#peril kin

[kin-squad-finder]

hi! I’m Queen Glory from Wings of Fire as well as Winter and Peril also from WoF and Nothing from My Pride!

I was wondering if I could find any other Dragonets of Destiny (both false and original), Jade Winglet dragons, Hover, or Feather and my father, Starmane!

Glory/Winter/Peril/Nothing back here to inform that I am 13 and you can hmu if you fit in the description of people I’m looking for! Morrowseer, Mastermind, Darkstalker, Quickmane, Fire, and Powerstrike Dni. I’ll think about it if you’re Farleap or Silentstalk.

[socte-blue]

Make Assumptions about me based on my top kins

Peril (WOF)

Hunter Noceda (TOH)

Ashley Campbell (SF)

[sombrathedragon]

Hey chat guess who’s lonely

[yorsgirl]

Perhaps, in another realm

Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: An elixir of life – you, destined solely for his consumption. Yet, in his pursuit, he forgot, he sipped away your essence, your breath of life.

Tropes: Dark romance, Historical fiction, Angst, fluff.

Warnings: implied nsfw, implied forced intimacy, forced marriage, baby-trapping, knife play, yandere themes, isolation, trauma, one-sided love implied, non-explicit violence, mild stockholm syndrome(to empathize with one's captor), misogyny, minor character death, healthily unhealthy relationship, Sukuna being a red-green flag, Sukuna has eyes for no one except his wife.

General Warnings: Heian Era, strict Japanese setting, usage of Japanese terms(glossary provided), True form!Sukuna, husband!Sukuna, wife!reader, usage of nicknames, no mentions of y/n.

Word Count: 3.7k

Glossary || Pictures

Ryomen Sukuna beholds secrets which he musn't.

Each dawn's awakening, he notes the sun's radiant dance on your irises. Marking the gentle arc of your lips, a telltale sign of mirth's embrace. By the garden's edge, he watches as the winds tousle and play with your hair curls.

With each flicker of your essence, he can't help but feel a pang of frustration at his own inability to guard his heart against the allure of your presence. Each time your unpredictability unfolds before him, he curses his own vulnerability for the arising tenderness within him.

It vexes him deeply.

Gnawing at the recesses of his, once assumed, dormant heart. Yet, now brought to life by unknown sensations – fuzzy and irksome.

An elixir of life – you. Meant to be solely consumed by him.

Your intricate curls destined to be twirled in his fingers alone. Singularly, he'd stand as the privileged observer, captivated by your brilliant elegance. Your figure draped in the resplendent folds of an opulent kimono, delicately bestowed upon you by his hands.

Thus, he embarked on the sole course he could comprehend – take you.

Splitting you away from the familiarity of a family, hearth and hamlet; for in his eyes, your fragile essence demands his safeguarding against this wicked, cruel realm.

Persuading you, that a life enfolded in his embrace had no reason for trepidation. Your purity, too immaculate to endure the harshness of existence.

Yet, persuasion faltered; your resolute heart held no inclination to remain in his grasp. Mounting a relentless siege, to break free from him and his distorted path.

"You crave peril as I assume, so be it," He conceded. "But know this: I'll be the sole peril haunting your very being."

Pressed beneath the weight of his body upon the bed, your resistance proves to be futile against his strength. Leaving you ensnared in a struggle where defiance falters in presence of his immense power.

"Isn't this what you desired? Didn't you yearn for peril?" He questions, his forefinger trailed across the delicate curve of your neck, assessing the rhythmic beat of your pulse point.

"Fear not, I shall burn the world down to literal ashes until none poses a threat to you, save for me, of course."

For danger, befalling upon you while his eyes held the witness and hands were the forebearer of pain – he'd allow. After all, he embodied peril, haunting humanity for centuries.

"My dearest," He began, twirling a blade before your defiant gaze. "I've wielded this to afflict your kin but fear not, it shall yield pure ecstacy for you."

Said so, he thrusted the timber end of the blade within your slick, delicate folds. Your screams shunned out over his malevolent laughter, fingers twisted the cotton sheets as he glided the blade in-and-out of you.

Blood dripped down his wounded hand, staining the white to red, yet his countenance held no response to pain. Gaze fixated upon your shuddering form, underneath him.

He was no stranger to the acts committed in bed. Knowledgeable of all ministrations and threads he needed to ensnared in order to make it pleasurable. Yet, you found no pleasure in this undoing.

The act of intimacy, which you envisioned to be filled with love while your lover would pepper kisses on your skin much akin to the gentle touch of spring's warmth.

That dream left shattered like shards of glass when your chastity was cruelly left to ruins under his harsh caress.

The night stretched on, your anguish unending as he remained vigilant, subjecting you to his torment.

When it ceased, he gingerly held your fragility while tears streamed down your eyes. He cradled your head in his palm, enfolding your trembling form against his chest as he murmured endearments into your parched ears.

You feebly hit on his chest, for you were seeking comfort from your captor – a sickening act.

He brought you pain and despair, yet here he was, bringing you solace in his arms. A sickening man, indeed, he was.

And with him, you were to stay.

.

You kneeled before the shrine deity.

Decked in a white shiromuku with traces of pink pattern embellishing the fabric, haori lowered just above your lips – grateful to the one who dressed you. Moisture laden lashes would've been a sight for sore eyes.

Beside you, your husband knelt. A black montsukini hakama draped around your self-proclaimed fiance and soon to be husband. Perhaps, you'd have seized the moment to admire him in such a lavish attire if he didn't commit the acts he did.

Abduction and coercion reigned heavy on your mind, the priest's chanting muffled over your loud thoughts. Your fear of the impending, palpable.

Later, you stood by his side, bedecked in jewels, unknown to you. Countless villagers and curses bowed before you but you were a foreigner to such deference.

It was his decree. For he was the King of curses and you – his consort, his queen.

.

Sukuna witnessed you gazing at the pond situated in his garden.

You gazed upon the lotus blooming at the heart of the pond, longingly. Reaching out for it, the trailing end of your garment splashed in the water – a futile attempt, too distant to grasp.

He stifled a snort on the brink of his lips as he descended into the garden, tethering on the stoned pads placed in between soil – approaching you.

"You desire that flower, wife?"

You rose swiftly, clutching the dampened hem of your attire. Refusing to meet his gaze, you brushed off the fabric, clearing away the soil.

"Apologies," You murmured. "I was just curious."

"That doesn't answer my question." He stated, an arch of his eyebrow at your frame. "Do you yearn for it?"

Standing before him, a hush lingered in the air, mere seconds passing. Fingers fidgeting, you nibbled on your inner cheek.

"Perhaps," you admitted, finally locking eyes with his feet once he takes a step forward. Bracing for the inevitable, you tightly shut your eyes.

You shouldn't have considered it. Entertaining the thought of plucking it behind his back, hoping he wouldn't notice, all the while unaware of his presence. You should have realized. Defiance in the past had met harsh retribution. This would be no exception.

"I beg–"

"Enough," He interjected.

You gritted your teeth, fists clenched tightly. This was worse. A single mistake, and you're sealed to a worse fate.

Yet, the vision never bore life.

He took your right hand, delicately clasping it within his own. Slowly, he pried open each finger, tenderly placing something within. Curiosity overrides your apprehension, and you cautiously open your eyes – finding the lotus nestled in your palm.

Your lips parted in astonishment as you gaze up at him, wonderstruck.

"Apologies should not leave your lips for trying to claim what is rightfully yours." He asserted, a ghost of an arc perched upon his lips.

"You desire something, you speak up," He waited, letting the words sink down. "Its upon me, how I'll bring it to fruition."

.

"You are to accompany master to dinner tonight," Uraume conveyed, head and eyes lowered in a humble bow.

The fusuma slid shut, signaling their departure, leaving you to your solitude once again.

Lately, companionship has been ceased from your existence. Confined to your chambers by Sukuna's decree that none other than he should share a moment with you. Save for his devoted servant and few maids he deemed worthy, who prepared you for the day.

Upon your bed, you rested, gazing into a void. Softly humming a melody, reminiscent of a distant song, echoing from the depths of your memory; harkening down the familial embrace in your ancestral village.

The day commenced to dusk, the sky donning a cloak of darkness – welcoming the night's silhouette.

Attended by chosen handmaidens, you were draped in a lavish kimono of crimson and ivory. Crushed red cherry paste graced your lips, a stroke of kohl ran along your lashlines.

You beheld your reflection, lovely; yet the joy eluded you. Unable to savor your captivating visage amidst your plight.

You were escorted to the dining hall by Uraume. As the doors parted, your captor, your husband, awaited you; seated on the head of the table. You took your place across him, evading his malevolent stare, your attention fixed solely on the delicacies presented by the servants.

"Afraid to meet my gaze, wife?" He inquired, his smirk palpable in his tone.

Still, you didn't meet his gaze, eyes fixed on your folded hands resting neatly on your lap. "I fear, I am not deserving to meet your eyes, your highness."

His sight danced upon your figure, measuring you as though you were his quarry. A chuckle escaped him as he poured the sake in his ochoko, indulging in a sip.

"Amusing, how you speak so when you are moons away from birthing my offspring, wife."

Your frame grew rigid, lips drawn tight whilst you glanced at your burgeoning womb.

Restraints couldn't bond you to him forever, he comprehended that moons past. Thus, he had to resort to unruly stratagems. Seeding you with his progeny – rendering you incapable of fleeing him.

If only, you acquiesced and remained by his side, as he craved, he wouldn't have acted thus. But your resolve left him with no alternative.

Not a matter to ponder his head upon, he would've planted his seed in you eventually. A kinship with you, his aspiration.

"I wouldn't leave you famished in such a state, wife. Begin eating." He declared, slicing a strip of meat with his chopsticks.

Eating, as if it were possible in such a condition. The satisfaction of a hearty meal has long deserted you. You didn't suspect the flavors of dishes perched before you. Furthermore, you lacked appetite.

You partook in meals solely to survive.

With adjoined palms, you offered a silent prayer to the almighty reigning above you. And so, you began.

.

Blood bathed the tatami mats of your chambers.

A severed head of a, newly appointed, handmaiden, laid near your feet. Her corpse, probably resulted into hundreds– no thousands of strips, indistinguishable.

Your stance remained rigid and motionless. Terror evident on your countenance, fragile fingertips shaking with shock and apprehension.

"Ah wife," Your husband's voice echoed in your ears. He approached you, stepping over the puddle of blood and sliced flesh.

"You weren't supposed to witness that– come," He gingerly caressed your skin, ushering you out of his chambers with a hand on your back.

"Uraume," He summoned his loyal servant, as on cue, they knelt before their master. "Have the maids tidy this mess."

With the subtle nod, Uraume pivoted around, carrying out their master's command alike a proclamation from thee almighty.

Snapping a life wasn't on his schedule today. He wished to spent it with you, hence summoning you back to your chambers.

Perhaps, a foolish handmaiden, attracted by his visage, made the decision to lure him with her appeal. Lowering her uniform to display her curve of of breast, singing praises of his brilliance to him.

Taken him to be resembling any ordinary man, giving into his desires by just any woman's revealed skin. Alas! He had no interest in any woman other than his wife.

An act of like that, only receives the treatment he'd bestow upon any mortal other than you.

Death.

.

"I must say, you look lovely, my queen." Twirling a strand of your hair, he pushed it behind your ear.

Upon the engawa of your husband's abode, you knelt, sight fixated on the swarm of fireflies illuminating the garden.

