her, then kill me for oversteppin’. If I mentioned it later than that, y'would’ve asked me this same fucking question now as to why I waited so long when the whole fucking point of my anger ain’t even centered 'round the fact that I wanted it back, no, it was also the fact that it fuckin’ happened in the first place. You can’t undo it, a week later and I would’ve still not forgiven you, you can’t undo the damage you’ve done – I can’t either, I knew that goin’ in. I knew gettin’ that piece back wouldn’t’ve fixed shit. But I wanted it anyways, and most of all I wanted ya to pay. ❞
Gin stood, stepping back and away from Aizen, away from any reaching hand. He didn’t want to be touched. Still, his voice shook, strained, hoarse from emotion and anger alike that ravaged his throat thickly, as though he had swallowed sand in the span of his angry rare moment of shouting. Aizen was unraveling him, even now, words spilling freely akin to a weeping wound’s blood.
❝ You started spiralin’ the moment ya put that thing in your chest and I watched as you became th’ thing you hated so much, more outright than ever before. You’ve always had that spark of heartlessness in you, doin’ what you did to hundreds and hundreds of souls across the Rukongai, but you started huntin’ human kids down for sport because y'thought hangin’ their corpses outside'a the town you were about to obliterate would send an intriguing message to a fuckin’ teenager you manipulated since birth. You wanna dare imply I had some sorta responsibility to open up to ya when all you’ve ever done to anyone who’s ever gotten even close to you was ruin'em? Do you think I’m fuckin’ stupid? ❞
Trembling, overwhelmed by too much happening in such a short and potent burst, Gin wanted to flee. He wanted to turn tail and run – Shunpo off in whatever direction. Let a Quincy snipe him out of the sky, he didn’t care anymore. He needed to breathe, he needed to get away. But equal parts stubbornness and logic spoke of staying, of holding his ground and not rushing into enemy fire potentially the moment he breached their safehouse’s barrier. He doubted Aizen would feel as generous in reviving him a second time from death, especially considering all the things Gin was spitting at him now. And he was too drained, far too drained, to use such a powerful ability once more. Not now, not yet at least.
Thus, Gin was cornered yet again, a creeping despair filling his throat the way that blood had, that terrifying moment of feeling skin split apart at the weight of a sharpened blade’s edge dragging across his neck – the sensation of death still filled Gin’s nostrils, the way that blood from a fatal wound had a different scent than the rest, the way it smelled thicker and deeper —- it’d haunt him, just as those words of Aizen’s certainly would. THE IMPLICATION OF BLAME WAS ENOUGH TO MAKE GIN SNARL AND STRAIN, a deep sadness and guilt and anger and defensiveness rearing its ugly mangled head. I WAS A KID, I WAS JUST A KID, HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO SAY ANYTHING? I DIDN’T KNOW HOW, I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO SAY, I DIDN’T WANT TO, I WAS AFRAID, NOTHING WAS SAFE, YOU WOULDN’T HAVE LISTENED, YOU WOULD’VE SOONER SAPPED ME OF MY ENERGY AND STOLEN A PIECE OF MY SOUL, TOO, TO FEED YOUR HOGYOKU. IT WASN’T MY FAULT!
It was my fault, I saw them crowded around her and I didn’t do anything, I could’ve done something, I could have charged at them, I could have yelled, I could have had them beat me down instead, I could’ve run at you from the bushes that night too, I could have had you gut me on Kyoka Suigetsu before we even met under the moon. I could’ve tried sooner, I could have tried harder –IT WAS MY FAULT, IT WASN’T MY FAULT, HOW COULD I HAVE KNOWN? I WAS A KID, I WAS A KID, I WAS A KID –
❝ – it ain’t my fault you did what you did, it ain’t my fault you used others and didn’t care about it until over a hundred years later. This reflects poorly on you, not me, not me. ❞
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azsazz · 8 months ago
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Hide (Part 2)
Eris x Rhysands!Sister Reader
Summary: Anon Req: Literally in love with every fic you write. I know your requests are closed but in the future, could you write something where Eris and the reader see each other and there’s a lot of tension and they’re secretly mates but no one knows? I’m curious to see how you’d end it!
Warnings: Angst
Word Count: 1,428
[Part One]
Notes: Obsessing over this one.
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You swallow harshly at your brother’s question, eyes darting over to catalogue your mate. You try not to startle in your seat when a wall of harsh autumn winds slams between your bond. He’s only protecting you; you must remind yourself. There’s a fine tremble to your hands, so you clench them together in your lap. 
Azriel notes the move, your restlessness as Rhysand stares down your mate like these are his last moments on this plane of existence. You have no idea what Rhysand’s going to do to Eris, but with the thick darkness rolling from his shoulders and slowly filling the room, whatever it might be will not be good.
You cannot let that happen. 
“Rhysand—"
Your brother holds up a hand, his glare swinging towards you. The thin line of betrayal ringing his eyes makes your stomach roil. You hadn’t meant to break his trust and you never intended on keeping secrets from him, but with the courts on the edge of war…
“Do. Not. Speak.” Rhysand’s demand is a death knell of its own. When you were young, you remember how he’d always been the one to listen to any of your problems, even when they felt silly. He would always offer you a solution if you were looking for one, or a piece of cake if you only wanted to wallow in your feelings. 
The smell of burning wood answers his harsh words. 
Cassian shifts in his seat, eyeing Eris. He leans further back in his chair and places his hand on the table, the wicked curve of the short blade clutched firmly in his hand pointing directly at your mate.
