#mighty mare

[imjulia-andilikecats]

Gotta Love Our General

[aprilcolours]

blackheart- part four

part one - part two - part three

A/N: warning: there is smut in this chapter!! A lot!! be warned!! s*x ahoy!! p*nsises and whatnot!! I’ve also started doing valyrian translations underneath the line bc there is a lot, and i'm taking liberties w black aly being witchy bc i wanna and its Cool

—

The night was young as they set out across the marshes, their horses galloping through mud and muck. 

Benjicot led the way on a black mare, their dark hair almost disappearing into the night. Just behind him rode Visenya, on a white-gray stallion. He had laughed when she picked it. 

She had changed into her favorite dress: a deep red gown with a scooping neckline, beaded and encrusted in rubies. It was odd to see her finery against the wild landscape. 

They rode North to his keep, their purpose known only to them. Vermithor remained behind, so none were the wiser as they secreted away. 

Raventree Hall was certainly not the largest castle she had ever seen, nowhere near as imposing as her home on Dragonstone. It had, however, a quiet grandeur, a dignity that spoke to ages long past and kings long dead. 

Entering into the central palisade, despite the late hour, servants immediately began rushing about, lighting braziers, making preparations for the liege-lord’s arrival.

“Maester Daris!” Benjicot called up into the hall. 

“So the rumors are true,” a woman’s voice rang out. In a doorway stood a tall thin woman with long dark curling waves of hair. She had a strange look about her, a bird-like turn to her features. 

The archer, Visenya thought, a witch they say. Black Aly, she is called. 

“The rumors of the Riverland’s witches?” Visenya replied, hair loose about her, but face impassive. The woman laughed with a nod, and bowed. Benjicot interceded to introduce, 

“My aunt, Alysanne Blackwood. And this is—”

“A princess who needs no introduction from you,” the strange woman interrupted, stepping into the foyer. “Go find the maester then,” she said, touching her nephew’s arm in reassurance. Benjicot glanced once between the women, before stepping up the stairs to wake the maester. 

“An honor, your highness,” Aly began, a cautious tilt to her words. “Would I be remiss in congratulating the joining of our houses?” 

“You would not, Lady Alysanne,” Visenya responded, her tone polite and unbothered. It was clear the other woman was sizing her up, assessing her, so she did not squirm. 

“The ceremony is to be held here? Now?”

“It is,” she replied simply, daring the elder to question her.

“You will honor our ways then I presume,” Black Aly stated, with a jut of her defiant chin. “A dragon’s maidenhead is a mighty sacrifice to the Old Ones, and I’m sure we will want all the divine favor we can manage for the war ahead.” 

The Riverlander witch spoke quietly, so their words were only theirs, but Visenya did not mistake the steel in her voice. 

My mother will rule these people, whoever their gods. And so she inclined her head in acquiesce. 

-

The ceremony was small, in the yard outdoors beneath the giant dead Weirwood tree: the maester to speak the words, Alysanne to provide a relative’s blessing, and them. 

He passed his family cloak over her shoulders, clasping it at her collarbone. The weight was comforting. 

When the Riverlanders finished their ritual however, Visenya asked for a cup of wine and a dagger. 

She raised the dagger to her lower lip and cut it, as she had seen her mother once do. She took a pull from the goblet of wine and then passed them both to Ben. He wore a slight smile as he mimicked her, slicing his own lower lip and drinking. The Valyrian ceremony was sealed with a kiss. 

Black Aly and the Maester wore twin bewildered expressions, but they witnessed the second ceremony all the same. Then they took their leave, walking back up the cobblestone path to the castle proper.

And they were suddenly, blisteringly, alone. 

Visenya’s eyes were wide in nerves, and something else stirring low and tumultuous in her gut, pupils blown open. She had always been able to maintain some small shred of composure around the subject of Bloody Benjicot Blackwood, but here and now she was stripped bare of all of it. She knew what came next and it frightened and excited her in equal measure. Here she could not be the princess, the commander, the dragon rider. 

Here, in this torchlight, beneath the grasping unknowable branches of the dead Weirwood, she was just a girl. 

She bit her lip nervously, and more blood from the slice beaded through. Benjicot lifted a hand to her face, thumb drawing across her full lower lip and smearing the blood across her chin. 

“What troubles you, wife?” he asked, voice so low it was barely a mutter. His eyes caught a flicker of the torchlight and flashed like a wild animal’s.

“Your gods are strange,” she breathed, trying like always to gain some control of the situation.

“Aye,” he chuckled. “So are yours.” Benjicot’s eyes softened then, the viscous gleam undercut by something else— something she did not dare name. He moved his hand to the back of her neck and palmed it gently. 

“We need not do this here, if you find it displeasing,” he offered, his other hand slipping to her lower back to toy with the laces of her dress. 

She considered it: a warm bed or the cool misty ground around her. 

And she kissed him. 

The cloak fell from her shoulders first. Then the tunic off his chest. Then his fingers tangled in the laces of her dress finally gave way. She may have heard some ripping and though it was her favorite dress, he was suddenly kissing at her neck, and she couldn’t be bothered to care. He licked along her jaw and down to the juncture of the shoulder and bit down, hard. She gasped loudly, breath misting in the night air. He passed over the bite with his tongue to soothe the ache and she shivered. 

Finally, the gown slid away, and Visenya stood nude before him. She wanted badly to cover her breasts but she dared not balk. I am a dragon for gods’ sake, she thought, and so she stood straight backed, silver hair loose and tumbling over one shoulder. 

He slid his hand down her neck and to her breast, peaked against the cold. He fell to his knees, hands sliding down her frame as he went. 

He kneeled for a moment before her, as if he worshiped at her altar. She ran a hand gently through his hair. 

Then he kissed at her navel, at her hip, and finally at her core. 

He licked into her, and this too, he did like a drowning man. She gasped, and breathed, and gasped again at the foreign sensations, so strong and new, as they rocked her body. While he sucked and tongued at her center, one hand crept up to her breasts again. He pinched one nipple, rolling it in his fingers, and it was all suddenly too much—overwhelming. She called out a gasping warning, hands gripped tight against his head, before her climax rang through her like lightning. 

Her spine shot straight, back arched up to the night sky, before she folded to the ground, her head and waist caught in his hands so he could lower her carefully. 

Safely laid against the ground, Visenya caught her breath. It seemed as if the world had shifted and she was now trying to find her way back to it. Blinking her eyes clear, she noticed the Blackwood above her, watching. His eyes were unfathomably dark. 

She glanced down quickly and noticed the straining bulge against his trousers. All feelings of trepidation gone, only bliss and quiet satiety left in their wake, she reached a hand down to pull at his belt. 

“Are you sure my lady,” he breathed, a grin slashing across his flushed cheeks. “More?” 

She aimed for her signature raised brow, though she felt so content she doubted she could manage it. He laughed all the same, kneeling back for a moment to undo his belt. 

He pulled his trousers down and his manhood sprung loose, arced with a curve that looked nigh painful. 

Visenya bit her lip again. Emboldened by the pleasure still quivering through her body, she reached a hand to it and ran a thumb across its beaded tip. It was then his turn to shiver. 

They kissed languidly, unhurried, as he situated himself above her, her legs parting naturally to bracket him. They fit together well, slotting into place with a long pull of tongue against tongue. She tasted herself on him. 

His manhood teased at her entrance, before slowly inching forward with a rock of his hips. She could hear a whining-moaning noise. Distantly, she was aware it was her. In tiny increments he sheathed himself fully, pushed to the hilt. The feeling was momentarily so intense that neither dared move, foreheads resting together. 

She was so full, every pleasured nerve drawn taught in the fullness. It was perfect and also agony. So she whined, kicking her heel at his back for him to move. 

He buried a moan into her neck, and obliged. 

They rocked together, slow at first but quickly building pace. The electricity began to arc up her spine once more and she clenched her thighs in warning. As she came, the reverberations of her body ripped his climax from him as well, in a stuttering, heaving, sort of groan. 

They lay together for a long while, and the blood and seed fed the earth beneath the tree. 

-

They returned to the war camp that night, nearly as the dawn broke, exhausted but happy. He lingered at her tent, hesitant to part. She gave a soft private smile. 

“You may stay. If you like,” she offered. He simply nodded his own small smile back, too content to be the biting grin he usually wore. 

-

After too few hours of rest, Visenya and Benjicot rose and dressed for the council. They traded lazy kisses in the golden light of morning. 

The morning, like always, brought news. 

Caraxes had landed nearby. 

-

Her father stood, posture as familiar and straight backed as her own, at the council table as she approached. His dragon helm was tucked beneath one arm. The other lords eyed him warily, speaking to each other in hushed tones. 

Visenya did not falter, striding into place next to him with her chin held high. Benjicot stood behind her a few paces, defensively guarding her rear flank. 

“Kepa,” she greeted. 

Father. 

Daemon flicked his eyes to hers, they were ringed with dark circles. 

“Olvie ēza arlinnon ziry vestragon,” he rumbled, voice rasping. 

Much has changed it seems. 

Something is different in him, she noticed. Her father carried a weariness he had not before his time at Harrenhal. She inclined her head in a gesture of respect. 

“Eman won ērinnon rȳ se Qelbria,” she proclaimed.

I have won victories across the Riverlands. 

She gestured at the pieces on the board and continued, “Eman gūrogon hāre sombāzmion sīr tolmiot.”

I have taken three castles so far. 

He nodded slightly, and she paused to take a slight breath before she continued, “Eman gūrogon iā valzȳrys hae sȳrī.”

I have taken a husband as well.

[deepperplexity]

Prompt 1: December Moon [A1]

Pairing: Colonel Brandon x Fem!OC

POV: First, OC

A/N:  IT'S THE FIRST OF DECEMBER! IT'S RICKMAS TIME!

I hope you're ready for a month of Alan Rickman fics - I certainly am even if most of them have yet to be done 😂 I have, however, managed to write the first draft of a few here in the beginning, and I'm super excited to kick this off in what is now the traditional way - with Colonel Brandon of course! 😍👏

Happy December, Happy First Advent, Happy Sunday AND HAPPY READING!

Tags/TW’s: First Meeting, Love At First Sight, (Light) Mutual Secret Pining, Miscommunication (Body Language), Fluff & Angst

Word Count: 4.1k

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

December Moon

There was little to do but wait. Mrs Marble fussed with my dress, Miss Abel forced my hair into an elaborate updo with entwined pearls and loose locks around my neck, and I stood there like a mannequin. Never had I thought December would be ruined for me. But, here we are, and I’m for once not a ball of sunshine close to Christmas.

“There we go, Miss. All settled,” Mrs Marble said with a twinkle in her little eyes surrounded by wrinkles. “You shall be the centre of attention, such a beauty you are, Miss.” My nose wrinkled at her words. In anyone's eyes, that was all there was to me. Beauty. Golden locks, hourglass figure, pale skin dusted with a blush to highlight my cheekbones, and clear blue eyes not unlike the sky during a cloudless summer day. My appearance to any and all was that of a stunning woman in her prime at twenty-one springs of age — soon twenty-two.

“Time to go, Miss.” “Give me a minute alone.” They nodded and departed while I stepped up to the silver-framed wall mirror displaying the entirety of me. Dreary… The only thought echoing in my head was a sad affair to have when looking upon oneself. My eyes were not bright today, my smile not flawless, my shoulders slightly slumped and the weight atop them only grew heavier by the minute.

Outside, the snow fell slowly, just enough to dust the ground in white but no winter wonderland appeared beyond the large windows lining one side of my bedroom. In the middle sat a matching door leading out to the stone balcony, which was privy to a beautiful view of our large gardens with fountains and a large span of open grassland beyond the intricate layout of the land created by a landscape artist.

I stepped out into the cold, my skin instantly pebbling in the light breeze despite my dress covering nearly every sliver of skin from my collarbones and down. The sound of carriages, people chattering, and hooves stomping against gravel travelled through the air and a sensation most dreadful crept through my veins. This Christmas would be unlike any other. No use dawdling any longer…

I sighed, and as I began to turn, a black dot appeared on the horizon where the grassland slope began tilting toward our estate. I watched for a moment as the dot became an outline of a rider in full gallop, and wished — for just a moment — that I could climb my mare and gallop across the grasslands for a while to rid myself of the weight resting on me. No amount of riding will ever be able to take away the demand to marry before the year is out. How cruel a demand… There is none I hold even the smallest amount of affection for, how can father demand such a thing of me?

