#oc: raven fury

[fangirl-1st-class]

I'll be your guardian angel

Till my last breath

[pumpkinraventrick]

My night fury self and my viking self!

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part viii)

a/n: today on a special angst-fluff episode, war is here. Claere faces off with Sylas and Cregan is pissed as fuck.

"The North remembers," they said, but in the face of dragonfire, memories of ash smouldered in secret.

The saying haunted Cregan Stark’s mind as he stared up at the approaching stone walls of Winterfell, each one steeped in history, in blood, in the scars of northern pride. The wildlings had brought ruin here before, flames that had charred whole villages and left deep wounds in the land and its people.

Now, with Sylas the Grim’s ruthless host threatening their borders, the North knew what it faced—a familiar terror comes to life in a new skin. And yet, this time, that terror was woven with something the North found even harder to bear: Claere. Their frustration with her burned as deep as their fear of Sylas. She was a tempest, one with a dragon’s shadow, and the tempest had now come home.

The ride back from Castle Cerwyn had been tense, Cregan keeping his jaw clenched as Claere remained distant, her silence like a wall. Her eyes held that distant, unreadable look he recognized all too well—the look that told him she was utterly unreachable elsewhere. And when the raven had come, when they’d learned the wildlings had already torn through Queensgate and were now barreling toward Winterfell, Claere’s decision was swift and absolute. She had urged her dragon, Luna, and flown on ahead, faster than any horse could travel, her need for solitude all too clear.

Back home, Winterfell was in turmoil. Word of Sylas’s raiders had spread quickly, stirring panic and outrage among the smallfolk and the highborn alike. Fear clung to the stone walls, and every murmur seemed to echo with the name of the wildling king who rode south of the Wall, the one who dared invoke a queen’s name—a southern majesty who bore a northern title, one that Winterfell was not wholly at ease with. But Cregan had no time for doubt or hesitation. His vassals, his bannermen—they would follow his lead or face his wrath.

In the great hall, the mood was dark and simmering, like a storm straining at its bounds. It has been this way ever since Claere had stepped foot into his home.

Lord Bolton, face sharp as a flint, crossed his arms and let his displeasure be known. “We’re to fight her war now, are we, my lord? Our sons and daughters—our lives spent to drive back the blood she’s drawn? What loyalty do we owe to a Targaryen?”

Cregan’s eyes darkened, his fists tight by his side, but he remained composed. “Our loyalty is to the North. This enemy does not care who reigns here; only Winterfell falls. And you will address Lady Stark with respect.”

Lord Ryswell, his brow heavy with disdain, shook his head. “But it is the White Dread's wings that drew their eye. This Sylas did not come for Winterfell—he came for her. Let her face him with her beast; let her burn them herself. Must we spill our blood to clean up her folly?”

Cregan’s hands trembled, his patience thinning like a frayed cord.

“If you would run when danger calls at our gates, then perhaps you belong south of the Neck, Lord Ryswell,” he spat, stepping toward him with a fury that made the air crackle. “Do not forget who leads here. You’re bound by the oath to fight for the North, and if you turn your back on that now, I will have your head before the wildlings can take it.”

Ryswell tensed, glancing around as other lords shifted uncomfortably. But he did not back down. “This is your queen’s doing, Lord Stark. She must carry the burden she’s brought upon us, and not cower behind our banners while Winterfell suffers.”

With a flash of uncontained rage, Cregan seized Ryswell by the collar, his grip vice-tight, fingers digging into the thick fabric as he hauled the lord off balance. The impact against the stone wall was brutal, echoing in the quiet tension of the hall, and Ryswell’s startled breath hitched, his eyes widening.

Cregan leaned in, his face mere inches from Ryswell’s, voice low and simmering with menace as he hissed, “If you question my wife's allegiance to the North, then you best prepare to prove yours. She has done more for my people than your risen banners.”

Lord Bolton dared to govern order over the Stark court. "My lord, please—"

“Let me make one thing clear." His voice reverberated louder. "I will fight for her, and the North will fight for her—whether you bend or break.”

He released Ryswell, who stumbled back with a dark glare, but Cregan paid no more heed. He swept his gaze over the others, a steely finality in his eyes.

“We stand together, or our realm falls.”

Unbeknownst to them, Claere lingered in the archway of the hall, a palm against the cool stone as if bracing herself against a tidal wave. She had known the risks, known the delicate line she walked when she ventured past the Wall. And yet, in the depths of her mind, she had believed the danger would end there—with her. That it would be her own fate to face, her choice to defend, and her consequence to bear. She had never thought it would ripple out, consuming not only Winterfell but every corner of the North in the threat of savage war. Now, with Sylas the Grim bearing down on them, the cost was spreading like poison through a wound, infecting all she held dear, casting a shadow over the very halls that had given her sanctuary.

The impact of her actions goaded her, as though Winterfell itself whispered its disappointment. She felt her stomach churn as Cregan's voice rang out, his fury cracking against stone and iron like thunder, defiant, desperate to protect her.

“And I will not allow any man here to see that happen.”

But she could feel the resentment in the lords' voices, their scorn a silent sentence upon her. Their words seemed to cut deeper than any northern frost, digging into her heart until the shame became unbearable.

Without a word, she turned away from the door, her footsteps echoing hollowly as she walked into the dim solitude of the hall.

Claere moved through the towering gates of Winterfell as if stepping out from a world she could no longer right. The northern wind tore at her cloak, pulling stray strands of silver hair across her face, but her gaze was steady, her jaw set with silent resolve.

Just beyond the walls, Luna lay blanketed in a thin dusting of fresh snow, her pearly scales glinting beneath as she shook herself free, the icy fragments scattering around her like stardust. Claere approached, running her hand along the dragon’s warm, rumbling hide, fingers tracing the edges of Luna's scales.

"Eman naejot addemmagon se odre," she said to herself and her dragon. I have to pay the price. Only me.

Luna’s golden eyes narrowed as if the dragon understood more than the simple cadence of her words, the fire at the heart of those depths a spark of both promise and warning. The dragon let out a low, vibrating hum, pressing her enormous head down toward Claere in something almost like tenderness. Claere, hands splayed on Luna’s snout, whispered into the space between them, her voice scarcely above a breath.

“Iksan zūgagon, Luna," she admitted in a whisper. "Kessa ao dohaeragon nyke?” I am scared, Luna. Will you help me?

The response was a fierce snort of smoke as if Luna were granting her blessing and all her reassurance. It was not enough.

Dutifully, Claere climbed the ropes of the saddle and mounted her steed, her knees pressing tight against Luna’s warm scales, and then, with a shout that cut the still air—“Soves, Luna!”—they took to the skies. Fly, Luna!

The winds sliced against her, battering her with an unyielding chill as they soared. She had forgone her riding leathers in the haste of her choice, the coarse wind whipping at her skirts and cloak, cutting against her skin. But the discomfort was a faraway thing and such was the spontaneity of dragonblood. She flew fast, intent, her mind ablaze with thoughts of everything she had left behind and what lay ahead. Her vision sharpened as she scanned the frozen lands below, hunting for signs of the enemy’s encampment.

And finally, there—sprawling like some savage scar against the land—a camp of tattered tents and ash-dusted fires spread in defiance of the snow.

The wildlings’ camp was a raw display of grit and disorder, tents lashed together with hide and bone, rings of fire smouldering where warriors gathered in restless clusters. The sight of her shadow looming overhead sent them into frantic motion; men and women darted for weapons, cries ringing out as they readied for the worst. But Claere had no intention of launching fire or fury from above. She descended steadily, bringing Luna’s menacing form to the ground with a long, deafening roar that sent nearby men staggering.

Two wildlings rushed forward, their faces painted in streaks of ash, axes drawn, arrows already nocked in their bows. They moved with lethal purpose, but Claere was unfazed, her gaze like tempered steel.

“I must speak to the one who calls himself Sylas the Grim,” she called, her voice emphatic, tenacious.

She could feel the wild energy of Luna at her back, a silent reminder of the fire she could unleash with a mere command. Her heart hammered in the pause, yet her expression held no threat, no violence. Instead, her intentions were more profound—steeped in duty and sacrifice, fueled by a desperate love that outweighed all her fears. She was not here to rain death but to offer herself to the one who wanted her, the one who had torn peace from her hands.

“Tell him the Dragon Queen in the North is here.”

X

Claere stepped into the dim tent, the heavy fabric rustling behind her as it closed, sealing her within a space that reeked of sweat, smoke, and damp fur. Her eyes adjusted to the flickering torchlight, revealing a figure looming at the centre—a man so solid and coarse that he seemed an extension of the savage north itself.

Sylas the Grim. He was far taller than Cregan, broad-shouldered and massive, his age betrayed by streaks of grey in his wild mane of red hair. He wore pelts and leathers, smeared with the earth and blood of countless battles and raids, and every inch of him seemed sharpened by a life spent enduring the elements and taking what he desired.

Two guards, as fierce as hounds, lingered on either side of him, but with a single dismissive flick of his wrist, they shuffled out.

"I want her to myself," he said to them.

Sylas’s mouth twisted into a grin that split his face into his bushy beard, yellowed teeth gleaming. His eyes traced her form with a gluttonous curiosity like she were some rare prey he’d finally snared after a long, arduous hunt. Claere moved further into the tent, her posture poised, her gaze inscrutable, her calm an unsettling contrast to the predatory air he exuded.

She dipped into a curtsey, uncertain how a man like this might wish to be addressed. “My lord, allow me a proper introduction. I am Claere Stark, Lady of Winterfell.”