Your bond flares, eyes going hard at the sight of the threat to your mate. You’re ready to jump out of your seat, scramble across the table to tackle the male, no matter how much you consider him family. You know all of Cassian’s weak spots, and your gaze is calculating as you decide which maneuver will draw him away from your mate.
The single look Eris sends you keeps you from reacting. 
Instead, you settle back in your seat, showing Eris your unfaltering trust for him. You will allow your mate to say his piece to your brother. You might be crossing your arms over your chest with a hard look all your own, but you will heed Eris’ silent ask of you.
Eris is a mask of nonchalance, and you wish he hadn’t blocked you from his feelings, but it’s better this way. He cannot have your reactions to your brother muddling his own feelings. It’s safer for the both of you to keep to yourself right now, no matter how much you hate the idea of being apart from him like this.
“I will ask you once more,” Rhysand’s voice is filled with smoke. “How long have you been putting your filthy fucking hands on my sister.”
Something flares in Eris’ russet eyes that makes you want to bite, to snarl at your brother for his cruelness. You gnaw the insides of your cheeks to keep from snapping. 
“Would hearing that answer please you, High Lord?” Eris snarks back. He sits easily in his seat as if this isn’t an interrogation at all, as if they’re all bantering over the weather and Rhysand isn’t looking at him like he’s about to unleash the beast within him that he keeps on a short chain. The only give to Eris’ temper are the burnt handprints on the armrests of the chair he’s lounging in. “To know that the fires of autumn light the stars of night?” 
You want to hiss at him for his words. You should’ve known better that Eris would do nothing but taunt your brother. He is nowhere near as powerful as Rhys, especially since he is still under the rule of his father, but his specialty is that mouth of his. 
You try not to think about how he uses that mouth when he’s with you, the yearning for him flooding your body so deeply you clench your thighs together. Another motion that Azriel tracks, cocking his head a little as he watches you with that unnervingly stoic face of his. You shoot him a pleading look but are unable to make out how he reads into your pleas not to hurt your mate.
Rhysand bares his teeth in warning. The flare of his nostrils and the stars winking out of his eyes tells you that he’s moments away from unleashing his wrath upon Eris.
“Two years,” you blurt and all gazes swing your way. You don’t look at anyone else except for Eris, your eyes soft and pleading. His eyes flicker back and forth between yours and his shoulders slump a little, cracking the steel trap blocking your bond to send down a cool rush of apology that you accept with a soft nod. “We’ve been mated for two years.” 
There’s a sharp exhale coming from your brother but you can’t look away from your mate. Two years since you offered him that dessert from your favorite bakery the one time you’d been able to sneak away from your brother and his friends to meet Eris at the portal where Night crossed into Autumn. 
Two years of fiery, passionate nights, hidden away in your own solace. Two years of a fresh breath of autumn, of copper hair and russet eyes and the warmest hands you’ve ever had the pleasure of touching. Two years of unyielding loyalty. Two years of too much time spent apart—
No more. You won’t have it. Rhysand can act as protective older brother as much as he wants but it isn’t going to stop you from being with Eris any longer.
Darkness of your own ekes out of you as you plant your hands on the smooth surface of the table and rise. You stare Rhysand down as the tendrils of black wind around his, Azriel, and Cassian’s wrists, pinning them to their spots. You are in no way matching Rhysand’s power, but he seems at a loss for words as you stand up for yourself, watching with those all too calculating feline eyes of his, allowing you your time.
Stalking around the table, you don’t break the High Lord’s gaze. You hold your chin high even if there’s a pinch of terror in your gut for this continued betrayal to your brother, to your court. But he has no idea what you’ve given up for this bond, how you’ve suffered being kept from your mate. 
One day, you hope Rhysand will understand. Will understand why you halt a step behind where your mate is still trapped to his chair. Why you place a hand on his shoulder, the feeling of him after so long filling your lungs to maximum capacity. You haven’t ben able to breathe fully since you’ve been away from each other. 
He’ll understand why it is that your actions look like you’re swearing fealty to another court, when you’ve already been a patron of autumn ever since you and Eris completed your mating bond. 
“What are you—“ Your brother breathes when he realizes the severity of what you’re doing.
“I will not be kept from my mate any longer.” Your words are loud and sure. You think you’ve done a good job at standing up to Rhysand, until his eyes flicker and the house shakes on its studs.
All of the air is sucked from the room at your words. The strip of skin you’re touching on Eris’ neck warms, but it does little to settle you. You’re not out of the clear yet.
Slowly, all too slowly, Rhysand leans back in his seat. The way he’s looking at you makes you shift in your spot, the disbelief and  in his eyes a bright streak before he snuffs it out, returning to the easy role of High Lord he’s practices meticulously for centuries. 
It hurts to see.
With a careless flick of his hand he breaks through your shadows with ease. All of the darkness in the room dissipates, ever faithful to their master. You only hold an ounce of power compared to him. 
The corner of his mouth curves, and if it’s a smirk or a snarl you don’t know, but neither is as harrowing as the words that slip past his lips. “I wonder which will get you killed faster—your loyalty or your love.” Rhysand stands, turning his back on you as he stalks towards the door. “Get out of my court.”