⁛•⁛

The hall gleamed. The polished marble floors, the spotless mirrors and golden candelabras reflected the glow of thousands of candles and the odd lantern here and there. The entire ballroom I entered, at a slow pace so as not to ruffle my perfectly fitted dress too much, was a haven for all things white and gold. The two colours I abhorred, along with pink in every hue. Still, it was a wonder to behold. A fairytale-like sensation lingered in the warm air while jolly, upbeat music filled the whole space where the rich and mighty of society had gathered. None were the wiser, none knew the true reason for my father’s sudden invitation to a “December Ball” — it had little to do with the season, and everything to do with my unwed state.

When Mother passed during the early summer, he became obsessed with marrying me off. Always under the guise of me being protected… Lies. For one, I was in no need of protection, nor were I in need of any rich man to keep my house should anything happen to my father — I was the last and only living relative of our family so all would become mine once he was old and worn out of life. I was perfectly protected in that sense.

“Miss Haymnick,” said a man in his mid-twenties, his brown hair neatly trimmed and his green coat perfectly tailored to his lean body. “Good evening,” I said with a short nod and curtsey. “May I request a dance with the lovely lady?” How bold of you. “No, sir. I am not sure I shall dance this evening,” I said with a soft smile to ease the blow. He merely nodded and stepped away with a slight rush and pinkish ears.

I moved further into the room, watching the well-dressed people filling it. My eyes landed on my father, dressed splendidly as usual and with a glass of brandy in his glove-clad hand. He was a handsome man, my father, but he was handsome in the traditional way — the boring way that seemed to be all the rage with the three young ladies standing a tad too close to him (I was no fool, he was a sought after man, my father, but he would not remarry — my mother had been his all and I was all that was left of her so protecting my future heritage was a priority of his in turn).

My eyes kept skimming the faces and clothes of those all around me. They were mostly known to me, one way or another, but none had ever caught my interest and did not manage to do so now either.

There were such shallow values, such lack of depth in those within the confinements of the ballroom I nearly felt my own soul dim under the weight of finances, politics, and outer beauty not deep enough to allow any true value to shine. Do not judge so harshly. You don’t know every person in this room. My mind whined at me, and I had to yield under its words — yet still, I felt as if I had met every person now present. Of course, my father had only invited the grandest of the grand, the richest of the rich, the most important in society to this celebration — which purpose had not been revealed to those attending. Such fraud…

I turned and Lady Hilliard stepped up with her son in tow. Oh, fantastic. I steeled myself as she beamed at me and forced her son, Mr Timothy Hilliard, to stand a step closer to me than her. “Miss Haymnick, what a marvellous celebration your family has put together, such lovely decorations and such high spirits.” I curtseyed slightly. “Lady Hilliard, Mr Hilliard.” I looked between the two and they both greeted me with a curtsey and a bow. “How fine of you to attend our celebration of December’s arrival,” I said, smiling to the best of my capabilities.

Mr Hilliard’s eyes roamed all over my being, the way he studied my neck had me swallowing a lump. He wasn’t a nice man, or one I found particularly attractive even if he in general was quite the catch in most young women’s eyes. “We are so sorry about Lady Haymnick, Miss Haymnick. My son—” she nudged him forward “—wishes to offer his condol— Oh, my word, is that—” she interrupted herself as the pair’s eyes moved past me and toward the opened double doors of the ballroom.

I slowly turned, as many had begun looking the that direction as well. “Oh, my word, it is!” Lady Hilliard squeaked quietly, a nearly hissed whisper of shock. I could not fathom her reaction to the man, my own being completely different. I had no idea who the tall man with broad shoulders dressed in red, gold, and black was. That did not stop my heart from skipping a beat at his unorthodox beauty, though.

I fully turned without realising, watching the man stride into the room with a regal air about him none I had ever met before could ever match. He was stunning, straight-backed but not high-and-mighty looking. He appeared strong and unfazed yet the way he moved spoke of a soft elegance. What truly made my breath catch in my throat was his eyes, though. They were on the smaller side, but in the golden light they shined while speaking of uncharted depths hidden beneath the slight veil keeping his secrets safe.

As I had watched, stunned, he had moved through the room and were now passing me without so much as a nod to Lady Hilliard who tried fervently to catch the man’s attention. His eyes, though, were fixated on me. My heart thumped harder and harder until he passed me by and turned his head — looking in the direction of my father who now walked toward the man in turn with determined steps I rarely saw him stride forward in.

They shook hands, exchanging pleasantries I could not hear over the murmur and music in the room. “Lady Hilliard,” I said, without looking away from the man’s back. “Who is that?” “Who is— Who is that? My word, you are young, Miss Haymnick. That is Colonel Brandon. A fine gentleman, rich and proper, unreachable yet gentle in his manners. He was sought after in his prime when ladies would line up to attend his balls and gatherings. Well, the few moments he was at home, that is. The man has been all over the world, fought in wars and returned unscathed time and time again. His estate, Delaford, was in disarray upon his overtaking of it but now it is most grand.” She blabbered and rushed the words out in a quiet tone so none other could hear, but I did not miss the longing in her tone.

“Is he wed now, then? Being so sought after?” I never thought you’d be of use, Lady Hilliard, with your gossiping from one end of the country to the other. “Oh, goodness, no, Miss Haymnick. He never married, he never sought a wife after his first love was lost. He is a broken but fine gentleman. My niece would do him good,” she said, the last part slightly under her breath and as I watched her for a moment her eyes seemed calculating. “She is too young for him, but nonetheless, he would be a fine catch,” she continued just as quietly, and the hunger in her features made me wrinkle my nose in disgust. She was a prime example of all things wrong with all in the ballroom. It was only thanks to my mother I had turned out differently, if that is such a grand thing given my circumstances, I don’t quite know…

“He’s such a catch,” she continued and my eyes hardened. “Rich, fancy, away most of the time and— Oh, he’s looking this way!”

I turned my head, unable to untangle my features from the disgust and annoyance before meeting the man’s eyes. His eyebrows drew together, his head gave a slight tilt as I managed to school my face into indifference — removing the ugly emotions and hiding the absolute flutter of emotions he stirred in me. His eyes hardened, though, and his thin lips turned into an even thinner line a second before I averted my gaze as his handsome features turned too harsh for my heart’s liking.

“Excuse me, Lady Hilliard.” She gave me a nod at my words but her eyes were hooked on the handsome man who now had looked at me differently. Perhaps my father had said something not to his liking about me?

I had no idea, but for whatever reason, his eyes had turned sad when he viewed me and the veil I had noticed before had solidified in a sorrowful manner. I might have been mistaken, perhaps he’s just like all the other frauds here… Calloused, cold, money-hungry and politically attached. My shoulders slumped.

I grabbed the many layers of fabric to lift my dress, making my escape from the ballroom easier as I rushed my steps to get away from the room giving me a sinking feeling of despair. One of the men in there would have to become my husband, and the suddenly appearing ray of hope when Colonel Brandon entered with his beautiful eyes, soft yet strong elegance, and stunning features, vanished as swiftly as it had appeared.

There was no more to it, I would be wed to someone I had no interest in — someone who would never understand me, would never discuss the depths of poetry an entire afternoon or share my love of fictional stories all through the night, nor would I be able to discuss the intricate turmoil within an artist viewed only through the harsh brush strokes across a canvas painted many years ago.

I did not wish for a husband to keep me on his arm for display. I wanted no husband whose conversation was limited to finances and politics. No husband would ever suit me if he did not have a depth to his soul, a passion beyond money, or even a love of something that existed to please the heart and not the bank — something that garnered emotions without any further value.

I had walked myself right through the grand hall, out the doors, and along the gravel path around the house in my deep thoughts. I shivered in the cold evening air as the wind tugged on my hair and pulled at my dress.

The sinking feeling in my gut only ever grew with each passing thought, each hope of my heart being lost. I stopped at the frozen fountain, the ice glistened in the moonlight every moment the clouds parted above. My foggy breath seemed to shake out of me as his eyes haunted me — the way they changed without me having any knowledge of why. They had been so beautiful, so deep, so captivating when he passed me. Yet, when he looked upon me again, and our eyes had locked, his features had changed so swiftly.

“There is no hope…” I whispered while looking out over the gardens with a most forlorn sensation within my chest. “You will catch a cold.” I spun around, startled by the perfect voice taking me by surprise with my mind occupied of self-pity. “Who’s there?” I asked, looking toward the corner of the house where the silhouette of a man stood.

The silhouette moved closer, each step allowing me to see more clearly as the lantern light behind dimmed in intensity and the light of the pale moon turned brighter. Colonel?

My breath stuttered out of me, the wind tugged at the ends of his long coat as he walked toward me in a harsh stride. “You will catch a cold, Miss Haymnick,” he said anew, and I could have sworn my heart did a somersault at the delectable rumble unlike any other I had ever heard. “A lady such as yourself should not be wandering the grounds unaccompanied and under-dressed so late at night,” he continued and stopped just two steps away from me.

The clouds parted as I turned fully toward him. His harsh features were cold to view when his eyes seemed so closed off and empty. “Colonel Brandon,” I said and curtseyed. “Miss Haymnick.” He nodded his head deeply, his voice slightly harsh yet wonderful. “Have I offended the lady?” I blinked. “Excuse me?” He straightened. “I may be no beauty to look upon, but even that has yet to warrant such a display of disgust upon a woman’s face before introductions have even been made. Therefore, I ask, have I offended the lady in some manner?” he asked while holding my gaze captive.

I blinked a few more times, seeing the gorgeous man up close again — this time in pale moonlight — had my mind out of sorts and my heart in an uproar. He was striking, stunning, powerfully elegant. “No, you have not, Colonel,” I said, my eyebrows drawing together while his features softened a smidge. “Nor have I looked upon a handsome man as yourself in such a manner, sir.” He arched his eyebrow and a flutter broke out in my stomach. “I may be up in years, but I am not blind, Miss Haymnick.” “I’m sorry?” “You viewed me with the most abhorrent of looks, disgust smeared over your beautiful features. I shall not pretend I have not received harsh welcomes before, but paired with the lie you but a moment ago told regarding my looks I cannot—” “Lie? I have not lied, nor have I viewed you with disgust, sir,” I said, my hands balling to fists at my sides.

He reached up and unclasped his cloak at the neck. “You said I am a handsome man,” he said as he stepped forth, his voice slightly lower — softer. “After having viewed me with disgust, I find that to be a lie, miss.” He draped the warm cloak over my shoulders as I leaned back, taking half a step away from him before he had time to tie the string around my neck.

I glanced down, the fabric was lush and warm while thick and heavy at the same time. It smelled like heaven — of hay, horse, musk and wind. How something could smell of wind I could not fathom but as I drew a deeper breath to calm my raging heart at his sudden proximity it hit me with full force.

“There,” he said, taking a step back. “You ought to dress for the weather, miss.” I looked up at him, stunned at his sudden kindness amid the accusations of lies. “Thank you… But, wait, I have done none of the things you accuse me of, sir.” He arched his brow again. “A good person, as I have heard rumours of you being, ought to strive for honesty. No?” “I am honest!” I shouted and stomped my foot in frustration — Mrs Marble would have a fit if she saw my manners. “You saw me,” I continued loudly, “before I had time to—” no! He cannot know of anything, a man like him would laugh at the pitiful feelings my soul harbours. How could a colonel ever understand such things…

His eyes had widened, the shock of my outburst apparently enough to spook him out of the withdrawn, colder state he’d been in ever since our eyes had locked for a second time in the ballroom. “I am not lying, my good sir,” I said quietly. “A man such as you, so perfectly attuned to the world we live in, would simply not understand, as I cannot understand the likes of men such as you.” “Men such as me?” “Yes. Men such as you, colonel.” “And you have met many men the likes of me?” I merely sighed at his calm words, nodding toward the estate housing a party filled with men such as him.

He chuckled and shook his head slightly. My heart stopped beating for a second. “So that is how you view me, after a handful of seconds. Then I shall bother you no more, miss. Excuse me,” he said and clicked his heels before turning to leave. “Sir!” I called, not truly knowing why but my heart roared at him leaving. Something about him was so different to any other I had ever met despite the words I had just spewed in my dismay.

