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m1ckeyb3rry · 1 month ago

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Series Synopsis: When the husband you’ve never met returns from the war you’ve never understood, he comes bearing a strange and inexplicable gift — a prince in chains who he refuses to kill.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Mydei x F!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 10.2k

Content Warnings: pls check the masterlist there is. a lot. and i’m not retyping all of that LOL

A/N: I AM SOO SCARED TO POST THIS NGL LMAOAO like i said in the warnings i literally. have not played amphoreus yet. idek anything about mydei SDKJH i am so worried i will disappoint everyone who's expressed interest in reading this HAHA i was also. not expecting anyone to do that tbh. BUT thank you all for your kind words on the masterlist and i hope this lives up to expectations at least a bit!!

You spent the day of your wedding with a man made of marble — a stand-in for your new husband, who was off fighting in a war of the kind which had neither cause nor, seemingly, end. The statue was carved in his image and sneered down at you as you whispered to it, swearing vows of duty and obedience and docility, but, in spite or maybe because of its detached lifelessness, you found its presence to be a kindness. What did it say of your husband, that you preferred the company of that dead stone to him? Perhaps very much, or perhaps very little.

He is a generous man, the servants assured you, giggling amongst themselves, exchanging knowing looks as they dragged you into the foreign palace where you would spend the rest of your days. You will want for nothing.

It was draftier than your home, the wind bouncing off of the white walls and nipping at you skin. You spent your time buried under seven-and-twenty layers of furs and fabrics, lying in an unfamiliar bed and flinching away from the shadows upon the ceiling. This was an idle and dull way to waste away your existence, and yet you could not bring yourself to do anything else, trapped in the mire of waiting and waiting for your husband’s return.

He came back in the third month, which was as auspicious as anything. They loved that number here, you had come to find: three, the symbol of fortune and fate, of magic and mischief, of power and punishment. Three vows sworn; three blessings granted; three months passed before you finally met the man you had married.

There was much fanfare about his arrival. When you peered out of the window, you saw that the streets were stuffed to the bursting with throngs of people shoving one another around, hissing and biting as they craned their necks. At first it surprised you — was he truly so loved here, even when he was elsewhere despised? — but then you realized that it was not your husband upon his charger that they were all lined up to meet. Rather, it was the procession following him which captured their interests, the spoils of war which he displayed with a juvenile, worthless pride.

A triad of elephants covered in finely wrought armor, their heads hung low and resigned, their plodding walks spiritless and lame. A herd of sheep with silver wool, dotting the dark cobblestones like a cluster of stars, stumbling along at the prodding of a soldier-turned-shepherd. A wagon filled with spears and swords, ostensibly once neatly stacked, now a matted mess of steel and bronze. Vases carried in the arms of the younger men, overflowing with coins that trailed after them like breadcrumbs, snatched up by the most daring of the onlookers, who did not fear rebuke. And, finally, in a place so honorable it could only have been mocking—

“Lady,” a soft voice said. You drew your coat tighter around you, although today was, by all accounts, warm for the season, and pretended like you did not hear the girl. She sighed and then tugged on your arm insistently; perhaps it was improper, but there wasn’t anyone who would chide her for it. “You have been summoned by his majesty.”

Hadn’t you known this would happen eventually? Hadn’t you expected it? You had had your time to come to terms with it, which was more than most got, and so there was no excuse for the reluctance which choked your throat and stilled your footsteps. This was your duty, this was what you had sworn, and so — and so you could not hesitate.

“Lady…” the girl said with another sigh. You pretended to be all-consumed with the action of closing the curtains, your back to her as you struggled to force a smile onto your face. When you deemed your expression acceptable, you spun around and nodded at her.

“It will not do to keep him waiting,” you said, motioning for her to lead the way. She did so without complaint, perhaps relieved that you were not giving her further trouble; even now, the servants did not know what to think of you, could not quite fathom what category of being you were. Some were fond of you, but most treated you with a careful distrust that you could not blame them for, even though you sometimes wanted to.

The grand entrance hall of the palace opened to the mouth of the road, which swelled out into a sprawling courtyard. Its centerpiece was an enormous fountain which sprayed a fine, cool mist into the air no matter the time of year, and it was by this fountain that you waited, wringing your hands as your husband drew nearer and nearer. Belatedly, you thought that you should try to conceal your distress, but there was nothing to be done about it now. The best you could do was say, if you were asked, that it was simply the joy of a bride faced with the prospect of a reunion with her beloved. Nobody would question that, although then again, nobody questioned you very much in general, so it was doubtful that you’d even have to use the quick excuse.

Your husband’s warhorse was a sprightly, slender beast, its coat the dappled grey of royalty, its face pretty and dished in the way of the Eastern breeds. When it paused in front of you, it shoved its black muzzle into your shoulder, nearly knocking you down, and then it stomped its hoof when your husband tightened the reins, pulling it back before dismounting and handing it off to a waiting stableboy.

“My apologies, dear lady,” he said, bowing before you with as much gallantry as you had been told he possessed. His voice was gentle and amused, his face even more handsome in flesh than it had been in stone; you should’ve, by all rights, felt pleased. You were married to this man. You belonged to him. How many women wished to be in your place? Yet all you could muster was fear, throttling and all-consuming. He was beautiful in the way of a snake, and you knew without knowing that he was poised, in some way, to strike.

“It is alright,” you said, disguising the tremble of your voice with a broad, false grin. “I am glad to finally make your acquaintance…my lord.”

The address was unfamiliar on your tongue. What would your younger self, that girl who had never known subservience nor strife, say if she saw you ducking your head in defeated compliance? How she would laugh! How she would pity you! My lord. But he was exactly that.

“The sentiment is returned in full,” he said, and then he extended his arms in a grand, sweeping motion. “Indeed, to celebrate this momentous occasion, I have arranged for you a gift!”

“A gift?” you repeated. Certainly, you had asked for no such thing, and you did not have the time to school your face into neutrality, naked surprise flashing across it. Your husband chuckled at the sight, nodding at you.

“I have brought the finest of plunders for you, dear lady,” he said, and your stomach twisted into knots at the familiarity with which he spoke to you, as if you were affable lovers instead of strangers. “Even your father’s treasures, vast and bountiful as they may be, cannot compare to this!”

The mention of your father stabbed at your heart, and hidden in the folds of your coat, you clenched your fists. Your father, the richest man in the world…and yet your husband dared compare his meager gift to that? You wanted to spit in his face that for your third birthday, your father had gifted you a villa made of gold, the walls inlaid with gemstones and painted with flowers. Indeed, you might’ve goaded him in such a way if you had the capabilities, but then you noticed what the army-men were bringing forth and your mouth suddenly refused to move.

It was the prisoner, the one kept in a place of honor by your husband and his soldiers, the one who the entire empire had ridiculed as he had been paraded through it like a champion hound. He was tall, towering over the army-men flanking him, and although his eyes drooped nearly shut, there was a heat to his demeanor, a severe, ferocious anger which shone through his exhaustion. He seemed like more of a half-tamed jungle cat than a man, and indeed when he halted before you, you half-expected him to snarl, to bare bloody fangs and lunge at your throat with fingers like claws, like swords, tearing through your neck as if it were paper.

“When he’s like this, you almost forget what a monster he can be,” your husband mused, reaching out and flicking the man on the forehead with a snicker. “Isn’t he all but lovely? Oh, don’t worry, dear lady, he can’t do anything to you. He’s under the influence of a sleeping draught at the moment, and anyways, those chains are thrice-blessed. It’s perfectly safe.”

The chains he spoke of were as gold as the man’s hair, looping around his wrists and forearms, curling over the red marks emblazoned on his shimmering skin, weaving in between his legs and around his torso. They were sturdy and gleamed with the power of their three blessings, and although you still understood little about this strange place with its strange power, you could tell that it would take a great force, greater than was possessed by any mere man or deity, to break them.

“He’s the prince of Kremnos,” your husband said when your shock stretched on. “A right beast, I’ll say. We almost fell to his efforts, but in the end, we bested him — as you can see. What do you think? Do you like him?”

“He’s — it’s — horrible,” you said, your skin crawling the longer and longer you stared at the prince, your words a jumble, your head spinning. You wanted to be anywhere but in this courtyard, in front of this fallen man, who was kept alive for — for what? For amusement? For play? As a gift?

“Isn’t he?” your husband said, patting you on the shoulder with a grim smile. “And now he is yours.”

The thrice-blessed chains flashed in the sun, and you shook your head, both in refusal and to clear your vision of the blinding, searing spots they left in it.

“I have no need of a prisoner,” you said, and although your tone remained ever-muted, you spoke as cuttingly as you could manage to. “What will I do with him? Why do you torture him so? You bested him; if he was as fierce an opponent as you claim, then the least you owe him is a death with dignity. Kill him and be done with the matter. Why have you brought him all this way? I don’t want him.”

“He will die, eventually,” my husband said. “I shall execute him myself when it comes to it, but the time is not yet right. I don’t expect you to understand such matters, and neither should you trouble yourself with doing so…but know this, dear lady: you cannot give back a gift once it has been freely given. You can do what you’d like with him now that he is yours, but you cannot refuse him. Perhaps that is how affairs were conducted in your backwards land, but here it is not so.”

You wanted my land, you longed to say. You took me from my father and wed me to a statue in search of it. And still you call it backward? But you could not, so instead, you turned away — away from the prince, who was close to crumpling and only remained standing out of sheer will, and away from your husband, who beamed as if he had done something great or wonderful.

“I will retire now,” you said. Do not follow me. This remained implied, unsaid, but a fool your husband was not, and so he only hummed in agreement.

“Be well, dear lady,” he said. “My messengers have told me that you are having difficulties adjusting to the climate here. I shall be sure to pray for your feeble constitution.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you said, stiffly, primly. It scratched like bile and you hated every minute of it, but you had no recourse for the matter, so you swallowed it down, as you always did and always would.

“And what of the prisoner?” he said. “Shall I send him to a jail? Do you think he is better suited for deprivation or pain?”

They meant to make him shatter, to methodically yank him apart until he faced death with the dull eyes and swayed back of an over-aged broodmare. You supposed to them it was meaningless — why should they show consideration or kindness to a man who would never show them the same? — but you were no warmonger, and that apathy did not cling to you yet. The prince was a beast born of sun, a wild, vicious creature, and if he really was slated to die, then you wanted him to meet his end as just that, nothing less.

“Leave him be,” you said. “Treat him as well as you are able.”

“He would’ve killed me,” your husband said, a low note of warning in his voice. You shrank into the safety of your clothes, as if they were a shield against his vexation.

“But instead you will kill him,” you said. “So how does it matter? You said I could do as I like; well, this is what pleases me. Don’t prolong this anymore than necessary.”

You darted back into the palace without waiting to hear his answer, your jaw burning and your footsteps heavy against the mosaic floor as you ran all of the way to your chambers and slammed the door shut behind you.

For three days and three nights you did not leave your room, taking all your meals in seclusion, refusing any visitors that might attempt entry. You could not help it; the thought of seeing your husband or any of the soldiers made you want to weep — you! Who never wept, even as a baby! So you claimed that you were terribly unwell, that you could not stand for fear of collapse, and that managed to ward away your husband without incurring his wrath, even though it was only a temporary solution.

As the sun set on the fourth day, there was a knock on your door, and you were about to call out that you had no interest in conversation when someone hissed through the crack in the entrance: “Lady, I come not on your husband’s behalf but another’s. There is trouble, and you must attend to it.”

“What?” you said, scrambling to your feet, crouching by the entrance, pressing your ear to the wooden door without opening it. “Who is this? Who are you? Speak plainly, so that we may understand one another!”

There was a shuffling sound, and then an exhale. You worried with the collar of your shirt as you waited for them to continue, your arms pulled tightly around yourself, your brows furrowing together as you chewed on your lower lip.

“The prince of Kremnos,” they whispered. “He calls for you.”

“Are they mistreating him?” you said, straightening and flinging the door open. “The prince, are they — hello?”

The hallway was devoid of life. You peered down it, craning your neck this way and that, but it was placid, showing no signs of having been disturbed. Shutting the door slowly, you leaned against it, holding your head in your hands. Was this place driving you to insanity, then? And if it was, then why could you not have thought of something more pleasant than summons from a prisoner — prisoner!

Wasn’t it your duty to make sure your husband had held good on his word? The prisoner was yours, though the notion of ownership sent unpleasant shivers down your spine and didn’t feel quite right — perhaps a better way to think of it, then, was responsibility. He was your responsibility, and maybe the strange vision had been nothing more than a reminder of what you owed the man.

You waited until it was midnight, when you could be certain that your husband would not rise from his slumber at the sound of your activity, and then you donned a pair of slippers and a cloak, throwing the hood on and retreating into the billowing depths of the fabric, so that your face was obscured from prying eyes. Of course, there would not be very many of those, not at such a late hour, but you did not want to risk even one person recognizing you and reporting back to your husband, whose reaction to this escapade you could not foretell.