Sukuna held his stance beside you, lower two hands bearing his weight behind, the third perched upon his arched knee. He set the kiseru down with the fourth, his thumb and forefinger lifted your chin; coaxing your towards him.

"Intriguing, you are," He remarked, eyebrow arched.

"Such defiance you displayed upon our initial union, and now, you show indifference. Continuously subjecting me to such blank stares and compliance." A hint of exasperation lingered his tone.

"Isn't that what you wished for?" You retorted, a moment later.

Drawing you near, his lips brushed against yours, "Perhaps, I did do." He murmured, breath caressing your cheeks, prompting a flutter of your eyelids.

"But now, I yearn for something greater."

With that, he seized your lips in a fervent, fiery kiss. Only parting, a hair's breath away, to allow you to catch your breath.

He pivoted you gently, drawing you into his embrace. Two arms encircled your waist, one caressing your swollen belly. Third, Brushing aside your hair, you heard the tinkling of ornaments. Moments later, a chain adorned your neck, a crimson gemstone nestled between your collarbones.

"Ruby?"

"Rubies are ill-suited during pregnancy, its diamond" He corrected, whispering beside your ear, securing the clasp of the chain. "Unlike most, this one's tint sets it apart than rest."

"For what?" You questioned, assessing the gem like it were poison. Grasping it between your middle finger and thumb, the lantern lights reflected on its surface. Though small, you knew it amounted to more than your ancestral wealth.

"Do I need a reason to spoil my wife with jewels?"

A moment passed in silence, your gazed him through your peripheral vision, the next. "Perhaps not, its beautiul."

"Turn around," He commanded, you complied instinctively. Turning your body to face him.

His gaze met yours at first, second they drifted to the chain bedecked on your neck and on third, he glanced at both, at once.

The jewel's radiance evoked with you being it's wearer.

A grin cracked upon his lips, gingerly holding your cheek in his calloused hands in which you begrudgingly leaned in. With a mouth, summoned on his palm, he placed a chaste kiss on your skin.

"Just how Intriguing you are, wife."

.

Love for your son eluded you.

A splitting image of his father with the identical hair and carmine tinted eyes. You pondered if he'd grow up to be just like your husband.

At days, you couldn't muster the courage to cast your eyes upon him. His mere presence: a testament to your plight, evidence that you were no longer the woman you once were and evidence to your compliance to Sukuna's desires.

Even then, you never shied away from your duties as a mother.

Perhaps, some love existed, for he wielded your flesh and blood too.

You were rendered from ever escaping. Though half-heartedly, you didn't wish to leave your child with Sukuna even though you despised both of their existence.

In this era, nurturing a child as a sole woman was beyond grasp. For all held the thought, as a woman your sole duty was to remain by your husband's side and bear his offspring.

You couldn't return to your home either. Your father, though loved you, would never let you set foot in his abode ever again.

Reasons: You were abducted by a man, your chastity stripped off of you. You were no longer pure in any sense.

He wouldn't tarnish his family name and reputation for just a daughter.

Moreover, your matrimony with the wicked, king of curses had reached rivers far; binding you to his side forever.

Peril loomed at every turn, dangling your life by a single thread. Easily snapped by even the weakest of men. Sukuna's adversaries would leave no stone unturned to reach him, venturing as far to lay down the life of his innocent wife. Someone absolved of his transgressions.

Reluctantly, you accepted that remaining by his side was the wisest decision.

You cradled your son in your embrace, rocking him back and forth as you hummed a lullaby to put him to sleep.

Once his snores serenaded the room, you tenderly placed him upon his cot, adjacent to your own resting place. Gentle pats graced his chest, once you noted him stirring in the embrace of slumber.

"Come to bed," Your husband's voice echoed in your ears. Compliance swiped in your being, a swift rotation of your heels after you had checked your son to be far from awakening. You parted the curtains and perched upon the bed – lying beside your husband.

His arms encircled around your waist, drawing you to his chest, he inhaled your scent.

Your body tensed when his lips brushed against your nape. You dreaded the inevitable.

Six moons had passed, since he last embraced you intimately. The last two, post your son's arrival, were a blur of exhaustion. From tending to your physical strain and catering to your son's ceaseless crave of attention.

Tonight, all you longed for was to surrender yourself to slumber, wrapped in embrace of gentle linens. Alas, it seemed that wish would remain unfulfilled.

You were keenly aware of his intentions tonight – for he was but a man. Thus, you braced yourself.

You waited in anticipation, for him to act on his desires. Yet, it did not come to pass.

You cracked your eyelids open, stealing a glance at him. His carmine eyes met yours in a resolute stare, holding it with unwavering poise.

"Retire to sleep," he finally remarked, tenderly brushing aside the tendrils from your weary visage.

A year prior, during the early nights of your newly forged union, you would have taken a moment to contemplate his actions, perhaps even staying awake the entire night to discern his intentions.

Now, whether out of trust or simply exhaustion from the demands of motherhood – you found yourself slipping into a dreamless slumber without further ado.

The haunting nightmare of humanity, he was; yet, you found solace in falling asleep in his embrace.

.

His son has taken just after you.

Verily, his offspring could be likened unto a veritable likeness of himself in countenance, yet in comportment and carriage, he bespoke tales of you.

Awaking to the crack of dawn, shedding tears should companionship elude him. Taking solace in the embrace of the verdant garden, to which you oft escorted him. Even directing reproachful glances towards him, his father, whilst cradled lovingly in his paternal arms.

Beneath your eyes lay heavy shadows, hollows etched upon your cheeks, and a perpetual frown graced your lips, save for moments spent conversing with your offspring.

Sukuna escorted his sobbing kin from their chambers, affording you the much-needed respite that has eluded you of late; his offspring casted a disdainful gaze upon him.

"What? Speak up if you wish to," He queried, a playful lilt adorning his speech.

He tenderly traced his son's tender cheek with his claw, wary of leaving any mark upon his cherubic visage. His son seized his finger in both tiny hands, elevating it as though clutching a covert weapon – scrutinizing the nail and the ridges with keen interest.

His little one beamed, a gesture akin to the gentle breeze of summer, bestowed upon him by the heavens above. A giggle swift past his lips – a laughter, he assumed angel's melody wouldn't sound better.

His smile was yours – Sukuna realized. Perhaps, he hadn't completely taken after him in physical features.

Rocking his form back and forth on his arms, a tender smile danced upon his lips.

"Lower the tone, child. Your mother rests inside."

.

Sukuna couldn't help but contemplate alternative scenarios.

He sipped his sake, his gaze fixed upon your figure, leaning against the amado – your eyes lingering on the cherry blossom trees outside, in the garden.

The fragrance of spring permeated the air, imbuing a soothing atmosphere, starkly contrasting with the terror he instilled upon the village beyond the river.

At moments such as these, he can't help but ponder on the possibility of attaining a kinship with you, without resorting to unruly methods.

His thoughts rewind to the clash conversation he shared with you, mere moments past.

In your gaze, defiance ablazed, aimed straight at him.

"What's your intent? To end my life? Proceed, now. Who held you back? Proceed. Perhaps, I'd choose that fate over spending another day with you."

"Make no mistake," You pressed on. "My sentiment for you isn't love, don't deceive yourself. What festers within me is pure, unadulterated hate."

How could he let slip from memory? A curse he was, brutal and unyielding. Unwelcomed, marked with shame – The disgraceful one. How could he fail to recall? Love's realm, forever beyond the reach of his reach.

He seized you, by means unorthodox yet deemed vital. Yet, he finds himself lost in contemplation.

What if he had treaded a different path?

Would a love aglow your heart if he had courted you in a proper manner? Would you accept him in your life – a husband, a companion, a lover? Would you had willingly become his? 

For your presence brought his heart back to life; in doing so, the life and light was lost from your eyes.

Scorned by the desire to claim you as his, the thought of your own desires, feelings was pushed to the desolate corners of his mind.

In another realm, he assumes– in another realm, he might have treated you properly from the very beginning.

In another realm, you wouldn't have to have a lingering threat struck on your mind. You wouldn't fear him.

In a realm beyond, you'd stand beside him by choice, not coercion. A realm where he'd navigate every step flawlessly. A realm where, instead of vowing to set the world ablaze for you, he'd pledge to journey with you until the world's end.

Perhaps, in another realm, you'd fall in love with him like he did for you in this.

A/N: uhm uhm uhm, just typed down an idea which I had for days + I used a new format of literal english (idk how it turned out, I am so sorry if it's cringe 😭) + I fucking don't know how to end stories so bear with me.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Snow Angel

Daemon's Version

I'll angel in the snow until I'm worthy but if it kills me, I tried.

Gwyane's Version ❄ Daemon's Version ❄ Aegon's Version ❄ Aemond's Version ❄ Jacaerys' Version ❄ Cregan's Version ❄ Criston's Version

Daemon Targaryen x Snow!Reader | 700< | cw: fem!reader, reader is Lord Rickon Stark's bastard daughter, canon divergence, angst, violence, blood, war, death, typos, etc.

A/N: renee rapp my beloved

Though you were his wife by law, you were not by heart.

It did not hurt you, at least not anymore. You understood your place. You understood your duty; your duty was to your house, to your family, to him.

This was how you found yourself in the crosshairs of peril.

Daemon had been lost for days on end. He'd not given word ever since his proclamation to seize Harrenhal for the Queen— for his niece, his beloved niece. You knew why he was so eager to act. He so badly wanted to win Rhaenyra's favor.

They had not seen eye to eye lately, and one could say it was your fault. You were getting in the middle of their relationship, you, his wife. It felt as though there was not a soul in Westeros who did not know of their relations, and yet even in that blatant shame, not once did you ever bring it up to your husband.

Not once.

Why?

Because he saved you when you were wed. You had been promised to an old lord known to be a wife beater. You were told that it was the best match you would ever get, but then you caught the interest of the prince of Dragonstone, even if for a fleeting moment.

You thought that what you had was akin to desire, if not love, but it seems he only married you to spite someone that truly stoked such a thing within him. And now, you were sent to the North to remind your half brother of House Stark's pledge to that person, to Queen Rhaenyra. Your kin did not take kindly to that. But it was not Cregan that found offence in your appearance, but his men, some five of them.

Daemon dreams about this in Harrenhal. He dreams of five direwolves pulling you apart, limb from limb. He wakes up in a cold sweat because of it. When he rouses with word that a raven came telling of the conditions of his wife, he did not need to read its contents to be inspired to saddle Caraxes.

He makes his dragon land inside Winterfell and demands, "WHERE IS MY WIFE?!"

Cregan runs and meets him once he dismounted, leading him to your room.

His expression falls when he sees you. You were badly cut and beaten. You looked like you were ready to greet the Stranger. He grabs Cregan by his furs and hisses, "where are the men that did this?"

"I've sent them to the Wall," Stark raises a hand, indicating he did not want to fight.

"The Wall?" he shoves him away, "their heads should be on a sp-"

"They are my men. I will do with them as-"

"They outnumbered and ambushed my wife! You think they deserve the honor of keeping their heads?!"

Daemon was about to draw Dark Sister, until he heard a soft voice call his name. He turns to you, catching the way you stirred, and immediately comes to your side.

You weakly reach out a hand and he takes it. He is warm, a complete opposite to you. You feel lethargic but you manage to pull your lips into a semblance of a smile. You whisper, "you've come."

Your husband stares at you. He clutches your hand in both of his.

You rub his skin with your thumb.