He stopped, only half turning so I could view his profile before he turned his head fully. I took a step closer, curious and something else moved around within that curiosity, too. “Yes?” His voice, so dark and deep, made a shiver slip down my spine. “Are you not?” I asked. “Am I not, what, miss?” “Like them.” “Life would have been easier had I been, but I’m afraid I must disappoint you.” “That does not disappoint me, colonel.”

His eyes widened as I took another involuntary step, something about him pulled me in and the more time passed the softer his expression turned and the brighter his eyes appeared. There were layers there, depth and that warmth I had always searched for in the eyes of others. So I stopped two steps away, spellbound by the beauty he was — even if that was shallow of me.

“Is it true? That you think me a liar for calling you a handsome man?” I asked quietly. “I am not a handsome man, make with that what you see fit.” “But, you are—” his eyes widened “—and I do not know what to make of the way you changed when you viewed me for a second time.” “You viewed me with disgust—” “I was disgusted by Lady Hilliard, for how she spoke of you.” “And, how did she speak of me?” he asked, his voice turning even softer yet it kept the depth that rumbled through me like gentle thunder in the distance. “I’d rather not say such things, but she wishes for you to marry her niece.” “Many wish to see their nieces and nephews wed—” “No, not like that, sir. She spoke about your-, your wealth and how you are never home.” “I am not home, for there is no reason to be. I have wealth for I have none to spend it on beyond the orphanage and my estate.”

I blinked at him, feeling lost for a moment. “If I had a wife, I would be here more. If I had a home, and not a mere estate, I would venture out into the world less. As it stands, none have caught my attention. That is, until tonight.” Why my heart faltered and saddened by his words I could not say. The man was far beyond me in years, he was a sophisticated and aged gentleman with beauty I could barely comprehend — every second I looked upon him he simply turned more handsome, inside and out. The way he spoke of a wife, of a family being what makes a home, it was beautiful and poetic.

“Then why are you standing here, sir?” I dared ask while I gripped the edges of the cloak he’d hung around my shoulders. “Because you are standing here, miss.” “I— I don’t understand, should you not pursue her before the evening ends?” “I am, by asking if I had offended her, given her change in view from the most beautifully wondrous look rivalling that of clear summer skies, to one as harsh and cold as disgust distorting her stunning features unlike any I have ever witnessed before.”

My breath snagged in my throat in the blink of an eye. My shoulders stiffened and as he held my gaze unyieldingly I turned warm on the inside. Those eyes had seen horrors and beauty all around the world, yet now they appeared solely focused on me with a warmth within them rivalling the sun.

“You find me beautiful?” I asked, my voice a mere whisper. “Most beautiful.” I sighed and averted my gaze. “As they all do.”

His cold finger came up under my chin and I jolted back. It was not proper for him to touch me, for us to stand so close with no chaperon near. “I apologise,” he said. “Have my liking of your appearance offended you?” I shook my head. “No, sir.” “Then why..?” “I am beautiful, sir. I am aware,” I said with a soft smile while drowning in his eyes that had gone most soft and deep. “It is not always something…” my voice trailed off, for how could I explain that my beauty was a curse in the disguise of a blessing?

“It does not matter, miss. I am no match for you, either way. I shall take my leave so another, more suitable match can sweep you off your feet as you deserve.” What a romantic thing to say… “I wish you the happily ever after you deserve,” he said a breath later and clicked his heels together with sorrow in his eyes that tugged at my heartstrings. I had no time to make my brain understand he was leaving until he was out of view.

I jolted. I finally connect with someone and I, what, shoo him away? Oh, no… I drew an unsteady breath, feeling that warming scent of him waft up my nose. I ran after him, my feet thudding against the ground. “Colonel!” I called as I rounded the corner, just as he galloped out of the gates too far away for him to be able to hear me over the snorts of the horse and spraying of icy snow around its massive hooves.

To Be Continued...

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

NEXT PART » Prompt 5: Open Doors [A2]

A/N: I'll be adding links to parts as I go along through Rickmas - so if you revisit or find Rickmas2024 later on you'll have access to direct links to continuations. My plan for this year is several serial fics and a few one-shots here and there as I know I'll get stressed and need breaks where I can just write whatever my little heart desires from time to time. Rickmas is INTENSE to write for, so 🙈

Anyway, how we feeling? We ready for this month's shenanigans? 😊

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[Dec:2024]

[kawakalalala]

Outlaw: 1

INTRODUCTION POST!

wc: ~1.8k

tags: pretty much just kissing, nothing too crazy yet!

a/n: thank you all so much for being patient with me while i crank this bitch out! i’m really excited to see what u guys think :3

You’d heard the voice before. Hundreds of times. His voice rattled your bones like a late August thunderstorm over the lake.

“Hands up.”

You turn with your hands in the air expecting just to see Jerry Anderson, the sheriff who’d been after you since you were old enough to run.

There was never even a thought to not run. You could weasel your way out of anything; you’d been running your whole life. But something in you kept you from grabbing at the gun on your hip.

“Ain’t nowhere to run no more, huh?”

You weren’t sure what came over you. ‘Easy’ wouldn’t have even begun to describe how quickly you could kill this man. In a hundred ways. But you knew what you needed, and you knew what the way to get that was. It was surprising for you to see a second person, behind him, taller and broader, with a face hidden by the shadow of a hat.

“Looks like it.” You drop down to your knees and lay down your revolver, kicking it out of reach. The Sheriff was surely on top of the world right now. He’d been trying to get you for years after the killing. It was personal, but not on purpose.

The broader figure starts to move, slowly becoming illuminated by the soft glow of your campfire.

You couldn’t remember the last time you saw Abigail Anderson. You almost didn’t recognize her, but there was no way you could've forgotten the way her freckles bit her cheeks, the soft bump in her nose, and the softness of her jaw. She’d worn her hair in a braid then too, but now it was long enough to dangle past her shoulder blades. Had that much time really passed?

She passed you and walked up to Belle, the liver chestnut overo mare. She wasn’t as fast as she was when you met her; she needed a little more grace around turns, and her white fur started to bleed into warm brown on her face. You loved her more than you could love anything, because there wasn’t much to love about the life you led.

“Don’t tie her to your horse,” you turn to face Abigail, “she’ll bite him in the ass.”

She exhales with the faintest likeness of a laugh.

“How d’ya suppose we’ll get her back to town then?”

You shrug, knowing she’d follow you wherever you went. You don’t notice you’ve been handcuffed until you go to stand up.

Jerry Anderson was kinder to you than he should’ve been, considering what you’d done to him. His hand is heavy on your shoulder as you pull yourself onto his wagon.

✦✦✦

You wake up to the light from your cell’s window prodding at your eyelids. Large enough to see everything, (including Belle, hitched up outside, still sleeping).

“They decide where I’m goin’ yet?” You shout at Abigail, scribbling away on some papers near the front door.

There were a handful of things that were convenient about your position: the sheer size of your town made it so it was only necessary to have a few cells in the sheriff’s department. (if you could even call it that.) And that you always had company.

“No. We ain’t even sent out the mail this mornin’. Give it some time.” She laughs.

“Whatcha doin' over there?”

“Nothing,”

“Well ‘nothing’ seems quite time-consuming.”

She finally turns around and looks at you, and you see her clearly now. The light scar across her cheek, her soft blue eyes, her supple, soft pink lips, and the toothy smile she gives you when she asks, “What are you getting at?” Seeming only slightly annoyed.

“Nothing.”

“I’ll be sure to get the mail with your papers sent out today,” A smile pulls at her lips, but you don’t notice it.

You’re picking at your nails when you ask, “This all you do all day? Seems like I’m a mighty fine companion to keep around.”

“What do you do all day then? Steal and kill?” She turns back around in her chair.

“Pretty much,” you stand up and stretch, a groan escaping your lips. “I love murder.” You try to stay as deadpan as possible, but you can't hold back a giggle, sitting down with your back against the cell door and peering out the window at Belle.

“I’m serious,” her tone changes, “Why on earth would you want to live runnin’?”

“It was freeing once, “ you tell her, the back of your head against the heavy metal bars of the door, “but freedom gets lonely sometimes.”

“Seems real convenient that this revelation is gettin’ had after you been caught,” there's an edge to her voice, but it’s still smooth and cool, like a stone in the palm of your hand.

“It ain’t no revelation, darlin’, I just finally made a choice,” you say matching her edge as best you could, “and your Daddy ain’t do no catching, I let him have me. ”

“Bless his heart,” she says, “but I’ll believe you there. He couldn’t pour water out of a boot if the directions were on the bottom.” You both laugh, and for a brief moment, you forget what brought you here in the first place.

She turns around to look at you. For a brief moment, you and Abigail are 12 years old again. The wind whispers her name, and you’re watching the sunrise on your walk to school. You like her because she doesn’t talk about boys. She doesn’t talk about much of anything. You like her company, and she likes yours. At the end of your twelfth summer, she doesn’t want to walk with you anymore, and you don’t ask, or even wonder why. You walk to school alone until you drop out at 15. You turn to look at her.

The door opens, and you watch as Jerry walks in. The way he looks at you makes your stomach churn.

“Mornin’ sir,” you smile at him, and he ignores you.

“You can put her outside y’know,” he says to Abigail, like you aren’t even there. “them stalls under the barn lock.” He laughs, and your blood boils.

“We’ll see.” Abigail tries to forget about the hard part of this job. She’s always trying to forget about the hard part of this job. She knew you once.

You hold your tongue until Jerry leaves. He talks to Abigail a bit longer, and makes another offer to “get rid” of you for her.

Part of him stays when he walks out the door. Suddenly you realize what you’ve done. The fantasy of a free life might’ve been attainable if you were a less successful bandit, but there’s no way you’ll ever be a free woman.

You’re never going to be free. You’re going to die here, with a failed childhood friendship and a man who wants you dead. You’re never going to feel the sun on your skin again.

You’re going to die here or somewhere worse. You’re going to watch your life walk by you and you’re stuck behind bars because of a stupid one-off thought you had. Your breathing gets heavy and your head spins, and suddenly you’re grabbing onto anything you can get ahold of.

You should’ve fucking shot him.

✦✦✦

“What in the hell was that?” her voice is cool and smooth, even when she tries to have any semblance of urgency.

“Dunno.” You’re both on the ground. Her right hand cradles the back of your head, holding your hair off your neck, and her left holds a glass of water to your lips.

“That ever happen before?” Her eyebrows are furrowed with concern, and you stay silent, taking a sip.

She doesn’t seem to mind. She watches you intently, readjusting her hand on your neck. You set down the water and look at her.

“Why’ve you been so damn kind to me?” Your eyes well with tears, and her furrowed brow softens, just a little. “I’m a criminal, Abigail, I’m not- I’m not a good person.”

“I ain’t a good person neither.” Her voice is almost a whisper. “Have some more water.”

“Okay.”

You’d never been one to listen to anyone. You were entirely uninterested in being told what to do. But the way she spoke to you was different. You didn’t seem to have a problem taking orders from her, because she genuinely seemed like she cared. She wasn’t patronizing or arrogant.

“I’m sorry I stopped being your friend.” Her hand is warm against your skin.

“That was so many years ago.”’

“Don’t make me less sorry.” Her hand moves slowly from your neck to your jaw.

“I’ll give you a second chance,” Your eyes dart from her blue eyes to her lips, and for a moment, everything goes silent.

“I’d like that I think.” She inhales sharply, and drops her hand. “I got some paperwork to fill out. D’you need anything?”

“Yeah, I think so,” You say before kissing her softly, just once. You pull away and look at her, and you lift one hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She looks at you like you electrocuted her. “Think that’s all.”

Something clicks in her head and she lunges to kiss you. It's sudden, but it’s soft. She’s soft. You reach down to replace her hand on the meeting of your neck and jaw, and she places another hand on the small of your back. Tension releases in your shoulders that you hadn’t noticed was there in the first place. You place a hand on each of her shoulders and push her backwards, still following her lips with yours. You can feel the muscle in her shoulders, but she’s pliable and obedient in your hands.

Your tongues dance against one another with the same cadence as the wind in the grass at the end of your twelfth summer. And as the light of the sun on your twenty-sixth summer falls over the same grass, you pull away from Abigail to look at the small smile pulling at her mouth, the flush across her cheeks, her pupils blown and her lips only slightly swollen.

“Whatcha lookin’ at me for?” Her voice is almost a whisper.