Although you were not so familiar with the palace’s layout, as you had never spent much time exploring it, most constructions of this nature followed a similar plan, and you had grown up in exactly such a grand, sweeping home, so you found the doorway to the cellar in record time. As the palace had no towers, the cellar was the only logical option for the keeping of such a dangerous prisoner, and you had no doubt in your mind that this was where you would find the prince, if he was still somewhere that you could find him.

The half-moon was your only witness as you fumbled with the lock, trying every key in your possession until one finally slotted into place and turned. Wincing as the door heaved open with a profound creak, you yanked it shut behind you quickly, without ceremony, lighting a small candle and using it to guide your way down the dark stairs, rushing so that you were out of sight in case someone came to investigate.

You did not know how long you walked for, but eventually the stairway ended, giving way to cool, damp earth. The must of uncut stone permeated the thick, heavy air, and the adjustment of your eyes to the surrounding blackness was slow, the pain of it only alleviated somewhat by the little candle’s valiant flame.

“Come to toss scraps at me?” The voice was rumbling and low; in spite of its weakness, you could hear a sneer in it, a disdain in the rough baritone. “You needn’t try again. Like I told you, I won’t eat your trash.”

“No,” you said. “I’ve brought nothing with me.”

There was a brief pause, and then: “You sound different than the others.”

“This tongue is foreign to me, as it is to you,” you said. “I cannot speak it in the same way as those who were born here. Verily I have been instructed in the art since I was but a child, for my father must have known in that manner of his what would eventually become of me, but I will never lay claim to it the way that a native of this empire would.”

“You’re his wife.” Chains clanked, the harsh drag of metal against stone reverberating in the cellar, and then you felt more than saw his looming countenance, filling what you had mistakenly believed upon arrival to be an empty room. Swinging your candle before you so that it was close to your heart, you gasped when it reflected in a pair of eyes glaring at you from mere paces away, the irises possessing a hollow and impossible brilliance in the way a pair of fading embers might.

The chains now only encircled his left leg, binding him to the wall but leaving him otherwise free to move as he liked within the length of his confines. He had been stripped of armament and adornment alike, his mane of hair tangled and falling lank about his broad shoulders, yet for all of these injustices, you had no doubt in your mind that he was anything but a prince. He had a dignity to him, a hard-won pride to the straightness of his back and the firmness of his gaze; before you could chase it away, the thought came to you that there was far more intrinsic nobility to this man than there was even your husband.

“I suppose that I am,” you said.

“Have you come to gloat about your craven lord’s cowardly victory, then?” he said. The chains were pulled taut, so he could come no closer to you than he already was — you were sure of this, but you were still a slave to your instincts, which urged you farther and farther from him with every second. He watched you go with some measure of delight, like he was relishing in this power which you had inadvertently gifted him, and when you skittered to a stop, he huffed. “There is nothing to be proud of, and you look a fool for suggesting there might be.”

“I was just…” you trailed off, because it suddenly felt entirely absurd to suggest that you were inquiring after his wellbeing. What did it mean, the wellbeing of a doomed man? What reason would he have to believe your intentions? “What is your name?”

“My name?” he said with a brittle, incredulous laugh that rapidly descended into a cough. “Why? Do you wish to curse your husband with it? Does your language not have gods you can swear on?”

“You’re sickly,” you said, frowning and ignoring his jabs.

“You have torn me from the sun and chained me in this dingy room, and yet you have the gall to be surprised by that?” he said, scoffing. “You’re more of an idiot than that husband of yours.”

“I did no such thing!” you said. The defiance took you by surprise. You had forgotten what it felt like to defy someone, to disagree and resist their words, to feel alive with resentment and bad-temper. “I didn’t wish for this. I didn’t wish to keep you here anymore than you wished to be kept!”

“Is that so?” he said, and then he grinned at you, but it was less of a smile and more of a threat. “Then free me.”

“What?” you said.

“If you don’t want me, then free me,” he said.

“You’ll kill me if I do,” you said uneasily, shifting from foot to foot.

“I give you my word that I will spare you,” he said, placing a solemn hand over his heart.

“Not the others?” you said.

He did not respond, which in and of itself was a response. It was one you shouldn’t have liked as much as you did, but in truth the prospect of such a slaughter made your fingers twitch towards him. Only for a moment, and immediately, you shoved your hands behind your back, but it was too late — he had seen, and he raised his eyebrows at you in return.

“Well, anyways, it doesn’t matter,” you said hastily, hoping to distract him before he could comment on the treason. “I couldn’t free you even if I wanted to. Your chains are thrice-blessed. I didn’t know what that meant until recently, but now that I do, I understand why you have been kept without even a permanent guard.”

“Blessings,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t tell me you put genuine stock into that drivel.”

“Perhaps the gods of other lands have forsaken their subjects, but this empire is known as the birthplace of every divine act, and so deities still sometimes glance upon its people and offer up their favor. Thrice-blessed chains are one such offering, for they are in fact more like contracts than they truly are chains,” you said. When he did not interrupt you with any snide remarks, you were emboldened to continue. “They can restrain anything, even a god, but this strength comes at a cost: they are conditional. If their captive can understand this condition and meet it, they will crumble into dust, but until then, the chains remain unbreakable.”

“What is it?” he said insistently, reaching out his hands like he was going to grab you and shake the answer out. He fell short, grasping at empty air, his muscles straining against the chains which, true to legend, did not falter. “This condition. Whatever it is, I will do it. You only need to tell me and I will do it!”

“I don’t know,” you said. His lip curled, and you shook your head frantically. “No, no, I’m telling you the truth, I really don’t know! Only the wielder and the gods he prayed to can know for certain. The conditions are decided arbitrarily, without trend or reason. It could be anything from singing a song to moving a mountain! At least, that’s what I’ve gathered from the little I’ve read on the topic.”

“The wielder — your husband, then? That’s easy enough. Bid him to tell you, and then relay to me his answer,” he said.

“Easy enough? Not in the slightest. He would just as soon do your bidding as he would mine,” you said. The prince squinted at you, and evidently he must’ve determined that you were serious, for he broke into that awful laugh again, the one that must’ve once been handsome and full-bodied but now was little more than a rattling plea for air.

“You are pitiful,” he said. “I thought that you must be some great, fearsome empress, as wicked as your husband, but you are just a frightened mouse of a girl. You would not survive a day in Kremnos, you know. It would crush you.”

Duty. Obedience. Docility. They were branded onto you, swirling letters that you had unwittingly carved into yourself with every wedding vow you spoke, and you could not escape them any more than the prince could escape his chains. If only you could argue with him, tell him that once upon a time, you had been someone unrecognizable from who you were now…but already, you had tested their limits. Your tongue was frozen in your mouth, refusing to move in anything but accordance with your oaths, and so you only clasped your hands together.

“If you say it is so, then it really must be the case,” you said. “Farewell, prince of Kremnos.”

“Farewell,” he said, but it was clear he did not mean it. “Dear lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” you said, recognizing the provocation for what it was. “You are not my husband, nor do I wish for you to be.”

“Then what should I refer to you as?” he said. “Your excellency? Your grace? Your most exalted highness? Your holiness, the saint of the realm?”

“Here, I am only known as lady,” you said quietly. “But I bore a different name before. I cannot…I cannot say it anymore, but if you ever come to know of it by other means, then please call me as such.”

Morning brought with it a freezing palm pressed to your brow. It startled you to consciousness both because of its temperature and its temerity, for you could not fathom who had dared to enter your room without your permission, and while you were asleep, at that! In the haze of your sleep-addled mind, a rebuke rose to your lips, but then someone clicked their tongue and you fell silent even as you clambered to a more alert state.

“Your fever has finally broken, dear lady! You do not know how overjoyed I am to hear it,” your husband said, helping you into a sitting position, one hand cradling the back of your neck and the other holding up a glass. You blinked, trying to clear the fog from your vision, swallowing down the water he poured down your throat without objection.

“Fever?” you said.

“The ailment you have been suffering from,” he said. “I was told it was a fever of some sorts. I bore it quietly, the prospect of your malaise, but today I could not stop myself from checking on you. I had some dreams of playing the nurse, but here you are, entirely well! Such a miraculous recovery.”

His grandiose words masked suspicion with affection, but he did not make any further accusations, for just as you had sworn to heed him, so too had he promised to trust you. His vows had been made to a portrait of yours, as well as written in pig’s-blood and sent to you in a sealed envelope. You could recall them with perfect clarity, the way the stench of iron clung to the parchment as you unfolded it and rang your fingers over the lines, which were grouped in stanzas of three.

Trust. Favor. Companionship.

You spent the entire day with your husband, although you had neither the desire nor the will for it. You hardly ever had the desire or the will to do anything, of course, not nowadays, but this was the worst of all, because your husband was not just a reminder but the very reason for everything which had happened to you. Still, you could not refuse, so you trotted along at his side, motionless as he showed you off to his officers, his advisors, and even, at one point, his cousin, who could not be less interested in you if he tried.

“Brother,” he said boredly, for indeed he and your husband were the only children of their respective fathers, and so were more like siblings than anything, “you have better things to be doing than showing off a woman who doesn’t bear showing off in the first place.”

“Are you saying that she is somehow deficient?” your husband said, swelling up with righteous indignation. Anyone else might’ve lost their head for the statement, especially given how blandly he had said it, but his cousin was above reproach, being the only person he really loved.

“I’m saying that she looks ill with misery,” his cousin said, and then he sighed, returning to his book. “I’m not so sure the lady has recovered from her illness. You ought to be more cautious with her, that’s all.”

His cousin was younger and handsomer than he, and as the two of you walked away, you thought that you would not have minded marrying him as much. Though perhaps this was a paradox — after all, if he had taken you in the manner that your husband had, then you would have hated him, too. It was your lot in life, then; always you would detest whoever you wed, whoever stole your freedom in that way and bound you to them with the cruel ropes of matrimony.

The hall where you took your dinner was like an enormous cavern, so large that you felt like your voice might echo if you spoke. You and your husband were the only ones in it, which heightened the effect, and every clank of his silverware against his porcelain dishes resounded in your ears like discordant bells.

“My prisoner,” you said after a long time had passed wherein the two of you discussed nothing. Your voice was dry with disuse, and you pushed the food on your plate around without attempting to eat, although it was all appetizing and you were certainly hungry.

“What?” your husband said, covering his mouth with his hand as he chewed.

“My prisoner,” you said, clearing your throat but keeping your gaze trained firmly on your food. “The prince of Kremnos. Is he well?”

“You’re asking after his health?” your husband said with a chuckle. When you did not laugh or otherwise indicate that you were joking, he frowned at you. “You needn’t fret. As you requested, I am treating him as well as I am able. Far better than he deserves.”

The image of the prince, chained and kept in darkness, the only sound his persistent cough and unsteady breathing, given scraps for sustenance and mice for company, flashed across your mind.

“I wish to see him,” you said. There was a warning in the back of your head — duty, obedience, docility — but you ignored it as best as you could, stabbing oversharp fingernails into your thighs, hard enough to draw blood and distract you from the dangerous line you tread. “My lord, I wish to see the prince and ensure that he is alright with my own eyes.”

At this your husband did not even pretend to humor you. He burst into a raucous fit of cackles, his fork and knife clattering to the table, his eyes watering at the corners. You waited for him to stop, picking your own cutlery up in vain before setting it down and folding your hands in your lap.

“No,” he said. “I am afraid that I cannot allow that, dear lady.”

“You cannot—” you began, but it was too much, you had stepped over that precarious boundary, and now you were frozen. Gulping, you counted to five before continuing. “He is mine. He is mine, you said it yourself, so why — can’t — I — see — him?”

Each word dug into you like gravel, and you knew that you had lost this argument before you could even attempt to have it. How could you ever win? When you had sworn thrice over that you would be tractable, how could you ever try to be anything else? Your intentions did not matter as much as the execution, not to the number three and the power it lent this empire.

“How obstinate,” your husband said, appraising you with a new eye. “I am sorry, dear lady, but as my cousin said, you are still weak. It will do you no good to be faced with such a base creature. You can see him again on the day of his execution.”

“Yes,” you said through gritted teeth, which was not as much as you wanted to do but was as much as you could, at present, manage. “Might I be excused?”

“Excused? You haven’t eaten anything,” he said, pointing at your plate. True to his word, it was untouched, and you picked it up, holding it close to your chest as you stood.

“My stomach is protesting,” you said. “I will take it to my room and eat it later. If it pleases you.”

“Very well,” he said, waving at you. “I shall pray for your health, dear lady. Sleep as late as you’d like tomorrow, but once you are awake, I implore you to join me in my preparations. There is a grand celebration in the afternoon, as a marker of our victory against Kremnos, and I have been summoned to speak; if you could muster some words as well, it might hearten the people and warm them to you.”

“Yes, my lord,” you said. “I shall think of something.”

“See to it that you do,” he said, watching you with an unreadable expression on his face as you left, your footsteps growing faster and faster until you were all but racing to your room, your head spinning and palms clammy like you had gotten away with some great crime.

Tonight, there were no strange voices beckoning you, but that did not stop you from staying awake far past the moon’s rise, waiting until it hung over the clocktower before picking your way back to the cellar, your heart pounding as you crept back down those dark, endless stairs, an actual lantern in one hand and your plate in the other.