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Tagging those who commented if you don't want to be tagged on this just lmk <3 Some of you couldn't be tagged btw
Hide Taglist: @littlestw01f @aelin-thefirebreathingbitchqueen @naturakaashi @lexluvswriting @chybay22 @roseliey @acotar-thirst @teenagellamaangel @minaethrym @tothestarsandwhateverend @coolepowersthings @lena-davina @xyzmeh @meritxellao @shadowdaddysposts @callsigns-haze @mrs-azriel @eminvelaris @daily-does-of-sass @kennedy-brooke
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damneddamsy · 2 months ago
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second sight | cregan stark x oc (part i)
a/n: I suppose this series will be a short one, 4 parts maybe? I just love Claere so much - she's my little unhinged weirdo :')
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It was a rather secluded and quiet affair, the marriage between Claere Velaryon and Cregan Stark. There were no great halls crammed with noble witnesses, no bright banners flying high to announce the union of two ancient houses—only the low rustles of the breeze through the pines and the crackle of a distant hearth as the vows were uttered.
The ceremony took place beneath the watchful eyes of the old gods. The holy weirwood tree loomed with its gnarled white bark, etched with time, and ruby leaves swished in the cold Northern breeze. Claere, a priceless dream draped in rare emeralds, silver silks, and white furs akin to seafoam—a nod to her Velaryon heritage—eclipsed against the stark landscape of Winterfell. She made up for the glitz and grandeur that this lifeless gathering lacked.
Cregan Stark, silent and relentless, took her freezing hand with the kind of sworn resilience that marked Northern might—his bold grey eyes sceptical of the bride before him. Though the match had been arranged by the Sea Snake, the union between them was regarded as special—one for the histories. Theirs was not a marriage forged in the fires of splendour but in the subtle rendition of what they each represented: a union between sea and snow, Velaryon and Stark.
No songs were sung, and no cheers erupted, but in that stillness, something more meaningful lingered.
Cregan was first informed of Rhaenyra's second child and only daughter as if she were a fleeting nymph from a fairytale, a cold mystery whispered from beyond the Wall. "She is adrift in dreams," his maester had told him. Claere Velaryon possessed all of her mother’s fabled graces—from her haunting violet eyes and white-gold hair to the sharp, aquiline features that marked her as pure Valyrian. Her skin, fair and translucent as glass, only furthered the ghostly aura that surrounded her.
If summer snow had ever reincarnated in his time, it would have been Claere Velaryon. The rumours spoke of a 'beautiful freak', chiselled like an ice sculpture, who sang like the sweetest lark, whose fingers danced effortlessly over the harp, filling halls with melodies as delicate as her presence. She was drawn more to solitude and the quiet company of the stars than to her brothers, most of her nights spent soaring high above the world on her silvery dragon, Luna—hatched in her cradle and enormous beyond her years.
The whispers had reached him long before he’d ever seen her. She doesn't eat food, prefers the taste of human flesh and blood, they had said, each rumour darker than the last. She once tried to stab her uncle in the heart. She dabbles in blood magic with that wretched dragon of hers. Some claimed her visions could only divine the worst of futures, and that she would cut herself to the bone just to understand pain. It was said everything she touched withered into the gloom.
Cregan swallowed against the rising dread. He had been pragmatic in agreeing to this union, believing the support of the ancient Targaryens would strengthen the North. Yet now, as he stood face to face with the girl cloaked in a bizarre silence, he wondered if he had invited his own destruction. The North had weathered many storms, but this... this felt different. He had faced wildlings, dire winters, wars, and beasts, but Claere Velaryon might be his greatest unknown yet.
Perhaps this alliance, this bond forged for power, would be his ultimate undoing. The Sea Snake must’ve played him for a fool, tying him to a sorceress masked as a Valyrian princess.
As if her touch had stung him, Cregan recoiled and returned his hands to his sides, a flicker of unease settling beneath his skin. The girl’s violet eyes stayed distant at his reaction, focused on some invisible realm beyond the godswood, oblivious to the accusations that swirled around her name like storm clouds. Never meeting anyone’s gaze, she stood perfectly still, frigid as the legends surrounding her, the direwolf sigil on his chest holding her attention.
When the quiet ceremony was over and it was time for goodbyes, the weight of the moment settled heavily on them all. Soft whispers filled the air as hands were clasped, and final glances exchanged. The warmth of shared vows had already begun to fade whilst the mother and daughter, her three brothers and their grandsire traded farewells. Cregan wavered close by, observing his new wife's interactions.
No one cried except the youngest brother, Joffrey, who had refused to let go of the princess. Everyone around her, her own kin, had kept their distance in approaching her.
"Who'll sing to me now, Claerie? The moon song?" Her little brother wept, shedding his tears into her fair silk gown.
Claere’s eyes moved from her tear-streaked brother to the rest of her family. Her voice was glacial, her expression more bored than curious.
"Why does he cry?"
A brief pause passed between the lot of them.
"Because he... we will miss you, sister. We might not see each other for a long time." It was young Lucerys who eventually answered her, his tone painfully understanding. He must be the forbearing one among them.
"Then do not miss me," Claere said to them simply. "It is not my wish to cause you pain till then."
Her certainty unsettled them, a silent dismissal that left her words hovering unanswered. She seemed unaware, perhaps unconcerned, that her family could not comprehend her detachment.
"I love you, Claerie." He buried his face deeper into her gown, as if afraid she might vanish from his arms. Claere remained still as if brooking her brother's overflowing love.
There it was—a twitch in Claere’s blank eyes, a flicker of something almost human. She glanced down at Joffrey, and with visible reluctance, patted his head. The gesture was mechanical, lacking the warmth he sought. A moment later, Jace stepped forward, his hands firm as he pulled Joffrey away, his actions laced with an unspoken fear that any more time in her presence might invite something unwanted.
"Will you stay with me?" Claere asked them, though her voice, usually collected, wobbled just enough to betray the edge of apprehension.