He let out a bark of laughter, coarse and unrestrained. “My lord? Am I your lord? I'll be King Sylas soon enough.” His eyes roamed over her, lingering at her shoulders, then her face, savouring every inch. “You’re too little for a queen. Just a baby. How old are you?”

A faint chill settled into her voice. “Six and ten, my lord. My mother is still the queen.”

Sylas’s smile widened, a feral gleam lighting his eyes. “And you will be someday. You're already a woman.”

The words hung between them, fraught with the ominous weight of his intent. Claere’s pulse quickened beneath her skin, but she remained as marble, knowing his hunger for power, for something beyond the life he’d known, radiated from every gesture. Her dragon, her birthright, the North—these were the spoils he craved. He leaned forward, his massive figure closing in, an aura of raw ferocity emanating.

Sylas's lips twisted into a grin that dripped with satisfaction as he stepped closer, his broad frame casting a shadow that swallowed the light around them. He folded his arms, leaning back with a smug, wolfish glint in his eye.

“Did you fly all this way for me?”

“I did, my lord.” Her voice was measured, smooth—a tempered blade he hadn’t yet managed to dull.

“Oh, I like it when you call me that,” he mused, his eyes glinting with perverse pleasure. “Makes me feel like a god.” He let the words roll over her, savouring each one, circling her like a predator with fresh meat. “So,” he continued, his voice lilting with mock surprise, “you’ve come to beg for mercy, then? The little queen, down on her knees? Not to kill the Stark boy?”

Claere lifted her chin, her expression as serene and cold as winter’s first frost. “You wanted me,” she said, her words quiet, unyielding. “Now you have me.”

A ripple of something feral passed through him, his grin widening into a leer, his pride feeding on her defiance.

“I don't plan on letting go. Now tell me, does the North know it bends to me through you?” His gaze roamed over her, possessive, as if she were no more than a prize he had finally claimed. “I wonder, does the wolf know that his doe strayed into the wild?”

“If you require words,” she replied, “then speak them plainly. But do not think to bait me.”

Sylas let out a bark of laughter, filling the tent with his raw, unrestrained mirth.

“Words, little queen?” he sneered. “No, I’ve got no need for words. Only the strength to take what’s mine.” He took another step toward her, his gaze alight with victory, his looming presence attempting to smother the quiet resolve in her eyes.

"Winterfell,” he paused, his gaze hardening, “the Iron Throne. And with you by my side, the North will rule the South.”

She saw it now, the intent beneath his words, as clear as day: he wanted her claim, her blood, her dragon—and through her, dominion over the entire realm. He sought the legitimacy of her claim, so unlike the Free Folk who lived outside the law. She felt the desire in his gaze sharpen, like a wolf that had tasted blood. Claere remained unbowed, every inch of her regal bearing intact, meeting his eyes with a steady defiance that amused him.

“You're a pretty girl. None are like you past the Wall—shiny things are rare in the white woods,” he mused, lifting a calloused hand to touch the edge of her lip with his thumb. His skin was rough, the gesture slow and deliberate, a feigned intimacy that carried a threat.

“I've heard about your kind. Nasty cunts, you lot. Kings with dragons for cocks. Queens that piss fire. Brother-fuckers. What were you doing out there in the snow, hm?”

His thumb lingered, the weight of it pressing against her lip, but her eyes were deadened, as though she were looking through him rather than at him. His proximity, his words—none of it shook her. She saw him for what he was, a man intent on conquest, and she would not give him the pleasure of rattling her.

“Only what’s trivial to your eyes, my lord,” she answered with measured calm, her gaze unwavering.

“Aye, maybe so,” he grunted, though the words fell bitterly from his mouth. His gaze hardened, refusing to be bested by her poise. “But you were still stupid enough to catch my eye.” His words held the bitterness of a hunter who’d finally cornered the game he’d long sought.

In truth, Sylas had spotted her months before, that slip of silver moving through the snow, a ravishing figure set apart from the northern world. He saw his chance then—a dragon rider alone, his path to dominance over more than just a scattered wildling host. He could claim the North through her, and if fate allowed, the world beyond it.

Finally, he moved his hand away and stood back, his grin widening. “But why’d you come to me? These are my lands now. You could’ve burned all my men from up there with that dragon and saved yourself the trouble.”

Claere gave a small, almost careless smile, the tilt of her head catching the dim candlelight in the tent. “You wanted me, didn’t you?” she replied, her voice smooth, level.

Sylas let out a scoff, though the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “Came for a good fuck with a king?”

Claere blinked. “I've got that settled, my lord.”

“Ooh. No, no, that’s not it. I see it in those weird fuckin' eyes.” He bent to her eye level, the smell of woodsmoke and something sharper coming off him in waves.

“You came to kill me,” he said.

“Hmm.” Claere’s lips curved slightly, her smile a barely there promise, tinged with dark certainty. “Fortunately for you, it isn't my hands that bring your death.”

The smile faded from his face, leaving a flare of anger there, a crack in his façade. His eyes narrowed, and before she could move, his hand shot out and twisted in her thick braids, pulling her head back roughly, his face inches from hers. Claere stubbornly smothered a cry of pain in her throat.

“You think that wolf of yours is going to protect you, huh?”

Claere only sighed, her calm as impervious as ever, even as her hair tugged sharply. Her eyes, blank as winter’s endless fields, never left his face, every ounce of his threat barely a breeze against her. And just as he opened his mouth to press further, a shadow passed over the tent, the sound of heavy breathing growing closer—a thunderous exhale, deep as the earth.

“I was born with a guardian.” Claere countered softly. “My dragon is here. The wolf is a blessing.”

Sylas’s fingers twitched against her scalp, but his grip was weaker now, a flicker of doubt creeping into his predatory stare as Luna’s shadow shifted just beyond the tent walls, her breath a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the earth beneath them.

Claere’s eyes glinted with quiet defiance as she met his gaze, her lips barely moving as she murmured, “I could say the word.” Her voice was silk over steel. “Let her burn us both here, finish this battle before it ever begins. But my husband waits for me—and he’s ready to repay in kind.”

Sylas’s face twisted, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You think I'm scared of that boy? I killed his Night's Watch commander. I killed all those crows. I rode through the Wall for you, little queen, I don't care if he's shitting bricks when I put my axe in his head.”

“Strange,” she replied smoothly, “that you would bring all these men to capture a single girl before you march on King's Landing.” Her gaze drifted over him, cool and measuring. “Or is that all you can manage, my lord? Three thousand strong, and not a one with the grit to face the boy who stands in your way?”

He sneered, tightening his grip on her hair, another now closed around her neck, yet something in his posture had faltered, his shoulders stiffening. “I don’t need to fight him to take what’s mine.”

“Then why not march to Winterfell yourself?” Her smile was taunting, almost pitying, like a spark dancing in the shadows. “Do you fear he’ll be waiting for you at the gates? Do you fear he'll cleave your head before you can cross him?”

Sylas’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes blazing with something close to fury.

"I've seen Cregan Stark fight," she went on. "He doesn’t tire, doesn’t yield. Your three thousand could be thirty thousand, and it would make no difference. You cannot break him, he is winter itself."

His grip on her hair tightened. “Careful, girl. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”

“But I am,” Claere replied, unruffled, leaning in until her voice was a whisper only he could hear. “You know it as well as I do. Your strength lies in numbers, yet here you are—grappling with a girl and a shadow.” She leaned back, bored now. “Go home, Sylas, if you value the lives of your men. They didn’t come here to die for your pride.”

Sylas’s sneer softened, a slight uncertainty that only strengthened her resolve. He might have come to conquer, but at that moment, it was clear who held the true power in the tent.

A sudden blink released him of hesitation. His fingers roughly released Claere’s hair with a grudging smirk, as though her words had somehow shifted the game in his mind. He let her step back, looking her up and down as if appraising a newfound bounty. A flicker of excitement gleamed in his eyes—a dark eagerness that reeked of arrogance.

“Go on, then,” Sylas drawled, waving her away with a lazy flick of his hand. “Run back to your wolf and tell him I’m coming. No more raiding, no more warnings. I'll take his head his doe and the entire North at Winterfell’s gates myself.”

Claere held his gaze as she stepped back, unruffled, allowing a cool smile to curve her lips. She brushed her hands down her silver curls, arranging them around her shoulders patiently.

“Tell him yourself. I’m certain he’d love to hear it from you. My husband loves a good fight, you see.”

Sylas laughed, a booming, feral sound. “Oh, I will. I’ll bring him to his knees, make him watch while I put a prince in your belly. You’ll forget that Stark soon enough, little queen, or he'll just go deaf from hearing you scream.”

His smile was wide, boastful, but behind it lingered the faintest hint of unease—a silent recognition of the words she’d left with him, like whispers of ice drifting through the heat of his fury.

“Primitive talk from a primitive man. You’d better bring all of your legions, then,” she replied, her voice soft, but her words as pointed as any blade. “You’ll need them.”

“Little silver-haired bitch,” Sylas indistinctly growled under his breath, as if speaking aloud would bring forth the White Dread's fiery ire.

And with that, she politely inclined her head and turned, stepping out into the icy winds with her chin held high, leaving Sylas in the shadow of her dragon’s looming presence, casting him in darkness.

X

Cregan sat hunched over a sprawling table strewn with hastily drawn maps, half-finished sketches of battle formations, and advice from every corner of his bannermen. Some had urged caution, wary of the wildlings’ numbers and the risk to their forces. Others, bold and battle-worn, advocated for a bold strike north, encouraging him to meet Sylas with all the fire and fury of Winterfell’s strength. Yet for all their words, Cregan found himself constantly drifting back to one thought—to ride north alone, with Ice at his back, and hack down the wildling scourge himself.