The prince was still there. You had half-expected him to have disappeared, to have turned out to be some figment of your imagination, but he was leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest and his lips pursed as he watched the light of your lantern approach. When he realized it was you, his eyes narrowed, and he tucked his chin to his chest in what you could only assume was a stubborn display of the meager strength he had left.

“I brought food for you,” you said, setting the lantern on the last stair and presenting the plate before you. “Please eat it.”

“What do you think I am?” he said. “Some kind of a dog, such that I am eager for you to foist your refuse on me? Hardly. Take it and leave me at once.”

“You’ll waste away,” you said. “You are only doing yourself a disservice! This is my own dinner, which I have gone without so that I could bring it to you. Does that make it easier to stomach?”

“Shall I sit on the floor, then, and eat it with my hands?” he said with a disparaging smile. “Will that amuse you? Is that why you’ve come? I heard your husband, you know. ‘Do what you’d like with him now that he is yours.’ How joyless your life must be, to think that this is what you entertain yourself with!”

“It is joyless,” you bit back, and your eyes widened at the freedom of the declaration. “It is! But you are not my — you are not some kind of amusement, I resent that you — I even spoke against my husband for you, and you say that! Fine, then. Starve, you thoughtless simpleton! Starve and die for all the good it’ll do me!”

You turned on your heel and stomped towards the stairs with the graceless irascibility of a child, not even sparing a glance over your shoulder at the prince. He was quiet, but you knew from the heavy weight of his stare on your back that there was something like turmoil brewing in his mind, a turmoil which weakened your resolve with every step you took away from him.

It was to your credit that you made it all of the way to where the lantern was sitting before you wavered, your stride shortening until you halted in place. Scrunching up your face, wondering when you had developed this love for punishment, for strife and conflict, you allowed your shoulders to sag in acceptance.

“Dispose of this before anyone comes to see you,” you said, shoving the plate into his hands before he could protest. “I suppose it matters little how you do it, but you must, or else I will be convicted of treason, and where will that leave us? Imprisoned side by side and left to rot together.”

He did not respond until you were almost out of earshot entirely, and then he coughed. You could not tell whether it was to capture your attention or to clear his voice of any residual hesitance; regardless, he accomplished both objectives, as you lingered for a moment longer than you would’ve.

“Ten,” he said. “That’s how many times I could’ve killed you in the time you’ve been here. But I—”

You continued walking before you could hear the rest of it.

You woke up the next day in better spirits than you had in some time, and in fact when a servant announced that you had a visitor, you opened the door with a new vigor. Upon realizing that the man in front of you was not your husband but rather his cousin, you thought that you might die from the glee of it all. Taking his arm, you allowed him to escort you to where the imperial contingent was setting up for the festival, at a grand stage which took up most of the square and was already laden with visitors at its base.

“It is a relief to see you recovering so well,” your husband’s cousin said. “The rumors in the palace are that you’ve contracted some illness of the chronic variety; in truth I believed them, especially after our meeting yesterday, but today I see that you have been revitalized. Did you rest well last night, then? I heard that you did not eat your dinner, but you must’ve taken it in your room, yes?”

You had done neither of those things, and his questioning did make you pause. What was the cause of your good mood? You had gone to sleep for only a short time, without much of anything in your stomach, and your situation had not improved any, so why did you feel, even if only marginally, as if you were something like yourself again?

“I suppose it must be something like love,” he mused, without waiting for your answer.

“Ah, pardon?” you said, startled from the winding turns and byways of your thoughts at the strange declaration.

“To think that even a day in your husband’s presence has cured you to such an extent,” he explained. “Surely it is love? I cannot think of any other name for it…but I apologize! It is not my place to inquire, nor to speculate. I trust you will not tell my cousin about this?”

He had, in the taken-aback blink of your eyes and the pinch of your brow, found what he was seeking: a demure shyness which he could only comprehend as a lack of affection. You knew, then, that you had passed the test of the man, who had not believed any more than your husband that you were truly ill.

“I will take your leave,” he said, and then his palm clamped down on your shoulder. “But I trust you know this: however much you may love your husband, he is a difficult man to be loved by in return. If ever you are in search of solace…there are places you may turn to, dear lady.”

“What did he say to you?” your husband said, appearing at your side with his expression arranged into something like a frown. “I could not hear. Was he bothering you? I am sorry if he was. He has always been headstrong.”

“He was not bothering me,” you said, incapable of lying to your husband with any great skill but remaining certain that it was absolutely imperative you did not divulge his cousin’s secrets to him. “We spoke as family members might.”

If he recognized your evasive language, he did not comment on it. Instead, he stroked his chin in thought, and then he directed his attention towards the stage, where one of his generals was beckoning him — and, by extension, you.

The sun hung high in the sky as you ascended to the podium, though its rays did not dare touch you, disguised in your husband’s shadow as you were. Your vows tied more than your tongue, after all; your entire being, everything but your heart and your mind, were trained and twisted into the picture of submission, and soon those, too, would fall, leaving you a husk which could do nothing but nod and follow along.

Your husband did not need to start with any address. His mere presence was enough to silence the gathered empire, every single onlooker leaning towards the stage in eager anticipation of his words. From your vantage point, it was like the swell of a tide, crushing and suffocating, inescapable in its overwhelming intensity, but where you withdrew, your husband brightened at the weight, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders.

“Mydeimos,” he said, over-enunciating every syllable. The word, unfamiliar and foreign to your ears, had a rhythmic, marching cadence, more suited to a battle-cry than a formal declaration, and it seemed you were not alone in your thinking, for it had all the effect of one on the crowd.

A heckling clamor burst from them, the individual words indecipherable but for brief snippets. Demon. Monster. Warmonger. Kill. Curse. Blood. Kill. Kill. Kill! Your husband waited for them to quiet of their own volition, and only then did he venture to continue, this time with a wide, beaming grin.

“Mydeimos has fallen. The prince of terrors is no more!” he shouted, raising his fist in the air to thunderous applause. “Without him to lead the army, Kremnos will surely follow suit. Their lands will be ours within the year, of this much I assure you! Our empire will soon be the most prosperous in all the world. Even the great lands of the Southern Sea will pale in comparison!”

Your heart twinged at the mention of the Southern Sea. You could envision it even now, the streaks of salt left on the cliffs where the water lapped at them, the ripples in the placid blue where the balmy winds skimmed along the surface, the moon-white sand as it clung to the crevices of your feet and hands.

When you were younger, your father would take you on his boat and dip his fingers into it, urging you to do the same. You would ask him why and he would answer, always with a laugh or a smile: of all the jewels in my treasury, my darling, the Southern Sea is the second-loveliest. Then you would ask him which could be the first, if even the sea was not its equal, and he’d press his damp hands to your cheeks and kiss your hair and say you, my darling, you and only you.

“What a horrible thing he was,” your husband said. “Mydeimos. That wretched excuse of a man…the world is all the better now that he is locked away. I watched him — watched him, good citizens, with my own eyes — tear out a man’s heart with naught but his nails and teeth! Even now I can imagine it…the tips of his canines dark with pierced flesh…bits of entrails coating his fingers…the heart still beating in his palms…he looked the proper part of a devil, and I was certain that I had died and found damnation!

“But as I said, he is no more. Our army prevailed, as we always have, and as we always will; I made Mydeimos beg for mercy with my sword at his throat and my foot upon his inhuman heart, and then I dragged him back so that all of you could see what he has been relegated to — a chained puppy, given to my dear lady as a pet and kept as a servant until the day of his execution.

“For the surest way to kill a Kremnoan is to destroy their pride, and the prince of terrors has more pride than most, so we must endeavor to strip him of it, systematically and fastidiously, until even a child can cut him down!”

Your husband concluded his speech and pulled you forward simultaneously, with a great flourish which invited praise and drew attention to you both. You swallowed, your mind racing at breakneck speed, far too quickly for you to make any sense of the things you were saying until you were saying them.

“I have not seen the prince of Kremnos — Mydeimos — since the day that he was brought to me,” you said. The applause that had begun faded as soon as the soft words sparkled into existence, and the many eyes of the audience blurred together until you could pretend like you were alone, like you were speaking to nothing but small, bright stones reflecting your own sentiments. “But as my lord husband said, he was proud. I feel as though I have never seen a man prouder. Even after his loss, he remained proud. Even with nothing else left, he clung to that pride, that assurance…I remember thinking to myself that it was, in its own way, admirable. That he was admirable.”

Your husband’s arm around your waist grew tighter with unspoken warning, though it needn’t have. You had said all that you wanted, all that you could, and now there was nothing left but the judgement of the collective.

“Lady!” someone shouted, the singular soul brave enough to speak. She was a woman — you wondered if this was what bolstered her confidence, a perceived kinship between the two of you for that fact alone. “Do you fear the prince?”

“No,” you said, and although you had meant it only as a vague and empty placation, you were surprised to find that it rang true. You were not afraid of him, and it wasn’t his chains or his infirmity which caused this emotion to surge in you; rather, it was what he had told you last night, that declaration he had made with the utmost of seriousness, which you had not even allowed him to complete. “I am not. He cannot harm me.”

You knew your words would be interpreted as faith in your husband and the empire, and furthermore that this misinterpretation would curry favor with your subjects and your lord alike, so you did nothing to correct it. Yet you would know, and would hold close to your heart the knowing, that it was not your husband who you held faith in: it was Mydeimos, the prince of Kremnos, who might’ve killed you ten times over but had instead let you live.

“You have much to improve in terms of your orating,” your husband said coldly as the three of you — him, his cousin, and yourself — returned to the palace.

“I thought her speech was excellent,” his cousin said, shooting you a sly smile behind his back. “Very concise, and of a good style. It’s a gift to be able to convey meaning so succinctly. You ought to nurture it.”

“She certainly conveyed a meaning,” your husband said. “It remains to be said what value that meaning truly holds.”

“Is that for you to decide? Ah, brother, don’t be a curmudgeon, I am only teasing you! You spent so much of our childhood poking fun at me, so how can you fault me for paying you back in kind?” his cousin said.

“You need some lessons in respect,” your husband said, but without any real bite behind it. His cousin snickered before sobering, shifting his weight toward you.

“Will you take your dinner in your chambers again, lady?” he said. You nodded.

“If it does not offend,” you said.

“Do as you please,” your husband said. “Though I expect you’ll do that anyways, sworn to me or not. Isn’t that right, dear lady?”

You couldn’t think of any response which would be satisfactory, so you said nothing, allowing the two of them to escort you to your room, where you waited with bated breath until the night fell and you could return to the cellar.

The entire way down the stairs, you turned the name over in your mind, polishing it in the way waves polished driftwood, battering it with incessant worry until it shone, uncanny and unrecognizable. Mydeimos. Mydeimos. Mydeimos. The prince of terrors. The man who had torn a heart out with his teeth. What did it say of you, that you were making your way to exactly such a knave? With trepidation, of course, but what did it say that you were still doing it anyways? Perhaps very much, or perhaps very little.

“There is an odd pattern to your footsteps,” he said before you could even greet him. He stood as he always did, prepared for a battle that he would never again see. “Or perhaps it is your breathing, or something else entirely.”

“What do you mean?” you said, putting your lantern and the dinner down in the space between you both. “I walk and breathe as I always have, as others do.”

“I know you,” he said, disgust mingling with the barest traces of awe in his tone. “The door to this cellar opens frequently. All manner of men come to visit me, to mock me from their places at the bottom of the stairs, lambasting me from the safety of their distance. I recognize few, and I remember fewer — nor do I have any great desire to — but when it is you, I know. From your very step, from the very creak of the door, I know. I cannot understand how or why, but I know.”

“My husband told me your name,” you said after a pause, when it became clear he was not expecting a reaction from you. Motioning towards the food in a gesture you hoped he took to kindly, you continued: “I did not ask him, but he mentioned it in passing, so naturally now I know it.”

“I see,” he said, and although his gaze flicked towards the ground, he did not move. You remembered, then, what else your husband had said in that speech of his, the vainglorious words echoing in your ears: for the surest way to kill a Kremnoan is to destroy their pride, and the prince of terrors has more pride than most, so we must endeavor to strip him of it, systematically and fastidiously, until even a child can cut him down!

“Mydeimos,” you said, and then you sat on the floor, which was made of a cold stone that shot chills down the backs of your legs. Resting your elbows atop your thighs and your chin in your hands, you blinked up at him. “That is what he called you. ‘The prince of terrors.’”

“How unimaginative,” he said, and you suppressed a shudder at his glare, which was baleful and acute as it settled upon you. “My-deimos. Many-terrors. Yes, that is my name, though that ridiculous nickname is of his own invention. The Kremnoans would laugh if they heard it.”

“He said that he watched you tear out a man’s heart with your nails,” you said, and then you glanced at his lips, simultaneously and unconsciously wetting your own with the tip of your tongue. “And your teeth.”

He bared those very teeth, white and glinting, in a barking laugh — as much an expression of warning as it was humor. “My teeth! Your husband is one for fiction.”