“You’re beautiful, Abigail. Damn near the most handsome woman I ever seen.”

She can’t bring herself to say anything in response. She can’t even bring herself to look up at you. She can’t bring herself to lock you back in here, and sit out at her desk and watch, let the state take you away and hang you for your crimes.

“I’m gonna get you out of this goddamn place.”

“You’re what?”

[bits-and-babs]

This is only the first of what I hope will not be too many, but here we go! 🗝 Joel Miller + Country cowbow aesthetic. Because why not?! <3

⋆ 𝐎𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐀 𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖

CountryCowboy!Joel Miller x f!Reader

word count: 1.1k

warnings: soft af, made my heart ache, playful flirting, literally such southern stereotypes written by an English Woman. Dry humping. 18+ ya nasties!

summary: Retired Rodeo-Cowboy Joel Miller settles down on his ranch with his number one fan.

joel masterlist I| main masterlist |I follower celebration I| ask |I

“They’re more hassle than they’re worth, y’know?”

A smile pulls at the edges of your mouth the moment his complaints reach your ears. His gruff voice drips with sarcasm, but you keep your eyes on the horses that prance around the paddock. They lift their hooves with synchronised grace, performing a dance as they clopped across the dried soil.

“That may be,” you muse, brushing your palms over the planks of wood that contained the mares. They’re beautiful beasts, their coats shining beneath the sunshine that the rim of your Stetson shields your face from. “But they’re mighty fine.”

The mocking southern accent you respond with has Joel pushing his elbow into your side.

“Hey!” You burst into a fit of giggles, the laughter bubbling from your throat before you’re able to suppress it. When you look up, Joel’s face is flat, that typical ‘Clint Eastwood Stand-off’ vibe that he always emanates, but his eyes betray him. There’s amusement swirling in his deep tan-leather irises.

Joel rests his palms on the wood, too, casting his gaze over the field. He’s handsome like this, you think, the dying gilded sunshine painting his face golden. It’s clearly crawled under his skin, cheeks glowing a subtle pink with sunburn and making the greys of his beard starker amongst the brown. His matching salt and pepper hair is windswept from working all day in the summer breeze.

It’s ridiculous, you think. All these years together, travelling to rodeos and spending most of your time hiding behind your fingers when he wrestled steers, you still felt the butterflies erupt in your stomach when you looked at him. He’d since hung up his bulldogging boots, ‘far too old to be wrangling bullocks’, and had taken up a much quieter life breeding horses for racing.

“You know,” Joel smirks, not bothering to look at you when he teases you, “You’re always talkin’ ‘bout how pretty they are but spend all your time lookin’ at me.”

“Shut up,” you scoff, tearing your eyes away from him and folding your arms across your chest with an indignant huff. The rumbles of a chuckle reach your ears, and you can feel your cheeks heat up.

“It ain’t so bad, you know,” he speaks softly, trying to ease your embarrassment, “It’s nice to know an old man’s still got it.”

You can’t stay mad at him for very long. That southern charm that effortlessly and unknowingly bleeds through each word works its way between your ribs and lassoes your heart with such ease. Again, you find yourself smiling, turning to look at him again. He’s unable to smother the grin that’s threatening to stretch across his lips, the edges of his mouth twitching.

“You’re not an old man,” you promise, reaching your hand across the small space between you. You hook your finger under the metal of his belt buckle and pull him towards you with a grin. He arches a brow at you pointedly, and you shrug with a grin. “Mhm, okay, maybe you’re a little old.”

“Oh yeah?” He smirks, watching you smooth your hands over his hips and waist.

“The kind of old that makes a man even more handsome,” you promise him, unable to look him in the eyes and choosing instead to drag your eyes over the tanned skin that glistens with sweat just beyond the collar of his flannel, “You age like whiskey, Joel.”

“Jack Daniels or Southern Comfort?” He asks, and you can feel his gaze dancing across your face, burning into your mouth and tracing your lips.

“Mhmm…” you hum softly, finally braving his stare and looking up at him. His eyes are dark with a rich need, hungering for your lips on his. “Redbreast.”

He can’t stand it anymore, you think, leaning down suddenly to press his lips to yours. They’re slightly dry from the heat, and you can taste the salt of his sweat. His body heards you against the fence, his work-worn hands dragging over your thighs and hips with a delicious hum that pools arousal between your thighs.

“Joel,” you breathe into his mouth. It comes out a little more desperate than you’d like, a little needier, but Joel doesn’t complain. His hands are hoisting you up, settled just beneath your ass, so your legs wrap around him.

“These fuckin’ jeans,” he huffs, frustrated when he lightly slaps your ass. Again, you’re laughing, knowing he hates them. They hug your figure just right, too tricky to get off in a hurry. “Just gonna have to make do, aren’t I?”

You’re unable to question him, to ask what he means, because he’s immediately grinding his hips against your own in a way that adds just the right amount of pressure to your clit through the seam of your jeans. Fuck, he’s rock hard beneath you, clearly turned on by your ridiculous teasing and the way you melted at the sight of him.

He swallows your moans with heated kisses, tongue dragging against your own. Fuck, his hands are squeezing at the flesh of your ass through the denim, enjoying the handfuls he steals.

It’s deliberate. The slow, heavy arcs of his hips when he grinds into you, focusing all the pressure on your clit with expertise only he could offer. He’d mapped out your body after all these years, the peaks and troughs of your structure memorised like the landscape of his ranch. Joel knew every pleasure point of your body, how to work them to his advantage and to your detriment.

“Fuck,” you whine softly, feeling him smirk into your shared kiss. Leaning your head back, you sigh when he pulls his lips across your jugular, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your pulse.

“Kiss your mother with that mouth, Darlin’?” He questions you, and you answer with a pointed, open-palm slap against his shoulder. He chuckles again, but responds with another heavy drag of his hips.

“Ohfu-“ you choke out, tears welling in your eyes. He just ruins you, just picks you apart and puts you together again so that all you can think about is the throbbing arousal that shoots up your spine.

“You gonna give it to me, Darlin’? Come on, Sugar. Come on,” he whispers to you, that gravelly tone sparking something honey-sweet inside of you. It’s not the lighting crack that he usually produces. No, it pours through you like molasses, slow and rolling and dripping between your thighs. A soft, drawn-out moan of Joel’s name pushes its way from your lips, and he praises you as your thighs squeeze him tight.

“Mhmm, Good Girl,” he hums, planting kisses along your jaw with a grin. “Don’t think I’ll have to work hard to wrangle you into bed, will I?”

He doesn’t.

END

[eye-of-mordor]

In one of the most ancient religious texts known to man, the Rig Veda, the fire-priest god Agni is described as having many different forms that consist of fire. One such form is the volcano, and is known as Vāḍavāgni वाडवाग्नि, which literally translates to 'mare-fire.' Many hymns to him in the Rig laud his great destructive power, such as the following that demonstrates ancient knowledge of water existing beneath volcanoes:

O Agni, thou of Godlike nature, sparest the stones, while carving up the brushwood. Then are they tracks like deserts in the corn-lands. Let us not stir to wrath thy mighty arrow. O’er hills through vales devouring as thou goest, thou partest like an army fain for booty as when a barber shaves a beard, thou shavest earth when the wind blows on thy flame and fans it. Apparent are his lines as he approaches the course is single, but the cars are many, when, Agni, thou, making thine arms resplendent, advances o’er the land spread out beneath thee. Now let thy strength, thy burning flames fly upward, thine energies, O Agni, as thou toilest. Gape widely, bend thee, waxing in thy vigour: let all the Vasus sit this day beside thee. This is the waters’ reservoir, the great abode of gathered streams. — Rig Veda 10.142.3-7

[sapphire-writes]

Winter Rose

pairing: Aemond x Stark!Reader

summary: Raised among wolves, and raised among dragons; throughout time Targaryens and Starks seem to find their way to each other.

warnings: mentions of death

word count: 2.3k

note: this is mostly fluff! enjoy my loves 💙

You had been a small child when your father died; when your elder brother Cregan was named Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. Though he was just a boy of three and ten at the time. You remembered the funeral of your father, the way Cregan held your small hand in his own.

“You need to be brave, sister,” Cregan had whispered in your ear. 

Your eyes were wide as saucers, gazing upon the still body of your father. You expected his chest to rise and fall, as though he were simply in a deep sleep. He remained motionless. You had only seen one other corpse in your life, that of your mother.

The image of her flashes in your mind. Beautiful, wild, and gone. Petals in the wind. Your father would lay beside her for eternity in the crypts of Winterfell. The thought comforted you, your parents in the earth below you, and your brother. Simply sleeping beneath the mighty fortress of Winterfell.

Cregan squeezes your hand. 

Your uncle, Bennard Stark, was to rule as regent until Cregan came of age. A feat that does not bode well when Cregan reaches adulthood. But Bennard succeeds nonetheless. 

You grow alongside your brother, both of you fierce, both of you spitting images of the First Men. Both are haunted by the ghosts of wolves before you. You and Cregan are one and the same until you come into your maidenhood.

That is when things seem to change between you, suddenly you are thrust into the role of a soon-to-be mother, though still unwed. Lords vie for your hand, present themselves to your brother for the chance to bed, and breed you like a prize mare. You are having none of that. 

“Lord Umber is a fine choice!” Cregan yells, running after you as you flee from the great hall.

“You heathen!” you snap at your brother.

You stop, causing Cregan to nearly run into you, glaring at your brother. 

“You’d ship me off to Last Hearth, is that it?” you accuse, “who’d do your booking then hmm?”

Cregan flushes with embarrassment. 

“I’d make do without you,” he says.

“You’re shit at bookkeeping,” you accuse. 

“You’re a lady, it’s your duty-”

“My duty!” you scoff, “How very convenient to you!”

Cregan frowns, visibly frustrated by your angry disposition.

“You like Lord Umber.”

You look at him incredulously. 

“He is my friend, Cregan, it does not mean I wish to bed him.”

“Sister, you must listen!”

But you are off already, across the yard, angry tears wet on your face. They do not last long as you hastily wipe them, crystalized in the cold air they fly like diamonds to the gravel below. 

The news comes to Winterfell when House Stark is invited to the capital to represent the North at King Viserys nameday. Evidently, all the great houses are to feast in the capital, with tourneys and celebrations to last for several days. 

“Allow me to represent our house, and when I return I shall not fuss about marrying Lord Umber,” you tell him, bile rising in your throat as you panic at the thought.

Cregan senses your hesitation. Brothers are like that, sensing your lies. 

“You shall?” he asks.

You roll your eyes. 

“I shall.”

The journey to King’s Landing is long and tiresome, taking the better part of a month. Layers of clothing are shed the closer you get to the capital, as the air around you warms, snow melts and flowers bloom. It is as though you are blooming as well, pushing through the soil and towards the sun.

You are presented at court, as unwed ladies often are, to the king and the royal family. Though King Viserys is not in attendance, represented by the Hand instead. 

The first of the festivities you attend is a tourney. 

“You do not wish to participate, my prince?” you ask, out of courtesy.

“I do not care for tourneys, my lady,” the one-eyed prince tells you, “I believe them to be a foolish waste of time.”

You smile slightly at his honesty.

“They are said to prepare men for the battlefield,” you tell him, “though I do not know whose enemy would wait for his opponent to pick up his sword.”

Aemond glances at you as you take a sip from your cup. He glances at the tourney field, understanding your jest as he observes two knights waiting to fight. A flicker of a smile appears on his chiseled face.

“Most knights simply wish for the attention of those of court,” Aemonn tells you, “Fame and glory; to be a page in a song.”

“To have the favor of a pretty girl,” you agree.

Aemond looks at you once more. A pretty girl. You meet his eye, smiling. Aemond looks away quickly, clearing his throat.

“Have any of these knights won your favor, my lady?” Aemond asks.

You shake your head.

“No, I am afraid not,” you tell him, “I prefer a real warrior to a pretender.”

Aemond watches as you excuse yourself and walk away, a curious expression on his face. 

The feast later that evening is boisterous and full of merriment and delight. It makes you miss home, an ache appears in your chest that you cannot shake. No matter how many lords you dance with, how many ladies you chat with. Though you wished for an escape, you so miss the walls of Winterfell. Cregan’s hand in yours. Perhaps he is right. Perhaps the North is where you belong. Winterfell, Last Hearth. Did it matter which castle, truly?