The capriciousness of his decision kept him so absorbed he didn’t hear the door open or her soft steps on the stone floor. It wasn’t until she brushed past him, a warm hand resting on his shoulder, that he looked up, startled. All the exhaustion in his eyes fled, a reaction to whenever she graced him with her presence. He sat up straighter, eager to have her close.

Claere. She wore a faint smile, so casual, so beautiful, like she hadn’t spent the last days keeping to herself, hiding in plain sight, avoiding him like winter's fever. Before he could speak, she leaned in and kissed the arc of his cheek.

"Husband," she greeted quietly.

He stilled, pleasantly confused, but found himself responding instinctively, returning her kiss with a soft press of his lips to her temple. She stood beside him, hands clasped behind her back, violet eyes inspecting his plans, her experience an unspoken mystery. A hurricane in the guise of a summer breeze.

Then, he noticed it—a faint, unfamiliar scent. His brow furrowed as he sniffed the air again.

“What is that?”

She held his gaze, placid as ever. “Dragon. I was riding Luna,” she answered, her tone simple, almost childlike. Her eyes sparkled with innocent mischief, but the smell lingered, feral and sharp, more like wild meat than dragon flight.

He looked closer, and that’s when he saw it—a sickly green, darkening bruise hidden under the veil of her silver hair, two thumb-sized marks pressed just below her hairline. He stood up, anxiety overwhelming in a second, reaching toward her, but she sidestepped him smoothly, her gaze sliding to the floor.

“I fell,” she murmured, her voice light as air.

He let out an incredulous laugh, reaching for her chin to tilt her face toward him. “Here I thought you despised lies.”

Claere’s cool, unflinching gaze remained fixed on the floor for a long, unbearable second before she lifted it, unbothered by his anxieties.

"I flew to the wildling camps on the undern. To meet with Sylas the Grim.”

For a heartbeat, there was only stunned silence.

Cregan's hand dropped from her chin, falling to his side as if struck. Finally, when her situation registered, the words came, heated and fierce.

“You what?” Cregan’s voice was low, simmering. He rubbed at his eyes, sighing out, before he pointed to her bruise. "He did that then?"

She nodded. "I pushed him too far. My mistake."

“Are you mad?" he hissed.

She swallowed hard, stroking at the numbing bruise on her neck, and said nothing.

He flouted her concerning remark. "I defended you to my council—to men who would sooner see you gone than risk their lives for you! I’ve called all my banners, raised every able sword in the North—for you—and you thought it wise to stake your life before that wildling scum?”

He looked at her, half-expecting her to flinch under his fury. But she only watched him back, observant, enduring as stone, her lips pressed thin. Her calm only ignited him further.

“I spent hours preparing our defences, convincing them to stand with you, while you—” he clenched his fists—“while you went and met with the very man who could've struck you down with his bare hands. Alone!”

The crack came swift and sharp—a fire flaring to life behind her violet gaze, a flash of defiance as fierce as the flame inside her.

“I don't care, Cregan. I wanted to do the same for you.” she snapped, her silver tongue lashing. “I want to defend you. To protect you, before Sylas. For you.”

A tremor silenced the room. It was the rarest thing, her rage—rare, and somehow more daunting than his. It stole his breath and wiped the words clean off his tongue.

Cregan stared, thunderstruck, a storm gathering behind his eyes. Her words seemed to settle into him only slowly, like a wound too deep to notice at first. Claere’s fingers twitched at her sides, her lips pressed tightly together as if she were struggling to hold back her own words. She looked away, jaw set with a resolve that didn’t quite hide the tension beneath.

He exhaled harshly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Claere…” he began, voice rough with something caught between anger and hurt, “Do you even realize how careless this was, love?”

Her words came out painful. "It's all my fault."

His expression shifted, his initial anger tempered by an ache in his gaze as her admission, bare and raw, settled over the room like the aftermath of a storm.

“It’s my fault,” she echoed, her voice breaking just a little. She didn’t look at him, didn’t dare meet his eyes as the shame tightened in her throat. “I did this. They are right.”

Cregan felt his own frustration melt, a tide pulling away to reveal the harshness of his own words. He moved closer, his arms reaching out but stopping short, hovering as if afraid she’d slip through his fingers.

"Sweetling. Claere," he said, his voice a mere plea. "There's no use in laying blame, especially on you. You know I would raze half these men myself before I let them tear you down."

She shook her head, her hands clenching at her sides. “I've been an impediment for too long. We both know it. I expected things would change with time. Yet I'm playing at something I never will be...” She trailed off, and a heavy silence settled between them, her own helplessness almost unbearable.

Like hell, he would let her forget her worth for a piece of piss.

He reached for her, fingertips tracing the edge of her cheek before coming to rest under her chin, tilting her face toward him with evident resolve.

“The North will fight, but not out of fear or obligation. Because of you,” he declared to her, his voice rough with feeling. “You are of Winterfell now, Claere. And for that, we will fight.”

For a moment, her gaze flickered with uncertainty, her lips pressed tight, yet he held her there in his arms, grounding her with his assurance.

Gently, he brought her into a kiss, his lips brushing hers with a tenderness that spoke of comfort and promise alike. His hands cradled her face, his fingers threading softly through her hair as if each touch could smooth away the weight she carried. The kiss was slow, unhurried, he tasted the salt of her worry and the steel of her will, sensing the guardedness that lingered beneath her quietude. Yet his touch was firm, anchoring, a proof that there was nowhere safer, no one more ready to bear her burdens with her.

When he drew back, he lingered close, his forehead resting gently against hers, his eyes flashed with something like awe, and a low chuckle escaped him.

“You must tell me, how in the gods’ names did you manage to meet Sylas and walk away with but a bruise?”

Claere shrugged with quiet, unassuming grace, her gaze sliding past him as though recalling an idle, inconsequential memory. “I spoke with him, that’s all. Said what needed saying.”

He continued to prod. “That is all?”

“Yes. I simply suggested that if he truly wanted our kingdom, then why he hadn’t contested the King in the North himself instead of raiding innocent villages .” Her eyes met his with a calm intensity. “It seemed only fair.”

He let out a surprised laugh, brows lifting, “Fair? You took his mind off his prize and sent him marching for my gates, thinking he had something to prove?”

She simply pursed her lips, cool and composed, as if she hadn’t, with a few words, diverted the entire course of Sylas’s plan. “A bit of truth and a bit of pride can go a long way with a man like him. I thought you’d understand that.”

Her eyes flashed, calm yet watchful, and beneath her delicate, almost passive demeanour, there was a quiet ferocity that struck him. She had always worn her strength in the subtlest of ways, but in this moment, he saw her for what she truly was—a fierce, unyielding force wrapped in silks and cool smiles.

The words hit their mark—a subtle, artful dig, he had somehow overlooked.

“Why would I understand that?” Cregan’s voice was thick with mock offence, though a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Claere only arched a brow, sidestepping him with an elegance that was more of a dare than a retreat. “Oh, you’ve always had a certain… charm,” she replied, her tone deceptively light. “Men like you, like him—always so confident of their own strength. Pride blinds.”

“Pride blinds, is it? Huh, c'mere, girl. You dare speak to your lord that way?” he challenged, feigning a warning as he lunged forward, catching her around the waist. He lifted her clean off the floor with a mischievous groan, her soft laughter lilting as he spun her in a playful circle.

“Cregan!” Her laughter slipped out in breaths, both startled and, at last, easy, though her hands settled in half-protest against his shoulders. When he set her down, her cheeks were lightly flushed, her smile lingering. It was as if some sense of normality, away from the chaos, had come back into their lives.

“Guess it’s true then,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. He urged a line of kisses from her ear to her throat, nuzzling his nose into the soft arch of her neck.

She slid her hands up to his neck, scraping her fingers lightly into the hair at his nape. "And you’re just stubborn enough to prove it.”

“I thought I’d married a princess with a pet dragon,” he teased, nuzzling into the soft curve of her neck, “but it seems I’ve got myself a queen with the cunning of a shadowcat.”

She raised a brow, almost daring him to press further. “And does that surprise you, my lord?”

His laughter boomed out, genuine and unrestrained, as he spun her again in a wide circle. "Not one damned bit."

X

Cregan stood tense in the night, sleep far from him, his silhouette sharp against the faint light filtering in from the slivered moon. The night air was thick with chilling doom, yet inside their chamber, Claere lay curled in quiet repose, her face softened by the kind of peacefulness that had eluded her during the day. It was almost bizarre, the way she could sleep so soundly amid the tension that hung over Winterfell. But perhaps, he thought, this chaos was the very place where she found her solace.

His gaze wandered to the heavy shadows beyond the walls, tracing the dark line of the woods against the horizon. The forests seemed to breathe with a life of their own, brimming with anticipation. He felt it ploughing on his chest, a premonition building like a slow storm.

Then it came—the steady, unmistakable drumming of many hooves and, seconds later, the crackling glow of fiery beacons lighting the night. The panic was quick, the sentries efficient, but somehow, Cregan had known. It was as though he’d been waiting for it all along.

He reached for Ice, his grip steady on the ancient sword’s hilt, and started toward the door. His stride displayed his finality, purposeful toward the death that came for him.

Sylas was here sooner than he’d expected, but in a way, the sooner, the better.

The crunch of hurried footsteps sounded from the corridor, and a guard approached, his face pale under the torchlight. “Lord Stark! Sylas the Grim… he’s come alone, my lord. Just rode up and called for you. What are your orders?”

Cregan’s eyes narrowed. The arrogance—or the conviction—it took to ride unguarded to Winterfell’s gates spoke of Sylas’s brutality and audacity, a message he knew all too well from his Free Folk brothers.