“And — and he spoke of how he defeated you,” you said. At this, anything resembling mirth vanished from Mydeimos, and he grew curiously immobile — you almost thought that you had frightened him into the grips of memory, but then you realized that he was not frozen as much as he was waiting.

“Did he?” he said. “And what did your husband say of my defeat, dear lady?”

“He made you beg for mercy with his sword at your throat and his foot upon your inhuman — upon your heart,” you said, correcting yourself for the slip of the tongue, finding no merit in telling him about that particular detail. “And then he dragged you back here.”

The longer Mydeimos remained silent, the shallower your breaths became, a cold fist forming around your heart and squeezing, the muscles in your arms and legs contracting, protesting their inactivity. You needed to run. If you were wiser, if you had anything resembling self-preservation, you would run, would flee and hope that you were fast enough to make it to the stairs before he pounced.

You supposed you lacked both wisdom and self-preservation in spades, for you remained on the floor, peering up at him and praying that he could not read your mind, could not comprehend the depths of your thoughts.

“So that is his story,” he said. “I should’ve known he wouldn’t tell his people the truth.”

“He made it up,” you said rhetorically.

“You don’t sound surprised,” he noted.

“It is not — it is not —” You gnawed on the inside of your cheek, trying to come up with some way to circumvent your wedding vows, some way you could impress upon him what you were trying to say. “When we were wed, it was said that I loved him madly and completely, that I bawled to my father until he allowed me to come here.”

“Then it is not his first time dabbling in such falsehoods,” Mydeimos completed. When you nodded, he snorted. “You cannot speak ill of him, can you? Is it magic?”

“In the way of this land,” you said with a shrug.

“What an emperor,” he said. “So he can neither bed his wife nor win his battles without the use of tricks and obfuscation? Where I come from, they have a word for those like that, but as it is foul, I will not trouble you with hearing it.”

“What do you mean?” you said. “Ah, not by the foul word…that is, what tricks do you refer to? If the story he told is inaccurate, then how did he really defeat you? For surely he must have, or else you would not be here.”

“He did not defeat me,” he said. “Believe it or not, but that is the truth.”

“How?” you pressed, for you had already eschewed wisdom once and did not mind doing so again.

For a moment, it was as if the sun shone down upon him again. You saw him as he was on the day he met you, or perhaps even before — the prince of Kremnos, sleek and powerful and indomitable, red marks blooming in place of the scars he would never receive, eyes ablaze in his hollow face, hair as wild and untamed as his spirit.

“He surrendered,” Mydeimos said, scowling. “Our numbers were smaller, but Kremnoans have never cared for things like odds. We were winning, indubitably we were winning, and your husband knew it as well as we did. They attacked us in our own territory, fought us with our own weapons…how could we have lost? We would’ve wiped them out, but your husband and his men raised their white flags, and so we ceased to attack them.

“I went to parley with them, to negotiate the terms of their surrender. In a show of goodwill, I agreed to your husband’s request to come unaccompanied. His men were exhausted, and I found it honorable that he was putting their wellbeing first, so I ignored my instincts and the warnings of my advisors, going forth alone, leaving my armor and weapons as I was instructed to.

“That was my mistake. I should never have expected honor from a serpent, whose nature it is to bite. The surrender was a ploy; I was met by hordes of guards, each with a spear pointed at my heart. Even then, I fought. Do not think I met my end willingly, dear lady — I fought and killed as many men as he threw at me. I could’ve killed them all, I would’ve killed them all, but right as I was about to, he threw these chains at me from the corner where he hid. It should not have worked, his aim and the strength behind it were both lacking, but it was as if the metal had a mind of its own, and before I knew it I was bound.”

“As I told you, they are thrice-blessed,” you said. “Divine. They long to fulfill their purpose, and will do anything to that end. If it defies the laws of nature, well, what are those laws compared to the ones who wrote them? Those men were only a distraction. Once my husband received these chains, there was nothing which could’ve changed your fate.”

“What sort of a god favors a man who feigns surrender?” Mydeimos said. “What kind of deity loves perfidy?”

“I have often asked myself the same questions,” you admitted, half-expecting yourself to be unable and closing your eyes in relief when you weren't. “Why is it that he is the one they champion? What justice is there in that? He must have been a saint in his past life, to be treated as he is. A saint, or a martyr, or something like that. Something wonderful to the point of deserving so many miracles in this next iteration of his.”

You chose your speech carefully, injecting as much resentment into it as was needed to convey to the prince what you really meant, but not enough that you seized up into inaction. Not enough that you strained against the hold that your vows held over you.

You heard him exhale, and at this, you allowed your eyes to flutter open once more, peeking up at him and immediately wishing you hadn’t.

Whatever had briefly rallied in him, whatever fervor and fire he had briefly regained…it was gone. It was gone, leaving him fractured and bereft, forlorn instead of fearsome, prisoner instead of prince. Your husband had done that to him. Your husband had destroyed him, as he had destroyed you, and it was this reflection of your own fate which tore at you the most.

Breaking off a piece of bread, you dipped it in the long-cooled sauce pooled in the corner of the plate, and, without a word, held it out to him. He eyed it suspiciously, and for a moment you thought he might refuse it. The beginnings of an argument bubbled to the surface, but it never had the chance to take shape — before your lips could so much as part, he knelt across from you and took your proffered hand by the wrist.

Holding it in place, his thumb digging into your pulse like a reminder that he didn’t want this, didn’t want to accept your help, he used his free hand to swipe the bread from your palm. Then, his brows heavy, low over his eyes with mistrust and reluctance, he shoved it into his mouth and ate it.

taglist (comment/send an ask to be added): @mikashisus @ivana013-blog @mizukiqr @shehrazadekey @simp-simp-no-mi @reapersan @casualgalaxystrawberry @secretive3amramenmaker [if your tag does not show up in grey, that means tumblr had an issue with it, sorry! sometimes it does that sadly]

#mydei x reader #mydei x y/n #mydei x you #mydei #hsr x reader #hsr #honkai star rail #reader insert #fantasy au #threefold #m1ckeyb3rry writes

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pangur-and-grim · 11 months ago

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belph is ADORABLE what a guy. is it just his colouring or is his fur more dense around his legs/belly?

Devon Rex cats go through a bald phase as kittens!

right now he's wearing socks and earmuffs, but in a few months his adult coat will grow in (curly, like a sheep!)

#belphegor #devon rex

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rafesangelita · 3 months ago

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really really loved the john b drabble, it’s like ur in my brain xoxo — but i wanna know what ur readers got for xmas!! hope u had a good one <3

: 🧸

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 bambi!reader:

a hefty barnes & nobles giftcard, calico critter sets, a fawn patterned throw blanket, lace lingerie tops, brown mascara, rilakkuma blind boxes (bakery keychains), a handmade dollhouse for her little trinkets to live in, and an apple pencil so she could start sketching on her ipad

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 sheep!reader:

babydoll dresses + stockings and frilly socks, vintage barbie dolls, poodle figurines for her vanity, vinyls for her record player, old beauty magazines, hair rollers, ‘marie antoinette’ on dvd so she can watch it whenever she wants, rose scented candles, and some yarn for crocheting

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 latina!kook!reader:

lots of chunky jewelry, cruise tickets, some embellished dresses she’s had her eyes on, lace-up floral heels, shimmery eyeshadow palette, a pair of sunglasses, some stuff from kali uchis’s ‘homebody’ line, bikini sets for weekssss, and pink tory burch sandals

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 bitchy!kook!reader:

chrome hearts wallet (in both pink and black), dior heels, black chanel bag, customized chain, black fur coat, leopard print undies + bra, some wildflower phone cases, black silk pj’s, dior lippies, she definitely got some makeup pr, fancy furniture (she spoils herself too ofc)

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 bitchy!pogue!reader:

she’s been begging so she finally gets a pole installed in her room, bedazzled platform heels, playboy bunny necklace + matching bracelet and anklet, juicy couture baby tees, victoria’s secrets sparkly lipgloss, glittery makeup bag, fuzzy slippers, pink rolling papers and a little something something from dealer!rafe

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 kook!sweetheart!reader:

lots of scrapbooking material, pink ugg boots, new hair curler + flat iron, chanel hair accessories, new digital camera, vintage chanel heels, her favorite foreign chocolates, swarvoski rings, new bed sheet set + comforters, dainty tea cup set, a few skirts, bath bombs and shower gels

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 farmer’s!daughter!reader:

a new hat, boots with flowers embroidered on the sides, bootcut jeans, a belt buckle to add to her collection, an old doll that she thought she lost, pig plushie, baby chickies, quilted blanket that was made just for her, cherry chapstick + red nail polish, and a new lana del rey vinyl

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 pogue!sweetheart!reader:

a new mixing machine, cutesy cookware + more baking dishes, customized apron, cupcake stickers, some added upgrades to her bakery, two new pairs of kitten heels, a charm bracelet full of goodies, pink lingerie sets, decoden picture frame, and some customized press on nails since she can’t wear long nails consistently

#𝜗𝜚 ‧₊˚ ⊹ misc #i’m so happy you loved the drabble bb i love writing it <3 #૮꒰ ྀི >⸝⸝⸝< ྀི꒱ა 🧸 anon #₊˚⊹♡ bambi!reader #₊˚⊹♡ sheep!reader #₊˚⊹♡ latina!kook!reader #₊˚⊹♡ bitchy!kook!reader #₊˚⊹♡ bitchy!pogue!reader #₊˚⊹♡ kook!sweetheart!reader #₊˚⊹♡ farmer’s!daughter!reader #₊˚⊹♡ pogue!sweetheart!reader #outer banks #obx #rafe obx #rafe cameron #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x reader #drew starkey

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velvetseahorse · 2 months ago

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Saturn Nakshatra Style

What I’ve observed about Saturn Nakshatra natives is their preference for very soft, almost minimalist yet feminine clothing. All Saturn Nakshatras fall in water signs and are associated with non-predatory animals like cows, bunnies, and sheep. So, it makes sense that their style exudes a docile, gentle quality. This contrasts with Mercury Nakshatras, who tend to gravitate toward edgier, statement pieces. Saturn Nakshatras embody a melancholic, disciplined, and mystical aura.

Tina Aumont - Pushya ☽ Uttara Bhadrapada ↑

Anya Taylor Joy - Uttara Bhadrapada ☽

Zoe Kravitz - Anuradha ☉

Taylor Russell - Anuradha ☽ Pushya ↑

Because of Saturn’s rulership and its connection to water signs, these natives often have graceful elongated physical characteristics, such as long arms, torsos, necks, and legs. Their features tend to be either ethereal, well-defined, or a mix of both. They often gravitate toward updos, particularly buns, as this is a structured hairstyle that aligns with Saturn’s themes of discipline and order. Many also incorporate curls into their hair, as it enhances their ethereal and well-defined features, drawing attention to their natural elegance.

Tina Aumont - Pushya ☽ Uttara Bhadrapada ↑

Twiggy - Pushya ☽ Pushya ↑

Taylor Russell - Anuradha ☽ Pushya ↑

Anya Taylor Joy - Uttara Bhadrapada ☽

Twiggy - Pushya ☽ Pushya ↑

Saturn Nakshatras tend to accessorize with earrings, necklaces, and silk ribbons, often tying them in their hair or around their necks. They are also drawn to bonnets, which add a touch of vintage elegance and structure to their look. Due to Saturn’s binding energy, these natives naturally gravitate toward accessories that emphasize restriction and form, such as chokers, corsets, and cuff bracelets. These pieces reflect Saturn’s themes of discipline, structure, and containment while enhancing their refined and understated aesthetic.

Laura Harrier - Uttara Bhadrapada ☉

Taylor Russell - Anuradha ☽ Pushya ↑

Mikey Madison - Uttara Bhadrapada ☉

Fur coats symbolize high status or luxurious social standing. For Saturn Nakshatras, many of them must undergo hard work and perseverance to attain these symbols of wealth and status. There’s often an element of testing others’ worthiness before granting them access to such privileges. I’ve noticed that those born under Saturn Nakshatras have a particular affinity for fur coats, often pairing them with silks. This combination exudes a sense of elegance and authority.

Anya Taylor Joy - Uttara Bhadrapada ☽

Taylor Russell - Anuradha ☽ Pushya ↑

Anya Taylor Joy - Uttara Bhadrapada ☽

They also tend to gravitate toward all-black, layered clothing, as Saturn is strongly associated with the color black. This often includes long sleeves, turtlenecks, and lengthy skirts. As mentioned before, they have a love for bonnets or any type of head covering or scarf, further adding to their structured and disciplined aesthetic.

Anya Taylor Joy - Uttara Bhadrapada ☽

Mikey Madison - Uttara Bhadrapada ☉

Taylor Russell - Anuradha ☽ Pushya ↑

Zoe Kravitz - Anuradha ☉

Saturn Nakshatras typically avoid wearing anything too short—no shorts or short skirts. Instead, they prefer sheer or lace clothing to subtly show skin, or two-piece outfits that reveal the torso. As mentioned before, they also gravitate toward silk and enjoy accessorizing with body jewelry.