He shakes his head, "I will exact your injuries of your attackers. They will regret the day they left their mothers' cunts."

You no longer have the energy to respond. You weakly smile at him before closing your eyes.

He stays with you until you fall asleep. He stay with you until he is told your eyes would no longer open again. He had to be subdued before he killed the maester that announced the news.

Cregan could do little to stop the prince and Caraxes from flying off to the Wall. He all but threatened to burn the whole of it down if your attackers did not come forth. And when they do, Daemon tells them to fight him or be fed to his dragon.

And so the fools attacked him, and were slain, and were fed to his dragon anyway. He flies back to Harrenhal after, and you haunt him in his dreams.

[pa1nrema1ns]

Master and Apprentice || Sung Jin-woo (Part 1 of 3)

Siren!Jin-woo x Deaf!Omega!reader

A/N - Hello everyone! This fic was inspired by the lovely @forbidden-sunlight's siren!au. We both collaborated on this piece and it serves as a direct sequel to her imagine, so do be sure to check it out first! This story picks up right where her imagine left off.

╰┈➤ Prequel by @forbidden-sunlight

Content warnings: 18+ MDNI, mythical creatures au, canon divergent, a/b/o dynamics, afab!reader, suggestive themes, obsessive thoughts, slightly ooc Jin-woo (he's very reverent towards Ashborn), mentions of violence, death, and despair, forbidden romance (humans and sirens are natural enemies), eventual yandere!Jin-woo.

Word Count - 3.6k

Summary - Sung Jin-woo seeks answers about his potential mate from Ashborn in the deepest depths of the abyss.

Dividers by @anitalenia and @firefly-graphics

After what feels like an eternity, Jin-woo comes to an abrupt stop. He wasn’t tired in the slightest, but he couldn’t finish this journey unless he was in the right frame of mind. If he was going to face the sea monarch, Ashborn, then he needed to compose himself. He was his mentor’s prized disciple, after all. Resolute in his decision, Jin-woo pinches his brow, shuts his eyes, and releases a deep, suffering sigh. He had to stop ruminating over the useless ‘what ifs’ of his current situation and focus on the matter at hand. You emitting pheromones in his presence was proof enough that you were a compatible mate, but this would be meaningless if you were unreceptive to him. It also begs the question, was humanity even capable of consorting with sirens? In search of an answer, he reminisces about the tales of old passed down by generations of his kin, as well as the many speculations made by humans.

No one knew the exact origins of his species. Most humans assumed the progenitors were Persephone’s handmaidens, punished by Demeter after Hades had taken her daughter to the underworld and forced her into becoming his queen. Some stories also claimed that seafoam  birthed them, but Jin-woo scoffed at this particularly ridiculous rumor. A scholar had recently published an article on how sirens may actually be the offspring of the river deity Achelous and a divine songstress, citing notations from various mythos on this theory. In truth, reality was far simpler than any of these far-fetched narratives.

There was just no definitive explanation for the existence of sirens. They were not interchangeable with the peaceful denizens of the ocean, known as mermaids and mermen. While all fell under the umbrella of the term ‘merfolk,’ the sirens had a far more hostile and bloodstained relationship with humans.

Since time immemorial, his brethren were viewed as nothing but a scourge upon this world of humanity. Beautiful as a raging typhoon and every bit as devastating, the sirens served as harbingers of doom and destruction for those foolish enough to risk the perilous waters. Their heavenly voices were tantamount to the funeral dirges used to usher the dead into the afterlife. It would be understandable to believe that the sirens were the monsters in this baleful story. However, human nature at its core is fraught with wickedness, and men soon grew wise to the machinations of merfolk.

Odysseus was the first to survive an encounter with sirens. During his voyage to Ithaca, the cunning man had instructed his crew to plug their ears with beeswax, effectively blocking the intoxicating songs that had ended the lives of so many before them. Emboldened by the success of Odysseus’s scheme, other sailors began using this method to conquer the sea and establish trade routes. Within a matter of a couple hundred years, humans not only overcame their fear of sirens, but they also poached them. Huntsmen would capture, torture, and kill Jin-woo’s ancestors simply for crossing paths with them. Worse yet, these scoundrels would often murder merfolk solely to harvest their organs, bones, and scales. They would then use the defiled corpses as ingredients for commodities, medication, and even aphrodisiacs. It was truly grotesque, if not outright barbaric, and more than justified the ire his kind felt towards humanity. While they hunted for the noble sake of survival, men did it for bloodsport and money.

The horrific fates suffered by many of their beloved brothers and sisters particularly infuriated the alphas, with their robust constitutions and natural sense of leadership. With a thirst for vengeance, they began targeting and attacking ships, ports, and even beaches. The alphas considered any place or vehicle that harbored humans as eligible targets. The less temperamental betas remained neutral and avoided the bloodshed, opting to prey upon shoals of fish and other maritime animals instead. Omegas could not join in the hunt, as they were far too precious to lose. They were the most cherished and talented singers amongst the sirens and required around-the-clock protection because of their significant rarity. These were the origins of the current hierarchical structure Jin-woo adhered to.

After recalling the tumultuous history of his people in its entirety, Jin-woo clenches his fists until his knuckles turn white. This was so damn frustrating! Rather than granting him an understanding of his attraction, it just proved all the more why it was so illogical. 

Defeated, Jin-woo raises his head, opens his eyes, and continues to swim. Another hour passes before he finds himself at the ingress of Ashborn’s lair. His enigmatic teacher lived in almost complete obscurity. Devoid of any light, and enveloped by a suffocating aura, this nautical cavern intimidated all who dared to approach it. Well, almost all that is apart from Jin-woo. He effortlessly permeates the invisible barrier designed to keep intruders at bay and ventures into his master’s spiritual domain.

Despite being an ancient and powerful king of the sea, Ashborn made the strange decision to emulate a land-like environment in his personal chambers. As Jin-woo manifests into the realm, his appearance gives way to a form more befitting of a land dweller. His tail separates into two legs, his scales smoothen into skin, and he loses the winged fins on his ears and back. Once finished with this metamorphosis, Jin-woo takes a deep breath. Fresh pine, grass, and flowers perfume the air as he’s greeted by a lush valley. It had been a while since he had visited, and the setting had required him to transform into a human. Interestingly, transfiguration was one of the first skills Ashborn taught him. Speaking of his mentor –

“My disciple, it is good to see you again, though you appear…troubled. Tell me, what ails you so?” A rumbling voice rings across the horizon, signaling Ashborn’s approach; the tenebrous essence of the powerful deity contrasting with the greenery of the land. He appears in front of Jin-woo as a great dark knight. Much like his surroundings, Ashborn’s current visage was nothing but an illusion. Even the bravest of warriors said that his lifelike image invoked sheer terror in their hearts.

Many speculate he possesses a massive stature, at least several leagues in height and breadth alone, with piercing eyes and endless tendrils of dark hair. Others claim he is the son of Poseidon, one of the twelve Olympians, and a God of destruction who presided over the sea. However, Jin-woo never once witnessed this side of his teacher in all the years he’s been under his mentorship. Ashborn certainly exuded dignity, but he still displayed a humble attitude. And without fail, he would always appear in that strange, armored suit whenever he was in Jin-woo’s presence.

“My teacher, I must ask for your help on an urgent matter,” Jin-woo starts, anxiously running his tongue across his bottom lip. “This morning, while I was scavenging, I stumbled across the unmistakable aroma of an unmarked omega. It…it was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. As if I was being beckoned by someone or something. I wanted, no, I needed to heed its call.”

Ashborn listens in silence, his expression indiscernible. Jin-woo continued.

 “When I arrived, I was in front of a monstrosity of a ship – a yacht right by the sandbanks. At first, I assumed that someone had taken an unfortunate siren captive. But when I finally saw her–”

“You recognized she was human. Not only that, but she belongs to the lowest level of the hierarchy, an omega. Speak if I am wrong, my dear pupil.” Jin-woo lowers his head in shame, fringe obscuring his eyes. This action all but confirms it.

“I don’t know what to do or how to proceed, teacher. Everything I’ve learned about these creatures has made me detest them. But I can’t bring myself to hate her. How could this even be possible? We are not even of the same species. She’s my enemy, my prey…. At least, she’s supposed to be.” His voice lowers into a near whisper as he ends his confused rambling.

“And yet you don’t view her that way, do you child?” Ashborn poses a question he already knows the answer to but needs to hear in his pupil’s own words.

“No, I don’t,” Jin-woo replies grimly. “I yearn to know more about her. And not just that. I want to meet her, court her, and make her mine. If she’ll even have me, that is… So please, teacher, tell me if there is any meaning behind what I feel. Am I destined for something that bears no place in reality?”

Ashborn remains uncharacteristically quiet while faced with such a loaded question. All is eerily silent for a few moments, save for the cheerful chirping of the illusionary songbirds. At last, the monarch gazes at Jin-woo and gives him the answer he so desperately desires.

“It is entirely possible Sung Jin-woo, alpha of Jindo island, for I am proof of such a fantastical circumstance. My first and only love was also a human omega. A woman I devoted my entire being to over a millennium ago.”

Jin-woo’s eyes widened in shock at this revelation. His mentor had fallen in love at some point, and it was with a member of the human race? This was unheard of.

“I never knew you had a lover,” Jin-woo murmurs softly. “What was she like? Do you still remember everything about her after so many years?”

“Let me show you, my disciple. It is a tragic tale that words alone cannot properly convey.” With a wave of Ashborn’s hand, their surroundings began to morph and alter. The valley transforms into a spacious, yet quaint medieval village composed of several wooden houses with a bustling marketplace at its center. When Jin-woo regains his bearings, he notices his mentor has also metamorphosized. A man with a sun kissed complexion, long dark hair, and a beard stands where he once stood. Though visibly unrecognizable, he was unmistakably Ashborn. A crimson cape was clasped to the pristine silver armor he wore. A paladin. Jin-woo recalls. He had some knowledge of the past lives of men through his rare excursions onto the Mainland. While disguised as a human, Jin-woo once traded in his goods for a textbook on history. He was loath to admit just how intriguing he had found it.

Ashborn speaks, his voice no longer resonating within the confines of shadowy steel.

“It was here in this village that I came across her. She was the only daughter of a peasant farmer. A strong-willed, rapscallion of a woman with a wit sharper than any blade. I can remember her beauty, her warmth, and her tenacity as clear and concise as the day we met.” He says with a wistful gaze. The scene then shifts to a woman in a pure white gown. Her eyes remained hidden, but it did nothing to impede upon her loveliness. The woman runs animatedly towards a man who looks identical to Ashborn’s borrowed likeness and leaps into his arms. The man then effortlessly spins her around before bringing her into a kiss. Jin-woo watches on, mesmerized by what was unfolding in front of him.

“I feared her rejection once she knew the truth of my identity,” Ashborn admits. “On the night we first made love, I finally revealed to her my status as ruler of the sea. However, it did not matter. She loved me wholly and unconditionally, regardless of who or what I was. Such was the strength of her resolve.” In the next instance, they return to the same valley from earlier. What differs this time is that the man and woman are there, unacknowledging of Jin-woo and Ashborn’s presence. Lost in their own special world. The woman has a flower crown on her head, and she sits on the grass, holding the man’s head in her lap. Both appear happy and at ease.

“For the first time in my existence, I experienced true contentment. I long to return to those days, but alas, our bliss did not last.”

Ashborn solemnly shuts his eyes as darkness overtakes the sky and rain falls. The man is now shown standing at a grave with an expression of anguish marring his face. The woman is nowhere to be seen, although Jin-woo knows exactly where she’s at.