But then, a thought struck, clear as the northern wind. That meant Claere’s plan had worked—her brilliant, precarious little gamble had actually lured him here.

“Alone,” he murmured, almost to himself, and a fierce grin ghosted across his face. His clever Claere had managed to provoke the beast to come alone, his defences abandoned. Sylas had foolishly fallen for it.

With a calm that belied his steely resolve, Cregan replied to the guard, “Open the gates. If he came for a reckoning, then I’ll meet him myself.”

He felt the chill in his blood turn to iron as he stepped into the night.

X

thank you for reading! I'm so sad to be nearing the end :(

question for my loveliest people: who do you imagine as Sylas the Grim? I imagine someone with the same features (but nowhere as close in character) as Tormund Giantsbane.

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[twisted-confessions]

I just found this really cool picrew and wanted to try and make an Overblot version of my Twst/HTTYD OC Bella and it turned out SO GOOD!!! (Lore dump about her Overblot below the cut)

Anyway, new tag game! Use this picrew to make your own Twst OC's before and after their Overblot then tag some fellow twst friends to make theirs as well!!

Tagging: @oyatochie @oya-oya-okay @boopshoops @sweetbunpura @kirexa @valy-gc @winterwriterstudios @hyp3rf1xat10ns @idiazhroud @masked-tornado @patchyegg87 @teapot-tyrant @unity-obj

And then Open Tags for whoever wants to try!!

In my au, Bella's Overblot is inspired by a few different characters, however the main elements for her outfit are Dire Crowley and Toothless while her attitude would match Drago Bludvist since all three of them triggered major life changing impacts, 2 negative and 1 positive. She also gets two set of wings (Night Fury and Raven) to mimic her mother Valka's dragon, Cloudjumper, while gaining some white horns to match Valka's Alpha Bewilderbeast. In the Overblot image she's doing the hand pose Crowley does when he pulls someone out of the coffins and I can totally hear her saying "Aren't I just sooo kind to lend you all a helping hand?" to mock the Bird man lol. The first one is ironically just her genuinely wanting to help someone out lmao. I love making parallels.

I can imagine her Overblot rampaging including her Bewilderbeast Abilities with her commanding all dragons nearby (including Malleus rip-) to capture NRC students so she can steal their magic to force the Mirror of Darkness to send her home, as well as to capture Crowley so she can kill destroy him for using her and lying about letting her go back to New Berk, while also using her Ice Breath to tear down the entire school. Her Phantom though, despite her Night Fury design and wings, would actually be The Bewilderbeast soul inside of her taking physical Blot-form so unlike the other Phantoms, this one is tied to her life in a very different way, keeping her soul(s?) protected while still draining her life force the more she uses it's powers. So destroying Bella's Phantom might have some very negative consequences...

>:)

[starogeorgina]

Violent delights

Warnings: Swearing, violence, mentions of SA, character death

Pairings: Jacaerys Velaryon/oc

1.13

Dragons soared in the skies above, guarding Dragonstone, while you made your way towards the throne room. The lump in your throat became more painful; you’d never felt so guilty before. Your heart sinks when you finally see your mother sitting on the throne with tears glistening in her eyes and your husband standing by her side. His hands were classed behind his back, his jaw clenched tightly shut.

“Mother, Jacaerys.” You try to sound confident, but your voice is meek, making you sound like a child. “I don’t even know how to start. I’m sorry for leaving and going to the keep without telling you, either of you.”

Jace’s response was a mere hum.

“I’m glad that you’ve come home,” your mother says, a faint smile on her lips. “But praise tell us, how in the gods did you manage to leave Dragonstone, get into the keep, and get back on your own?”

You were confused by her question at first, but until it dawned on you, Daemon never told them the plan after you left, like he promised. But before you can say anything, Jace snaps, “How could you think that was a good idea? Do you have any idea what we went through? How would a mother have felt receiving a raven saying her daughter has handed herself over as a hostage to the same people who made her life hell?”

“I’m sorry.”

Tears shone in his eyes. “Not once has my loyalty to you ever been faulted. I love you unconditionally, and yet you didn’t trust me enough to tell me what you were planning.”

The look on Jace’s face broke you. It was never your intention to hurt him so much. All you wanted to do was keep your family safe. You attempt to reach for his hand, but he backs away. “Jacaerys, please.”

He storms out of the room without looking back.

You lock eyes with your mother, and mentally, you pray for her to understand what you have to say. "I was trying to do the right thing and protect my family.”

Your mother was starting to lose her patience. “It was admirable but incredibly reckless; you could have been killed. As your mother, I’m overjoyed to have my daughter home safely, but as your queen, I forbid you from leaving Dragonstone again without my permission. From now on, you are not to leave Prince Jacaerys' side, and if you do, there will be consequences.”

Tears spill from your eyes. “He won't want to be around me right now.”

“You left without telling anyone, Lyarra; how did you think Jace would react? We’re lucky the raven arrived when it did, as Jacaerys and Daemon were making arrangements to send out every dragonrider they could to look for you.”

“Daemon did?”

“Yes,” she says, taking in your surprise. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“I only went into the keep to allow assassins Daemon hired into the castle.” You were shaking with a mixture of adrenaline and anger. “He knew where I was the entire time. He said he’d inform you and Jace of the plan in the morning.”

Her gaze burns into you; you've never seen fury in her eyes like this before. She licks her lips. “What plan?”

You explain in full detail everything that happened from the moment you left Dragonstone to returning. You expected her anger, but for her to look so disappointed in you.

Your mother's expression hardened. “You may go and find Jacaerys.”

“Thank you, your grace.” You go to leave, but turn back to look up at your mother, who was fighting to hold back tears. “Is my grandmother really dead?”

She looks up and nods. “Princess Rhaenys died a true dragon rider's death.”

Your lip trembles as you leave the throne room, but instead of following your mother's orders, you go looking for your stepfather to demand answers.

—

You find Daemon in his study, holding his head in his hands as he stares down at the map in front of him. His forehead creased as he no doubt thought about what his next move would be. He lets out a sound of annoyance. “Did you do as I asked?”

His question left a sour taste in your mouth. Daemon didn’t even turn his head to look at you or ask if you were actually okay. “Yes, I kept my word, but why didn’t you? Jacaerys thought I had been kidnapped, and my mother was beside herself that I was gone!”

“You did leave,” he says plainly.

You storm to the opposite side of the table as him and slam your hands on top of the map, which causes him to finally look at you. “Jace looks up to you as a father; how could you not tell him?”

He cuts you off; his tone is sharp and authoritative. “Jacaerys' anger would have been directed at me, not the greens. He would have lost focus on what is important.”

“Nothing is more important than family! I could maybe understand not telling them right away, but you were going to allow Jace to send out the very few dragon riders to look for me!” Feeling warm and flustered, you remove the thick black cloak you’d yet to remove since arriving home and toss it over one of the chairs.

Daemon practically snarls at you, “Why are you wearing a green fucking dress?”

“Because Aegon wanted me to wear it and have my hair styled like Alicent’s for when he decided to visit the bedchamber I was being kept in.”

Disgust crept into his features as Daemon thought about how disturbing it was that Aegon wanted you to look like his mother. “I let Jacaerys and Rhaenyra focus on you being taken because it was the distraction I needed.”

You didn’t understand Daemon’s reasons for doing things, but you did know he loved his family, and the loss of two sons and a daughter would have broken most men but not him. He was going to fight with every fiber he had to defend his house until the end. “The only way we can win this war is if there are no more lies and secrets between us. I’m going to tell Jacaerys everything, including things that I haven’t even admitted to myself.”

“I shall do the same with our queen; I just hope she is a little more merciful than I imagine the prince will be.”

—

Your eyes sting as more tears fall from them. All you wanted was to keep your family safe, if only your husband would fully let you explain that. Since arriving in your bed chamber, he has given you the cold shoulder and only spoken when necessary. Jacaerys would often need to be alone to process things properly, but he no longer had that option. Neither of you spoke as the ladies prepared a bath for you; the first time you speak again is when you thank them as they leave.

“Fuck,” you hiss when you finally start to remove the horrid green dress. The tight fabric rubs against your breasts, which have become increasingly swollen and sore due to not being able to nurse your son.

Jace, who was sitting on the bed, let out a deep sigh and uncrossed his legs. He mumbled something before leaving the room.

Frustrated, you end up ripping the dress off before quickly throwing on your robe to make your way to the bath in another room within your quarters. You hear footsteps behind you but don’t look, assuming that Jacaerys has returned. It’s not until a figure steps out in front of you that you realize how wrong you were.

“I’ve been waiting hours to get you alone.”

“Ja—” you try to scream for your husband but are stopped when Aemond wraps his hands around your throat and begins to squeeze.

“You’ve made a fool of my brother for the last time.”

You try to fight him, but it’s no use since he’s much stronger than you. Jacaerys had probably left to go speak to your mother or Daemon, so he wouldn’t be back for some time. He wouldn’t be back in time. You would never see your babies again. Gods, Jace would return and find you dead. Black spots appear in your vision, and memories of your children, your sweet children, flash before your eyes, but then everything is a blur as you abruptly land on the ground with a thud. It takes a moment for your vision to return to normal, and you see Aemond lying in a puddle of his own blood with a sword sticking out of his back.

You try to scream, but nothing comes out. When you feel someone touching your shoulder, you try to lash out at them until you notice it’s Jacaerys. He pulls you into his arms and says, “You're safe now; I’ve got you.”

You sob into his chest. “I didn’t think you were coming back. I thought I’d die without getting to tell you how sorry I am. I should never have left without telling you.”