#vedic astrology #astrology observations #saturn nakshatra #pushya nakshatra #anuradha nakshatra #uttara bhadrapada nakshatra #tina aumont #anya taylor joy #zoe kravitz #taylor russell #Twiggy #mikey madison #laura harrier

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quillpokebiology · 10 months ago

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Okay, I have kinda sidestepped eevee crossbreeds bcuz then I'd have to cover 9 pokemon in one post, and I already had a nightmare covering the Schema Meowstic (24 pokemon that had to be covered), BUT, my mom lives in the wild area and owns a farmland and has a large garden, which attracts a lot of pokemon, and she caught a wild wooly Espeon on camera and now I gotta make this.

Pokemon Crossbreeds: Wooly

Wooly is the name for members if the Eevee line who had Wooloo/Dubwool fathers. The breed has appeared in the wild but started being selectively bred by humans in the 1800s. The bred is known for their wooly fur and floppy ears, and they were bred for various different tasks.

Eevee

Wooly Eevee gain fluffy bodies, floppy ears, and a darker fur coat. They follow the Herd nature of Wooloo and prefer to travel with other Eevees. Their fur grows a lot and needs to be shaved regularly, less it become hazardous for them. Many people breed them for their evolutions, or because they find their wool soft and cute.

Jolteon

Wooly Jolteon were bred alongside Yamper to be herders for Wooloo, while also working as their protection from outside predators. As to not scare the wooloo, farmers decided that it would be best to breed them with Dubwool so they would have wooly coats and resemble the wooloo herds more. These Jolteon are able to store more electricity due to their wool, making them very popular for battles.

Flareon

My personal favorite of this line! Wooly Flareon gain the nose, spots, and ears of Dubwool, making them look more sheep-like. This breed of Flareon was bred to keep people warm during winter; with their added floof and warm bodies making them the perfect cuddle buddies. Because of this, this breed of Flareon is known for loving cuddles.

Vaporeon

Also nicknamed Koi Vaporeon because of their spots. This breed of Vaporeon gain the face patterns, ears, and spots of Dubwool. Their frills also become wool, which soaks up a lot of water. They were bred for their frills to collect water to bring to villages. The more atee they store, the puffier they get.

Espeon

Wooly Espeon gain the floof, spots, facial patterns, and ears of Dubwool. It's one of the more common breeds since Dubwool live on high mountains or in fields that get a lot of sun. This breed was bred by humans purely for aesthetics, since other than inheriting a herd-like mentality and having extremely fluffy wool, not much about them changes.

Umbreon

The second most common of this breed. Wooly Umbreon gain the wool, wars, and spots of Dubwool, and that's pretty much it. They were bred to guard Wooloo herds at night from potential predators. Breeding them with Wooloo/Dubwool made the Wooloo trust them more.

Leafeon

Wooly Leafeon gain the spots, chest fluffy, and ears of Dubwool. This breed is beloved in many children's books and myths because people say they're appearance is just right for a nature spirit. They weren't bred for a specific task.

Glaceon

Wooly Glaceon are the only pokenon here that actually gain Dubwool's horns! They can be found atop icy mountains with high Dubwool populations. The breed has been loved on Circhester for thousands of years for their regal appearance, and some myths even state that they're the spirits of Ice God's in the form of a pokemon.

Sylveon

A show breed that is loved by many. These Sylveon gain fluffy coats and cute floppy ears, and many contest judges love their new style of bowtie and their added eyebrows. They're also a very popular pokemon to have on farms, as they can stop fights between the pokemon, they can protect the farm pokemon, and Wooloo feel more comfortable around them because of their wool.

//My designs can be used by anyone if you credit me for the original design! Talking about creation under the cut

I got inspiration for them when I saw art made by GraceyFH on Deviantart, where they crossed an eevee with a wooloo and I thought it was so cute and wanted to make my own version of that. The entire line was inspired by floppy eared sheep and Goats, but Jolteon specifically was inspired by a ram, which is why it's ears aren't floppy.

Eevee was easy. Just give it wool and floppy ears. Except of course it can't be that way because I redraw it twice. The first one's bangs looked weird and unfixable so I started over. Giving Eevee more messy bangs felt more like Pokemon's art style. I gave it darker fur because Wooloo has darker fur, which didn't really stick with the evolutions but idrc.

Jolteon was actually the last one I made. I made a first one with a different pose, but I hated it so I just used the base pose. It was a lot easier to use the base pose since I felt like I could make the fluff and the spiky mix together easier. I also find it very cute. Like I said before, I didn't make Jolteon's ears floppy because that wouldn't help it run very fast, and that breed of Jolteon was bred to hers Wooloo. But, I did make it's ears lower to match the ram photos I was looking at.

FLAREON MY BOY 🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡. Flareon is my favorite I designed and the first one I drew. It was also the easiest since it's already so fluffy. All I had to do was give it spots and goat features.

Vaporeon was the second Eeveelution I designed, and I mostly just had trouble with the ears. Other than that, it was all good. Inwas very excited for Vaporeon because I wanted to draw a koifish looking Vaporeon. Maybe I'll draw a more koifish looking Vaporeon in the future.

Espeon was nice. It already has a simple design. Was going to give it Dubwool's neck fluff, but I didn't do that because I wanted to keep its sleek appearance. (I was also lazy because I didn't realize I forgot it until after I was done with the drawing).

Umbreon was based on a goat at a petting zoo near me (aka, an hour drive away from me but idc I love that zoo). Goat was sleek and had droopy ears, and I loved him. Similar story to Espeon: it's simple and I just added fluff.

Leafeon was nice. I love a lot of nature fantasy stuff, so I'm always happy to make grass type crossbreeds. It reminds me of cauliflower, but I swear I didn't do that on purpose.

I was honestly annoyed about Glaceon since I thought it would he hard to incorporate Dubwool features to it because it's hat. And then I realized I could make the hat into horns, so I ended up having a lot of fun with it. If I didn't love fluffiness, it would probably be my favorite design. Like Jolteon, I based it off of a ram, so I was going to give it upper ears, but I thought the floppy ears looked cuter.

And then Sylveon! It was one of the easier ones to design since I went in knowing what I wanted to do. The floppy wars combined with its everything makes it look like a cute fantasy pet in a Disney movie, and I love it because of that. Not much else to say.

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smotherstories · 21 days ago

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#fluffy #fluff #fur coat #fourrure #fur #ai image #ai generated #fox fur coat #fox fur #fox fur jacket #fur jacket #sheep fur #gorgeous redhead #leopard fur #leopard print #long wavy hair

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zivazivc · 5 months ago

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Say hello to my bug eyed baby boy 🐛👀👶

He was in an egg since September but about a week ago he finally hatched! 😊😅 jk jk but it did take me this long to finish this plushie of baby Leslie that I can hold close and snuggle. 🥰🧡

In the last few days I took him out with me so he could explore the woods for the first time, and so I could take some photos of him for you guys (and me lol).

No I could not trim this photo set even more, do you have any idea how many photos I took?? and he's precious in all of them. 🥺

I don't have a sewing machine or any other special equipment so he's entirely handmade with a pattern I made myself by trial and error, but I did use two of my plush toys as reference to study how they're stitched together.

I was pretty limited with my material choice because I had to find everything in Leslie's colors or at least the closest I could get to his colors, and I've realized that they're not very popular colors. His hair sadly ended up being the most off, but I'm still happy with it.

His body is something like sweatshirt fleece but the fabric being turned the wrong way so that the soft fuzzy side is on the outside. But I had no luck trying to find sherpa fleece fabric that would fit his coat colors so his fur is all embroidered using a stitch called turkey work.

And his lil pickle dreads are made with the same technique as friendship bracelets, just that they loop around. I've made so many friendship bracelets in my time that this wasn't hard to figure out how to do lol. And in the end I also sewed shiny pearls onto them to act as sparkles, since I'm not a fan of glitter or sequins. 😅

And lastly his hair is made out of genuine hand dyed sheep locks! Wondering how to tackle the hair gave me the most trouble. I was thinking of sewing it together out of fabric, or tying together fluffy yarn in the style of macramé and other ideas I can't recall anymore, but either the idea didn't sound good enough or I wasn't able to find the right material to try to pull it off. In the end I stumbled on sheep locks kind of on accident while browsing etsy and the idea was just too tempting. They're the only part of him that I ordered online and I was really worried it wasn't going to be what I needed, or that I won't like the color once I see it irl, won't like the feel, etc. But I'm super happy with how it came out in the end. Yes it's much lighter in color and now he's curly, but I think it really suits him, and it feels soft like actual hair. 🥰

Some details from up close:

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just-some-random-blogger · 2 years ago

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Yeti

Cregan Stark x Martell!Reader

Summary: Cregan takes you hunting with him and, you get caught up in a snowstorm. Needless to say, the cold is a formidable adversary to your Dornish self.

Word Count: 2k+

Warnings: fem!reader, wife!reader, mentions/depictions of violence/gore/horror, smut (pwp tbh, semi-public sex, breeding kink, cunninglingus, vaginal penetration, dirty talk, praise kink), cregan 'don't fuckin scare my wife' stark, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: haha head. no thoughts. only wolf hubbie. and ok just roll with the folklore i added just just Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx

"WHAT?" I quip, breath condensing with the cold air.

The men around me let out deep, hearty chuckles upon hearing my concerned exclamation. Cregan chuckles under his breath and shakes his head. The fire in the middle of our group crackles.

"Aye, I saw it with my own two eyes," the oldest of the men in the hunting party says, "twas the biggest beast I'd ever seen." He scratches his white beard. A shiver runs down my spine. It wasn't just because of the wind.

"Lord Stark," a voice calls from behind, "we've finished setting up the tent."

Cregan turns to the approaching men and nods, "very good. Thank you."

"When mi cousin went missing," I turn to the man by my right as he speaks, "mi aunt saw a seer to ask if they could get 'is body back if 'e was dead," he says, "and, by the gods, instead, that night, there was a loud screech and claw marks on the trees. In the end, they erected a stone for mi cousin without 'is body."

I shudder and wrap myself tighter into my coat.

"D'ya know the story about the headless, lady?"

My expression twists, along with my insides. I shake my head.

"Well," the man continues, "long story short, an entire heard of sheep slowly started losing their heads and there were large footprints that trailed off the farm every time it happened."

I clench my jaw, "... how horrible."

"Aye. Yetis feed messily. They say that if you find sheep organs in the snow, you ought to run cause a Yeti left that there."

Cregan rolls his eyes but then catches the way my face continues to contort.

"Didn't all of the sheep on that farm have their guts gushing out of their necks?"

"I think it also happened to the cows-"

"That's enough," Cregan shakes his head, leaning on his knees, "I will not hear another word of the kills of snow figments while we're out in the snow."

"But it's not a figment."

"Milord, you know that even your father had an encounter with the Yeti-"

"The Yeti kill mi dog-"

"Enough, I said!" Cregan blurts louder than the rest. He stands from his spot, and in turn, his cloak, which he had wrapped around me, is pulled off my body. He stills, having forgotten he'd done that, and looks down at me, reaching hand, "in the tent with you."

I do not take his hand. I instead grip my furs tighter as I slowly stand. He does not fault me for it, though he does let out a grunt.

The men share another laugh. They watch as I struggle to move from my spot, as I was practically twice my size with all of the layers I had on. Cregan had even given me his outer coat, leaving him one layer less, yet still, he was unfazed where I was practically rigid with frost.

"Poor Dornish cub," one of the men mutter.

Cregan presses his lips together and adjusts the woolen hat on me. He wipes the snowflakes off my lashes before placing a hand on the brown bear fur on my back, "waddle quicker then."

I do not snark back at his remark.

One crunch in the snow after the other, my boots finally take me to the tiny, makeshift tent.

Cregan reaches out to me again, making me look back at him with wide, inquisitive eyes. When I do nothing but stare, he mutters, "the coat, love."

I furrow my brows at him like he called bloody murder, "but I'm cold!"

Cregan blinks then shakes his head, "I'm only going to dust the snow off."

I shake my head and shudder, breath condensing in the air.

He purses his lips and grabs me not unlike a rag doll. I squeak and just let it happen. He brushes the snow off me, muttering something under his breath as he did, then guides me into the tent.

When he kneels down by the makeshift bed on the ground, he and takes off his cloak, "will you be sleeping with the whole wardrobe on you?"

I plop down next to him gracelessly and pant, "if you wish for me to survive through the night."

He draws out a deep breath. It looks as though smoke left his lungs. Cregan makes a pillow out of his cloak and motions to it.

I gratefully lie down, although with all the layers on me, the cloak-pillow was a bit too low. Still, I fluff it up and it suffices well enough.

"Will your men be alright outside?" I mutter as I gaze upon the blanket and fur tent they built.

He grunts as he stands, "there've been worse winters, sunshine." He then begins to walk off.

"Wait," I knit my brows, "where are you going?!"

Cregan turns back and places his hands on his hips, "I wouldn't want to intrude on you and your fur. There's barely enough room for the two of you."

"Cregan."

"Oh, Hush, hush," he waves his gloved hand and moves to close the tent's opening, "I'm keeping watch so my bear cub doesn't get eaten by a Yeti."

"That's not funny."

I hear the sound of his boots stomping away.