“My lady,” the voice of Prince Aemond pulls you gently from your thoughts.

He is kind, you can tell. Though his exterior is cold, reptilian almost. Like the snakes that slither in the greenhouses of Winterfell, searching for warmth and life in the frozen ground. Simply trying to survive. Aemond bows to you, offering his hand, violet eye scanning your face. 

You want to ask him about it. But you bite his tongue. You know all too well how people enjoy poking the bruises of others, teasing out the memories of pain a person holds inside them simply for their own selfish curiosity. You shall not be like them.

You take his hand and allow him to lead you to the dance floor. You cling to the young prince for the rest of the evening, finding calm in his cool presence. It is nice, standing beside him feeling as though there is no silence you need to fill. Feeling as though he simply enjoys that you are there. 

When you return to your chambers, a blue winter rose rests its petals on your pillow. You pick up the flower, inspecting it carefully between your fingers, the cerulean petals catching the moonlight. A reminder of home.

The remainder of your visit to the capital is spent on Prince Aemond’s arm. In the library, on walks through the gardens. He even entertains your passion for hawking, joining you as you travel into the Kingswood. It is nice to have a friend among so many dragons. Someone to talk to, someone who enjoys your company. 

As the days pass, you have collected a bouquet of winter roses; they sit beside your bed in a glass vase, the first flower only just beginning to lose its petals. They scatter across your chambers like freshly fallen snow. 

A raven arrives, confirming your brother’s visit to the capital. Cregan is often impatient and comes to the conclusion that he must join his sweet sister in the capital, bringing Lord Umber with him. A determined pup, your elder brother can be. 

Aemond senses a shift within you as you wait in anticipation, though he cannot quite figure out what the cause is. When your brother arrives, you avoid his presentation at court entirely. Though Cregan is relentless, and spots you as you attempt to escape to the gardens. In your haste, you nearly run into Aemond. You clasp his arm.

“Quickly,” you say nervously, shifting on your feet, “I must go, quickly.”

“It is your brother,” Aemond says, looking over your shoulder, “why do you wish to run from him? Have you not missed him this time apart?”

Aemond knows you have been missing him, missing home. It is why he took such care with the flowers left in your chambers. He had enlisted Helaena for help; winter roses are fickle plants that require delicate care outside of the North. 

“Of course I have,” you tell him, trying but failing to hide behind his tall frame.

Aemond smiles slightly as you grab his arm. Cregan has spotted you, a determined grin on his face. Lord Umber has joined him on his journey to King’s Landing. He has brought the wedding to you. There’s nowhere to run anymore.

“Then why do you hide little wolf?” Aemond asks, chuckling.

“He wishes to marry me off,” you tell the prince, “ship me off to Last Hearth.”

Aemond’s face falls slightly, he glances over his shoulder as your brother comes closer with each passing second. Aemond turns back to you, eye scanning the distressed expression on your face. 

You bring your gaze back to the prince, an idea coming to you. 

“My prince,” you say suddenly, “do you trust me?”

Aemond frowns, not fully understanding what you are asking.

“Of course my lady-”

“Then kiss me.”

Aemond’s jaw slacks as he looks into your eyes. 

“Quickly, please,” you beg, “Aemond.”

His eye flickers from your lips to your eyes.

“Trust me,” you say softly.

The one-eyed dragon prince needs no more convincing. He bows his head to your height, and you stand on the tips of your toes, hand caressing the back of his neck bringing his lips to yours. Aemond is gentle with the kiss, as though he has never kissed someone before. He nearly pulls away after the first peck, but you secure your hand on his neck, opening your mouth against his, deepening the kiss.

Something comes alive in Aemond as you slip your tongue into his mouth. Fire curls in his belly, desire lodges at the base of his spine, and his cock strains against his trousers as your nails scrape his scalp. 

You pull away when the sound of someone clearing their throat pulls you from the prince’s trance. Lips reddened by the hasty kisses, Aemond’s violet eye is wide as it meets yours.

“Sister,” Cregan says awkwardly, “It is good-”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Stark,” Aemond interrupts, nodding to the young wolf.

“Your grace,” Cregan says, bowing slightly.

“Delightful to be surrounded by kin,” Aemond tells him.

“Kin? I do not understand,” Cregan tells him.

“My betrothed has missed her brother for too long now,” Aemond clarifies, much to Cregan’s and your surprise. 

“Betrothed?” Cregan asks, looking between you two. 

“Yes,” you tell him, sliding next to Aemond, pressing your body against him, “Prince Aemond has asked for my hand. And I have accepted.”

Cregan’s eyes narrow, ever so slightly.

“Without informing me?” he asks.

“We wished to surprise you,” Aemond says softly, “your sister was so excited by your arrival, she wanted to tell you in person.”

You nod eagerly as Aemond speaks, and Cregan raises an eyebrow at you in question. You smile widely, showing too many teeth. A she-wolf, daring him to question you aloud. 

“Tis true, brother,” you tell him, “Who am I to deny a dragon prince?”

“I suppose if you did not want to, you would not,” Cregan says, sighing, “A stubborn woman, my sister is.”

“One of the many reasons she is so charming,” Aemond agrees, his words causing your heart to flutter inside your chest.

Warmth pools in your belly as the prince smiles down at you. Cregan raises an eyebrow, nodding in approval. 

“I dare ask, what else has entrapped your attention, my prince?” Cregan asks, “It is my understanding the Queen wished for you to take a wife for some time now, to no avail.”

Aemond nods.

“Your sister is a rare find, much like a winter rose south of the Wall,” Aemond begins. 

Your heart leaps in your throat. Though you had expected it, now it is confirmed. It was he who left you the flowers. He who took such care with them. 

“However, did you do it?” you ask, eyes wide. 

Aemond smiles at you knowingly. 

“Precious flowers take time to bloom, they require special care,” he tells you, “but they are well worth it.”

You flush at his words, believing he means more than just the flowers. 

“A marriage must be treated with such care as well,” you agree, lacing your fingers through his. 

Aemond’s hand is rough from training with the sword, but your hand fits perfectly in his. The warmth of his palm settles the flurry of nerves in your stomach. 

“Are you prepared to give this union such care?” Cregan asks, his voice hardening, “This is my sister you are marrying, and she deserves nothing but the best.”

Aemond smiles, looking down at your intertwined hands. His thumb rubs against the back of your palm. 

“I would gift her the world if I could,” he admits, “I promise you, I shall spend the rest of my days devoted to making her happy.”

Your eyes well with tears and your heart swells with pride at his words. You tug him closer to you, taking his other hand in yours.

“You must excuse us brother,” you tell Cregan, “though I have missed you, I require a moment with my betrothed.”

You lead Aemond away from Cregan, away from the curious eyes of court, until you are in a secluded area of the castle.

“Where are we going?” Aemond asks, a smile playing on his lips.

You tug him closer once more until you are pressed up against him.

“I wish to kiss my betrothed unwatched,” you giggle, bringing his mouth to yours once more. 

This time, you do not stop.

______________________________________________________________

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[throneofsmut]

Bound In Flames - Part 5

Eris Vanserra × Archeron-Sister-Reader || WC: 3.5k || Warnings: None

Summary: Feyre and her younger sister go hunting in the forest behind their family's cottage and go through life changing experiences.

****

The estate sprawled across a rolling green land. You'd never seen anything like it; even your former home and the Archeron Manor couldn't compare. It was veiled in roses and ivy, with patios and balconies and staircases sprouting from its alabaster sides. The grounds were encased by woods, but stretched so far that you could barely see the distant line of the forest.

Your awe might have overpowered your confusion at the sight of Feyre looking at the place as if it was wholly empty and silent. Above the array of amethyst irises and pale snowdrops and butter-yellow daffodils swaying in the balmy breeze, the faint stench of metal ticked your nostrils. Quickly realizing that she couldn’t see what you saw. Feyre couldn’t see all the fairies that were stealing glances at both of you.

The faerie meandered on ahead, leaping nimbly up the grand marble staircase that led to the giant oak doors in one mighty, fluid movement. The doors swung open for him on silent hinges, and he prowled inside. You felt for your knives, finding the feel of them still beneath your clothes comforting.

Feyre’s horse came to a stop of her own accord at the foot of the stairs. The message was clear enough. The towering estate house seemed to be watching, waiting.

You glanced over your shoulder toward the still-open gates. If you were to bolt, it would have to be now.

South—all you had to do was go south, and you would eventually make it to the wall. If you didn't encounter anything before then. You could make it but you wouldn’t risk losing Feyre. She tugged on the reins, but the mare remained stationary—even as she dug her heels into her sides. She let out a low, sharp hiss. Her knees buckling as she hit the ground, blinking as if bits of light were flashing in her vision.

She grasped the saddle and winced as soreness and hunger racked her senses. Now. You had to go now. You made to move, grabbing her arm, but she looked like she was going to pass out.

Only a fool would run with no food, no strength.

You wouldn't get half a mile like this. Wouldn't get half a mile before he caught her and tore her to ribbons, as he'd promised. She took a long, shuddering breath. Food. You need to get her food and water, then run at the next opportune moment. It sounded like a solid plan.

When she was steady enough to walk, you let go of her and left the horse at the bottom of the stairs, taking the steps one at a time. Arms hovering around her, just in case she did pass out. Your breath tight in your chest, as you passed through the open doors and into the shadows of the house.

Inside, it was even more opulent. Black and white checkered marble shone at your feet, flowing to countless doors and a sweeping staircase. A long hall stretched ahead to the giant glass doors at the other end of the house, and through them you glimpsed a second garden, grander than the one out front. No sign of a dungeon—no shouts or pleas rising up from hidden chambers below. No, just the low growl from a nearby room, so deep that it rattled the vases overflowing with fat clusters of hydrangea atop the scattered hall tables. As if in response, an open set of polished wooden doors swung wider to your left. A command to follow.

Tensing as you entered the room. Making sure to keep Feyre behind you.

A long table—longer than any the Archeron’s had ever possessed at your family manor—filled most of the space. It was laden with food and wine—so much food, some of it wafting tendrils of steam, that made your mouth water. At least it was familiar, and not some strange faerie delicacy: chicken, bread, peas, fish, asparagus, lamb… it could have been a feast at any mortal manor. Another surprise. The beast padded to the oversized chair at the head of the table.

You lingered by the threshold, gazing at the food—all that hot, glorious—food that you knew Feyre wouldn’t want to eat. Even if she needed it. That was the first rule humans are taught as children, usually in songs or chants: If misfortune forced you to keep company with a faerie, you never drank their wine, never ate their food. Ever. Unless you wanted to wind up enslaved to them in mind and soul— unless you wanted to wind up dragged back to Prythian. Well, the second part had already happened, but she didn’t know most of what she was taught was bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit.

The beast plopped into the chair, the wood groaning and in a flash of white light, turned into a golden-haired man.

You hoped your face remained an unreadable mask, blinking was the only reaction you’d show, as your worst nightmare became real. Continued to hope he didn’t know you or about you, even though you knew who he is—what he is—to you.

Feyre pushed herself against the paneled wall beside the door, you could hear her feeling for the molding of the threshold, trying to gauge the distance between her and escape. As she realized this beast was not a man, not a lesser faerie. He was one of the High Fae, one of their ruling nobility: beautiful, lethal, and merciless.

His nose, cheeks, and brows were covered by an exquisite golden mask embedded with emeralds shaped like whorls of leaves. Just like it was described in the stories you were told. It left only his eyes—looking the same as they had in his beast form, strong jaw, and mouth for you to see, and the latter tightened into a thin line.

"You two should eat something," he said. Unlike the elegance of his mask, the dark green tunic he wore was rather plain, accented only with a leather baldric across his broad chest. It was more for fighting than style, even though he bore no weapons you could detect. Not just one of the High Fae, but. . . a warrior, too. He filled a glass of wine from an exquisitely cut crystal decanter and drank deeply. As if he needed it.

"Who are you?" Feyre managed to say. His light golden hair was so similar to the color of his beast form's pelt. Those giant claws undoubtedly still lurked just below the surface of his skin. If the stories embedded in your memory were true.

"Sit," he said gruffly, waving a broad hand to encompass the table. "Eat."

You knew Feyre’s silence meant she was reciting the chants in her head, again and again. No doubt deciding it wasn’t worth it—easing her ravenous hunger was definitely not worth the risk of being enslaved to him in mind and soul. And you had never fought the urge to drag her to the table to eat and drink as much as you were now.