“None of that matters now,” he says. Gently, he tilts your head back so he can inspect your neck. “It’s bruising already.”

Jace promptly stands and lifts you to your feet. You glance down to see that your uncle's blood was spreading across the ground and had just reached where you were sitting seconds prior.

There’s a soft knock at the door, then it’s pushed open. “I’ve brought the tea to help relieve the princess’s pain that you asked fo—”

Elinda Massey, one of your mother's ladies in waiting, dropped the tray of tea in her hands and began to scream at the sight in front of her, causing the knights who were guarding the halls outside your quarters to rush inside.

“Tell the maester to come immediately; the princess has been attacked!” Jacaerys orders. “The queen and prince Daemon must be informed of what’s happened at once!”

—

You reposition the cold compress that’s loosely wrapped around your neck to help reduce swelling. Elinda insisted on having another bedchamber prepared for you and Jacaerys to sleep in, but you declined and announced you’d be spending the night in the nursery so you could feel close to your children.

Jacaerys kisses your forehead, your nose, and then your lips softly. “I was only so angry because I was scared.”

“I was terrified I’d never get to see you again,” you confess. “And I don’t think the gods will ever forgive me, as no man or woman is as accursed as the kinslayer. But I’d do it again; I’d do it a thousand times over and over because I love you and our children.”

“Why did it need to be you, though?” He whispers.

“Anyone else would have been slaughtered on sight,” you say, taking his hand in yours as tears roll down your cheeks. “Aegon told me how he wanted to torture you. He said he’d find Aemma and take her from us, then kill our other children. He said he’d have Ser Criston hold you down as he and his brothers took turns forcing themselves on me before sending our heads to our mother as a gift.”

Absolutely sickened by his uncle's words, Jacaerys didn’t know what to say to comfort you, so he held you close as you waited for your mother and Daemon to arrive.

[graceofhearts777]

Pov: you challenged Raven to a race

(And Skipper isn’t really that bothered lmao)

Finnnnaaally did a somewhat decent piece for Raven, my Httyd OC and her dragon, Skipper. My version of Light furies are very similar, just extra bells and whistles lol

[ohmy-zabrak]

Jealousy

Sandor Clegane x Lady Alice (oc)

Summary: The Hound makes an interesting discovery about his new bedmate

Word count: 611

Author's note: Have some Sance fluff & slight humor! The Hound can only stay nice for so long lol. Tumblr wouldn't stop crashing when I went to my drafts so this is very late 

Cw - Brief implications of abuse in the Hound's childhood (though it's only one sentence)

***

He eyes her. All barely above five foot of her. "Little bird," He says again.

Alice tenses. All contained fury.

The corner of Sandor's mouth twitches upwards in a smirk. "What's wrong?"

"Isn't that your nickname for Sansa?"

Sandor snorts. "That's what I call all you highborn ladies."

A flurry of emotions goes across her face in seconds. Like clouds reflected across a pond's surface. Tiny expressions that Sandor's not sure that he's interpreting correctly. Relief. Annoyance. Disappointment. Jealousy.

He chuckles softly. "You're jealous," He says. "Jealous of a little girl."

The highborn lady won't meet his eyes.

"Look at you, jealous of a child," The Hound croons.

She cocks her head slightly. "Is she a little girl to you? The amount of men that I've seen lately, drooling over the tits that she's just grown."

He scoffs softly. "Do you think me such a foul beast as that? To go after a maid not even flowered?"

Alice watches him with those storm gray eyes. Quiet as cat's feet.

"I would kill any man that touches her." Sandor gently grips her chin in calloused fingers. "Look at the pretty raven, getting her feathers all ruffed up because of the direwolf." He tucks a strand of hair behind the young widow's ear.

"So you do not care for her?" The words are slow, measured.

He shakes his head. Honest as a dog, as always.

"I'm sorry," She murmurs. "I know that was irrational of me."

The Hound slides his hand along her jaw, so he's holding her cheek. Stroking the soft skin with a thumb. "You should spend less time with the court. You're starting to think the way that they do, little bird. Always expecting the worst of me." His tone is low and teasing.

Footsteps. Coming down the hall. Lady Alice hears them first. With her ears that haven't been slammed into walls by older brothers or fathers. Or struck by weapons in the practice yard or on the battlefield. She steps back so he's no longer touching her, and then further still. Until they're at an appropriate distance. The passing serving girl gives them a cursory glance, but no more.

As soon as the footsteps have died away, they're back together again. The Hound watching the funny little widow, who against all odds seems to care for him as more than a quick tumble...

He takes a step closer to her. "You should see how the other men around the keep look at you. Drooling over you like a piece of meat. Drives me half mad." He captures her chin again and forces her to look up. "You have nothing to fear from Sansa Stark, girl. You shouldn't worry about her or any other lady. They all have nothing on you. Nothing. You have beauty and brains both. And that's more than what can be said for most people." He presses a soft kiss to her forehead. "You know what I like, and she could never give it to me."

She looks up at him with a soft, adoring expression that makes his heart clench.

"No," Alice says slowly. "She wouldn't know how you like it soft one minute and then like I hate you the next."

He gives a grunt of agreement. "The girl is innocent and soft. All blushes and dreams of dashing princes," He says. "She can't give me what I need."

Alice smiles at him and goes up on tiptoe to kiss him. He obliges and bends for her. When he parts from her, he smirks wickedly at how happy she looks. 

"So when are you getting rid of Ser Henry?"

Her smile instantly dies.

**Ser Henry is Lady Alice's main suitor (much to the Hound's annoyance)

[damiiimidassss]

Chung Myung x Yin Yue(oc)

Chapter 1: First life the curse, and the fall.

Summary: In where this chapter tackles the first life of Yin Yue and the past that continues to choke her life.

Tw: Mentions of blood, cheating, death

This chapter will include art that shows what the characters look like.

Chap2

Far from the bustling town. Here, in the moonlit shadows of ancient trees, a fox spirit watched from the edge of the woods, her eyes glowing with a mixture of sorrow and anger.

Her name was Ling, and she had once been a guardian of these forests, but for him, for the merchant Yuan, she had revealed her true form, risking everything. They had spent years together, in secret moments beneath the stars. Yuan had professed his love for her, a love she had believed—until the day he returned from the city with another.

Yuan stood beside a woman dressed in silk, her hands adorned with jade bangles, her hair pinned high with gold. Meilin the daughter of a wealthy nobleman.

Ling watched from the trees, her heart shattering. Yuan had not sought her in days, and now she understood why. He had chosen wealth, status, over the love they once shared.

One evening, after the marriage, Ling appeared before Yuan. Her ethereal beauty was tinged with a darkness she had never shown him before. Her fox-like eyes glistened, but it was no longer with affection.

"You've forgotten me," she whispered, her voice low and trembling with fury. "You’ve chosen wealth over love."

Yuan looked at her, shame twisting his features, but he didn’t speak. He dared not.

Ling’s gaze turned towards the grand home he now shared with Meilin. She knew Meilin carried his child, a son who would inherit Yuan’s wealth, his lineage, everything that should have been built on love.

"I gave you my heart," Ling whispered, stepping closer. Her form seemed to shift in the moonlight, her fox ears becoming visible, her true form unveiled. "But you gave me nothing in return. For that, I will give your child a gift—a curse."

Yuan paled. “What are you saying?”

Ling’s lips curved into a sad smile, but her eyes were sharp. “Your child will never know love as we did. Each time they fall in love, it will end in tragedy. They will lose the one they love, over and over. Worse still, their lover will remember each life, but your child will not. They will be cursed to meet again and again, only for love to end in heartbreak and death before they can marry or bear children. They will never escape it."

Her words felt like a storm crashing through the forest, the wind picking up, howling around them.

"Please, no," Yuan pleaded. "Our child is innocent."

"Innocent?" Ling's voice rose, filled with pain. "Innocent as you were when you left me? No, Yuan. Your son will suffer as I have suffered."

She turned, her fox tail flicking behind her, and as she disappeared into the shadows of the forest, the curse sank into the earth, binding the child to a fate they would never understand.

Yuan stood watching her retrieving form in despair.

---

Years passed, and Yuan's son, Chung Myung, grew into a handsome young man. His raven hair thay glows under the sun, matching his baby looks. His tall physique that every woman loves

Chung Myung, he was a wealthy merchant, the business passed down by his father renowned for his prosperity and influence. His name stretched across provinces, bringing luxury and goods to every corner of the land. But despite his wealth, his heart had never known true love—until he met Yin Yue, a beautiful and enigmatic gambler.

Yin Yue was unlike anyone Chung Myung had ever encountered. She was sharp-tongued, quick-witted, and lived with a recklessness that fascinated him. At the gambling tables, she was a legend, her luck as fickle as the wind, but she always wore a smile, and she doesn't lose ,Chung Myung , used to the rigid etiquette of the merchant class, found her freedom intoxicating.

He fell for her deeply, and soon, their affair became known throughout the city. Though others whispered about how improper it was for a wealthy man to associate with a gambler, Chung Myung didn’t care. He showered Yin Yue with gifts—silks, gold jewelry, rare perfumes from distant lands. He wanted to give her everything.

Yin Yue accepted his gifts with a smile, but there was a shadow behind her eyes . She knew something Chung Myung did not—"the curse" that followed him, even if he was oblivious to it. Yin Yue had always been sensitive to things others could not see. She had once heard whispers of fate from an old fortune teller, a woman who had warned her to stay away from Chung Myung.

“He is cursed,” the fortune teller had said. “Love him, and it will end in tragedy. Every lifetime, his love is doomed to die. But only someone with great strength can break it.”