It was bad enough that I was shivering intermittently in my sleep, thus why I kept waking up, but then I had an awful nightmare about the gargantuan, white-furred snow monster. Now all I could do was pray to R'hllor that I remain strong enough to get through this storm.

I further solidify when I hear a deep cry from a distance.

... no... not a Yeti. That's simply my mind playing tricks on me.

And yet my heavy eyes are now wide open.

I roll on my back and sit down as I listen to the wisp of the storm, anticipating another shriek.

I sniffle and shudder as dread bubbles in my belly.

"I am not waiting for the Yeti to creep in my tent, gods no," I mutter to myself as I crawl out of my tent on all fours.

As I emerge out of the warm cocoon, I yelp when I look up and find myself faced with a snow covered man laid back on a tree truck. He looked as though he was dead. I let out louder yelp when I realize the man was Cregan.

I run to him, no longer caring that cold was seeping through my fur and quickly brush the snow off him. Because of this, Cregan groans and finds consciousness.

"W-"

"ARE YOU ALRIGHT?" I rub Cregan's face with my hands.

He scowls at me, "is it morning?"

"W-what?"

He groans as he sits up, "dammit, girl, I was sleeping."

"WELL HOW COULD I HAVE KNOWN THAT!" I quip, "you look like you were about to make friends with the Stranger."

Cregan grabs my arms as his face slowly contorts, "I'll have you know I am the vision of health, bride."

I let out a sound as he leans in and wraps his arms around me, bringing his face into my neck. The feel of his cold nose against my skin makes me gasp. He mumbles, "so warm."

"Cregan," I brush the building snow on him, "let's go into the tent."

And so we did. Or at least as much as the Stark lord could fit inside.

Once we were situated in the tent, I laid next to Cregan, who kept moving because of his legs that were sticking out. After a while, he began shifting me as well. He pulls me into his chest and claws my coat off, "away with these furs, dammit."

"Cregan, I'm cold."

My words and my attempts to keep myself warm are futile as my hulking husband rips the source of his ire off me, "I can warm you better."

"Cregan, please," I grab his hands when he tries to undo more of my clothes, "it's too cold for this."

I am wholly defenseless when he shifts on his knees and shoves me on my back. He situates himself between my legs and pulls his gloves off, "I'll leave you sweating."

I whimper when I feel cold begin to seep through as he pushes my skirts up, "Cregan-"

"Shh, shh, shh," he digs his finger into my hips, " 'm just going to warm my face. You felt how cold I was."

With a rip, my pants and smallclothes were down. The yelp that leaves me is repeated when I feel Cregan's frosty lips on me.

Cregan sinks down and throws my legs over his shoulders. At this point, his bottom half was sticking outside the tent. That, added to the sounds I was making through my glove-muffled mouth, made for the most obviously obscene act you would ever witness in the woods amidst a storm.

"Come now, pretty girl," he mutters between kisses, "no one will hear you through the wind."

I whimper when he swirls his tongue around my nub.

"And even if they do, they'll know to blame it on the Yeti."

True enough, I begin to grow warmer and warmer, and louder and louder.

"Mmm, fuck, Cregan," I reach down from him and dig my fingers into his hair, "I feel warmer now. So warm."

He hums against me, eliciting a moan from my lips. He sighs hotly on my core then nips at my thigh, "so sweet and soft, and all for me."

I whimper and arch against him as he continues to lap at my increasing wetness. I bite down on my lips as the sound of his feasting fills my ears.

"Cregan," I sigh as I pull on his roots, "need more."

He barely lifts his head and whispers against me, "not warm enough?" His one brow quirks.

"Need you inside me," I mutter, seeing my breath fog up in front of my face.

Cregan chuckles then sigh, "see, you woke me up," he retorts, rubbing his cheek against my thigh, "I'm going to need you to beg for forgiveness first."

I grunt when he sinks back down on me, "please, husband. Forgive me. I'm begging you. I need you."

Cregan chuckles louder, "how wanton, not even putting up a fight--"

"Please," I pull his hair again, "please."

He shakes his head, so very clearly meaning to rub me with his nose, "I'm enjoying this enough already."

"My love, please. I want you in me," I pant."

With that, he sinks down darts his tongue into my folds, making me squeal. He continues at it then makes me yelp when he grazes my flesh. He croons, "like that, pretty girl?"

I whine helplessly as he continues. I can practically feel his grin against me. I scrape his scalp with my fingers, "Cregan."

He chuckles and relents, lifting his head, "oh, what now?"

"I need your cock in my cunt."

He laughs then clicks his tongue, "my, my, Lady Stark. How uncouth. Is how they raise the ladies in Sunspear?"

I let out a whimper when the cold bites my exposed flesh after Cregan pulls away. He presses his fingers into my thighs, "what would you give me if I fucked you, wife?"

I answer exactly as I know he wants, "an heir."

He huffs heavily through his nose and gets on his knees, "just one?" He brings both my legs into one arm as his other works on undoing his trousers.

"As many as you want, my lord."

He hums and eventually frees himself. I sound leaves me when I feel how cold but hard he is, "good girl."

Our groans mix as he sinks into me and pushes my knees into my chest. I feel warm slick on him as he rubs into my chilled cheek. "Fuck. You're so cold," he mutters. He proceeds to pepper kisses all over my face, "let me take care of you."

I reach for his face and begin to grunt when he bucks into me. If it weren't for all of the clothes still on my back, I'd surely have my skin gashed by the end of this.

"Fucking gods," he growls against my temple, "so tight and hot."

He pushes his hands behind my knees and picks up the pace.

I throw my head back and helplessly whine as he slaps into me. He pushes down on me and pins me in place. He pants against my ear, "this warm enough for you?"

"Mmm, gods, yes-"

"Gonna fill you up. Burn my come into you. Make you carry my pups," he licks my skin then nips at me, "make you heavy with my seed. Put so many pretty babes into my pretty bride."

My fingers dig into his hair as his mouth trails down my neck. He asks, "you want that don't you?"

"Yes, wolf."

He gruffs and snaps his hips rough, "good. Good."

I grow warmer as he moves quicker. Soon enough both our bodies are warm to the touch. I peck his cheek and bask in the feel of him. At a point, his movements become erratic and aggressive.

"My pretty cunt. Mine, mine mine."

"Cregan-"

"Yes, darling. I'm here," he sighs, "fucking my pups into your soft belly and warming you up. Feels better than all those fucking pelts right? Warmer. Warmer. Warmer. So fucking warm."

I squeal as I feel myself get pushed on the edge.

"Come on, love, give it up to me."

I whine erratically.

"Come on, pretty girl. Milk my cock and take my cum. Fuck, just like that. Come on. Don't be difficult. Come on, my little-- oh, that's it."

Cregan's movements do not relent as I come undone and spasm beneath him. The knot inside me breaks into a thousand pieces and I'm sure if there was a Yeti out there, they'd be running the other way after hearing me.

A few moments later, he, himself, twitches and fucks all of the smug comments he meant to say out of his system.

His movements grow increasingly languid until he comes to a stop.

He breathes against my neck and finally releases his clutch on my legs. He adjusts his hold on my thighs and makes a cushion out of me, not that I mind. In fact as I catch my breath and wrap my legs around him, I warn in between breaths, "don't you dare pull away, Stark."

He presses his lips on the top of my head, "never, Stark."

#house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon #cregan x reader #cregan stark #cregan stark x reader #cregan fanfic #cregan stark fanfic #cregan stark fluff #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon smut #cregan stark smut #cregan smut

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moriitis · 4 months ago

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"I am your sword, protector.. and oh, how I wish for you to be mine."

Knight Toby x Female Reader. Medieval AU. Part 1.

Content/Warnings; Mentions of murder, poisoning, blood, self inflicted harm, starved children, unsafe sex, suicide, abuse, death, implied abuse to animals, death of animals.

18+. MINORS DNI.

Based on my HCs here.

Word count; 7k

Toby is viewed a little differently in this AU, as are some other characters. How you view fictional characters is totally down to you, this is just how I pictured them to be.

You have no idea how you make me feel and I fear what I'll do if they marry you off. Can you not see? Can you not feel? Or am I being punished for the man I will never be? There is nothing left inside this shell, and yet when I see you; I feel a flicker of hope.. What am I saying? I am in love with you.

The bed rocked and thumped against the wall with each thrust that was made. Skin to skin, fingers embedded into his back; the other set of fingers tugging softly at his hair. Her moans filled the room, a room so hot and stuffy that it was getting harder and harder to breath in. It would've been pitch black if it hadn't been for the candle that was set atop the bedside table, although it was nearing the end of its final moments, the wax dripping down the end of the stick and coating the wooden bedside. The flame would flicker momentarily, a glimpse of hope perhaps? Toby moved his face away from the woman's neck, catching the flame in his gaze as he watched it dance. A dance so mesmerising that the movement his hips made were involuntary; moving purely on instinct rather than desire.

"Toby-!" Cried the woman beneath him and suddenly his eyes fluttered, brows furrowing in focus as he turned his attention back toward the woman. Her hands reached for anything to grip on, his hair, his biceps or even his shoulder as she felt the increasing urge to come undone below him. The way she would pant, the desperation in his voice; it stirred his focus back into play and it was there he found the remaining energy within him to keep the rhythm of his hips against her own.

"Toby-" She cried again and he faltered. The rhythm that he had found now becoming out of synch, for the cry of what he expected to be a woman came out into nothing but that of a man. A mans voice he did not expected to hear when on the edge of his own orgasm.

"Toby?"

The brunette blinked and here he was in the hall. The council hall, with pillars that rose at an extraordinary height. He had stood within this hall many times, to attend council. Many leaders spoke here, many disagreements. The hall was large, big enough to fit another table and chairs; but within it stood only the singular, wooden table. It was coated in fur, the fur of many beasts; bear, sheep, goat, horse, wolf. Sat in the middle of the long table was the King, a throne so mighty that should one look upon it, they already feel drawn by the power it holds. Naturally, other chairs were joined around the table however they were not as mighty as the throne itself. Simple wooden chairs, for well.. simple people. At least that was how it was. Regardless of your status or title, once you entered another man's kingdom, you were below them. It was as simple as that. Behind the throne and table was the stained glass window, filled with deceptions of the past kings who ruled this land.

The middle, King Lucius. The King who killed the Dragon. To the left, King Addilas. The King who banished the plague and then on the right, King Raddeon. The King who killed his assassinator with his bare hands.

Even Toby himself knew that most these stories were over-exaggeration. Dragons were not real, the plague killed many before the end and the assassinator was an old man; it would be easy to kill such a weak thing.

"Toby, are you listening?" The King cried from over his shoulder and Toby's brows furrowed in response. It wasn't often he got lost or distracted. With a simple step closer, hands behind his back, he replied. "My lord," he acknowledged with a simple bow and with a quick glance from beneath his brows; he noted how the whole council was looking at him. Sneering, displeased. He'd seen those looks before and if he were younger, he would've made a remark. Alas; he was devoted to a King and now his mouth must remain shut.

"What do you think? Of the current affairs?" The king grumbled, shooting the knight a daring look from under the white of his bushy brow. He was old, he had ruled since Toby was that of a boy and Toby knew death came for all eventually. It was not uncommon for the king to ask for his input. Toby had attended the council a lot since he became a knight. Shifting his weight, he sucked in a steady breath of air. It stunk in here, it was damp and it left a bitter taste on his tongue.

"Lord," was all he could utter, for he had not been listening. With a respectful bow of his head, his hard gaze connected with the stone flooring beneath him. There he could see the shine of his armour, he would've seen a reflection of his pathetic self if it wasn't for the engravings within the steel. The king knew he had not been listening and in a spit of rage slammed a fist down on the oak table.

"Damn you, boy!" He roared, causing the other members to flinch softly at his sudden fit of rage. Toby stood unaffected. As quickly as the king's rage came to be, even quicker it disappeared as he burst into a fit of coughs. A smouldering reminder of his fate. Only those within the castle walls knew of the king's health, that he was dying and as bad of the thought be; Toby hoped that death would come sooner.

Silence creeped over the hall as the king coughed and spluttered, a hand raised to shield his mouth from the blood that began to evidently spot out onto his palm. The brunette shot a glance at his king, though he did not worry. What was a knight to do against such an illness? There were only so many battles he could fight. So, with a purse of his lips, he lifted his chin and addressed the council;

"Council is over. Leave." Had the king instructed him to adjourn council? No, but Toby didn't want to sit here any longer with a man that was actively dying in front of him.

"Why do you lie to yourself? You love the sound of a man dying before you."

Toby's head then snapped round in a motion that was quick enough to make his head spin. That voice, so close that he could feel the breath against his ear; was the same voice as his fathers. As he searched helplessly around the hall, there was no source to the voice that spoke in his ear. He would've gone mad if it weren't for the bustle and scraping of chairs that stirred his attention away. Although his heart wanted to beat, wanting and yearning to feel something in response to the sound of his dead father; he felt nothing. Perhaps it was because he knew that his father was dead, oh, he was sure of it and that voice was nothing but a figment of his imagination.