"Not for long, my girl," Rhaenyra said to her, her smile strained, hiding some secret discomfort. "Your home is here now. You will grow to love this place and your husband. I am sure."
"A cage of stone and ice," she murmured, her gaze distant, as if already relinquished to the cold halls of her future.
Rhaenyra's smile faltered, her eyes narrowing slightly. She was unduly firm. "You speak too soon, Claere. You are a Velaryon and a Targaryen—power runs in your blood. You will learn your duty in time."
"And you'll have Luna on your side," Luke appeased her in vain. An unspeaking, fire-breathing beast for a companion. His tender heart did not hold a candle to his blind faith.
But Claere said nothing more, her expression as stony as ever. The distance between her and the life she was meant to embrace felt as vast as the sky beyond.
Cregan watched the exchange in silence, the chill in his chest deepening with each word. His worst fears were confirmed. Claere was a stranger, even to those who should have known her best. They spoke to her as if she were something fragile, something... unnatural.
A freak.
And now, she was his.
X
No one was more reluctant than Cregan to spend his first night with his new bride.
As far as obligations went, he had managed to ban the sickening tradition of a "bedding ceremony" from the occasion, much to the disappointment of some. The thought of parading the princess through a crowd of leering men felt like an abomination, yet even without that outlandish formality, he still felt the burden of duties and expectations ploughing down on him like an axe.
His familiar chambers felt chillier today, the fire crackling weakly in the hearth as Claere stood near the window, her silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. She was silent, as she had been throughout the feast, her face betraying little emotion. She refused to eat, revel in wine, or even speak. She had managed a quiet nod after well-wishes, sometimes pressing her lips tight to pass for a smile.
He recalled, with an involuntary tremble, the black rumours that had plagued him during the dinner. The mention of how his wife’s tastebuds were supposedly tempted not by the fine meats and ales of the North, but by the flesh of those who dared to covet a single glance from the Velaryon beauty. Fattened soldiers who sought her favour and found only their doom.
It was absurd, indeed. And yet, as he glanced at Claere, so still and detached by the firelight, Cregan couldn't shake the disturbing thought. What sort of woman had he brought into his home?
The distance between them felt more than just physical—it was as though she existed in another world entirely, one he had no access to. He didn't know what troubled him more: her silence, or the eerie calmness with which she met her fate.
As Cregan set down his ancestral sword and shrugged off his heavy fur cloaks, Claere moved to him with quiet resignation. Her fingers began to undo the delicate laces of her nightgown, her motions disconnected as if compelled by some unspoken assignment. The fabric slipped, gathering at her shoulders, poised to fall, when Cregan's voice broke the tense stillness.
"There is no need for that," he said sharply, cutting through the air between them, the words coming out quicker than he intended.
He stepped forward, his rough fingers gently, yet firmly, adjusting the cloth back over her bare skin. Every inch of paleness he touched was smoother than the silk she adorned, warmer than the ice-cold fingers he had held in the godswood.
Claere blinked, startled, her violet eyes searching his face for the first time that night. The vigour of that shade disarmed him for a moment before he looked away. Yes, she was his wife, but more than that, she was a mystery. And he was a man who distrusted what he could not comprehend.
"Rest. That is all for now," he added, softer now, the command awkward in his throat.
Claere scrutinized him still, her sharp gaze unrelenting as if she could unearth the truth behind his stoic mask. When she spoke, her voice was flat, devoid of emotion.
"Is there another you hold dear, my lord?"
He sighed, sinking into a cushioned seat by the hearth. "No," he replied, his tone careful, meeting her eyes with conscious composure. "And you?"
A strange smirk flickered across her face, the barest twitch of her lips. "Everything I hold dear gave me away like a pawn on a board."
Her words struck him like a blow, twisting his gut with an uncomfortable pang of pity. He allowed for her loneliness as if somehow, he was responsible for it. Yet, a strange foreboding hung in the air and kept his response locked in his throat.
Instead, he turned his gaze to the flames, fists clenching against the armrests as the fire danced and crackled, its warmth doing little to ease the cold knot of guilt growing in his chest.
"I understand you favour peace and quiet," he began carefully, his words lingering in the space between them. "But would you consider sitting with me tonight?"
Claere, staring at the shadows cast by the firelight, turned her gaze to him. Her eerie eyes, unnervingly calm, gave no indication of her thoughts. For a moment, he regretted speaking.
The pause stretched, and Cregan felt the silence chew at his nerves.
"Why?" she asked finally, her voice as undisturbed as it was empty, as though the idea of companionship was foreign.
He hesitated, searching for words. "I thought it might ease... the strangeness of the night." His eyes flickered to hers. "For both of us."
Claere’s lips barely moved as she gave a soft hum of acknowledgement. The stillness in her made him wonder if she felt anything at all, and a deeper anxiety stirred in him.
Without answering, she crossed the room, her movements as fluid and graceful as a phantom. She sat across from him, her gaze never leaving the flickering flames. Even now, such a short distance felt insurmountable.
"Ask away, my lord," she said quietly, reading into him deftly. "I do owe you many answers."
Cregan’s gaze faltered as Claere contested, and for a moment, the heat of the fire did nothing to chase away the chill crawling up his spine. Something was unnerving about the way she stared at him, something impenetrable, as if her pale eyes held some ancient secret he wasn’t meant to uncover.
"Do you hear them?" His voice was low, almost lost to the sound of the crackling wood. "The whispers about you."