Yin Yue, stubborn as she was, didn’t believe in curses. She believed in luck. So she stayed with Chung Myung, trying her best to avoid what the old woman had foretold.

But as their love deepened, she couldn’t ignore the signs. Everywhere they turned, misfortune seemed to follow them. Chung Myung's business began to falter, losing deals that had always been guaranteed. Merchants who had once sought his favor suddenly turned cold, and his family—those closest to him—began to act strange, as though dark plots swirled beneath their polite smiles.

One evening, as they lay together in the private chambers of his estate, Chung Myung rested his head on Yin Yue lap, his eyes closed, his expression peaceful. The moonlight spilled through the window, casting soft shadows around them.

“Yin Yue,” he whispered, “I’ve never felt like this before. With you, everything feels right. Like I could forget the world.”

Yin Yue's fingers traced the curve of his face, but there was a heaviness in her heart. She had spent nights in secret, consulting every mystic and seer she could find, searching for a way to break the curse. But the answers were always the same—tragedy was inevitable. And no matter how she tried to protect him, there was always something dark on the horizon.

“I’ll protect you,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

Chung Myung opened his eyes, gazing up at her. “Protect me? I’m the one who should be protecting you.”

Yin Yue forced a smile, but deep inside, her resolve was breaking. The fortune teller’s warning echoed in her ears—he is cursed. His love is doomed.

But she couldn’t walk away from him. She had fallen too deep.

---

The night the curse finally caught up to them came without warning.

It began as a subtle pain in Chung Myung stomach, a discomfort he had dismissed after a long day. But by the time night fell, it had worsened. His skin grew pale, his breath short, and soon, he was bedridden, writhing in agony.

Yin Yue stayed by his side, refusing to leave him. She had seen enough in her life to know what was happening. Poison. Someone had poisoned Chung Myung, and she knew exactly who.

His own family.

Greedy for his wealth, jealous of his success, they had waited for the right moment to strike. She had seen it in their eyes, the jealousy simmering beneath their polite words. She had tried to protect him, but she had failed.

As the poison ravaged his body, Chung Myung struggled to stay conscious, his breaths shallow, his hand clutching Yin Yue.

“Yin Yue,” he gasped, his voice weak, “who did this…?”

She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth, not in his final moments. But the tears in her eyes told him everything.

“They’ll pay,” he whispered, his grip tightening. “I swear… I’ll come back. I won’t rest until I make them pay.”

Yin Yue leaned over him, her forehead pressed against his. “No, Chung Myung. Don’t think about revenge. Think about us. Just stay with me.”

But Chung Myung's eyes were filled with a burning resolve, even as the life drained from him. “I’ll come back. I’ll break this… curse. And I’ll make sure that no one… will ever… hurt you again.”

His voice faltered, his eyes closing for the last time as the poison claimed him.

"NO! MY LOVE!"

Yin Yue screamed his name, her tears falling onto his lifeless face, but it was too late. The curse had won.

But even as he died, Yin Yue felt something stir in the air, a dark energy that whispered of revenge, of broken promises and twisted fates. Chung Myung's last vow echoed in her ears.

Yin Yue slowly stands up and grab a sharp object that can cut through her skin,

'My love I'll see you in another life'

She shakly she slits her throat she falls unto the ground as darkness succumbs her vision she can feel her warm blood coating her cold dead skin.

But in the darkness, she saw a beautiful fox spirit

Yin Yue looks around realizing shes in the afterlife, but is she?

The beautiful woman approached her and suddenly the fox spirit face was close to her

YIn Yue didn't move or budge, she felt numb

"Poor you, you got caught up in this mess. No woman deserves a fate like yours, but Chung Myung deserves that curse, after what his own father did to me"

Ling smiled seductively backing out one step to give her space

Yin Yue only stared at her, but deep inside her mind, she wanted to kill Ling, but she knew she'd lose. She's weak, and not even luck can save her.

"If you want to break the curse, you'll have to kill me. But little mouse" She gets near her ears, whispering her next word

"You're still weak"

Before Yin Yue can touch her Ling had already back up

"You demon! I swear I'm gonna kill you, I'll take off your every limbs. I'll let you eat your own heart! I'll make you beg for forgivenes!"

Ling only laughed, as Yin Yue struggled to run to her

"Well see"

Ling disappeared completely in the air

Yin Yue vision suddenly turned white, maybe in her next life. She will kill that demon fox.

[writers-melancholy]

Two Moons [Aemond Targaryen x Sister!Female!OC]

Trigger Warning: Incest/ Twincest (its game of thones)

word count: 1017k

Check out part 2: a tattletale and moon tea

-------------------------------------------------------

It was early afternoon having just finished her mid day meal, she sat on her favorite cushion in her favorite seat practicing her needle point, her maids bustling around her doing their menial tasks when without warning her guard suddenly announces “The Prince Aemond Targaryen.” as he abruptly enters the room. 

“Brother?” she questioned softly, glancing up expectantly.

Aemond approached her, standing a mere two feet away, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword, his jaw clenching as he spoke “You've been sending Ravens to Dragonstone, why?” with a calm but demanding tone.

Her eyebrow raised ever so slightly, startled she asked “How do you know about the ravens?”

He stared at her intently “I followed one on Vhagar.” he paused, shifting slightly, adjusting the placement of his hands. “Now answer me.” he continued with a subtle impatience, a tone that Viserra knew all too well this was her que so she calmly looked to her lady’s maid and with a silent glance excused her and the others wanting to be alone with her dear twin. 

They were silent as the room emptied only once the last member of staff had exited she gently replied, “I wrote to Jacaerys Velaryon.” her head skewed slightly, a small grin crept across her lips “Does that make you uncomfortable?” she inquired, setting her needle point onto the seat next to her shifting slightly before giving him her full attention.

He paused for a moment, baffled but stoic, before urging eagerly “Why are you writing to him?” He stood unmoving, wanting so badly to join her, to take up space next to her.

“I want to see him.” came flatly as she stared him down, her expression unchanging as she stood up moving closer to him trying to conceal her growing anxieties over this obvious integration. It wasn't the first time her dear twin was bothered by something she did but this time was different ‘does he know?’ she thought ‘no, Aemond would be more direct than this.’

He too knew his sweet sister and knew she wasn't telling him everything, cleverly hiding his shock he probed urgently “What reason could you possibly have to see him?” he could feel his tempers rising.

Yet flatter still, she responds “Only that I love and wish to marry him.” she playfully ended trying to soothe her own temper growing irritated at this game of twenty questions.

He sputtered incredulously “You cannot be serious.” pausing to try and control the fury bubbling up inside “He's a bastard!” he bellowed, losing control of himself, his cheeks gaining a distinct red flush to them.

Taken aback she retorted “He may not be a Velaryon but he’s  just as much a Targaryen as we are!” her eyebrows furrowed in frustration, her own temper daring to strike back.

“We are pure!” he shouted, grabbing onto her arms tightly “They are dirt!” shaking her slightly  “We are born from the same blood from the same womb and he is a filthy Strong! You cannot love him, not him and not you!” he stated with a fierce finality

“He isn't dirt!” she yelped ”He loves me!”

“And what do you know of love?!” he demanded, staring into her eyes for an answer, loosening his grip.

“I know more than you!” she all but screamed, taking a step back to free herself “You don't love anyone, Aemond!” As they both took a moment to catch their breath in the now silent room Aemond quickly stepped forward and caught Viserra in a gentle kiss. 

“I love you.” he whispered gently after parting. “You and I are meant to be, we were born for each other and no one else.” his breathing hitched as he reached to caress her cheek, his thumb gently rubbing over her bottom lip still wet from the kiss. His body felt frozen wanting so badly to kiss her again, and yet longing for more than just a mere kiss. 

Viserra hadn't moved, too scared to ruin the moment “Aemond..” she whispered.

“Viserra..” he breathed as he slowly bent down to kiss her once more.

Before the kiss could be executed she interrupted him with a guilty whisper “I bedded him..”

she didn't dare to move away, but instead searched his eye for a hint at his next move. 

He took a sharp step back, his face twisting with disbelief, confusion and then finally settling on anger. “Avy Mittys!”/ “You idiot!” He hissed in High Valyrian “when!?” he asked, losing his temper once more.

“two moons ago..” she again whispered. If she had been able to look at anything other than her feet she would have seen the anger on his face turn to confusion as realization hit. “Two moons..” he recalled, taking a brief pause before continuing “Viserra, are you with child?” His voice fell flat waiting for her response but once he saw the corners of her mouth curving into a smile he knew, his heart felt like it was sinking. He stumbled back catching himself on a nearby chair.

“Aemond..” she spoke softly but he lifted his hand swiftly, silently shushing her before his hand rubbed over his nose and mouth as he tried to think. “Who knows?” He questioned

“Only you..” she beamed. “I wanted to tell Jacaerys in person.”

“We can fix this…” he mumbled “there is still time to correct this mistake! We must-” he was interrupted by a slap to the face. 

“My child is not a mistake that needs correcting!” Viserra spoke angrily before she turned to walk away being stopped by a forceful grab of her arm. 

“Viserra!” Aemond pleaded “Don't do this..” 

She turned to look at him and the utter devastation on his face melted her heart but she simply smiled before taking his hand with hers and gently removing it from her arm before walking out of the room. 

Leaving a devastated Aemond in her wake 'how could she!' he thought, his mind desperately trying to find a solution. After all he was her protector and he would protect her from this at whatever costs.

[mattsmithinawig]

✍🏻️!!

thank you so much for your ask !! I know you said that you don't really read got-era stories/ocs so I have a hotd/fire and blood one for you!!