He let out a low growl, directed at Feyre. "Unless you'd rather faint?"

"It's not safe for humans," She managed to say. It took all your focus not to roll your eyes at her. But you couldn’t fault her, she didn’t know and you had never told her.

He huffed a laugh—more feral than anything. "The food is fine for you to eat, human." Those strange green eyes pinned her to the spot, as if he could detect every muscle in her body that was priming to bolt. And every muscle in yours was fighting to sit and eat for her sake or bolt with her. "Leave, if you want," he added with a flash of teeth. "I'm not your jailer. The gates are open—you can live anywhere in Prythian."

You could survive. Just needing to make it your family’s cottage—your real family’s cottage. And no doubt risk Feyre being eaten or tormented by a wretched faerie. But while every inch of this place was civilized and clean and beautiful, you had to get out, had to get back. That promise to your mother, cold and vain as she was, was all you had. You both made no move toward the food.

"Fine," he said, the word laced with a growl, and began serving himself.

You didn't have to face the consequences of refusing him another time, as someone strode past you, heading right for the head of the table.

"Well?” The stranger said, another High Fae: red-haired and finely dressed in a tunic of muted silver. He, too, wore a mask. He looked familiar but you couldn’t be sure. He sketched a bow to the seated male and then crossed his arms. Somehow, he hadn't spotted you where you were still pressed against the wall.

"Well, what?" Your captor cocked his head, the movement more animal than human.

"Is Andras dead, then?"

A nod from your captor—savior—whatever he was. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"How?" The stranger demanded, his knuckles white as he gripped his muscled arms.

"An ash arrow," said the other. His red-haired companion hissed. "The Treaty's summons led me to the mortals. I gave them safe haven."

"Two girls—two mortal girls actually killed Andras." Not a question so much as a venom-coated string of words. He glanced at the end of the table, where your empty chairs stood. "And the summons found the girls responsible." Not a question, a fact.

The golden-masked one gave a low, bitter laugh and pointed at you. "The Treaty's magic brought me right to their doorstep."

The stranger whirled with fluid grace. His mask was bronze and fashioned after a fox's features, concealing all but the lower half of his face—along with most of what looked like a wicked, slashing scar from his brow down to his jaw. It didn't hide the eye that was missing—or the carved golden orb that had replaced it and moved as though he could use it. It fixed on the both of you. On you.

Even from across the room, you could see his remaining russet eye widen. Something flashing in it, but as quick as it came it was gone.

He sniffed once, his lips curling a bit to reveal straight white teeth, and then he turned to the other faerie. "You're joking," he said quietly. "Those scrawny things brought down Andras with a single ash arrow?"

Bastard—an absolute bastard.

“And a dagger.” You added with a feral smirk and wicked gleam in your eye.

"And a dagger," the golden-haired one said tightly, repeating what you said, tracing the rim of his goblet with finger. A long, lethal claw slid out, scraping against the metal as you fought to keep your breathing steady. Especially as he added, "They didn't try to deny it."

The fox-masked faerie sank onto the edge of the table, the light catching in his long fire-red hair. “Well,” the red-haired one seethed, "now we’re stuck with the that, thanks to your useless mercy, and you've ruined—“

You stepped forward—only a step. Body moving on its own, you didn’t care being spoken about like but. . .Feyre. It was enough. Letting out a warning growl, sounding more animal than human, had them tensing. Even if they tried to hide it, you noticed.

You were noticing everything. As soon as you made it to the other side of the wall it was almost as if your senses were on overdrive. Like the fog had finally cleared.

"Did you enjoy killing my friend, human?" the red-haired one said. "Did you hesitate, or was the hatred in your heart riding you too hard to consider sparing him? It must have been so satisfying for a small mortal thing like you to take him down."

Scoffing, not bothering to hide the sharpness in your voice, “It doesn’t matter, whatever we say doesn’t matter, he’s gone.”

The golden-haired one said nothing, but his jaw tightened. As they studied you. You reached for your knives.

"Anyway," the fox-masked one continued, facing his companion again with a sneer. "Perhaps there's a way to— "

"Lucien," your captor said quietly, the name echoing with a hint of a snarl. "Behave."

Lucien went rigid, but he hopped off the edge of the table and bowed deeply to you. "My apologies, ladies." Another joke at your expense. "I'm Lucien. Courtier and emissary." He gestured to Feyre with a flourish. "Your eyes are like stars, and your hair like burnished gold."

Then he turned to you, eyes narrowing, mouth opening and closing before opening again, “You. You’re different. Who are you?” He cocked his head—waiting for you to give him your name. But telling him anything about you and where you came from—

"Her name is Y/n," said the one in charge—the beast. He must have learned your name at the cottage or when Feyre said it on the trek here. Those striking green eyes met yours again and then flicked to Feyre. “And that’s her sister, Feyre.”

“Sister?” The red head questioned, disbelievingly.

You held his gaze not wanting to give him any trace of a doubt about who you really were. What you were.

Then the blonde faerie looked to the door. "Alis will take you to your rooms. You could both use a bath and fresh clothes."

Suddenly there was a firm hand at your elbow, and you whirled around. Forgetting that you had to continue to act as humanly as possible. A rotund brown-haired woman in a simple brass bird mask tugged on your arm and inclined her head toward the open door behind her. Her white apron was crisp above her homespun brown dress—a servant. She wasn’t high fae, her ears were pointed but she had tree-bark like skin.

You barely made it a few steps before Lucien growled, "That's the hand the Cauldron thought to deal us? They brought Andras down? We never should have sent him out there—none of them should have been out there. It was a fool's mission." His growl was more bitter than threatening. "Maybe we should just take a stand—maybe it's time to say enough. Dump the girls somewhere, kill them, I don't care—they’re nothing but a burden here. They'd sooner put a knife in your back than talk to you—or any of us."

You tried calming your breathing, not clench your fists, but—

"No," the other bit out. "Not until we know for certain that there is no other way will we make a move. And as for the girls, they stay. Unharmed. End of discussion. Their life in that hovel was hell enough.”Your cheeks heated, even while you loosened a tight breath, and you avoided looking at Alis as you felt her eyes slide to you. A hovel you suppose that’s what your cottage was when compared to this place.

"Then you've got your work cut out for you, old son," Lucien said. "Maybe they can even train with the others on the border."

A snarl of irritation resonated through the air. From the blonde.

And before realizing what you were doing you pulled out of Alis’s hold, walking right up to Lucien, pushing him against the wall. You heard a chair scrap back and Lucien lifted a hand—stopping him. Stopping the other high fae. Your left forearm braced against his throat as your right hand now gripped one of your ash daggers, pressing it against his ribs—angling it at his heart.

“Watch it.” Your voice was lethally soft as you whispered your confession, quiet enough for only him to hear you leaned in, “I didn’t want to kill him. I said a prayer for him in his final moments. I stayed with him until his last breath. Holding him, trying to comfort him and let him know he wasn’t alone. But if your High Lord. . . you or anyone tries to come after my sister I will kill you. All of you. I won’t even use this dagger or an ash arrow. . . I’ll rip you apart with my bare hands.”

When you leaned back, his face was pale. In that moment you let him take in the death promise in your eyes before giving him a wicked smirk. Heading back towards Alis and Feyre.

The shining, spotless halls swallowed you up before you could hear what the blonde was saying to him.

****

Alis led you both through halls of gold and silver until you came to a lavish bedroom on the second level. Alis led you into one and three other servants ushered Feyre into the one across the hall. “Alis?”

“Yes?”

“If they hurt her, I’ll-“

“She’s safe.” She promised.

You’ll admit you didn’t fight that hard when Alis and two other servants—also masked—bathed you, cut your hair, and then plucked you.

You took one look at the velvet turquoise dress Alis had placed on the bed and wrapped your white dressing gown tightly around you, sinking into a chair and asking for your old clothes to be returned. Alis refused, “Princess, why would you want to wear those rags again?”

You stiffened at the word, the title—Princess.

“Don’t be so shocked. I can see your mother in you, Princess.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You replied nonchalantly.

She stared at you, and when you held her stare telling her you hadn’t worn a dress in years, and wasn’t about to start now, she stormed out. Not when you wouldn’t be able to move freely in it, to fight in it. For Feyre and you if it came down to it.

Bundled in your robe, you sat for minute after minute, the chattering of small birds in the garden beyond the windows the only sounds.

The bedroom was larger than your entire cottage. Its walls were pale green, delicately sketched with patterns of gold, and the moldings were golden as well. You might have thought it tacky had the ivory furniture and rugs not complemented it so well. The gigantic bed was of a similar color scheme, and the curtains that hung from the towering headboard drifted in the faint breeze from the open windows. Your dressing gown was of the finest silk, edged with lace—simple and exquisite enough that you ran a finger along the lapels.

The door creaked, and Alis returned a bundle of clothing in her hands. She lifted your sodden shirt. "You want to wear this?" You stared at the holes in the sides and sleeves. "It fell apart the moment the laundresses put it in water." She held up a few scraps of brown. "Here's what's left of your pants. Will you wear the dress now?" she demanded. You scoffed, you knew you should get up, should agree, but you slumped farther into your seat. Alis stared you down for a moment before leaving again.

She returned with trousers and a tunic that fit you well, both of them rich with color. A bit fancy, but you didn't complain when you donned the white shirt, nor when you buttoned the deep purplish blue, almost black tunic and ran your hands over the scratchy, golden thread embroidered on the lapels. The tunic resembling night. You rolled your eyes at her, knowing she picked this tunic for its color specifically.

Alis herded you into a low-backed chair before the darkened fireplace, and you didn’t fight back as she ran a comb through your hair and began braiding it. "You’re hardly more than skin and bones," she said, her fingers luxurious against your scalp.

"Winter does that to poor mortals. " You said, fighting to keep the sharpness from your tone.

She huffed a laugh. "Princess, you forget yourself. You are neither poor nor mortal. What would your mother think, hmm? What would the late Princess Rhaenyra think? ”

Meeting her gaze through the mirror, making sure to speak low enough so only she could hear you, even if it was just the two of you. You spoke through clenched teeth, “I’m only going to say this once. I’m not who you think I am. The Princess you knew is dead, she died when her mother did eleven years ago. That princess lost everything when she lost her mother. So this is the last time I’m telling you this, I’m not “Princess Y/n”. I’m just Y/n.”

Alis gave a curt nod, something like sadness lacing her features. She remained quiet as she finished braiding your hair. But once she was done, she placed her hand on your shoulder and finally spoke. “Be careful. Keep your wits about you. Some folk are bound to be upset about Andras. Yet if you ask me, Andras was a good sentinel, but he knew what he would face when he crossed the wall—knew he'd likely find trouble. And the others understand the terms of the Treaty, too —even if they might resent your presence here, thanks to the mercy of our master. So keep your head down, and none of them will bother you. Though Lucien—he could do with someone snapping at him, which you obviously have courage for."

When she realized you weren’t going to say anything, she gently squeezed your shoulders and then moved to open the door to the hall.

For other parts: Bound In Flames Series Masterlist

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12

Taglist: @historygeekqueen @cat-or-kitten @yeeyeebabe @khaleesihavilliard @impossibelle

*If you would like to be added to the taglist for this story or to my general taglist, please either reply to this post or send me a message.