Claere’s expression remained unchanged, her face as still as a porcelain mask. "What do they say?"
"They say that I was a fool to take a girl like you," he said, keeping his emotions hidden. "A girl who walks in dreams, who doesn’t belong to this world. They fear you."
Her gaze did not move an inch, unaffected by his claims. "People fear what they do not understand."
Every rumour, every whispered story of her strange tendencies crept back into his mind, grinding at his resolve. The tales of oddity, rituals, and things best left unspoken—they clung to the air between them.
"Are you afraid of me, my lord?" Her question cut through the silence like a blade.
Cregan swallowed the lump in his throat, his heart lurching in his chest. He wanted to say no, to deny the concern that gripped him, but something in her gaze made him feel exposed, powerless in a way he had not been before. He forced himself to meet her eyes, but the intensity there—the dark, unfeeling stare—made him feel as though he were sinking into a frozen lake.
His jaw clenched for a moment, as though wrestling with the words he ought to say to her. He leaned forward slightly, his voice quieter, but no less intense.
"I will not be made to live in dread of my wife," he countered firmly. "Though, beyond question, those words waver my trust for you. Upon your integrity. Time will tell."
For the first time, a glimmer of something passed over her face—a brief crack in the mask. Hurt? Confusion? Whatever it was, it was fleeting. Claere tilted her head slightly, studying him from head to toe like one might a curious specimen. He shifted back into his chair, unease unfurling in his stomach.
"You should be afraid of me," she said softly. It wasn’t a threat, but a statement, as if she were merely acknowledging a truth he had yet to accept.
Cregan did not sleep a wink that night. His ancient sword, Ice, lingered closer to him than expected, leaning on his bedside. He laid utterly still as Claere slumbered gingerly, uncaring of the shadows that danced around her, like a tarrying chill that would not leave him alone.
As the sun crested over the horizon, spilling its golden light into their chamber, there was one thing he made certain: Cregan understood that his fear was not of Claere herself, but of what she represented—an unknown force that defied everything Winterfell was. Truth and unity.
X
As the days wore on, Cregan Stark found himself perpetually on edge, his mind halved between the secret suspicions that crept through Winterfell and the cold reality of his new wife. Claere moved through the castle like a careless sprite, floating just beyond reach, drifting from room to room, always apart from the people around her. She left a wake of uncertainty in her path, tales trailing behind her like a fog.
Scarcely did she remain grounded; more often than not, she soared into the skies with Luna, her dragon, a creature so tremendous that many in Winterfell whispered it had outgrown the older beasts of war—Vhagar's equal in size and perhaps ferocity. The sight of it, gleaming silver scales slicing through the frozen air, sent shivers through the keep. Claere’s infrequent appearances at suppers left the hall feeling incomplete, her absence punctuated by muttered resentments from the courtiers and smallfolk alike. The duties of a lady to Winterfell—tending to the hearth and home, overseeing the castle’s workings—were not simply ignored but utterly abandoned.
And yet, Cregan could not bring himself to care. As long as Claere caused no disturbance, as long as she kept to the law, she was no hindrance to him.
As it went, Cregan had not slept in her bed since their wedding night. In fact, they had barely spoken. Claere had quietly suggested moving to a nearby chamber, giving him "his breathing space," as she put it, and he hadn’t objected. He offered up the one with arched ceilings, for when she dabbled in her music, and nearest to the enclosure where her dragon was housed.
Her peculiarities deepened with every passing day. In the dead of night, her harp’s haunting refrain would echo through the passageways, its melody weird and hypnotic. At other times, he would hear her soft footsteps racing through the corridor, out into the courtyard, lost in her dreams until dawn. Most of his courtiers noticed her out on the ramparts after nightfall, laying across the roof—how she got there was a mystery—and staring at the sky for hours on end, speaking to herself. But most unsettling of all were the obscure songs she would hum—songs that danced on the edge of his consciousness, unnervingly poignant, yet cruel in the sweet voice they reached. As if she were singing of things far beyond this world.
Blood and shadow, ice and flame, Sing the tune without a name In the frost, their voices hum Of dead unseen, of eyes aglow Of footsteps deep beneath the snow Ice will crack, and winds will wail, Have you seen the end unfold, the secret that never sleeps?
Claere's songs instilled an image of the most unspeakable cold he knew, distant woods beyond the Wall, where horrors awaited, ready to engulf the unwary. Sometimes, the songs became too much, stirring a dread in him so deep he would storm down the hall, ready to confront her. But each time he did, within her room, like a figure of utmost naïveté, she went by weathering her own storm.
This time, she had ensconced herself by the hearthside, rent of her sleeves, weaving dried winter roses across a vine.
"Did I wake you?" she had asked up at him.
His words faltered. Rather a hollow noise whooshed out his lips, his resentment fleeing at the sight of her. How could someone so callow invoke such unease?
"The hour grows late, princess," he would reply stiffly, the reprimand hollow even to his own ears. "It would be wiser to find some sleep before the morn."
"I adore the night," she had said to him. "Without it, you cannot see the stars. There are no shadows, too."
Cregan had expected to hate her. He had expected to find her burdensome, a hardship forced upon him by duty. But he did not. Indeed, he endured her and accommodated her. As unfamiliar as Claere was, there was something fragile beneath the mantle of her mystery. He found himself unable to despise her, though neither could he truly be fond of her. A part of him, born of compassion, wanted to protect her from the world that had turned its back on her. Perhaps, buried beneath her oddities, she yearned for some semblance of a connection she had never known.