“A plague was scourging the land and indiscriminately ending the lives of thousands. I tried to protect her with my magic, but it was to no avail. She fell gravely ill despite my best efforts. I discovered shortly thereafter that omegas were more susceptible to sickness than their contemporaries. If I had known beforehand, I would’ve brought her to the sea with me, away from that damned disease. But I was a fool who was willing to love and live with her as a man, not as a king. And as punishment for my hubris, an ailment snuffed out her life.”

At the end of his recollection, Ashborn’s lair returns to its original state. His mentor had also regained his shadowy exterior. The valley appears completely untouched by time, as if it were still one thousand years in the past. That’s why his lair looks like this. Jin-woo thinks as he finally recognizes its significance, It was their personal sanctuary. After a few moments of silence, Ashborn speaks.

“Although our circumstances are similar, you still have the privilege of choice. I cannot turn back time, nor can I change the past, but I am grateful. I experienced unspeakable grief, yes, but I also would have never encountered such love, tenderness, and passion had I not taken a chance on my omega. You, my disciple, still have free rein over your decision. Should you choose to pursue this woman, you have my blessing and irrefutable proof that she is a viable mate for you. If not, you will still receive my unwavering support in your future endeavors. The choice is yours to make.”

Jin-woo’s throat bobs. He feels an incredible sense of guilt at unearthing his master’s secret.

“My teacher, I apologize for prying into your past. I – I did not mean to bring up painful memories for you. I cannot imagine what you have endured. As of right now, I am not sure what it is I want, but I know for a fact I cannot give up on this human. I will need some time to contemplate and sort out my feelings. If you will excuse me.”

Jin-woo bows his head before turning to take his leave. As he approaches the exit, a sudden thought emerges at the forefront of his mind.

“Teacher, there is one more question I must ask. This human, she does not speak with words. She communicates with her hands and gestures. Is this some type of sorcery or spell that she’s casting?”

“It is most likely sign language, a manner of non-verbal communication used by humans who are unable to vocalize or hear. Perhaps she cannot speak, or has a hearing impairment, so she must express herself through other means.” Ashborn answers, curiosity lacing his voice.

Jin-woo feels his heart sinking. A siren’s serenade played a pivotal role in the mating ritual and was performed just prior to consummating an eternal bond. If what Ashborn said is true, then there is a possibility you could be immune to his song. This meant he wouldn't be able to use it on you when the time came…

He grits his teeth as he remembers your smiling face. Try as he might, Jin-woo just could not get you out of his head, nor was he willing to let you escape his grasp. You may not have realized it yet, but you had unknowingly sunk your fangs into him and the seeds of obsession were already beginning to take root. Rather than being discouraged by Ashborn’s observation, he instead finds himself reinvigorated.

“Teacher, disregard everything I said earlier. I now know what it is I must do.”

Ashborn peers into the eyes of his disciple, relieved by the determination that lights them. This was much more like the obstinate young man he knew.

“I choose to seek this omega and stake my claim, no matter what challenges may await the two of us,” Jin-woo proclaims proudly. “I will make her mine, but only if she consents to my proposal. And if not through song, then through other courtship methods. I am strong, stronger than any other alpha in my territory, and I know I can protect her from all who would wish her harm. I won’t let my mate slip through my fingers.”

“But what of maladies and the passage of time? You can fight against gods and monsters until the end of your days, but sickness or her ephemeral lifespan will not spare this young woman. In the end, your time with her shall be fleeting.” Ashborn ruthlessly counters Jin-woo’s declaration of protection.

Jin-woo bites his lip, not expecting this development. However, before he can muster a response, his mentor graces him with an answer.

“I know of one way you can overcome this. There is a recipe for an elixir known as the Holy Water of Life. It is a miraculous potion that can imbue invulnerability to communicable diseases, extend lifespan, and transform the consumer into a siren. I unfortunately did not have knowledge of such a panacea while I was with my love. Of course, I live with the regret of not discovering it sooner, as now I have no such use for it, but this does not mean I will idly stand by and let history repeat itself with my protégé.”

With a flash of light, an ancient scroll appears in front of Jin-woo. It unravels by itself to reveal its contents to him. Jin-woo’s eyes widen as he reads. Is this…?

“Behold. The ingredients for crafting the Holy Water of Life. I bequeath this boon unto you, my disciple. However, heed my warning as the acquisition of these components requires you to conquer all 100 floors of the Demon’s Castle and to defeat its king, Baran. This is a treacherous dungeon that may claim your life if you are unprepared for it, but it can also impart you with unspeakable power should you prevail.”

Jin-woo perks up at this information, his interest now fully piqued. “Tell me, master, where can I find the Demon’s Castle?”

“It hides far away, in the city of Seoul, within an incorporeal dominion. It is a flame-ridden landscape that will require you to assume the form of a human to enter the castle. Knowing all the risks it entails; do you still accept my offer?”

“I do,” Jinwoo confidently states.

“Very well,” Ashborn nods his assent, and a key materializes into Jin-woo’s palm.

“Use this key to open the gate to the Demon’s Castle. I have also implanted it with the coordinates to the dungeon’s location. You need only close your eyes and grasp onto the key to visualize it.”

Following the instructions, Jin-woo sees a map that details the exact distance from his current whereabouts to the metropolitan area of Seoul. It will be a lengthy trip, even with his impressive swimming prowess. He estimates it will take roughly half a day to arrive at his destination. Undeterred, Jin-woo presses onward.

“Teacher, I cannot thank you enough for all your help and guidance over these last few years. I give you my word; I will return alive and well, both with the elixir and Baran’s head. And then I will meet with the omega and court her in earnest.”

He departs without another word, although his promise relays an unspoken farewell between them. After some time passes, Ashborn stares at the vast skies of his domain and muses to himself.

“You have grown so much from when I rescued you from the Cartenon Temple all those years ago, Sung Jin-woo. I could not be prouder of you, my disciple. Till our next encounter.”

12 hours later...

Jin-woo finally emerges from the dark, briny waters that frame Seoul’s coastline. After leaving Ashborn’s lair, he briefly returned home to pack and prepare for the journey ahead. Both Jin-ah and his mother were worried about his sudden departure, so he did the best he could to assuage their fears by giving them a sanitized version of the truth. Jin-woo claimed Ashborn had provided him with a list of rare ingredients that were only available for purchase in the human markets at Seoul. He even promised to bring back a box of chocolates as a souvenir, something his mother and little sister had enjoyed during one of his return trips to the surface. He then traveled the full 413-kilometer distance from Jindo-gun to Seoul, stopping only for a few hours to rest and recuperate.

As he approaches land, he assumes the form of a naked human man and walks inland from the sea. However, Jin-woo comes to a halt when he becomes more aware of his current state of nudity. While it didn’t bother him, it would cause a lot of unnecessary trouble if any nosy beachgoers happened upon him and asked questions. It is also…pretty embarrassing to admit that he is…wobbly on these legs. Very much so.

He quickly summons his magical inventory and grabs a simple black t-shirt, boxers, fitted jeans, and athletic sneakers (‘Adidas’, the portly sales attendant had called them). As worthless as he found human decorum to be, Jin-woo needed to remain as inconspicuous as possible while he was in disguise. Once dressed, he strolled into the city. After 45 minutes, he found himself at the designated street junction on the map. Taking a deep breath, he brings forth the key, turns it, and unlocks the gate. 

⚓︎ To be continued...

[hrtreuptakeinhibitor]

Where’s the double reblog for this frankly smashing idea

Jane Doe with a transatlantic accent

[heartfullofleeches]

Fletcher and foxboy malewife are my favorite but what if.... fletcher and naga malewife? I think that'd be interesting

Yan Farmer Flemish Rabbit Hybrid + Naga Reader

[No pronouns used for Reader but they are referred to as wife and intended to be male]

-

"Give it back...... Give it back...."

A stalking plague falls upon the sleepy town. Residents of a once a bustling burrow of rabbits now lock their doors soon as the sun sets over the mountains in fear of the shadow lurking down every barren alleyway. Hunger pains, yet it does not seek the flesh of these creature. It hunts each night - a restless search for the item able to free it from this place. Anger and fear rule its mind, teeth flared at any and all who answer their pleas incorrectly. Confusion replaces the fear dread in the hearts of its victims at the accusations of theft. Regardless, the beast points their claws at whomever crosses their path til what they have lost is rightfully returned.

"Give it back...."

"This what you're lookin' for?"

A chain dangles freely from the rabbit's finger - moonlight bouncing off the blood red gem tailored to the sliver band attached to the end of the chain. There's something odd about this rabbit. Why does this one smell so... familiar?

The barn.

Your sanctuary from the raging storm has been the crux of all your troubles from the very beginning. This rabbit must be is caretaker then. You've seen him in passing, but had no interest in him besides his herd so you never paid much attention to the details. One that goes without saying is how large the man is. Your tail gives you leverage now, but if you don't get your ring back soon then surely-

"It's rude to keep what isn't yours. Give it to me."

"Hey, now- I found this on my property fair and square. I even waited the first couple of nights for you to come back, but you never showed. I was starting to worry I'd never see you again."

Does he enjoy the sound of his own voice? Something catches your eye over the rabbit's shoulder. A glimmer of yellow breaking over the horizon. Panic sets in as a tingle runs through the nerves of your tail. It won't be long now. You needed to act fast. The rabbit looked to be aware of your peril as he takes several steps back into the growing sunlight. Your hand recoils as it creeps towards you.

"Been watching you for a long time now. Long enough to know a small bit about this whole... situation you got going on. I'll give you this ring back - for a price.~"

He's stalling. Sunlight blinds your sight as that accursed ball of light peeks over the buildings. Your body slowly begins to shrink - tail splitting in two as you topple over from the sudden shift in your shape. You crash to the ground - the bulk of your scales receding into your all too human flesh as you land. The rabbit whistles, turning a bashful eye away from your nude figure.

"If humiliating me is what you wanted, I'd say you got what you wished. Can I have my ring back now?"

A curse passed down generation by generation. By night, you are your true self. By day, you are forced to walk this earth on two legs like the rest of animal kin. The disadvantage it puts you at is steep. Smaller, weaker, pitiful. That ring has the power to return you to your proper state even now. You have to get it back.

The rabbit appears offended by your words.

"Humiliate you? Now why on earth would I want to humiliate my wife? You'll get this ring back on our wedding day. I'd love to get you something flashy myself, but it's nicer to keep things in the family. Sooner we get married, sooner you get this back - got it?."

He.... can't be serious. You still return to your true form by sunset. You may be able to overpower him then. As things stood now, you had no chance. Not only was he bigger than you, but in the scarce chance you obtain the upper hand now the town's people are sure to come to his rescue before you can grab what's yours and flee.

"Alright. I will become your wife in exchange for what's mine."

The rabbit grins. "That's the spirit. Name's Fletcher by the way, but most folks call me Fetch. Thought you might like to know since we'll be stuck together from now on."

Fletcher pulls something from his shoulders as he approaches. A fuzzy blanket which he drapes around you as he lifts you off the cold ground. The bastard really has been watching you- Shuddering from the cold, you seek the warmth from his fur as you place your head to his chest - heart beat gone sporadic as you nestle your face deeper into the fluff. If you are to be stuck with him for now, it's better to play along than give away your true intentions so soon.

"Heh, let's get you home before you freeze out here. I'll make you something to eat and we'll get to know each other better before we start planning our special day."