[gildui]

cant stop thinking about gaz and his equestrian!reader partner. not the western trope, but an english rider.

with his sweet, saccharine smiles as he brings treats to the ladies at the barn. smooth talking them as you brush down your connemara. by the time you’re done and tracking him down, he’s got a group of ladies surrounding him, all enchanted by his stories and his cheeky, little smile. he’d just come to bring you your forgotten helmet, yet now, it was a requirement for him to stop by everytime you showed up for a hack.

suddenly everything is on the top shelf. polish? kyles got it. new set of stirrups? get kyle, heard he was helping muck a stall. saddle and blanket too heavy all of a sudden? huh, look there’s kyle carrying a water bucket. so convenient. your boyfriend is gone, no longer the lovable cuddle bug who’s awaiting you at home between deployments. now, he’s the new stable hand (unofficially, nevermind in the summer the ladies request his duties shirtless)

though the day comes that every rider fears. your little mare, tough as nails, but still spooked due to a branch a few inches off than normal on your route. out like a light. your mare gone. you’re crying, wiping your snot on your jumper when Kyle answers the phone, “babe?”

he’s greeted with more sobs—“she’s taken off, kyle” “i-i can’t bloody find ‘er!”—all he needs to hear is the small stutter in your voice before he’s signaling to his task force with a batman sigil.

cue the squad, he calls the scotsman first. who then calls the big brute with the mask, who then calls, Captain Price, the only one you know the name of. (it’s fucking gaz, we all know that boy gonna be YAPPING about his captain) and before you know it they are searching through the nearby trails with the grace of a special forces unit. who would’ve thought huh.

an hour of hunting and the five of them are walking through the brush. your mare’s reins in kyle’s hands, the bloke with the mohawk is seated on her back pretending to ride the mare like a knight and his mighty steed. leaving the two other men to trail behind in content silence.

even more hysterics ensue. you’re running to your mare—to kyle—unabashedly pressing kiss after kiss to his face in thanks. then, you plant a fat kiss to the mohawk fellow’s cheek and a smile and wave to the other boys. your horse, on the other hand, gets a stern look and she simply snorts at in you, ears lax. completely content despite the havoc she’s caused. fucking thing’s even snagged a branch to chew on as they strolled around.

it isn’t until months later—few deployments between—that kyle’s now riding next to you on your hacks. maneuvering your connemara with the grace and expertise of a rider who’d been at it for years.

just don’t tell him that, you’ll never live it down.

[warnersister]

Chapter 1 - The Return to Miramar

The Highwayman Series | Prologue | Chapter 2

‘No Entry – Construction (TRANSATLANTIC RAILWAY DUE TO FINISH 1869)’ the sign read and the frontman on his horse creased his brows into a tight and questioning line. “1869? But its 1863.” He said, voice in a questioning tone. “haven’t you heard?” his companion asked “east and west are racing to see who can build the most. Gonna be shut a while” he said matter of factly, while straightening out his mustache from where the Tennessee heat had frazzled it. The former grunted in response “this is our way though” “well were gonna have to go a different way hangman, don’t fancy getting Spitfire killed by a train” the other told him, motioning to the fine mare he was riding on. He nodded “yeah hornets too young for that, rooster you’re right. You know a different way?” hangman asked. Rooster thought for a minute, straightening out his mustache again, already bunching up under the springtime humidity – but this time, more in thought than in maintenance as he turned to look at his surroundings “already crossed Mississippi” he said, remembering when they’d crossed the mighty river – not wishing to back track on that path. “were gonna have to go the whole way round, through missouri – Kansas, take a left at colorado” “could we not go trough Texas?” Hangman asked, thinking of a shorter route they used to traverse a decade prior. Rooster raised his brows “aint Sherrif Simpson still after us?” he asked and his friend shrugged. “Already told the rest of ‘em to meet us in Louisiana and it’ll take weeks, months to get there if not, were good as dead if the Indians aint as hospitable again” there was silence for a minute “plus you’ve got a stache now and I’ve got this sweet bod, he wont recognise us” Hangman said, flexing while Rooster threw his head back and laughed loudly “bod ain’t as good as mine, bagman” Rooster said and the other shook his head “c’mon. Texas it is."

This route was fresh, recognisable but still; new-(ish). There were plenty of structures that were erected since they’d last abided there, especially in the Plains – a substantially belittled number of natives and much more Easterns who you could tell had no business being in Western heat – searching for green grass but getting tumble weeds in lieu. They’d reached their meeting point but a week later, reconsiliating with Coyote and Bob who’d been engaging in business up in the rockies, taking the strongest horses but only returning with one. “Hercules?” Hangman asked and bob shook his head “struggled all the way up, slipped, poor boy couldn’t handle it. Was cryin’ in the night he was. Had’a put him out o’ his misery” the four all bowed their heads and shook them in remembrance for their fallen companion. “damn” rooster said. “Well there's no way the two of ya can manage all the way to New Mexico on Chinook, let alone California” Hangman said. “we passed a ranch on the way down here in northern Texas, town called Miramar” Bob told him as Rooster and Hangman shared a look. “Ain’t that where we nearly got hung?” Rooster asked “sure is Brad.” Hangman thought for a moment “Good mares?” Hangman asked “the best” coyote said “young lady an’all. Mighty fine on the eyes” “guess we’re heading up North.”

The ride was slightly awkward with Coyote and Bob both on one horse, they changed primary rider every hundred or so miles – and it made it easier to travel at night, but still; a man wanted his own horse and Coyote was proud of Chinook, but the horse was starting to weary with some three hundred pounds on his back. But eventually they saw the sign. White lettering and red background, carved so deeply into old mahogany and almost illegible, but it was undeniably so: Miramar. So close you could almost make out Oklahoma, but far enough away and enough Stetsons present to recognise the contrast between what was and what wasn’t Texan territory. “where’s this ranch of yours, Bob?” Jake asked, swallowing harshly as he eyed the infamous town over his sunglasses; Bob pointed straight ahead, and adjacent to the Sheriff’s office, was an unassuming parlour attacked to a decently sized acreage of farm, a good seven or eight horses feeding off their dinner. “alright. Let’s get in and get out.” Jake said, instructing his horse to move forward as he did so. “you guys got history here or something?” Javy asked and rooster snorted “yeah something like that” “what happened?” Bob asked “lets just say he had a thing for the Sherrif’s daughter and he organised to hang him if he didn’t get out of town.” Rooster explained, recalling the events from what seemed like yesterday. Jake cleared his way as a way to get the lot of them to shut up. He still had the ring he was going to give her in his breast pocket.

They drew a lot of attention as they rode through town – strangers clearly dressed in travelling attire. But they were the Highwaymen, not pilgrims. Coyote hopped off the back of Chinook and Bob followed suit, heading to the girl who had their back turned to them, currently attending to a young pony who seemed to refuse to leave the refuge of her stables. “Excuse me, ma’am – any of these horses for sale?” “Uh huh the lot of ‘em” she’d replied, turning to the strangers to greet them as customers. Jake felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs. “jake?” “hey, petal” he replied, unable to muster anything else as he looked at you, still as mighty fine if not more gorgeous than he day he’d hit the road with rooster. You looked to his left and nodded “Brad” “hey pretty” after the short and unsweetened reunion. “Y’all should get off my ranch. My daddy still has a right mind lynchin’ the two of ya” you say smally, turning to reattend to the horse. “Still?” Rooster asked with a smirk but Jake was taking it more seriously as you nodded your head to the stocks “meaner than the day you left” “sweetheart-“ “I aint talkin to you, Jake” you say and look at your feet “look, my horse passed in the rockies; was hopin’ I could but a new ‘un to get us to California. Got any up for the job?” Bob asked and you looked at him. “Uh, we got a few. Albatros is gorgeous and strong, but I don’t think she’ll last ‘till Cali.” You place your hands on your hips, surverying the pack “Falcon, he’ll get you there but no further.” You say “that there” you point at the strong, pale coloured horse in the back of the field “Lightning. God he can ride, got the strength of Zeus. He’ll get you there, hell he’ll get you through Mexico and back. But he’s my favourite, he’s gonna cost ya” Jake smiled “God he was just a young’un a few years back. My, he's grown” he says, recalling the day he’d gifted you the horse. He’d saved up all his money, didn’t even steal him, brought him all the way from New Mexico. Didn’t even ride him, he walked on foot – made sure the mare had his breaks and god your smile when you accepted him. His hair matched Jakes, so he’d always be there when he wasn’t. “You’re willing to sell him? After all this time?” you finally look at him, pain apparent in your eyes “you left, Seresin” that hurt “you bought him as a reminder. Don’t need no reminder of you, boy” you say “well ‘m here now-“ “exactly.” You cut him off and there is a silence.

“How much for Lightning?” Bob asked after a while. “Make me an offer.”

Prologue | Chapter 2

[mightymareart]

A WIP sketch of a new Mighty Mare drawing I'm working on that shows her combat style. Mighty Mare relies on her larger frame and heavier mass to disarm and take out her opponents non-lethally.

[helaelaemond]

Osferth and #35

White Mustang - Lana Del Rey - 'caught up in my dreams / you held me a little too tight in your arms / I couldn't stop the way I was feeling the day [...] I saw your white mustang.'

Based on some of the comments in s4-5...... Osferth has turned into quite the womaniser. So have some Osferth angst.

Osferth x established relationship!reader, allusions to smut

"He's got a different girl in every town."

"Some towns he's got half a dozen girls."

"You're nothing special to him, love. Don't pin your hopes on a man who doesn't want you like you want him. You won't be the one he chooses."

The summer sun is warm overhead as you wash the sheets with your friends. You push your hair back from your face and sigh. "I know. I know."

And you do know. In your little town, there are at least two other women whose beds he warms when he passes through. He doesn't talk about it openly, but it's not a secret, either. But he's your one and only. You hope that one day, he will change his mind. That he'll choose you.

The women washing with you give you pitying looks, and it makes your cheeks burn. Their advice is sage, despite the cut of their words, and anyone sensible would heed it. Love is rarely sensible, though.

Two days later, Osferth arrives. He clatters into the town square on his white horse with a smile that lights up the sky. You watch from the tavern doorway with your feet rooted to the ground and heart racing. He does not notice you. There is a flurry of activity around him, so why would he? His words carry across the distance in drips and drabs - hints of my lord Uhtred, four days past, and forces gathering to the north. Once upon a time, you would have listened with interest, but now? Now it is only the sound of his voice that you care for. It is not deep or high, mighty or weak. Mild and unremarkable, it is. It makes your soul sing.

That evening, you return to the tavern for supper. Your master has an arrangement with the establishment to feed his washer women twice a week in exchange for their services, and you have been in their number for a few years now. This summer's eve, fish is served to you. It is a fine meal. It does not distract you from the sight of Osferth across the hall with another woman in his lap. She is prettier than you. More lovely by far.

The food is ash in your mouth.

You know that you shouldn't try to approach him this evening and spoil his fun, for he is wild at heart, despite his calm disposition, and that has never been a mystery to you - but you can't help yourself. Jealousy curls in you like a serpent, and it warps your smile into a pained grimace that does not meet your warm eyes.

You approach his table where he is kept company by laughing men and women. His gentle gaze sharpens when he notices you approach, and his pretty lips part. "Oh. Good evening." Osferth says your name, and it sounds like a prayer. Such power he wields without even knowing. It kills your sorrow for a moment. "Would you care to join us?"

The woman in his lap looks at you as if you are truly welcome - no threat at all. You were girls together. She knows you. Knows you do not compare. His hand is on her thigh.

"No, thank you. I wished only to bid you a good evening, Osferth. Your company has been missed greatly."

"As has yours, kind lady."

What's the point in hiding your red eyes? Everyone here knows of your devotion to him. They pity you, for it is not you. It will never be you. But when it comes to Osferth, you have no pride. Only love. And so when your eyes sting and tears fill them, you only smile and nod, and excuse yourself. It's a moment of weakness that makes you look over your shoulder before leaving the tavern, and a moment of joy is your reward when you see him watching you go.

On your way home, you pass the stables and peek in. His pretty, white mare is boxed away for the night. You pass her an apple that you picked earlier and she takes it from you without flattening her ears back. It makes you feel close to him. His mount likes you. Or, at least, tolerates you. Much like him. Toleration. No devotion.

The moon is shining above you when there is a knock on your door. You wipe the tears from your eyes, and open it. There's rosemary oil in your hair.

Osferth stands in the threshold. "Forgive me for the hour." He holds out a handful of wildflowers. "For you."

Anyone with pride would send him away. You have no pride. "Osferth."

It's sickening how widely he smiles when you say his name. "I've missed your voice a great deal."

"I've missed saying your name."

"Say it again. Please?"

Your eyes sting again. "Osferth."

He kisses you.

What is worse, you think later, is that the kiss does not last long. For after a tender kiss, he closes the door and sits with his legs crossed on your bed, and he talks with you. For what feels like hours, you talk together of what has happened in your lives since the winter you saw him last.

"You're unlike anyone I've ever met," he murmurs as you lie, face to face, on your straw bed. He strokes the hair away from your face.

"Is that a good thing?" you ask, butterflies in your stomach.

"I think so. You make me... you make me feel understood."

"You are understood."