It was one of the handmaidens who had come to him, trembling with unease, to speak of her lady’s growing detachment.
"She barely eats, my lord," the young girl had said. "I fear she grows weaker by the day, surviving on little more than water and grain."
"Have you asked the princess what she would prefer? Surely, our larders are rife enough to sustain her... distinct palate," one of the lords from Cregan's council interjected before he could react.
Cregan shot him a sharp, warning glare. He had long since grown weary of the whispers—the looks exchanged behind his back, the way people averted their eyes when his wife entered a room. The court treated her as if she were a curse, a spectre they wished to avoid. It only stoked his resolve to defend her, to ensure she was not devoured by their disdain. Claere was different, but she was not an object to be mocked.
The maid shifted uneasily. "I have spared no effort in this. Though, there is another issue, my lord."
The Stark lord sighed. "Aye, go on."
"Her ladies have dwindled to nought. I am only charged to tend to her meals, if not no one."
Cregan's heart sank at the thought. He wanted to believe that Claere was merely adjusting to her new life, that in time she would settle. But with each passing day, it became harder to ignore the isolation tightening its grip around her.
"And what, pray tell, has come over them to spurn their service to the Lady of Winterfell?" His voice was low but the threat in it was unmistakable.
The handmaiden lowered her head, unwilling to speak the truth aloud, yet the answer was clear enough. Fear. The court, the smallfolk, her own attendants—everyone was frightened of Claere.
When his eyes bore into her, she hesitated whilst wringing her hands. "We see strange things where the dragon sleeps. My lady's songs... people say they hear them echoing in the courtyard when there is no one."
"These slights must cease at once," he hissed, his voice barely above a murmur, but the weight behind it made the girl flinch. "Claere is a princess of the realm, moreover your lady. Any who fail in their duty will answer to me. Am I clear?"
She nodded hurriedly. "Yes, my lord," she stammered, bowing before retreating from the hall.
And when the next issue reached him, it was, once again, centred on the most pressing concern: Claere's dragon.
"We are unable to feed the beast, my lord," a nervous steward reported, his voice trembling as he stood before Cregan. "The men refuse to go near it. Even the bravest among them say they hear odd noises from its holding."
Cregan's brow furrowed deeply. "Are they afraid of a dragon doing what dragons do—eat?"
"It's not just that, my lord," the steward began, his voice shaky. "We simply do not have the numbers to sustain it. We've lost livestock faster than we can replenish, and there is not enough game in the woods this season. Our people will be left with nothing if it continues like this."
Cregan stood from his chair, pacing toward the hearth as the steward’s words sank in. Feeding Claere's dragon was becoming a task fraught with superstition and suspicion—neither of which he could afford in Winterfell. And now that dragon was a looming menace not just for its size, but even for its insatiable appetite. If they couldn't meet its needs, there was no telling what havoc it might wreak.
"I will take her out to hunt on the morrow," a hushed voice spoke up from across the room.
Cregan turned sharply to see Claere standing in the entrance, her pale little figure silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor. No one had even heard her approach.
A rush of murmurs, of "my lady" and "your grace", went across the sparse crowd in the hall.
For the first time, he noticed how discomfited she seemed with the attention on her. She had courteous bows for the little council of lords before she stood before Cregan, silvery hair left dishevelled and her thin lavender silks trailing by her feet. The toll of her attendant's dearth was evident, how she had to cope alone these past days.
“You heard all that?” he muttered to her, trying to mask the unease.
Claere nodded, unruffled. Then she mellowly addressed the rest of the council who was seated and the anxious steward.
"Luna will no longer be a burden to you," she assured. "Thereafter, I will fly her beyond the Wall. There must be plenty of wild herds there that would satisfy her. And it will keep her from Winterfell's rife supply for a time."
While the disparaged lord hung his head, Cregan's breaths began to constrict. The idea of Claere—of anyone—venturing beyond the Wall unsettled him, but the alternative was just as threatening. It was dangerous to let someone so young, so inexperienced roam in the ancient, Northern wilderness. The risks were too great, even for a dragonrider. His argument would be proved right by the last Targaryen who visited the wall, Claere's own great-great-grandmother, the Good Queen Alysanne and her dragon, Silverwing.
His gaze never left Claere as the lords around them voiced their concern, exclaiming how unwise it was for her to embark beyond Castle Black in such perilous times. Yet, she stood before them as cold and unbothered as ever, her violet eyes betraying no hint of fear or doubt.
"You plan to hunt beyond the Wall alone, as winter draws nigh?" Cregan asked, laced with tension. "You would risk that?"
One of his bannermen, old and discerning to the dangers of the North, came forth with an incredulous look. "A Southerner such as you would have no idea of the true perils beyond Whitetree, my lady. Five hundred years have passed since the last great threat, and still, we are not entirely certain what lurks in the darkness. If it isn't the cold that claims you, it might be wildlings or worse—barbed, spindly creatures, drawn from the blackest legends."
Claere tilted her head slightly as if the lord’s words were of little consequence to her. As if she knew something about the Land of Always Winter that he did not.
"Do not fret, ser," Claere replied, gentle yet astute. "Luna is fearsome when she needs to be. She is not just any dragon—she is the last living relic of Old Valyria, a mere egg when Aenar the Exile first claimed Dragonstone. She will protect me."
Her words should have been reassuring, but they left Cregan with a hollow pit in his stomach. It wasn’t her confidence in the dragon that troubled him—it was her complete lack of concern for the threats she would face. He had seen fear in men’s eyes before, but Claere’s violet gaze was barren, as though no amount of danger or uncertainty could touch her.