That sounds.... pleasant. The food that is. You can't recall the last time you'd eaten. Hooking your arms around the rabbits neck, he carries you off in the direction of his home as the sleepy town you once terrorized wakes once more.

[the-muppet-joker]

I stare at you, talking about how I cannot speak about muppet piss slavery, I simply just chuckle to myself and take down my hood, revealing that i am infact.....

UNNAMED MUPPET PISS SLAVE.

It's my right to talk about muppet piss slavery fighting against those big companies and spreading the word of mistreatment...

Say, can you see By the dawn's early light What so proudly we hailed At the twilight's last gleaming?

Whose broad stripes and bright stars Through the perilous fight O'er the ramparts we watched Were so gallantly, yeah, streaming?

And the rockets' red glare The bombs bursting in air Gave proof through the night That our flag was still there

O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave

I kick you down to the floor like the alpha I am and shakes his head putting a cool cigarette and smoking it, "Out of all people... I thought you'd understand..." I hop on my motorcycle and drive away into the sunset in my leather jacket and cool ass sunglasses since Im a cool ass lawyer who helps muppet piss slaves out and win against those big companies.

-The one and only, Piss Anon

News flash, asshole! You cannot reclaim Muppet Piss Slavery and speak on behalf of all current or former Muppet Piss Slaves (or those who have kin memories of experiencing it). Writing fanfiction about Muppet Piss Slavery is fucking unacceptable and is irredeemable fiction. You make me sick and your fake fucking patriotism on the day after 9/11 should have you banned from Tumblr and killed by God.

[someweirdoreblogger]

Burning Spice Cookie is passion ignited, albeit not in the moral side of the conscious spectrum. He is quite affectionate, actually, more than you may give him credit for.

Do not mistake it as humane, as a blind genosity. It comes not from a moral source of obligation or even gerenal priority.

Once the deranged loin-a Beast amongst monsters-the corrupted Lord himself is invested, your scent guiding freely through the droves, to shake him off your trail will prove diffcult. Burning Spice is not so kind to let prey go by unscathed, untouched by his mighty axe; His shadow stalks the trees, quaking, a deafening roar booms in the distance.

The Hunt begins.

You dare infringe upon his heart, you invade his senses, scrabble his thoughts; you really think you can simply crawl back home unscathed?

What home have you to turn too? Who would even think to take you back with the mark of a Beast weighing down your back?

Luckily, this debt can be paid. Paid solely by your own parry and peril. Burning Spice will remember your tracks better than the back of his own hand.

Once he comes, just an arrogant march away, you will know. The world itself will alert, not you, but itself to his sudden existence.

The birds will cease their music, the ground will shake and stumble; struggling to keep its foundation stable and lively. The lakes, far and wide, the sky, the kisses of clouds and weak leaves rip itself apart, dancing in the reflection below. It ripens in sheer unbalanced tension, seemingly frightened; the water will ripple like static, wavering under a wave of immense, exotic shock, and pressure.

The wind is ecstatic, nature's personal enthusiasm; it moans, groans, and sighs heavy in your ear. Desperate to be heard.

You will taste him in the air, a suffocating sulfur and ghastly spice, it threatens to choke weaker beings. Feel him fester like sparks on your crust, hair standing up stiff, dough throbbing. Tingling and blazing hot, a Beast's presence is a neigh-suffocating weight. You will never know peace until he deems you worthy of such.

Burning Spice roams triumphant, forever hungry. An immovable glare in the sky, a blinding scorch to the people's merger eyes, looking down civilization in cold indifference; The same way a god regurds his subjects. Just ants, peasy insects, building their anthills, simply hoping to piece together a safe haven for themselves in a universe far too large to tackle alone.

The Vitue of Change, The Lord of Destruction, will stand tall alone. Boundless from any chain as mortals rise, spoil and fall. A proud witness to the beginning, present, and the end, the natural tides of history sow in the seeds of devastation he leaves behind. He is a slave to his base desires, as all Cookies are; a chaotic harbinger of endless malice and merciless strife.

But he is still yet a man. A heartless monster in a man's skin. A Cookie baked in the same oven as his fellow kin, a great Beast, seeking to completely deprive himself of sheer boredom and simplicity.

All immortals carry the burden, the smooth erosion of time is not lost even to Beasts, as the ocean inevitably swipes a wet hand over the sand. He lives long and simply withstands, and he stares at the lesser mass in a bubbling, volcanic envy, hanging loose like a knot on his shoulders; the deeper things, the pleasant things. The majority of it stems from an infectious curiosity, aching hunger boiling in the depths of a Beast.

An unstoppable force suspended in a space completely at its mercy.

Burning Spice, gerenally, is an incredibly expressive person; entertainment, living life to the fullest drives his very soul off the edge of madness and carnage. His being is a godly sight to behold, and he wears this infernal arrogance in fine silks and peakish sneers. The weak tremble beneath the heel of their superiors, the Beast of Destruction is bloody pride embodied.

And this God, this Beast will strave for your worship; shall rip it from the dying, rotting hands of the torn world.

Carnal, burnt crimson in abhorrent brutality, Burning Spice is honestly an upfront sort. He won’t shy away from confrontation, solemn. He knows what he needs, what he wants, so he will steal it if one ever dares refuse it from him.

What is inevitable is virtue, Burning Spice knows this in his very jam. He does hold some semblance of responsibility and honor, albeit it won’t make him any less immorally stubborn or hot-headed. He approaches a desired interest alike how a lion stalks his prey; the same way he approaches a potential hunt, with fierce, burning determination and endless persistence.

[horsewithaface]

So I rewrote the Battle of the Five Armies for my Everyone Lives AU because yes I’m still in denial and no you can’t stop me

• Everything up to Fíli getting captured is the same

• Fíli is caught by Azog and held out over the cliff. Kíli is below in the nook. While Azog is giving his speech, Kíli shoots him from below in the wrist, causing him to let go of Fíli. Fíli falls to the ground, onto Kíli, breaking his fall, who drags him into the nook and hides him as he tends to his brother’s wounds. Fíli regains his strength after a short moment and, despite Kíli’s better judgement, Fíli gets up, and races back to the top, calling for Kíli to follow.

• The two brothers fight countless orcs as they climb the stairs of Ravenhill, searching for Thorin. Once they come upon the plateau of ice, they find Bilbo weeping over Thorin as they speak.

• Kíli shuts down, thinking it is too late, but Fíli remembers something crucial. Back in Lake-town, he had pocketed a pouch of Kingsfoil in case his brother’s wounds hadn’t truly healed. With it was a messily-written note of Tauriel’s incantation written out phonetically.

• “I will not let you go, uncle. Not today. It is not your time. We will have a great feast tonight and will walk within the halls of Erebor among our kin. I cannot walk there without you.” - Fíli to Thorin as he kneels down opposite Bilbo, preparing the Kingsfoil. He rips open Thorin’s shirt, revealing the weeping wound before pressing the mixture into it. Thorin lets out a roar of pain but Kíli snaps to attention and runs to hold him down to stop his thrashing. Bilbo grabs Thorin’s hand with both of his, pressing his forehead against the bloodied knuckles, whispering pleas for him to hold on.

• The Kingsfoil incantation only partially works due to Fíli being a novice in elven spells, however it buys them time for Gandalf to get there and finish the spell properly.

• Thorin is taken to the medical hut where he regains his strength for the next week despite his refusal and insistence that he is fine. Bilbo eventually gets through to him and Thorin gives in, allowing the healers to aide him.

• Thorin does not remember what happened when he had succumbed to the dragon sickness, it is only when Bilbo flinches at a sudden movement of his when he is getting frustrated that Bilbo realises Thorin does not remember. Bilbo reluctantly tells him the truth when Thorin demands to know what he did wrong.

• Thorin never forgives himself for his actions, even going so far as to denying his birthright and banishing himself from Erebor. He gives the crown to Fíli who does not accept it, choosing to go with him for Thorin is more important to Fíli than ruling. Kíli never wanted the crown and so the brothers appoint Dain as the rightful king for they would not have prevailed without him.

• Thorin and Bilbo part ways, Bilbo returning to Bag End unsure if he will ever see Thorin again because despite what happened, he never blamed Thorin for it was the fault of the dragon sickness and not his own mind.

• After about a year, Bilbo hears a knock at his door. He is greeted with a very nervous Thorin, quite a juxtaposition from his usual stoic nature. Bilbo doesn’t believe his eyes, convinced that he is dreaming. Thorin cannot help but whisper, “Bilbo…” before engulfing the hobbit in a hug.

• Thorin rambles on a whole poetic speech about how he does not deserve redemption for his actions and he simply came to apologise. Bilbo takes Thorin’s face in his hands, pulling him down to eye level.

• “Stop it. Just stop it, you giant oaf. I forgive you. You never let me speak my mind after the battle. I never blamed you, Thorin. I never have and I never will. It was that bloody dragon, not you. I stand by my word when I say that I am glad that I have shared in your perils. You are more than any Baggins deserves.”

[beesmygod]

"YOU HUNTED" IS A TERRIFYINGLY LONG WORK IN PROGRESS BLOODBORNE LORE GUIDE!

intended for:

the casual player

the bloodborne lore fanatic

people who can't play bloodborne but desperately want to understand it

people who want to see what mental illness REALLY looks like

and hopefully its FUNNY!!!

READ IT NOWWWWW!!!

foreword: explaining the fromsoft game design ethos and the perils of taking shit too seriously

common misconceptions

history of yharnam:

history of yharnam part 1: the founding of pthumeru, cainhurst and the labyrinth, the discovery by byrgenwerth

history of yharnam part 2: fishing hamlet, caryll and the runes, leaving byrgenwerth

history of yharnam part 3: research hall, maria, and gehrman

history of yharnam part 4: the raid on castle cainhurst, logarius, and ludwig

history of yharnam part 5: lower pthumeru, rom, and the bloodletting beast

history of yharnam part 6: the choir, kin, and ebrietas

history of yharnam part 7: the school of mensis, ailing loran, and yahar’gul

INTERMISSION: is ebrietas the source of the healing church blood?

history of yharnam part 8: silver, black, and white

history of yharnam part 9: laurence, djura, and brador

history of yharnam part 10: the night unfurls

contemporary yharnam history (wip, each section is named after the soundtrack associated with it):

the hunter’s dream

cleric beast (NEW!)

the hunter (NEW!)

appendix:

significant colors in bloodborne

iceberg posts:

justifying my bloodborne iceberg part 1

justifying my bloodborne iceberg part 2

justifying my bloodborne iceberg part 3

the current word count is ‭29,833‬. we have just defeated gascoigne. this might take a while. please feel free to link to various places and people

[thelustybraavosimaid]

I know I talk about it a lot, but it's the heart and home stuff that really gives me pause in regards to how much Jon and Arya mean to one another. It's not just the comparisons between Ygritte and Arya, or Arya constantly being on Jon's mind and vice versa, or even the fact that George intended for the two of them to dream of each other, but that she's called a dark heart and he calls his own heart black.

"You are cruel to come to my hill, cruel. I gorged on grief at Summerhall, I need none of yours. Begone from here, dark heart. Begone!" (Arya VIII, ASoS)

--

There is no way I can help her. I put all kin aside when I said my words. If one of my men told me his sister was in peril, I would tell him that was no concern of his. Once a man had said the words his blood was black. Black as a bastard's heart.

...