Clearing his throat, he turned his gaze back to the king who was struggling to catch his breath. He stood awkwardly close by because he knew that if he tried to reach out or help, the king would do nothing but order him away. Anyway, he didn't care that much. The king, decrepit and frail, stood to his feet after a moment; with the aid of his table and shuffled away from his throne. The shadow of the throne cast over him, perhaps it was death, or the weight of his responsibilities?

"My daughter," he croaked, breaking the silence between himself and Toby. "She is to be queen. Not my fool of a son. You listen to me, boy, and you heed these words well," it was there he turned, pointing a crooked finger toward his knight. Confusion was etched across Toby's features as he listened almost cautiously. "You kill him. You kill my son, you make her queen and I will promise her hand in marriage to you. I see the way you look at her, the same way any man would."

And there, like an open book, the king had peeled back Toby, leaving him vulnerable and unsafe. The king knew it was wrong and in that moment, he had something Toby so desperately wanted. His mind fought against his desires and his common sense. What if this were to be a test, a trial? To prove his loyalty to the crown? What if he were to agree and thus finds himself in prison for betrayal? Plotting against the heir, it was heresy and yet it could be done with ease. Toby had taken many lives before, especially while under command to the king, what difference was this? It would be easy, there's no doubt about that. He was a knight, he had access to every part of the castle. The only thing he needed to do was make the death look.. well, perhaps accidental? His jaw tensed, he had been silent for a long time and the king was growing impatient.

"Is this some sort of test, Lord?" Toby sneered, angling his chin up to glance at him from almost the tip of his nose. "Or do you jest?" Before Toby could speak more, the Kings hand landed a blow against the side of his face and his head jerked. He was in shock, his own hand twitching momentarily as his body fought the urge to respond to such a slap. His shock soon dissipated however, he had been hit many times that now it made his body overcome with a feeling of just pure numbness. It was useless, such a slap, for not only was it weak; but he was unable to feel a thing anyway. With a twitch of his upper lip, he then hacked up some saliva and spat it promptly onto the floor beneath him.

"Very well," Toby replied bitterly, slowly craning his head up to glare at the King. If it wasn't for his vows, this old man would be gargling on his own blood already. "I'll kill him." And when those words came out his mouth, Toby couldn't deny the little flutter of excitement that emerged within the pits of his stomach.

Their steps echoed within the empty halls of the castle. Armor clinking softly and his hand pressed firmly against the hilt of his blade that sat just beside his hip. Silence lingered between the two of you as you both stepped almost in synch. There was a chill in the air which nipped at your skin. Winter was fast approaching, leaves beginning to fall around the castle estate, each morning becoming bitter and colder as each day passed. It daren't snow, but the temperature made it tempting. The castle did look so pretty when coated in snow, its blankets creating a sharp white no matter where you looked. A sharp clink of armor disturbed your thoughts and it was there you craned your head over your shoulder briefly, your gaze meeting Toby's own unwelcoming look and in response you turned sharply back ahead of you.

There were many ways you could describe Toby. Unsettling perhaps? Albeit, that seemed somewhat rude and you had a status to upkeep. He was no regular soldier, no normal knight. There was something about him that would quieten any feast hall within the first step he took in the place. Was it his messy, unkept hair? Surely not. But your mind lingered to the hideous mark beside his lips, a mark so cruel that sometimes it was hard to look at him. It made him not appear human, with such a deformity as such. With his teeth exposed, almost like he was some kind of snarling dog; the way the skin twisted and contorted against his cheek. His lips pulled slightly toward the scar, creating a devilish look that made it appear as if he was always smirking. His eyes said otherwise, they were so dead; so empty, that even if he were to convey any sort of emotion, his eyes would not follow. No crinkle of a smile, like he was frozen in time of a place that brought him great sadness.

Naturally, it make you wonder and then there was the gossip. Your ladies spoke such devilish thoughts of the man but their words enticed you more and more, drawing your interest to Toby like some sick kind of spell.

"I heard he was poor as anything." "Well, I hear that his mother died and he.. he killed his own father. In cold blood. Imagine that?" "That's true! Look at his face! It reads a killer, how he's trusted in these very walls I will never know. My, I almost pity him, looking the way he does." "I see him at the brothel most nights, do you think he has to pay extra for a face like his?" It was bad to mock, awful to sit and judge but on many days you found yourself indulged in such gossip, enough that you'd be laughing along with them in your chambers. A part of you wondered if the rumours were true, why would he kill his own father? "Well, turns out the king saved him from the rope, sent him off to knight school and well.. you know the rest."

That was right, you had met Toby when you had just turned nineteen but you couldn't help but feel as if you had already met before that. You remember a scrawny, violent boy who fought against the guards grip in the courtyard. He was pale and coated in blood, but that couldn't have been Toby. Truth be told, you knew nothing about him other than rumours and it made you uncomfortable knowing that someone who potentially murdered his own father in cold blood was now serving a life dedicated to you and your family? There was a lot of trust, perhaps he had proved himself? Or perhaps he asked God for forgiveness? No, that wouldn't make sense; you barely saw him in the chapel and the one time you did, he was causing a scene.

"You are quiet, my lady. Does s-ss-.. something bother you?" And it wasn't just his looks that made you nervous, it was the way he would talk or involuntarily move his muscles; like he had no control of his own body. Sucking in a sharp breath, you felt your tongue graze over the bottom of your lip; trying to find words. Perhaps now was a good time to get to know him?

"It is nothing," you replied, short and sweet however you lied through your teeth. With your gaze strictly down the hall, you continued on.

There had been some commotion outside the castle halls, what it was, you were uncertain but the guard count doubled and now Toby was by your side like a hound. It wasn't unusual, there was always a rabble here and there, although the extra guard patrolling the walls did make you feel a tinge more anxious than before. Why Toby was not by your fathers side was beyond you. It was there your hand ever so slightly clutched against the fabrics of your dress, unspoken tension lingered in the air that made your throat feel dry.

"It's just.. I don't know anything about you," you croaked out, immediately feeling a wave of regret flush over your body. It wasn't like you really cared enough to know; but perhaps he had some interesting tales and it would benefit you better if you got along with Toby more. You daren't look over your shoulder, keeping your gaze firm and strong once again on the hall before you. It felt never ending at this point, like each step drew the hallway longer and longer. Toby's silence was not a welcoming one either, perhaps your question surprised him? Why should you care about somebody as little as him?

"Mm-m.. maybe that's for the best," Toby replied, his voice hard and cold. Maybe it was for the best, and yet curiosity nipped away at you. Your lips pursed, troubled a little as you did not want to pressure him into talking about things that perhaps were best to not be spoken about at all.

Finally, the end of the hall and it was there you turned the corner. Down on the floor, not too far away, was one of the maids with a bucket beside her. She was promptly soaking the stone floor in water before scrubbing away, she sat on her knees, her robes tatty and dirty. She adverted her gaze up briefly, uninterested before coming to the realisation that it was you and quickly bowed her head in respect. Exchanging nothing but a friendly smile, you craned your head over just a fraction to see that the maids gaze lingered far more longer on Toby. A part of you wondered how that made him feel? What did he think in that head of his? Your mind wracked at all the things you could say, what you wanted to say to him and yet you just continued on in that lingering, looming silence. You were supposed to be good at this conversing stuff, your mother always preaching that sometimes a sharp tongue was better than a sharp sword. It's just Toby made you feel things you were uncertain of feeling, an array of emotions that made you either want to throw up or rip your hair out.

As you passed the maid, you decided to speak. "My father, what will happen to you when he dies?" It was a morbid thought, one you were not keen on thinking however there was no beating around the bush with these kinds of things. Your mother was already wearing her black clothes, already grieving for a man who was not dead yet. How odd, you thought. From behind you, you heard Toby's neck crack as he rolled his head at the question, trying to think of an answer to give at such a question.

"I am to continue serving you. I made my vows to nn-not just your father, but-but… your family." And despite his answer, you were not content with it; longing for something more that you couldn't put your tongue on.

"And if we all were to die? Then what?" You pressed on, just simply not satisfied. It was there you heard a short, gruff chuckle that almost emerged from under a breathy sigh. It was short, brief, yet filled the silence more than anything. It was unexpected, maybe because you'd never heard the man laugh before. Was he capable of such a thing? Would this even be considered a laugh? In fact, it surprised you so much that you stopped in your tracks to advert your gaze toward the man. He was close, so close that you could smell an almost metallic smell radiate off him. It was not an unpleasant smell, that was for sure.

"That would not happen," he replied, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips or well, what was left of his lips. Was he jesting you? Mocking you perhaps? Now admittedly, you felt rather stupid and a sheepish look etched it way across your features as you slowly glanced away. But why not? Why not? You thought, just wanting to hound and hound him with questions until this hunger within you ceased to exist. What was it about him that pulled you in more and more?

"And why not? What is stopping an army from slaughtering us all? Here, on these clean floors?" Shut up, shut up, but you simply couldn't. You were stubborn, maybe even a little annoying. Although, Toby seemed amused. You were searching desperately in his eyes and for a second, you could've sworn his look changed.

"Then I will die with you," Toby replied.

"No, no, you are more to this life, are you not? Do you have dreams? Wishes?" Perhaps you were projecting a little. There, that look again! His eyes softened, a second so short that within a blink of an eye, his gaze hardened again. What were you hiding Toby? What are you feeling? These walls are strong, what lies behind them? And why, oh why, were you ever so desperate to know? Toby went to open his mouth, but stopped himself and shook his head, a soft smirk flashing across his features as he scoffed.

"My lady, with all respect, you talk too much," Toby replied and it took you aback a little. Well, it didn't; mostly because Toby was known for being so blunt and straight forward. You wanted to say something, anything, but your mouth just hung agape a little before you snapped it shut. Maybe that was what you needed to hear, to smack some sense into you. Lord forgiving if your mother caught you speaking like this, for it was the most unroyal. Alas, it was only Toby; surely he had heard worse. Instantly, you bit on the bottom of your lip only briefly in a weak attempt to shut yourself up. "I must excuse myself, I will find another guard to-to… to-.." he sucked in a sharp breath. "To accompany you."

A sinking feeling emerged in the pits of your stomach, had you run your tongue too much? Before you could dwell on it any longer, Toby gave a courteous bow of his head before making haste past you.

"Wait-" you called out, turning to follow him and the direction he was headed; which was the opposite way to which you had come. His back faced you, but he awaited patiently. "Speak not a word of this to anyone, this conversation." Your voice echoed out into the hall, bouncing back at you and making you cringe at the pure desperation in your voice. How frightfully embarrassing. Toby then turned to face you, almost already side stepping away; with a simple shrug, he then called out. "What conversation?" A smile flashed across his pale features and with another bow of his head, he disappeared. That man, your skin felt hot to touch.

Your fathers time on earth grew shorter and shorter with each passing day. Many speculated he would be dead by the end of winter and Toby knew that his task to assassinate the next heir was fast approaching; it needed to be done in the coming days. The kingdom was ready for one funeral, but two? Well, that was another story which would be a messy one and ultimately put you in a shitty position. It was only temporary, but his mind troubled him. The many thoughts that plagued him. Sleep was already scarce with the many memories that tormented him, but the king's demand only made it worse.

How does one kill a future king and make it accidental? Well, they would not suspect a rat. Maybe his fathers death and the weight of the crown tormented him so, that he takes his own life. A hanging would be too obvious. Better yet, poison would be good. The only issue is that, Toby can't be the last person seen with him. This wasn't his only worry, how was he going to convince you to fall in love with him? He was no royalty and he was not fit for a crown, god forbid, it was the last thing he wanted. Oh, and how on earth was the king going to ensure Toby be wedded to you if he's already dead by the time it were to happen?

The distant sounds of brushes sweeping across the stable floor disturbed him from his dark, putrid thoughts and his gaze adverted back up to his surroundings. It wasn't the best place to be in, it stunk of horse shit, the hay made him itch and no matter where he went; there was always someone wanting to ask him questions. Could he not ponder about murder in peace? His hands were preoccupied with an apple and a blade, cutting away pieces of the apple to feed himself with. It was sour but it came from the castle kitchens; so he wouldn't fuss about the taste. It was better than nothing, that or stale bread and mouldy cheese he used to live off on. Each chew on the apple was long and drawn out, savouring the taste almost as if that would conjure up some amazing idea for him. The blade moved swiftly through the apple until it caught just the right angle. There, staring back at him, was his own reflection on the blade.

Toby couldn't remember the last time he ever looked at himself in any mirror. Mirrors were forbidden in knight school, probably because many of the boys would smash it to pieces and kill themselves with the sharpest blade they could get their hands on.

With a flicker of the blade, he moved the hilt between his thumb as he observed his own reflection staring back at him. A part of him almost couldn't believe it was him. Who was this stranger staring back at him? With a disfigured face, hard features and unwelcoming gaze? How could one look at him? Because he certainly couldn't and swiftly he moved the blade up, the reflection on the blade now being that of a window from the castle above him.

A window big enough for a person to fall out of. The height was enough to split a skull, that was for sure. There, he tilted his head to get a better view. He knew the grounds and castle like the back of his hand. This window being specifically the storage room and if Toby was right, the window that faced the moat was yours. He had to know these things, for.. safety reasons. It's just, he couldn't help his gaze lingering at your window longer than needed when he was doing his rounds, before he served under the crown and was nothing but a measly guard.