"You speak of Luna’s strength as if it is enough," Cregan finally said, his voice low. "But what of your own?"
"You needn’t concern yourself with my safety," she replied, her tone as impassive as her expression.
He studied her closely, weighing his options and her obvious solutions, searching her enchanting face for some flicker of apprehension. There was nothing. It irked him to no extent. Did nothing shake her? Did nothing put her off?
"I am the Warden of the North," he bit out. "Your safety is under my jurisdiction."
She shrugged one side of her shoulder. "Then it appears we have reached an impasse, my lord."
Her words were calm and detached, as though she were discussing the weather. Cregan's patience wore thin, his protective instincts clashing with her indifference.
He strode to her side, towering over her, his imposing figure blocking them from the view of the council. Claere leaned away, her eyes dipping down, her face contorting in disquiet at his proximity. Yet he pressed on, tucking a finger under her chin, forcing her gaze back to him.
"Don't," he tried to protest.
"Look at me," he urged, his grip tightening as frustration bled into his words. "I cannot risk you for something as feckless as a hungry pet. Do you understand me, Claere?"
Her gaze flicked up to meet his. For a brief moment, it was as if she were on the verge of revealing some hidden truth, some implicit fear or vulnerability.
"You do not risk me. 'Tis I who take the risk," she said, her voice painfully even.
Cregan's jaw clenched, his exasperation palpable as he released her chin, stepping back but still glaring at her. He could protect Winterfell, the North, and his people—but her? He was not so convinced anymore.
"Fine. Do as you wish," he surrendered. "Ride past the Wall."
She offered him nothing more than a parting curtsey as if she had already said too much. With that, Claere turned to leave the room but his words stopped her dead in her tracks.
"However, I will ride with you."
For a moment, she remained still, her back to him. Slowly, she turned her head, glancing at him over her shoulder. And finally—there it was.
A flicker of astonishment in her violet eyes. A break in the mask of indifference she so carefully maintained. Her lips parted, but no words came. Something deeper, more vulnerable, flickered in her violet gaze, a shadow of doubt or unease, quickly concealed again behind her calm facade.
"Why?" she asked, her foremost intuition to always suspect goodwill.
"It's not a request," Cregan replied, his tone brooking no arguments. "If you are to face danger, you will not do it alone."
Claere’s gaze lingered on him for a beat longer before she gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Without another word, she turned once more and left the room, the heavy doors closing behind her with a quiet thud.
Cregan stood still, watching the place where she had just been, and where no one could see him, broke out into a triumphant smirk. This was it then, a game at which two could play. If she was a tempest, then he would be the steadfast mountain, immovable against the storm.
X
thank you for reading! idk how a taglist works but I'd love to hear your thoughts <3
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r0-boat · 2 months ago
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Yandere Sitri headcannons
Aishite, Aishite, Aishite! Motto, Motto!
Cw: yandere themes, NSFW, baby trapping, Somnophilia,
Yandere!Sitri x reader
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As a being who studied in Hades, perhaps maybe even lived in Hades at some point no matter how long he has lived and served under the king of wrath He will never get rid of is that true deep feeling of envy that gnaws at his stomach like a venomous green-eyed beast. As he stared with eyes full of cold, callus hatred watching all of his colleagues and even other kings fun over you and fight for your attention.
Even Satan would not be safe, as Sitri a loyal Butler and follower his adoration for the King of Gehenna slowly being consumed by his envy of him.
He self-proclaims as himself being the closest to Solomon before his death. And not only that he falls deeper in love with you everyday. It was not just love It was borderline worship. Something that only angels could notice since this deep twisted feeling of loving something to the point of insanity was all too familiar to them.
Sitri was a devil. He couldn't lie to you directly, but he could still deceive. He could still manipulate you in another way, spin half-truths, and try slowly but surely to gain your trust to have you in his arms finally. He knows he'll have a lot of competition to win someone as precious as Solomon's daughter, But he feels confident studying in Hades. That is ruled under envy. He felt as though he had been training for this moment.
As the right-hand devil of a king so possessive as Satan, he has to work in the shadows. He does not have the luxury of being so public with his true desires. And how he thinks of everyone as savage dogs getting in the way. He must ensure that he should be your only choice in the end even if He needs to twist your mind to make you think lies.
However as a devil. The hardest thing he has to do is hold back every aching desire he has in him to not grab you hold you in his arms and drag you to the darkest depths of Gehenna's dungeon so no one, not even the king can find you. Scaring you away would be a death sentence or worse being pinned as a threat to not only your safety but the safety of hell itself.
So he bites his time patiently, waiting patiently, patiently! and patiently laying every card just right so he could snatch you up in the end. Occasionally, his mask does slip, something he could only do when he's giving you his "devil's energy" where you can write it off as some kind of kink. Or filling you up and hoping it takes. He knows very little on human anatomy but he does know that you would never want to leave if you knew you had a baby with a devil.
Hopefully by that time he'll have all his plans would be meticulously drawn out. And hopefully if all goes well after the war he will confess his true love to you and if you don't accept him you won't have a choice He will not leave you He will not let you leave him like last time.
Sometimes he will indulge in his desires sneaking into your room to listen to that soft low drum of that precious heart of yours. By that point he would be slipping more herbs in your tea to help you sleep deeper as he climbs into your bed to feel your body. Pressing his bare skin against yours he feels his cock hardening. Your name not your nickname, Your name slips from his lips like a silent prayer as his cock fucks your plush thighs.