"The heart is all that matters. Do not despair, Lord Snow. Despair is a weapon of the enemy, whose name may not be spoken. Your sister is not lost to you."

"I have no sister." The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister?

Melisandre seemed amused. "What is her name, this little sister that you do not have?"

"Arya." His voice was hoarse. "My half-sister, truly…" (Jon VI, ADwD)

But the dark heart has another significance as well—it's a connector to Rhaegar. Robert said Rhaegar had a black heart and yet the one who made him happy enough to label the tower the tower of joy was Lyanna, who is very much so Arya's precursor.

It's the connections. They are fascinating.

[residentsofhollowville]

Hollowville's lone hospital is silent and still. The only sound within it is the gentle thud of a pair of heavy, battered army boots plodding down the hall to a room they haven't stepped into in decades. He is not welcome here. That much was made abundantly clear decades upon decades ago. But his only kin is in peril. This is the least he can do.

Morgause Graber turns the corner and sees a face he does not know.

"Oh. Hello. You're new."

[damneddamsy]

renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part vii)

a/n: cutest dragon claiming ever istg, toothless and hiccup dynamics. a looooooong sexy chapter because I have no self-control

When dawn broke over Dragonstone, there came a time for mourning. Princess Rhaenyra's red ire upon hearing the news from the Red Keep brought forth her premature labours, a strained one at that. She had anticipated the stillborn through her screams and struggles, grieving before the birth of her second daughter, who was to be named Visenya. As the Black Queen stood over the funeral pyre, she pledged to the flames that this larceny shall be answered for in blood.

Her only daughter, Princess Aemma's arrival proved most significant among the Blacks. Her brothers welcomed her back with open arms, indifferent to her gloom. Even Jace believed that his once insouciant sister had discovered her husband and dear friend, Prince Aemond's, vile motives through adversity. Even as the Concilliator's golden crown came to rest upon Queen Rhaenyra's head, even as her daughter bent the knee, the bereft mother was aware of the black heartbreak the princess came carrying, seceding from the traitor's nest to affiliate with her blood and kin.

After an advantageous gathering of the Black Council, Aemma harboured Rhaenyra's silent suffering, holding her mother close to her as she relieved her outcries into her shoulders. Aemma mourned with her, for the loss of her little sister, for her indefinite adventures, for whatever the inklings of a fabled future Aemond had painted for her.

When silence descended between the mother and daughter, Rhaenyra settled in bringing Aemma to her chest and stroking her arm. She glimpsed at the hushed tears that rolled down her daughter's cheeks, her chest constricting at the sight. She could tell why, she couldn't partake in any queries when the reason was unmistakable. Her lovesick daughter longed to be reunited with her other half, fiercer than when they were friends.

Rhaenyra couldn't bring herself to bear hostility toward Aemond—her son-by-law had essentially salvaged her daughter by sending her away from him. No matter her allegiance, Aemma's life would've been in constant peril by her husband's side. For that overthink from Aemond's behest, she was grateful. But, it did not overshadow his disloyalties.

The queen littered kisses around the princess' crown. "I know I can count on you. But, on what is to come—I want your standing on my council."

Aemma smiled with quite an effort. "I couldn't."

"You are shrewd, Em. I require a little novelty at my table."

"Do not treat me as your heir." She pulled away from her mother to glare at her. "I have had enough of you wheedling me into it."

"You must understand—"

"I will not. Declare Jace as your successor and honour your vow to me. He is male, your first son, more willing to rule than I ever will be. I am not him or you. I am not so flawless."

"My sweet girl," Rhaenyra sighed. "I am anything but."

"I am simply not suited for such regency."

Moreover, Aemma could never hope to rival her dear friend without the assurance that he had truly turned against her. And if that day ever came, her fragmenting mind would split into a thousand pieces. Deep down, she knew Aemond's actions were driven by his desire to protect her, so harbouring any ill feelings toward him proved futile.

"No one is ever suited," Rhaenyra said sourly. "You are born with it. The Iron Throne is your birthright."

Aemma sensed her vision blur. "Then please relieve me of it, mother. You promised me."

"Such are the circumstances, Em. Once the war is over and I have taken what is mine, I will make sure that you are free to do as you please," her mother agreed with her. "But until then, you will carry the title of my heir."

Aemma considered this, swiping at her nose. "You would pit my brother against me in doing so."

Rhaenyra recovered with a smile. "Jace would lay down his life if you asked it."

"And I am to simply take your word for it? Like the last time?"

Her mother's violet gaze narrowed. "The word of your queen, to whom you bent the knee."

Aemma would merely be an auxiliary in this castle. Just another puppet at the queen's behest. She strode out the door in a temper, slamming into a smirking Daemon before making off into her chambers.

Aching for some relief, Aemma instinctively searched the little chest by her writing table where she had stored Aemond's old letters. She sat on her bed, wistfully reading them, one by one, and realizing how oblivious she had been to the unmistakable. Each word to her was affectionate, deep-rooted in a love that never seemed to sway. It was then that she realized what a mistake it was to simply leave Aemond behind without putting up a fight.

A mere two years ago, he had written to her: My love, Aemma. Recently, I have read about the late Good Queen Alysanne, and I imagine you bear semblance to her; both in beauty and aspirations. Her command at court, the love she shared with King Jaehaerys. Her peaceful but invincible steed, Silverwing, resides on Dragonstone. I envision it every night, you and I, on our dragonbacks, side by side. I long to see you again, have you, hold you. Make it real for me. Yours, Aemond.

My beloved, Aemma, he penned in another letter. Shall I fly to you tonight?

My darling, Aemma. I wish for the day we free ourselves of these burdens and leave the world behind.

My Aemma. You are all my hope.

Aemma held the little scrolls to her chest, staring unseeingly. How had this escaped her? Had she been so blind to Aemond's budding love all these years? So focused on hearing his tales, that she had not read between the lines? It was never a spurred decision on his part or one born from jealousy. He had longed to make her his from the beginning.

Despite Aemma's growing yearnings, she sat awake in front of the mirror, brushing her trimmed hair with overt care. Long for distraction, she recalled the day she had tried to claim Vermithor, how the gulf of dragon fire from the beast's gullet had rained down from the lair, how Daemon's armoured body had shielded her from a charred death, how she swore to herself that she had had enough of dragon power.

"There is no defeat except in no longer trying," Daemon had said to her reflection in the mirror when the handmaidens sadly snipped away at her once-luminous, long hair.

Aemma's hand fisted against the brush, the words echoing in her mind. She lacked in a lot in comparison to her other Targaryen kin; crowns, power, dragons; but not a conviction. She would rather lose all her hair twice over than abandon hope. If there was one thing that would grant her sufficient power before her mother or the realm, it was dragons.

Make it real for me, Aemond had written. And that was more than flesh and blood could stand.

X

Call it harebrained or temperament of self-destruction, Aemma grappled a blazing torch from her corridor and lurked down to the Dragonmont, where she was certain that more riderless dragons were being sheltered. Seasmoke, her dear father's dragon, was among them. It was long after the hour of the wolf, nobody would be awake to stop her. Except—

"Sister?" A surprised call emerged from behind a pillar. Decked in his riding vestments, Jacaerys had come down to see his dragon, Vermax, possibly to relieve his tension.

Aemma held her nervous stutter and faced her brother down. "I'm going to claim Seasmoke. You can try and stop me."

With that, she walked past him without a second glance but came into shock when Jace caught her forearm. His jaw hardened as he took in the determination in her eyes.

"If I don't come with you, Father's ghost will haunt me for the rest of my days," he weakly jested. When she tried to deny him, he smirked and seized the torch from her.

"You can try and stop me," he quoted her.

Hence, the siblings embarked on a descent into the hellacious caverns of the Dragonmont. Jace held his sister's hand like a rock, leading her down the meagre stairways and eventually onto sturdy gravel.

Their boots crunched as they progressed through a hot, dark passage, illuminated by the embers from their torch. Jace chuckled when he noticed the rash slits on Aemma's skirts that now hung in tatters at her knees then the tight knot of hair over her head.

"'Tis not an absurd look on you. I've seen worse," Jace teased.

She shoved him playfully. "If Aemond were here, he would've appreciated the effort."

Her heart clenched a little when she spoke of him, an old pain that persisted from years ago. Jace said nothing but rolled his eyes.

"You should be on that throne after our mother, Jace," Aemma said, suddenly weary. "You are more befitted to rule than me."

"That is a lie," he reassured. "I can think of no abler ruler; so compassionate, peaceful, loved by all. Although I would row on your selection of king consort."

She managed a grin. "Perhaps Baela would make a fine queen. She's fierce."

"I do not dissent." He smiled back at her, warmed. "When you are the law, who dares question your authority?"

A nearby bellowing growl—or a snore?—alerted them. Neither Jace nor Aemma had any idea of what dragon waited for them in the lair that lay beyond. Luck was on their side, as they witnessed a dozing Seasmoke, begin to blink awake at the bright glares. The young dragon's silver-grey scales which resembled her late father's hair dazzled in the darkness. He was as handsome and fierce as his late rider.

Jace quickly informed her of the tethers on her thorax and straightforward Valyrian words of command, such painstaking instructions to his impetuous sister. So distinct from Daemon's nonchalance before facing off with Vermithor: "Power and patience, sweetling. Go and do me proud."

Aemma gritted her jaw and steeled herself. She would rather go with Daemon's command; to simply trust in her blood and approach in confidence. How much ever she tried to quell her fears, once the dragon began to sniff at her, her hands began to shake. Her mind blanked, and her perseverance dwindled. She turned aside slightly.

"Say 'lykirī', sister! 'Dohaerās', 'rȳbās', 'lykirī'!" Jace hissed to her in a reminder.

Seasmoke snapped his beady gaze to her brother, wavering on its hind legs, and then back at Aemma when she raised her palm and commanded in her strongest voice—"Lykirī, Seasmoke. Lykirī."

The distempered dragon unhinged its powerful jaws, a tongue of flame ready to breathe forth on her. Aemma willed her feet in place, brazened out the beast and began to shout, more in alarm than valour. This had to work, it had to.

"Dohaerās, Seasmoke! Rȳbās! Lykirī, please!"

It was past oversight once more when her brother leapt at her with his cloak, putting his body before hers and hauling her to the ground. A noxious heat bowered by them, the rage and sound of a firestorm, but they narrowly escaped the lick of fire while they crawled out of the recess. The disappointment deferred as Jace urged her to her feet and rushed her onward.

"Go, Aemma. Run," he ordered.

Their path had gone dark as they had abandoned their torch at Seasmoke's lair. Blind on their trail to safety, they knocked into each other, the bumpy stones, held onto dear life and sprinted ahead. Once they made it to a clearing on the far side of Dragonmont, annularly illuminated by the soft glow of the moon, the siblings tumbled to their knees to catch their breath. They were swathed in plumes of smoke and soot, and scrapes on their knees, but nothing else mattered.

Jace fell about into wild laughter. "Insanity, Em. Gods, have I missed such fun with you!"

His laughs faded when he noticed Aemma with her head in her hands and her shoulders quivering with muffled weeps. Her devastation was evident—all the grief, rejection, lovelorn—and all he could offer her was his bare solace whilst she aired her grievances.

Jace gently put his arm around her as she bawled it out, like her very nerves were tearing asunder. It was mortifying to see Aemma break like this, no one truly had bore witness to her sorrow. She rarely ever did so in front of their parents or alone.

"Mother merely sees me as a pawn. My only friend forsakes me," she sniffled before another sob ripped out. "Now father, too. What have I done to deserve this, Jace?"