He whispers your name. His lips are gentle against yours, his hand warm on your waist. It slides down over your hip and around the back of your thigh, and he hooks your leg over his. "Please," comes his request between deep kisses. "I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you, too." You drag your fingernails across his scalp and it brings a moan to his throat. "Stay with me tonight."

"There is nowhere I'd rather be."

"Did you have her?" The answer doesn't matter really, for he can have you either way now, too. But the question escapes you before you have the chance to catch it.

"No," Osferth breathes. His hips slowly move against yours while he scatters kisses over your jaw and neck. "She tried, but... all I could see when she kissed me was you."

"She is prettier than me."

"Yes." He runs his nose through your hair and whimpers your name. "But you are dearer to me by far."

You make his toes curl later. You know you make him forget everything but your name, and it turns his tender touches harder and more demanding, until his sweet lovemaking devolves into rough fucking. You take from each other over and over, giving as much in return, too. In your arms, Osferth finds bliss. In his arms, you take the love he cannot give. It's too much. It's not enough.

Morning comes, and you roll over with an ache between your legs and longing in your heart. "Osferth," you murmur sleepily.

The empty room offers no answer. There is no trace of him left, and you wonder if you imagined it all. Across the town square, Osferth tucks a vial of rosemary oil into his bag. He cannot take you with him. But the memory of you is something he will keep.

[idalenn]

The Endwalker Scion visit scene but instead of a Scion, Lillian gets Lolorito (Not a fic. Just copious amounts of outline notes that have a 99.9% chance of being written into The Fic because I like it so much)

Context:

In her lore the downtime between Mare and the beginning of the Final Days is quite a bit longer; long enough for everyone to set about rebuilding, reconstruction, or homecoming; forces pull back to their homes to lay down swords and find new purpose, Alisaie/Alphinaud mark out their road to assist Garlemald, etc.

During this in-between the Scion night visit happens in tandem with the dinner scene, and all the Scions are together but Lillian is absent, having locked herself in her Andron quarters for "X" amount of time and the Scions are torn on if they want her present in the first.

Per events in Garlemald, Alisaie, Alphinaud, and Y'shtola are rightly disgusted with her actions - and themselves, guilty over believing the Scions' part played in cultivating her behaviors; the necessity of the Warrior of Light in combatting primals, Ascians, and other world-threatening foes. Relentless in action, vengeful against oppressors: qualities left unchecked and deep down, appreciated, have now reaped senseless death and destruction in the empire eating itself alive from lack of purpose - and would be happier with Lillian not being there. The rest think it not right to have not at least extended an invitation, with Thancred and G'raha being more... (Understanding?) what with Thancred having experienced his own tumult of emotions where Ryne was concerned, and G'raha having literal centuries of amassed wisdom about trauma and other such psychology shapers. They eventually try to retrieve her, but she's already gone.

But Lolorito, the Monetarist, who repaid the loss of G'raha back during the events of the Crystal Tower to Sharlayan (by extension teaching Lillian some major lessons in politics and power) and now kicks his feet up there, ostensibly present to observe the new Sharlayan aetheryte tech and how it might impact his earnings from that sector (and definitely not going full "2012" because his informers caught wind of the Ragnarok thereby allowing an opportunity to weasel his way into buying a seat in exchange for secretly funding their project, which was looking mighty promising, what with the apocalypse literally moments from being brought about via Fandaniel) is in the perfect position to settle an old agreement made between the events of Heavensward and Stormblood. So, he gets to her first.

When the world was quiet for the first time in an age, he would ask Lillian again as he did back then if she wanted to join his business as envoy, bodyguard, and whatever else he needed in his plans to expand into Meracydia and Tural.

She doesn't accept, of course, but he wonders how long it'll be until she comes to terms with the fact that their world may have no great need of her again, and so must find a new purpose. Until then, he'll keep the position open.

[comikbook]

Mercy like song recs I didn't see on her playlist, but they're mostly by one artist because I'm insane; Bilgewater by Brown Bird lyric highlights in terms of Mercy likehood "Sunshine through the rain and snow, There’s an oily brine bilge water baptism waiting below." "When everyday is like a war, You find no strength from your usual source, There’s no peace, there’s no rest, Your fortitude is feeling put to the test. When everyday is like a war between the will to go on And a wish that the world would spiral into the sun, Turn your head toward the storm that’s surely coming along."

Slow Black River by Iron and Wine "Lost my watch, watch, and chain, But time's not lost, This time we walk together, Beside the slow black river." Chairkickers by Brown Bird "I own only what owns me, This place ain't my home but I'm calling it mine." "There are cracks in the minds of our own humankind, That are leaking out poison and hope, Which we choose to imbibe is our own to decide, Be it internal life or the ghost." Thunder and Lightning by Brown Bird "you sent the whole world away, and now you huddle there alone in your tower of tears, every step and every stone filled with millions of fears, your poison blood and brittle bones start to clutter and crack beneath your hell of a home." "cut down by the cruel and the crass fold, catch hell from the mighty and high, ain't nowhere left for the good to go, no truth in a world full of lies" "why do we cry cry our eyes out, in them low lowly graves, mourning all the times we would've could've should've had our way." Nothing Left by Brown Bird I can't highlight a lyric here because it's the whole thing. if you look at one, let it be this one. "And I'm bloodying the garment of a ghost inside, making damn sure the body doesn't die." Wrong Black Mare by Brown Bird "Daddy laid it all on the wrong black mare, Hopped the next train to God knows where, But God don't go where your daddy's gone, Where the cowards and the fools belong." "You woke screamin' to a frightening sound, And your mama laying on the ground, A bad man running down the back door stairs, Blame it all on the wrong black mare."

I ACTUALLY LIKE ALL OF THESE SONGS LMAOOOO I HAVE OTHER PLAYLISTS WITH ALL OF THESE HAHAHA

[skybrushus]

Another moment from my anthro MLP sword & sorcery dreamscape.    Applebloom's story was one of the more tragic aspects of the dream.  

      Originally Applejacks younger sister had hopes of becoming a Wolf Lancer like her big sister was. Link  When she came of age Applebloom enlisted in the Royal Equestria Army. She quickly showed potential and was soon given a small company of infantry to command. 

      It was during this time Al-Conikkrall the great lich/necromancer made his move to try and carve away a chunk of Equestria's borders to create his own lich kingdom. While other more experienced and stronger forces were sent to directly thwart the dark wizard's ambitions. Applebloom's company was assigned to hold a small, distant mountain pass stronghold. It was believed that this location was far removed from the fighting but was important to assure that commerce continued between Equestria and the lands beyond its border.  

     Applebloom yearned to be sent to the front line, but she accepted her orders and was determined to carry them out to the best of her abilities. However unbeknownst to anypony  Al-Conikkrall had plans to attack several of these passes and the fortifications located there. His objectives were to disrupt Equestria's trade with her neighboring nations. To sow the seeds of doubt amongst those nations that the kingdom could defeat him. Finally he wanted harvest more souls for their power, and to add more undead soldiers to his growing ranks. One of the strongholds his forces attacked was Applebloom's.

    Applebloom's forces put up a desperate defense but were no match for the onslaught that smashed into their tiny stronghold that night. The attackers numbers were too great and in their ranks were several very powerful necromancers and a lich-like construct who Al-Conikkrall could from great distances see through, manipulate, and cast his dark magics. Wielding a Sickle of Harvesting he tore through the mare's forces slaying all in his path and gathering their screaming souls. 

    Finally Al-Conikkrall came for Applebloom. With all her skill, courage, determination she attempted defended herself. The great lich found this young mare's efforts amusing and toyed with her. Slashing her with his sickle. Never dealing a lethal blow. Just playing with his prey. 

   Eventually Applebloom ran out space and found herself trapped on one of the high parapets looking out over a deep mountain chasm. With no place to run and no chance of defeating her foe the mare decided to deprive her enemy of her soul and threw herself over the parapet into the chasm below.

    She plunged into the darkness expecting it to be her end, but after a few seconds she realized she'd been falling for too long? She should've smashed into the jagged rocks long ago? Suddenly she found herself no longer falling and she was standing on solid ground surrounded by complete darkness. Uncertain of what this meant she stood there. The dripping of blood from her wounds was the only sound. However she soon saw a light approaching. A lantern carried by a hooded, elderly mare. The mare stopped a few feet away and addressed her. 

    "My dear foal do you know why you are here?"

    "Uh no ma'am." Applebloom replied.

    The old mare raised the lantern and as if to get a better look at her visitor. Then she lowered it again. "I am Lolinor, Bearer of the Lantern. I am the guide who leads the newly departed from one existence to another. Dear can you tell me how you came to stand before me?"

    Slowly Applebloom realized she was dead. Tears began to pour from her eyes as she told Lolinor of her final moments in the living world. Of the attack on the stronghold. Of watching her forces cut down by Al-Conikkrall's blade. Of her final decision to deny him of her soul. Her tears of sadness slowly turned to tears of anger and frustration as she described being helpless to save her troops from such a mighty foe. They'd been her forces and she'd failed them.

   Lolinor heard the mare's words and rage she had for the great lich. Gently she reached out and rested her hand on Applebloom's shoulder. "I understand your frustration and digust for what that lich has done. He's usurped the Great Cycle and denied thousands the right to pass on to the beyond. Worse he's condemned countless souls to a horrible fate as they are tortured and twisted to perverse desires."

   The Bearer of the Lantern took a step back. "I unable to leave my post. This is my destiny, but I am permitted to send a small number of worthy souls back to their starting point so they can finish some task. If you are willing to serve my needs I will grant you this." 

   So it was that Applebloom was returned to land of the living, but now she was Lolinor's champion in the land of living. Sent to strike down those who would destroy the Great Cycle. To aid her in her quest the Bearer of the Lantern gave the mare several powerful tools to aid her. 

   First and foremost is the scythe Wailing Vengeance. When swung the great blade howls like a legion of souls crying out for justice. With single stroke Applebloom can mow down great swaths of undead beings. The blade perpetually drips blood and if you look at the puddles that formed you can see tiny faces in the blood silently crying out to be avenged. 

   Around her waist is slung what appeared to be an old, worn cleaver. This was Spell Hewer. With it Applebloom can hack through many of clever spells and wards lichs and necromancers use to keep their souls out of the Great Cycle.

  Finally there is the Flames of Fate. These were candles Applebloom carried in a satchel. Each one represented a lich or powerful necromancer. The candle represent that of individual time in the living world. When lit and then extinguished before commencing battle they countered the ability of the opponent's soul to escape if struck down and prevented it form returning to its phylactery or other device used to cheat death.

  To aid in her efforts Applebloom can also call upon the Regiment of Revenants. An army of spirit warriors who have been wronged in the living world and sought to amend an injustice against them. Unfortunately one thing Lolinor cannot dois heal the wounds that Al-Conikkrall's blade has inflicted on the mare. Only striking down the great lich would cause them to finally heal. So they constantly seeped blood. 

  Now Applebloom walks the lands seeking to avenge the deaths of her soldiers and to rid the world of the undead and necromancers. I hope you like what you see. Please help make more art like this possible by supporting me at Patreon

[fort-new-dawn]

Pegasus, of the Sky

Pegasi are the smallest and most agile of the Alo* races, but don't let their tiny stature fool you. Bright and mighty are these little Alo, and known to be quite the warrior like race. They also happen to be the only ones who actively eat, hunt, and domesticate food stock of other animals, with sharp teeth and clawed grasping hooves to boot.

Heart Throb and Blazing Skies story before coming to the new world was a pretty simple one. Heart Throb was a young, un-braided** mare with very little idea of what she would do with her future, and in desperate need of money. So, to get by, she decided to work for Lord Blazing Skies and his personal seamstress. While Lord Blazing Skies, on the other hoof, is the youngest in a family of 15, struggling to find his purpose as a lord and as a stallion. He's cocky, foalish, and can be downright insensitive at times. But he has a good heart, and would never do anything to lose the trust of the Alo he's meant to lead. It does help that he has Heart Throb to keep him in line. She's not the type to sugarcoat what needs to be said, though she's far sweeter about it that Sunrise.

*Alo: a word used for Terra Equus, Pegasi, and Unicorns. Equivalent to using the term "people"

**Un-braided: unmarried, braiding is the term most use for getting married. One of the most common ways of showing you're braided is to have a colorful rope tied to your hair or feathers, it's not the same in every Alo country, but it's about as common as having a ring on you finger in the real world to show you're married