"Maega Targaryen, named for Maegelle or for Maegor, it is still unknown. The former sworn by her mother Lady Rhea Royce and the latter by her father, the Rogue Prince. Born and raised in the Vale, after her mother's unfortunate demise when she was only four name days she was trained by her Uncle Waymar Royce to hold a sword in the face if her father's impending usurpation of her seat.

Tall, bulky, manly in the face that even Aegon the Conqueror was not, she was far from the epitome of a perfect Targaryen even with purple eyes and silver-gold hair. Instead of gowns she was often seen in armour, carrying around live steel and a great bow. Brought to court on her twelfth nameday, Maega never met her stepmother Laena Velaryon and letters from her father were infrequent. She slotted neither into the Princess's Blacks or the Queen's Greens, dragged between the two women through ill-fitting gowns, awkward family dinners and never agreed upon betrothals.

It is not known if she was involved with the maiming of Prince Aemond with her half-sisters and cousins, but she returned to Dragonstone with her father, and new stepmother Princess Rhaenyra. In the following years, alone and isolated, she was unable to from close relationships with any of her half-sisters and step-brothers. However, in her sixteenth year she mounted the Bronze Fury, the only dragonrider able to rival the One-Eyed Prince.

Her most essential role in the Dance of Dragons was her wedding Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, just a year shy of death of King Viserys. It is reported she flew her great beast across Westeros before landing on Pyke, slipping from her saddle into one of the many towers. She took one of the Lord's salt sons with the promise of a dragon ride, a move her ancestor Queen Visenya would have been proud of. By the time Lord Greyjoy saw his screaming son a top his dragon, his fate was sealed as the soon to be husband of the Targaryen Lady. She reported told him that "like a salt wife, she would throw him over dragon back, willing or not".

However, as these things often do, the Greyjoy Lord became deeply infatuated and in love with his wife, and if tales are true, this was reciprocated by her with ease. By the time they received the raven informing of Prince Lucerys' death and the call to war, she had already birthed a healthy son, Euron, with his own hatchling, Stormbreak.

once again thank u for the ask <3 i love all your ocs as well!

[the-raven-lady]

𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

𝕸𝖞 𝕶𝖔-𝕱𝖎

Requests and Commissions are OPEN! Please feel free to drop requests in my ask box, and if you would like a commission done, please DM me! Things I won’t write: Watersports / Scat, Pregnancy (but I will write breeding kink! just nothing past it), Non-con, gore fetish, Mommy / Daddy / Ageplay, cheating / adultery

𝕱𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉:

Hello loves! My name is the Raven Lady. I’m going to school for business accounting, so please bear in mind that writing (and occasionally drawing, making minis, and painting) is my hobby only. That being said, I respectfully ask everyone who visits to follow a few rules while you’re about: 1. My blog is 18+. Minors, I kindly ask that you do not interact. 2. Please keep discourse respectful. Everyone has difference interests and niches. I have been on tumblr since 2012 and I was there then the Dark Magic was written (aka nearly every tumblr discourse you can think of). I will simply block and delete any intentional hate send my or other’s way. 3. I ask that everyone remembers that there is a person behind the screen who is writing everything. I do not have a regular posting schedule, and I may pump out loads of content for a week then disappear for a month. I have a relatively busy life. That being said, please feel free to drop an ask or a DM my way! I love to hear everyone’s feedback.

𝕸𝖞 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖘:

My Writing (#raven lady writings)

Writing Replies (#replies)

Ask Replies (#raven lady answers)

My Art (#raven lady’s art)

My Ramblings (#raven lady rambles)

Incredible Fic Reads (#the sacred texts)

Sim's 4 Primarch World (#raven lady's sims 4 telenovella)

𝕸𝖞 𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖙:

𝔉𝔞𝔫𝔣𝔦𝔠

WH40K / 30K Drabbles

Primarchs Stalingrad - Rogal Dorn and Guardsman!Reader [gn] - (1.5k words) (Old Blog) - you survive nearly freezing to death, open ending The Haunting - Konrad Curze x Imperial Agent!Reader [gn] - (1k words) (Old Blog) - konrad being a creep Love You To Death - Konrad Curze x Reader [fem, AFAB] - (666 words, rightfully) (Old Blog) - smut Konrad MPreg Drabble - (643 words) - angst Gát - Roboute Guilliman x Reader [gn] - (2.5k words) (Old Blog) - angst Totally Normal Lorgar Womb Tattoo Drabble [fem] - (264 words) (Old Blog) - lewd but not full smut Bedroom Hymns - Lorgar x wife!Reader [fem, AFAB] - (462 words) (Old Blog) - smut Teardrops - Vulkan x Reader [masc] - (420 words) (Old Blog) - fluff Never Know - Guilliman x advisor!Reader [gn] - (1.4k words) (Old Blog) - angst Sugar - Corvus Corax x agent!Reader [fem, AFAB] - (2.1k words) - smut Space Marines Closer - Cato Sicarius x Reader [fem, AFAB] - (1.3k words) - smut White Scar Apothecary (OC) x serf!Reader [gn] - (1k words) - OC: Sarei Fa - astartes blood can extend a human's lifespan

Series

Ebony Coasts (Merfolk!Corvus Corax x Marine Conservationist!Reader [fem]) [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7 (NSFW)] - (20k words, finished) (Old Blog) [Saccharine Snippet] - (514 words) (Not) The Savior Your Long For (Night Lord [OC: Elias Rushorik] x serf!Reader [fem]) [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] - (Currently 9.8k, in progress)

𝔐𝔶 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰

Elias Rushorik - Night Lords Terminator {Sanrio Enthusiast} - Character Tag - Elias Reference Sheet - Character Bible - Miniature 3D Model

Kyraeus Chough - Raven Guard Dark Fury - Character Tag - Chough Reference Sheet - Miniature 3D Model

Sarei Fa - White Scars Akoghlanlar (Apothecary) - Character Tag

[fangirl-1st-class]

Like father, like daughter Raven Fury doodle dump || BAD END

[pumpkinraventrick]

It's me with my viking sona, Raven! Trick needed a rider, so I thought that I'd just make a viking sona for my night fury sona!! <333

[bloodmoon24]

Meet the User

(Warning: Long ass list)

OC Name: Luz V. Storm

What I am:

• An digital artist

• Autistic

• Animal lover

• Dog person (with some love for cats as well)

• Taurus

• 19 years old

• Bisexual

• AroAce

• Genderfluid (Pronouns she/her/they)

My Fandoms:

• Hazbin Hotel/Helluva Boss

• Ben 10

• Murder Drones

• Sonic the Hedgehog

• TinkerBell

• Lackadaisy

• Ever After High

• Trolls

• The Amazing Digital Circus

• Avatar

• Spider Man

• Wild Kratts

• MLP/EG

• TMNT 2012/ROT

• The Owl House

What I Draw:

• Ships

• Crossovers

• References

• Fashion ideas

What I Don’t/Can’t Draw:

• Proper backgrounds

• Requests that are too much, or have too many details

• NSFW (I’m somewhat complex with this one. No clue why)

What I Love:

• Drawing

• Music: Pop, techno, k-pop, Latino, movie songs, rock/rock-pop type of genres

• Strawberry/grape flavor sodas

• Astronomy, biology, zoology

• Animals

• Indie animations

• Chicken sandwiches/quesadillas/nuggets

• Reese’s cups/chocolate ice cream

• Kawaii

• Learning about history and culture

• Darker shades of red and grey

• Techno, robotic, fairy, nature aesthetics

• Spiritual/Fairy stuff

• Rainy days (bonus: with hot cocoa)

• Peppermint Frappuccino

• Fanfiction

• Fantasy/Cartoons

• Sitcoms

• Making friends

• Looking back at old and fun memories

• Magical things

What I Hate:

• Not being understood

• Nobody listening to me

• Death to me or the people I love

• Big changes

• People taking or touching my stuff

• People being rude to me/making fun of me

• People making jokes that sounds very hurtful

• Being annoyed/ignored

• Scary movies/shows/anime

• Creepy crawlers/Spiders (Even though I love Spider Man)

• Nobody understanding autism/autistic people

• TERFS, racism, sexism, homo/transphobic people

• Vomiting

• Loud sounds

• People who abuses literally everything and everyone at any age

• Nature being harmed and nobody not doing anything to help it

• People giving me too many things to do

• Other users rushing me on making an edit/asking me a complicated request for an edit

• Catfishing/Predators/Pedos (STAY OUT)

• Jokes that aren’t funny

• Talking to others (sometimes)

• Extremely gory things

• People not paying attention/ignoring my special interests and misread the plot of the franchise

• People dissing on my favorite fandoms

My OCs:

• Moonlight Storm (Very first one ever for MLP/EG)

• BloodMoon Storm (Hellaverse)

• Unnamed NightLight Fury (HTTYD)

• BeatDrop (Techno Troll)

• Rapidity (First alien, Kineceleran, for Ben 10)

• Thorax the Spider Woman (Spider Man)

• Storm Prime (Original robot OC (gonna redesign her)

• Moon the Bat, the Chaos Witch (Sonic the Hedgehog)

• Prototype L (Murder Drones)

• Unnamed Na’vi OCs (Avatar/Way of Water)

• Tick-Tick the Robot (The Amazing Digital Circus)

• Moon the Art Fairy (TinkerBell)

• Evelyn V. Carmen (Lackadaisy)

Ever After High OC coming soon

What I Allowed:

• Art requests

• Questions

Who I Ship:

• Alastor x Vox

• Charlie x Vaggie

• Zestial x Sir Pentious

• Adam x Lute

• Husk x Angel Dust

• Asmodeus x Fizzarolli

• Feedback x Big Chill

• XLR8 x HeatBlast

• Ben x Rook

• Looma x Attea

• N x Uzi

• V x Lizzy

• Sonic x Shadow

• Amy x Blaze

• Silver x Mephiles/Espio (I’m having trouble picking which one)

• Knuckles x Rouge

• Luz x Amity

• Twilight Sparkle x Sunset Shimmer

• Mordecai x Rocky

• Ivy x Freckle

• Wick x Zib

• Bezel x Trazuil (my partner’s OC)

• Apple White x Darling Charming

• Cerise Hood x either Kitty/Daring/Raven

[cdragons]

Revenant

Summary: Kol Mikaelson's soul manages to leave and travel while he still remains daggered in his coffin. While he wanders around and bitches about his life, he meets an unexpected friend. Warning(s): VERY HEAVY crack fic, technical crossover of fandoms, weird shit, Kol is a horny-ass gremlin, Druig & Kaety are obsessed with each other, Kol has a thing for witches bc he got mommy issues, Klaus is a bitch

Note: Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it! This fic came from an idea that I shared with @ethereal-athalia, and it is VERY much a crack fic. I don't have any plans in continuing this idea, but I wanted to write it out as a Christmas gift to @ethereal-athalia for how much of a good friend she's been to me. I never would have been able to do any of my fics without her in my corner. I own only my Hecate!OC. I do not own either Druig from Eternals, or Kol from TVD franchise. Also, Druig still very much exists in this fic and world bc I physically CANNOT write Kaety without Druig. Stay safe and hope that your upcoming year brings you all good health and happiness!

Kol hated being dead. Truly dead. Dead in a way that he couldn’t move or speak or live.

At least when he turned as a gift Mother Dearest he could still walk, even if he couldn’t use the arcane anymore. But of course, he would still always find his way back to witches and their magic. He couldn’t help it if he exuded that charm that made him so irresistible.

Gods, just remembering how pathetically sex-deprived his physical form was currently almost made him weep. He couldn’t wait until the moment he got that fucking silver dagger out of his chest. Nik was going to get it when he finally got out.

Sure, he may have crossed a line when he stated that Nik had a pair of buttocks flatter than a sheet of paper. But was he the one that gave his brother such lacking assets? No. That fault lied entirely with their mother and his biological father, thank you very much.

But alas, here his soul was, walking in a forest in the middle of some mosquito-flooded country.

At the very least, his gorgeous body was safe from the onslaught of bug bites and sweltering humidity. Only in the fucking Amazon did winter feel like summer.

Kol audibly groaned once more at the thought of his immaculate figure rotting away thanks to Nik. He couldn’t bear to think about how his illustrious fair skin being that dull grayish hue from being confined by death. At least when Bekah got daggered, Nik had the decency to make sure that her body remained stored in proper conditions and carefully encased in magic to prevent any harm coming to her. He had no guarantee. No, such love and devotion only went to ‘Lijah and Bekah when it came to Nik.

Story of his life: always an outsider, even with his own fucking siblings. Gods, he wanted nothing more than have his powers return to him. At least with magic by his side he’d finally be able to show Nik he wasn’t the only one with threats, he’d show him, he’d –

“Well, well, well,” came a new voice, “aren’t you a strange sight?”

Kol immediately turned his head to locate the mindless idiot that dared to interrupt his thoughts. Did humans devolve so pathetically that they no longer understood that when they see a soul wandering alone, that soul would likely be uninterested in any attempts of conversation? But looking at the individual who spoke to him, he was shocked beyond himself to witness such a devastatingly gorgeous woman before him. She had dark almond-shaped eyes and tall with legs that went on for miles. And her thick and illustrious raven waves practically flowed down the middle of her back like a black waterfall.

Dare he say it, this woman was almost as beautiful than him.  

But regardless of how pleasing her outward appearance may be, she still would not be spared from his fury.

Pity, he would have loved to wrap those legs around his waist if he were actually here.

The corners of the woman’s lips went upward, and the cupid’s bow of her mouth was slightly pursed as she smirked, making her lips look plumper and more bitable than how they had right to be in the Original’s opinion. It was only a few seconds before the succubus burst out laughing. Her entire body arched with her back as she simply couldn’t contain herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said once he began to calm down, “but I’m afraid that I happen to be very happily married. In fact, I have been for the past near seven thousand years.” After making a quick glance up and down Kol’s near transparent form, she continued with a cat-like grin. “And I highly doubt someone as woefully young as you could satisfy a woman like me.”

Oh, now he was offended. Not being able to satisfy– did this woman have any idea who she was talking to? The list of names of men and women that swore they only believed in Heaven when Kol fucked them was so long that it would wrap the Earth twice. And she better believe than each time was more than consensual – they were begging him very enthusiastically to say the least. Who was this lady to assume –

Wait, did she say seven thousand years?

As if she could hear his thoughts, all the woman did was smiled before extending her hand.

“I think I’d like it very much if you and I became friends.”

Extending his own, Kol was surprised to see that his hand didn’t just pass through like it normally would for most physical objects. He could actually grasp her hand and feel the warmth passing through it. For the first time in…forever, Kol felt warmth flooding through him. He stared into her eyes, wondering how on Earth someone could live for seven thousand years. Even if she had the gift of mediumship, his presence was too well-hidden for even the most gifted and powerful medium to sense him.

Kol had to know more of her. He’d go mad if he didn’t.

“What are you exactly?” he carefully asked.

He could sense that this person was a being of extreme power. In the top of her finger, she likely contained far more power than Nik could possibly imagine, even in his wildest dreams. It seemed that being an invisible soul floating in the wind had its perks after all. If he was alive, walking and about, he’d never come across this marvel of a woman.

“I’d prefer if you began that question with ‘who’ than ‘what,’ but I suppose that matters little in this situation. My name is Kaetlyn, I prefer Kaet for my friends, but you may know me better as-”

“Hekate,” he whispered in awe, “Goddess of Magic. Titaness Mother of Witches and Monsters.”

“Surprised in a good way I hope?” Kaet asked with one brow raised.

“More or less, but I did imagine you about 30 feet taller with the night sky for skin and two more heads.”

“Well,” she softly chuckled, “I hope I didn’t disappoint you with my appearance. Now I’ll forgive you just this once for interrupting me. But only if you allow me to take you to my home.”

“Oh?” Kol asked, a salacious grin spreading across his face. Now things were getting interesting.

“Save it Kol Mikaelson-” ordered the ancient goddess as she raised her hand to her face as she pointed at him in warning- “I am taking you to the village that I run with my husband. So, I suggest that you keep your hands to yourself because he has a nasty little habit of being showing exactly how off-limits I am to youngsters such as yourself.”

“I never told you my-”

“You were once a witch, and I am the mother of magic. All witches and their magic came from me, including you.”

It really was so unfair how good she looked while talking over him. Oh well, he might as well play along. Finally, something interesting was happening in his life.

“So, who is this husband of yours, darling? And how can you be so sure that your husband could be a threat to me? You know who I am, what I became. What makes you so sure that once I enter your village, I won’t use my ghostly ways to end him.”

When Kol finished, he immediately felt a shift in the air. It was as if the sun had disappeared and the jungle went silent. It seemed that the animals that served as their audience went dead silent as if they were in anticipation for his end. The kind and amiable mirth of the chthonic witch shifted to dangerous and cold.

Kol had lived for over 700 years and after everything he done and witnessed, he had never felt such chill run down his spine.

“Listen well,” she began – her tone laced with the power and authority that came from someone of her position, “I won’t try to humor you with answering that ridiculous question, nor do I intend to let you presume that my kindness can be mistaken for naivety. My husband is one with abilities as ancient and powerful as mine. If you truly knew what he was capable of, you’d be far more terrified of him than you ever were of your father. That being said, if you ever try to threaten my husband or even think about go so far to joke about it again, I promise you that I can produce torture and incite fear that would make the devil weep in pity for you.”

Oh fuck, even as a ghost, Kol should not have been as aroused by her threats as he was in that moment.

But soon the tension dissipated and warmth from the sun returned to pass through him once more.

“Now that we have that matter cleared up, we really should get going. The sun’s about to set and you never know what or who would be lurking at night.”

With that being the final word, The Good Lady of the Night and Shadows turned around and made her way back to where he presumed to be the location of her home village. And what else could he do but follow her by how the slight sway of her hips seemed to beckon him.

Threats and chills mixed a beautiful witch with magic more ancient than time itself, Kol couldn’t remember the last time he felt so alive.

Authors' Note: And when Kol enters the village, he tries to flirt with Kaet in front of Druig like a dumbass, and his soul gets a major ass-whooping.

Tagging: @ethereal-athalia, @valeskafics, @klauslove, @carolineforbae, @misssophiachase

Reblog and comment and like and share to anyone you think may like to read this fic!

[bunnibeezness]

Here is the picture i drew for my pinned all by itself, because I'm proud of it!

All of these are my ocs! Let me introduce you!

Top Left Corner: Ginger (she/her), Kingdom Hearts

Middle, Below Ginger: Miko (they/them/it/its), Kingdom Hearts

Top Right Corner: Charlie (they/them/he/him), One Piece

Middle Left: Cricket (they/them), Fields of Mistria

True Middle: 621/Raven (they/them), Armored Core 6

Middle Right: Violet (she/her), Kingdom Hearts

Bottom Middle: Adamant (she/her), Mad Max: Fury Road

And at the very bottom: Me, Bunni! From the internet.

You can also find me on AO3 as Pinheads_Baby87

And on Bluesky as @bunnibeezness.bsky.social

Love you kisses :o)