When Jace attempted to affirm her, a startling rumble stilled any movements. He risked a glance over his shoulder and something stirred in the darkness. Beyond a doubt, the tapered symmetry of a nimble, enormous beast emerged from within a hollow beyond. Its growling thrummed the very rocks around them until he realized that the dragon's leathern wing was straddled on their farthest side, still half-shrouded in shadow.

"Aemma," Jace murmured to get her attention. Alas, his good sister was lost to her woes.

He read between the lines as he weaved his gaze between the calmly vigilant dragon and his sister. It was ridiculous to even entertain the thought of leaving her defenceless, but he was inclined to believe the possibility of... a dragon claiming a rider. Who was he to question the magic of Old Valyria? Jace could only take an unwilling step away, keeping his eyes steady between his sister and the sharp-eyed beast. Not just any beast.

Once under the moon's rays, the she-dragon, Silverwing, rose in her lasting glories. Formerly the docile mount of the Good Queen Alysanne, the pale silvery-blue dragon unwound her neck, rattling the ground with her faint bellows, snaking herself closer toward Aemma's balled-up figure on the ground. There was a hesitance to the dragon, never seen before, going further than her curiosity allowed. She took one sniff and let out another faint rumble.

Jace watched on, disbelieving, as Silverwing nudged her snout against Aemma's back. Her growl pealed like a peaceful purr, seeking out Aemma's affection or perhaps even showing her comfort.

Aemma hardly shifted, preoccupied with troubles of her own.

Unrelenting, Silverwing repeated this twice, more intent to win a reaction now. It was obvious that the dragon had already bowed to the likes of Aemma and her desperation.

Finally, Aemma lifted her head and glimpsed over her shoulder, her lips parting at the sight of the massive beast. When familiarity flickered into her head, she looked at her brother with tears in her eyes, disoriented.

Jace encouraged her with a nod.

Wiping her face with her dirtied sleeves, Aemma pushed to her feet and misstepped when an intense pang needled into her head. Silverwing, perceptive of her ungainly movement, offered up her snout as balance and carefully stood her rider upright.

"Sliverwing," Aemma spoke, her voice a shaky rasp. Her fingers ran across the glistening cobalt scales, feeling her heat and strength. She glimpsed at the dragon's glinting orange eyes.

The she-dragon let out another undragonlike purr.

Aemma was riveted by her unique friend, who stared at her in wonder. Silverwing's arched horns resembled her mother's mount, Syrax, fashioning an elegant crown of spikes around her great head. She inclined her windborne body to the ground as if making her obeisance to Aemma.

"Kirimvose, gevie riña," she whispered to her dragon, laughing to herself. (Thank you, beautiful girl.)

Such was the peculiarity of dragons, no one could understand their ancient minds. Jace immediately ushered Aemma toward Silverwing's timeworn saddle and she began to climb up, finally mounting her steed. When Silverwing roared and flapped her strong wings, Aemma appeared before her brother as the incarnation of the Good Queen Alysanne herself, with her wild hair and radiant grin. It was no wonder the beast was so quick to take her under its wing.

"I'll find Vermax and follow you out," Jace shouted to her, raring to go. He had dreamed of the day he would fly side-by-side with his dear sister.

That gloaming morning, all of Dragonstone awoke to the sight of Princess Aemma emerging out of the mountain as a proud dragonrider and cementing her name in history as a trueborn heir of the House Targaryen.

X

Across Blackwater Bay, the information of Princess Aemma laying claim to Silverwing had arrived in King's Landing on a sour note. This would be a dire consequence to the Greens, outnumbered in dragons against their own mere three adult dragons, even if one of them was the queen of dragons. Eight to exceed their three.

King Aegon headed the High Council meeting with the dowager queen and his grandsire, the Hand. Ser Criston ranged behind the King's seat, mum to his treasons. And Prince Aemond, most dutiful to the throne, was seated by the King's side. Absently, he stroked the marital scar on his palm, a prisoner to his wandering mind.

"The Blackwoods continue to fly Rhaenyra's banners in the Riverlands. Further aid must be assured to the Brackens who have bent the knee to our king," Ser Otto devised in utmost composure.

"The Brackens and Blackwoods have been at each other's throats for centuries," Aemond mentioned passively. "Our focus should be to withdraw all backing to the princess."

Aegon interfered with a scoff, leaning back into his chair. He glanced at his pensive brother.

"Are we to ignore this endless litany of my bitch niece's claim to one of the largest dragons in Westeros?"

Aemond bit on his cheek, amused. Between blood rights and bravery, his Aemma had chosen the most sleepy and stately dragon as her mount. If he knew her at all, she would never fly that new friend of hers to a damned war.

It was Otto who spoke instead. "The princess surely lacks the skill, Your Grace. Silverwing is meek, yet to experience battle... unlike Vhagar."

"So you would send Aemond to snuff his wife from the skies?" Aegon seemed to draw pleasure from this. "I am quite inured to savagery and this compels me to consider."

A formidable silence fell over the room. Aemond eventually looked up from his hands and met Aegon's eyes, seething. To even spare this sordid idea made Aemond's flesh crawl. He would rather lay on a bed of nails rather than meet Aemma on opposite sides of a battlefield.

At the sight of his brother's sinister ire, Aegon doubled back.

"For the good of the realm, brother. Now what of our allies in the Reach?"

The doors to the council chambers opened and in came a gold cloak, bearing a scroll in his palm. "There's been a raven from Dragonstone, addressed to the prince."

Aemond's heart pulsed an uneven rhythm. All the eyes around the table watched him toughen and receive the letter.

"Time for the prince to kiss some traitor cunny," Aegon mused, taunting.

Only the glad tidings came especially to Prince Aemond in the princess's handwriting. He did not need to speak aloud for the members of the small council to grasp what laid within that letter. The moment his drifting eye gripped the words on the page, he hailed a hurried exit from the small council, thoughtless of his mother's refusals.

"You would risk your life and that of Vhagar's?" Alicent needled, hot on his heels through the Red Keep. "If you go to her now, Rhaenyra will be forced to assume your intent to bring the battle to her and make her reprisal."

Deaf to his mother's heeds, Aemond was halfway through twisting on his riding gloves, preparing himself to ride to and ascend on Vhagar. He was already overdue, she waited for him.

"Love renders you unsighted, you fool," Alicent warned.

Aemond's smirked at his mother. "Then I have been blind since I was a boy, mother."

Thus did Prince Aemond soar into the night airglow, Vhagar roaring out into the vast sea. He couldn't help the ardent smile that almost split his face as he urged his dragon forward, faster.

My dearest Aemond, a bygone dream has finally borne fruit. Silverwing has accepted me with good graces, and she is simply magnificent. I've made it real for you now. Will you come to me? Yours, Aemma.

X

In the watchtower overlooking Blackwater Bay, no guard had sighted Vhagar's black wings under the clouded eclipse of twilight. Yet her shadow swept across the posterior end of the island, landing on the coasts of black sand where the ocean raged on. Come what may, Aemond decided. If his half-sister's wrath bore the flames of his death, he would first see his dearest wife's dream fulfilled.

As if lying in wait for his arrival, Silverwing's call pealed out in trills, like a hymn rather than a roar, making herself known to her audience, thundering the night sky. Ser Otto was asinine to think Aemma lacked the knowledge—the lithesome agility she always carried was finally being played upon her skills in dragon-riding. Aemond swelled with pride at the sight of his wife, a gifted rider, swooping and parading for him.

Silverwing circled the coast once before her huge wings battered the air, to land far away from a growling Vhagar. Aemond lurched forward, halting only to notice Moondancer, Baela Targaryen's dragon, circling nearby. Keeping watch with her rider. So, he had been permitted to slip by unseen.

Scarcely had Silverwing grazed the sand then Aemma gracefully coasted off her back. She had traded her pretty skirts for black-and-red dragon-riding attire, bearing the red three-headed dragon sigil of their house. With his one good eye, he noticed that mischievous smile was not yet lost, and so was the delicate tenderness in her doe eyes.

She remained a good distance away, her sweet dulcet voice carried in the wind. "What have you come as, my prince? A delegate of the usurper?"

Aemond bared a slight smile at her, his restless hand gripping his dagger. None of those words held any significance in her mouth. Vhagar roared again behind him, sharing his fervour.

"A husband, I hope," she continued to wonder.

"My highest honour, princess," he agreed. "Even so, you would rather make me wait to hold my wife and celebrate her."

Her joy wilted to a sullen grimace. "A small penance."

He concealed all the misery that overwhelmed him. He hummed. "Hmm. On what charges?"

"Forfeiting me to my family when you swore," she emphasized, "that you would never part us. No matter the odds."

"You expect me to sustain my only light in this bleak world, within that shitpit where you were nearly slain in your sleep, well nigh after my discretion." Shock rattled into Aemma's eyes. "I will not gainsay that which you claim. But I would do it all the more if it means to have you alive before me."

Aemma looked at the waves, her eyes turning to glass with the onset of sorrow. Once she gained control over her expression, Aemond was robbed of his breath when she glanced back at him. He ached to touch her.

Behind her, Silverwing whistled another rumble when she asked, "Have you truly renounced my hand then? Has the dowager queen declared it so?"

"I won't amuse that farce with an answer," Aemond affirmed hotly. "We are bound together by blood. Cast me far away, Aemma, and I will still resist and crawl back to you while there's still air in my lungs and a beating heart."

A heartened smile arose on her lips. She hid it in the guise of scratching the scar near her eye. "Sweet talker," he almost heard her. Or perhaps an expletive.

Aemond frantically tugged off his gloves with his teeth and pocketed them, sighing aloud. "My love, this is living death. Have I been absolved yet or do you revel in my misery?"

"Both," she teased.

Aemma laughed as she swiftly strode forward, her cape snapping and kicking up sand. When she leapt up to swallow him in a generous embrace, Aemond shut off everything else, nestled her close, and pushed his face into her neck, inhaling her deeply: smoke and leather, just a lingering hint of lavender. He spun her about once before setting her down, drawing a soft squeal from her. Her sweet laugh resounded in his ear.

He smoothed hurried kisses wherever he could; her neck, jaw, cheek; and lips, exploring the world between them softly. It was endearing how she tried to imitate him with uncertainty, cupping his face and threading his silver tendril between her fingertips. He let a smile spread on his lips whilst a soft moan slipped out, bowing her into him, noticing how each finger of his pressed into each portion of her spine. He traced the suppleness of her throat, the sweet dimple over her lips, he could map ancient seas and lands on the divots of her scarring. This was his own little coming home.

She pulled away too soon, then laid her head against his neck to find the pace of her breathing. Aemond sketched soothing circles at the small of her back with a sharp eye on Silverwing, who was intently watching their exchange. Such an incredible girl taming a queen's steed.

"Is she not the most breathtaking creature?" Aemma asked him, looking at her dragon half in wonder and half in pride. "She came to me, showed me solace. Like you did."

"Has your new friend transcended me?"

She kissed his jaw. "Never."

Aemond trailed by her side and watched as she softly stroked at the blue dragon's enormous snout, laying her forehead against her scales. He admired how she forged bonds with all her steeds this way, with Seasmoke the direwolf and that horse, as if she were giving regard to what she would receive.

Silverwing gave off another leonine purr, gently bumping her head against Aemma submissively. Aemond could tell that this was going to be another animate doll of his wife's. Perhaps she'd train this one, too, to play fetch.