Other times, he will keep notebooks filled to the brim with information about the type of toothpaste you use. He will know you and your body down to the kilogram. And, of course, Sitri will use that information to try to gain your favor.
And oh, how he would worship you; serve you like royalty and a lover. How he dreams of waking up to you snuggling against him so close that the only thing he can hear is the sound of your hearts intertwined, beating as one as you snuggle into his chest.
He's as intelligent as he is delusional, Don't even attempt trying to manipulate him He will see right through you. He will not punish or break you.
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gremlinmodetweeker · 4 months ago
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König AU Writing Masterlist
Masterlist
Konig Dump
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Happy Tails:
KorTac decided to rent some space in a small animal adoption cafe to provide an animal therapy program for their agents. König came for the snacks.
Intro [1] [2] [3]
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Summoned!CoD AU
Reader, or Summoner, was forced by the military to summon a beast of war to use in battle. Unfortunately, Summoner isn't great at controlling themselves, so they accidentally summoned a being far too powerful for any of you to control.
Intro
None of Your Shit
Ever Watchful
An Ant Among Men Among Gods Among Cosmos
Kiss the Ocean Kiss Yourself (First Kiss)
Accidental Meteor Showers
An Unexpected Appearance of Softness
A Question Best Left Unanswered
Sweets and Sours and Maggots
Circles of Stars in Cosmic Waltzes
Writhe Beneath Me
Silly Games for Silly People
A Step Through Time, A Step Closer
A Different Definition of Ash
In The Heart of My Mother I Laugh
Mistakes Meld Realities Together
Extras
The Best Song for Summoned!CoD
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Nice Kidnapper!König
To live is to suffer. Your existence feels meaningless, and you know that if you dropped off the face of the earth, nobody would remember your name. Your one chance of happiness was speaking to a nice masked man at a bar, but your 'friends' had cut off your time and stolen you away. Little did any of you know, he'd steal you back soon enough.
Intro [1] [2]
First Time Out of the Basement
Flickering Shadows Hide the Light
Cream and Honey and Thorns and Nettles
Ablutions with Acid
Carve the Fat
The Possibility of an Open Window
Do You Miss What You Had? Do You Miss Who I Was?
Long Pig
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A/B/O Universe
In a world where military soldiers are forcibly paired up with partners to produce more soldiers, König is paired with an omega O, and has to deal with the new changes in his life.
Intro
My Ever Empty Bed
An Olive Branch Among Thorns
Declivities
Two Can Play At That Game
To Market to Market to Buy a Fat Hog
Aren't You Tired Yet?
I Sit With You And Cry For What Could Have Been
The House is Burning, and Everyone is Laughing and Smiling [1] [2]
Kinktober
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Ghostbusters AU:
Who ya gonna call? GHOSTBUSTERS
New Recruit
A Conversation with Those Who Laugh at Death
You're a What Now?
Basement Bros
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Infection!AU
You've managed an off-grid farm ever since you parents passed. It's been years, but you've endured the winters and grown to be an incredible homesteader. However, that was before the lights went out, and the barracks north of you went to shit.
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Monster Trainer!Cod
Reader, code name Handler, is assigned by higher ups to be the Designated Operator of König, a rowdy and difficult-to-control jotunn/nachtkrappe shifter hybrid with a strange history of 'accidents' with his previous handlers. Your best bet to get by is to speak to others on base, but nobody is forthcoming with information.
Talking Heads Roll On Floors
Headaches Split my Skull, Stop Talking
Mischief and Mayhem
A Knot Undone Spills Forth Endless Possibilities
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Phantom of the Opera!AU
Inspired by a glorious ask, a version of Phantom of the Opera where König is our beloved phantom trying to save reader from the horrible fate of being seduced by a lover from the past with a dangerous agenda. König is a twisted man, but it takes a dark soul to recognize another, and so he will do whatever he can (from the shadows) to save his beloved songbird.
The ask the inspired it all
A Man Among Ruins
Lights Go Out I Wake Up
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Cannibal King!AU
Taking place in the world of Sons of the Forest, reader is trapped on a remote island. Soon she is kidnapped by a cannibal king. Once by his side, she learns that life in the woods isn't as painful as expected, adn that humanity comes in many forms.
King Cannibal Conquer Quest
Rest Well Reign Strong
Fuck Me Like A Bitch So I May Love You More
Stars Whisper Prophecies into Waiting Wells
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Local Executioner!König
Living in a small village leads to a tight-knit community. When you father left to be an adventurer after your mother passed in childbirth, you were taken in by the village baker, your uncle. You always avoided the public executions, but your uncle gets sick and can't go out to market to sell his buns on the very day an execution is slotted. You must go, and there you find a cursed outsider who sparks your interest.
Carve Out a Place for Me to Sing
Hope is in Buns, Life is in Stars, Promises are in Vain (Pt 2)
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Cat Hybrid!KorTac
Horangi and König are sick and tired of roughing it on the streets. They were born and bred to be soldiers, but the batch of kittens that were meant to be made into KorTac's next greatest soldiers escaped into the city, they had to grow up on the streets. They made their little gang, but Horangi and König always wanted more. One day, reader comes along and finds two sick kittens on the street. Unable to stop herself, she brings them in and nurses them back to health. She immediately regrets her decisions.
Intro
Konig and Horangi Refs
Hunters
Horangi Wink
Horangi's Hoard Art
Meeting the Human Forms (First Time)
Cuddling Konig
Move comic
Food Quality Ask
Get Out of There! Comic
Devourer of Treats Ask
Child Locks Ask
Art from This Post
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