"Jaelan ao naejot rhaenagon ñuha valzȳrys," she said, her Valyrian tongue irresistibly smooth, and patted her dragon once. (I would like you to meet my husband.)

Aemond beamed at this. Aemma called him forward, took his cautious hand and rested it upon the heated scales of the she-dragon. As if thoroughly understanding what her rider had said, Silverwing patiently received his touch. He braved out her auburn-eyed stare.

"Jaqiarzus hae se dāria ao iderēptan," he praised under his breath. (Glorious as the queen you chose.)

Aemond did not really care if Aemma had heard him. Turned out, she was too fascinated by the bond between her husband and her dragon. Aemma knowingly darted between them, deliberating to herself.

She palmed Aemond's cheek and whispered, "Fly with me, my friend."

He shook up with laughter, a quiet, lighthearted sound that surprised the both of them.

"Six long years have I waited to hear those words," he said.

With one more kiss, Aemond and Aemma mounted their dragons and took to the air, going against the tide. They flew together, and their dragons danced, not in a battle for ranks, but as sworn friends in their springtime of life, immersed in their own world.

X

After having been apart from each other for nigh on two days, and flying their dragons to their heart's content, Aemond refused to let go of Aemma once the night started to unwind frigid winds their way. They withdrew from Dragonstone, and she followed him to Sharp Point where a thin strip of grassy beach was left untouched by the townspeople, a space of peace of quiet amidst the brewing tempest in both their homes.

Paying no heed to the openness, there in the shroud of the tall grass, completely persuaded by desire, Aemond gently urged Aemma closer, divested his thick coat to lay it on the ground as a rug, and held out his hand. She went all too willingly.

It was vulgar, of course. She was a princess; moreover, she had pledged him her virtue, but he couldn't help his fixations. His yearning has taken root in the neediest part of him. Neither did he have the heart to vent her absence to a nameless whore in a brothel. Why bother with the horses when he had a dragon to ride?

Aemond unlaced her bodice painstakingly and caressed the silhouette of her body, her skin warm against his palm. Her woodsy eyes met his, composed.

"I don't care. I want you, too," she comforted him. Then she reached to unfasten his breeches.

The air turned electric amidst the gathering gale—with her eyes fixed on him, she stroked the length of him under her, his hardness, and a shudder falling out of his lips. At her own pace, she hitched her leg up, sitting astride him while undoing her own hosieries. He ran his knuckles down her jaw and pushed his fingers into her hair, sharing another fond glimpse. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, how lonely his mornings were without her laughter, how often he had frequented her chambers just to get a whiff of her presence.

She traced the skin of his scar, gradually slipping a finger through the fastening string and tugging it off. Then she smiled at him, "This is the face I love. My love."

That could've been his ultimate undoing. On the brink of losing himself, she had offered up her everything.

"My love," he echoed, breathy.

Aemma sunk down on him, stretching herself to the limit, her face straining. Aemond grunted, unfaltering to the sweet friction, and watched her get her fill of him and begin to ride him to the floor. He was simply there to catch her as she fell, and fell, and fell... blurring the lines between him and her. Quite physically branding each other for good. The noises she made into his ear were melodies, and her name was a whispered chant from his lips.

She brought his head to her chest, cradling it there. Everything around him was her—her scent, her heartbeat, her warmth. He let his tongue taste her sweetness, skin and sweat before sinking his teeth down, covetous to claim. She laughed, as if tickled by this, laying her nose against the top of his head, her pace getting prompter.

When he felt her go rigid around him, she plunged back on him, and his fingers clawed at her hips, tipping her over until she was on the cusp of falling apart. He lifted her chin from gauging their progress, meeting his hot stare. Her dark eyes clouded with lust, so fantastic to watch, as she blew to kingdom come. That sheer sight of her was enough to let himself go, but through the heady daze, he bore in mind the liabilities. Softly, he pulled her off him and released his spend into his breeches. He shut his eyes, letting the waves of pleasure wash over him, breathing hard.

Aemma wasted no time in settling back over him, all surfeited by sex, and pouring her silent, appreciative kisses into his tousled hair. He laughed, rubbing at her bare thighs, nipping kisses at her neck.

She opened her palm for him, and his eye patch was nestled there.

"Perhaps one day, I'll wear it for you," she jested, winking.

He playfully poked her waist and she giggled. He slid the eyepatch back on, shifting it into place. "So replete with wisecracks when it comes to my eye."

They lay there together on the bed of smoothed grass, with Aemma's head slackened off his shoulder, twisting little braids into his long hair, and Aemond's arm slumped behind his head, lost to remembering the exact planes and dips of her face with his fingers. Too many long years he had gone without seeing her.

The breeze whooshed around them, unable to humble them, the blood of the dragon was running hotter than usual.

"We should've left and never looked back," Aemond breathed out.

She watched him, her cheek pressing into the grass. "It's too late now."

"No," he said, shaking his head. He brought both her braiding hands to his lips for a kiss. "The east lies at our feet and our dragons lie in wait. We have nothing to lose, dearest. Only each other. This isn't our battle."

"Yet something stops you from leaving," she remarked quietly.

Your whore mother and her clan of bastards, he wanted to say. Your bastard brother still roving about, unavenged. The Iron Throne and the unbidden power to the Targaryen who wield it. It was bizarre to even think these thoughts in her presence.

And all this time, Aemma studied the turning cogs in his mind and his evident discontent. She attempted to bring him back to her by touching his cheek and faced commotion in his lone eye.

"You have strengthened to a warrior. A terrific sword. A spirited rider," she said. "Deep inside, you desire a good fight. Your intuitions cannot be helped."

He gritted his teeth. "You kindly withhold the bare truth: I am conditioned to blood thirst."

"You have an old score to settle," she murmured, unearthing his elusive motive. "With my brother. With your brother. This is an open path to their reckoning."

Aemond stared at her. The world stilled for a beat; it was a foregone conclusion. How could she still lay her eyes on him after learning of his intentions? Where was the hatred he had pictured in his agonies?

"Aemond, my love." Her voice got along his skin like a silken caress. He dreaded to endure her next words.

"I cannot atone for Lucerys' mistakes. But I can appeal to your humanity." Having anticipated this, Aemond's jaw clenched tight. "We were reckless children, callow to the coming times. Hotter blood conquered that night."

"And he remains an unpunished child," he differed.

"Once your debt is paid, you've won Luke's eye, then what?"

"Then he is acquitted and I am much obliged."

She frowned at him, unconvinced. "What of esteem and civility? Or would you prefer to be feared by the realm?"

"Better to be feared than scorned."

"Even by me?"

He pressed his lips tightly, his face tensing. He didn't have to say anything, she understood. A calm wroth simmered behind his lonely eye.

Aemma watched him for a beat, absorbing his words, and Aemond unshiftingly persisted. She witnessed a little boy mocked all his life; for his losses, his scars, his audacity; seeking his worth. The grimness in his stiff lips, the endurance in his words—this was the face of a stewing, dauntless man, lost to his vengeance. His scathing words struck her deeper when she realized his due reward was still unclaimed.

She shivered when he stroked a thumb across her bottom lip, his lone eye softening to fondness. "I know your insight of this now will harrow what we share. I have always known, I looked the other way. If you wish to never see me again—"

This jostled her world. She shook her head in defiance, holding his cheek in place. His face had twisted to reluctance once again. He didn't want it either, such a short distance had already left them helpless.

"I have had enough of broken vows," Aemma insisted. "I intend to keep mine to you, rooted, regardless. Let's not have the chances sour our time now."

He let a gratified smile spread out, leaning forward to catch her lips in a heated kiss, rolling her over, all urgent touches and knocking teeth. She didn't fight it, merely let it happen and allowed him to vent his gall. He gushed all his affirmations into her, his love, his fears, his hopes, and the significant one being that if he were to lose her, he would lose himself.

"Stay here with me tonight, please," he whispered into her neck.

She laughed when she heard his plea, disbelieving. "Are you to stand guard through the cold night?"

He let her go for a moment to skim the coat from under him and shroud it around her shoulders. The material drowned her stunted stature and he settled her back in his impenetrable hold. She muffled another laugh into his open-shirted chest, stroking her nose against him.

"Warm enough for you, my little dragon-rider?"

"Not that I care, but such is your spousal duty," she hummed, still playful on the hour.

He clicked his tongue. "I ought to fling you to the ocean floor. That should teach you."

"I ought to employ Silverwing's fire," she threatened.

"Spare my heart," he laughed quietly. "I'd be burning for you twice over."

And so Aemond maintained a vigil, inspecting Aemma as she slumbered soundly not soon after. He oh-so-softly touched her plump lips, the aquiline slope of her nose, her eyebrows, and the scar that dashed through one. Maddening how she continued to rest, unaware of the soul she refused to return to him.

His single eye flicked to something moving amidst the leafy plains beyond Aemma's shoulder. With one hand grasping Aemma tight, he edged a guarded hand to the dagger stowed above his breeches.

A viper, as black as the night, slithered across the golden sand. It wreathed a pattern toward Aemma's spine, hissing out a rattling tongue.

In a split second, his dagger was airborne and impaled the viper to the floor, gone in a painless death.

He had offered it his mercy, affixing his aim right into its eye.

X

[musingsinmiddleearth]

In my mind, seven memorials form a neat line, silent and solemn. For these were not of good people, but of those whose hearts had been turned to malice (though not of their design), yet their actions won great glory and forever affected the courses of the world. And on their stony surface, the following words are written.

First: alone of his kin took no part in the abandonment of his friends and his people. Endured torment at the designs of the Great Foe. Reconciled his people afterwards in the name of goodwill. Nonetheless partook in murder, menace, and conspiracy to steal in the name of his oath. Believed himself deserving of death for his crimes and was so killed for it. Maedhros the Tall.

Second: a singer, set forth his voice to uplift the hearts of others and to record the peril of his people for posterity and lament. Put down a treasonous leader in fair battle. Nonetheless partook in murder, menace, and conspiracy to steal in the name of his oath, alongside his older brother. Found peace in heartache and in weariness thereafter. Maglor the Minstrel.

Third: he studied of birds and beasts and the nature of their languages. Conspired to overthrow a King to whom he swore loyalty for his own ends. Sought to force marriage upon another in the pursuit of power. Commanded cruel treatment of the defenceless and was slain for it. Celegorm the Fair.

Fourth: adjudged as lesser those less fair upon the eyes than he. Offered refuge and protection in generosity to those in need among his own lands. Was betrayed in this endeavour. Accounted as the quickest to wrath of his siblings. Slain in assault upon his own kind. Caranthir the Dark.

Fifth: sided against a problem husband in the pursuit of a fleeing wife. Conspired (with his brother) to overthrow a King to whom he swore loyalty for his own ends. Attempted abduction and then murder of a Princess from her love. Slain in assault upon his own kind. Curufin the Crafty.

Sixth: of whom little and less is written, alongside his twin brother. Took in the people of his brothers for a time when their own lands were laid to ruin. In distance and in peace took on perhaps less of the evil of his siblings. Nonetheless partook in murder, menace, and conspiracy to steal in the name of his oath, and was so slain in the doing of this. Amrod the Twin.

Seventh: of whom little and less is written, alongside his twin brother. Took in the people of his brothers for a time when their own lands were laid to ruin. In distance and in peace took on perhaps less of the evil of his siblings. Nonetheless partook in murder, menace, and conspiracy to steal in the name of his oath, and was so slain in the doing of this. Amras the Twin.