A commotion caught his attention and it was there his gaze quickly glanced up, noticing a frail guard that approached him in a speed that was as almost as fast as a horse itself. He was skinny, with a bowl cut and his face was littered in spots, yellow, red; all kinds of colours that made his face rather distasteful to look at. Who was he to talk though? Over, just behind him, was a crowd of men, sporting the same armor as this particular guard. Nothing but the normal scrabble, but there stood before the group was the guards keeper. His duty keeping the men from drinking on their job; which was a total failure as most the guardsmen here were utterly useless.

"Sire!" The man spoke quick, a little out of breath and feeling the urge to double over just to catch it. Raising a brow in interest, Toby brought a piece of apple to his lips before chewing on it. "Something has happened and people have been looking for you and it is with the upmost urgency that you-"

"There you are!" Yelled the guards keeper. Perhaps Toby shouldn't have snuck out just for a simple apple, but he needed some alone time to plot and scheme and now chaos rains down? Fucking hell. The plump man marched over, his stomach bobbing with each stride and his chainmail clinking in rhythm. He was bald and if he were to have hair, it would be white to match his age. Wrinkles attached themselves in the most prominent features, crinkles near his eyes, sharp creases in his laugh lines that really just enhanced his jowls. "Have you not heard? Princess has run off, not just run off, took one of our best beasts with her! If the king were not half on his death bed, he'd have your head, boy!"

That was where his interest peaked however, not the king, not the fact that one of the horses was gone; but that the princess would be ever so dareful and run off like that? Was she not taught better? Was it a ploy to get Toby to find her? His heart skipped a beat, a part of him surprised his heat beat at all as he pushed himself off the wall he was leant on to stand straight. This was his duty, a literal sign. Was the king up to this himself? Tossing the half eaten apple to the ground, his blade took comfort in the side of his hip as he quickly threw a sharp finger at the man with the bowl cut.

"A horse, now." Was all Toby had to say and within seconds he was atop the beast, shoes in stirrups and ordering the gates up before dashing off toward the nearby forest. The wind was cold, bitter against his skin as the horse took fast strides toward the forest edge. It had snowed, but it was not deep enough to be a problem for the horse as Toby pulled the reins and squeezed the sides of the animal to a slow canter. The mare's heart was pounding below him and admittedly, so was his as he scanned the treeline.

His mind raced as he scanned the perimeter of the forest line. The forest was dense, easy to trick someone who had no knowledge on how to survive on their own. With winter looming over the kingdom; it was drawing darker earlier and it was a race against the sun. How could this happen? Surely there were plenty of people around to see a fucking princess leave? His grip tightened on the reins. What was he thinking? You were smart, a lot more than you played on to be and yet so damn stupid. It wasn't wolves that reigned over that forest, thieves, bears, cannibals. As the mare continued along the edge, his mind was.. spiralling a little. He was alone and he felt ever so vulnerable right now.

"Fuck- fuck, fuck, fuck!" His hand bawled into a fist and it was there his knuckles connected with his temple. His armoured fist would've hurt any normal man, but all he could feel was just the cold touch of the steel against his forehead. Each punch grew harder and harder each time he cursed through gritted teeth, because how the fuck could he let this happen?! As steel connected with skin, it promptly ripped apart the flesh; allowing a gush of blood to come trickling down from just above his eyebrow. It was warm, warmer than the winter air against his skin. It trickled down pale skin, enveloping in each crease on his skin, sliding down and between the hairs of his eyebrow before slipping between the crinkle of his eye. It smeared, smudging and coating his eye in red. It could've stopped there, but Toby hit himself so hard that it only continued to seep down until the liquid coated the whites of his eye. Blinking once, twice, he glanced down and noticed a singular droplet of his blood atop the coat of the mare. It was so red compared to the white of the animal below him.

The blood did not phase him; his mind too preoccupied on you. Toby could grab his blade and plunge it into the horse beneath him, feeling his anger bubble and simmer within his blood, his teeth practically grinding together. As his gaze flickered back to the trees and shrubbery before him, it was there he noticed a horse. It was saddle-less, with only reigns around the frame of its head. It was one of the king's horses alright, with a coat as white as snow. A sense of relief washed over his very being, it wasn't you, no, but he was somewhere in the right direction. The reigns of the horse were tied to the nearest branch that struck out from the others, the horse grazing merrily at each bit of grass or shrubbery it could find between its lips. With a gentle tug on his reigns, he pulled his own horse to a walk and approached the other. The horse that was tied up lifted its head and ears in interest, perhaps they were stable mates. Before his own horse moved to a stop, Toby was already tugging his feet out the stirrups and sliding off the saddle to make the connection with the soil below him.

It seemed his wound was a thing of a past now as his fingers curled around the leather reign, tugging the horse beside the other and mimicking what you had done; tying the horse to the branch. His hand, slow and gentle moved to the other horse and it was there he gave a gentle pat to its large and broad neck. Toby was, in a sense, thankful that this horse had treated you with such kindness, but his worry and anxiety were not over as his gaze turned to the forest.

It was still, eerie, not one peep of any bird came from within it and Toby felt himself sigh. Why would you run off? Well, he understood somewhat. With the crown looming over your head and the death of your father that would soon come any day, perhaps you just needed to take some fresh air. But without security? It was reckless, something no future queen should do. Well.. it wasn't like you really knew that you were about to sit on the throne.

Securing a hand to the hilt of his sword, he pushed aside some branches and stepped inside. Each step drew him deeper within the trees, a crunch here and there from the leaves that had fallen. He was alert, watching around him with eyes like a hawk. This was all wrong, his gut immediately sending his brain signals and aching his body into a fight or flight response. There was nothing of interest in these woods, he knew that well. No hidden lake, no forbidden cave. Just thieves, death and the occasional deer that would freeze at the simplest of sounds. It was this forest that used to be used as the hunting grounds, but ever since the increasing worry of crime that occurred here; it was strictly forbidden and perhaps it was for the best, as the wildlife here seemed vibrate every year. There was something wrong though, because everything here seemed dead.

As he cautiously glanced around, he would exchange glances with the soil beneath him. It was still wet and it smelt damp. The soil was squishy, on the brink of being mud and still being solid in other places. It was a surprise for someone who wouldn't notice it and there, he spotted a footprint in the mud below. It was small, it fit your size alright and he trembled out a little breath in excitement, at least he was on the right path. Time was ticking on and Toby knew that he only had about two hours left of daylight, so he didn't linger for long as he seemingly followed each print he could make out to be; creeping deeper and deeper.

"Don't… move…" the voice was that of a whisper and Toby froze, feeling his skin prickle at the sound that was seemingly above him. Despite its words, he slowly craned his head up toward a tree that loomed above him. There, sat between a branch and the body of the tree, was a scrawny boy. His face was covered by a cowl, that was dark green. It would've provided for good camouflage if it were not winter, bleak and grey compared to the usual lush of green. In his hands were a bow, with an arrow that was perched just above his index finger. It was drawn back and the end of the arrow was aimed below to Toby. It was not a fancy bow of any kind, it had been hand carved; the same with the arrow which just looked like a sharp stick.

"Why is that?" Toby replied, not feeling intimidated at all by the scene unfolding before him.

"Nice armor," the boy spoke, ignoring Toby's question. Still he whispered and Toby's interest piqued a little and he lifted his chin to get a better view of the child. His clothes were ragged, worn and he was barefoot, dirt under his toenails and fingernails. He was skinny, so skinny that his entire body trembled as he kept the bow drawn back. The boy stared back, the lower half of his face was covered by what looked like some fabric and his eyes glared back at Toby. Blue, empty eyes that held so much anger deep within. The string of the makeshift bow was pressed firmly against the tip of his nose, he knew how to hold it which meant maybe somebody else was lurking close by. His grip tightened on the hilt of the sword. "But your face is ugly." The boy then remarked.

"I'm loo-oking for s-ss-..someone," Toby replied, his head twitched involuntarily as his muscles spasmed. The boy watched, he was cautious but Toby could feel his nervousness. For a child, he had Toby in a good position here, but it seemed that even they both knew that he was no match against the likes of Toby. A branch broke to his left and quickly the brunette spun his head around, not caring if an arrow were to be shot at him; it would do no damage to his armor. Before him, in a tree opposite, was a little girl. Slightly younger than the boy, equally dirty and skinny looking. Her hair was brown, fluffy and she clutched onto some makeshift toy that admittedly was nothing but sticks and dried mud. Toby narrowed his eyes at the girl, who shyed away from him. They were just children, trying to make do with that they had; which really was nothing.

"I'm hungry," the girl spoke softly, her voice nothing but a whisper in the wind. There was no denying she was hungry, for she was nothing but skin and bone.

"Not now, Sally-" the boy spoke, an underlying hint of frustration laced in his voice. He was hungry too and with an arrow that looked like that, there was no hunting deer.

Admittedly, Toby felt something he hadn't felt in a long time; pity. This world was cruel, unfair and he wished that children could get the easier outcome of it rather than suffering alongside its cruelness. His shoulders weighed heavy with the burden of wanting to find you before he essentially ran out of time and wanting to help these children. The only thing was; he had nothing to offer. Bringing them back to the castle was out of the question. His tongue wet his lips, trying to figure out a solution that worked for everyone.

"Why don't we play a game?" Toby suggested, not feeling hopeful it would work but it was better than nothing. See, a much darker and twisted side of him couldn't help but think that maybe he should just put them out of their misery, killing them and erasing them off this godforsaken world. The words 'play a game' perked the girl up a little and her eyes finally trailed toward Toby. They were beautifully green. The boy on the other hand; was not falling for it. "Help me f-f-ffind this woman and I'll give you food. Deal?" he asked, exchanging looks between Sally and the boy, whose name he was unsure on. Sally seemed eager and glanced at the boy with a bow, silently pleading him with her eyes. It seemed he was the protector of sorts, he called the shots and right now he was battling his own mind. Attempt to kill a knight or help him and receive food? His face contorted into a range of emotions, pulling the string off his nose as he lowered it ever so slightly.

"Please, Ben.." Sally urged, her legs were dangling off the tree and swinging almost aimlessly at the prospect of food. The boy, whose name Toby had learnt was Ben, seemed conflicted and in a sudden huff of stubbornness, lowered the bow and leant against the bark of the tree.

"Fine-!" he snapped, irritation laced in his voice. Toby felt his muscles relax, not that he was worried or afraid of the boy; but purely because time was running thinner and thinner with each word they spoke. "We saw her, running off that way." He then pointed with the same hand that was previously drawing the string of the bow back, his index finger outstretched toward the direction Toby was already going. "Alright, we helped, now give us food." A glint of hope flickered across Toby's features but with the lack of further information, his gaze then lowered again into disappointment.

"No, no, you find her. Get down, take me to her." Toby commanded and with a soft thump, Sally was already down from the branch and stepping her way in that of the direction Ben had pointed too. Ben seemed surprised and somewhat defeated, wanting to argue further but with the rumble of his stomach and a soft curse under his breath, he also slid down and followed Sally. Toby eyed the pair before stepping behind, he was far taller than the two.

The walk was quiet, with Ben shooting a careful look over his shoulder toward Toby. Were they siblings? He was unsure and despite the pity, he couldn't find himself caring enough. It reminded him of the day he found a stray dog by the side of his fathers field. The dog friendly, tongue a flop out of its mouth and its tail wagging in joy at just the sight of childlike Toby alone. It was his first ever friend and unfortunately the quickest end of a friendship he had endured. Bringing that mutt home was a mistake, because Toby got too attached, named the thing and all; only for his father to stab the dog right there and then.

Of course, his trust in the children was little to none but at this point, he was desperate and grasping at anything that would lead to you. He wasn't sure how to feel when you came across his mind, anger? Relief? He couldn't put it into words, because not only was it reckless but he was now stuck with two starving children and he was unsure if he could even fulfil his end of the bargain when it came to food.

unfortunately, knight toby has me in a chokehold so part 2 should come out pretty quickly. im not sure how long ill continue this, as theres so much wanna write right now and my time online is limited due to being a fucking adult. anyway, hope you guys enjoyed this. i am going back to dreaming about sucking his [REDACTED]

#creepypasta #creepypasta fandom #ticci toby #toby rogers #creepypasta headcanons #ticci toby x reader #ticci toby headcanons #toby rogers x reader #tobias erin rogers #creepypasta x reader

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alicesivory · 8 months ago

Text

Old Habits Die Hard [5/?]

Previous Chapter // Main Masterlist // Next Chapter

Pairing: Nightwatch! Aemond Targaryen x wildling female! Reader

Genre: Historically accurate Aemond

WC: 3454

Summary: Aemond gradually embraced the rugged and untamed ways of the wildlings, adjusting to their customs and survival skills in the harsh environment they inhabited.

As dawn broke, the first fingers of light seeped into Aemond’s tent, casting a gentle, golden glow that wove through the coarse fabric. The sun’s early warmth stirred him from his slumber, and he awoke with a serene awareness of another day granted to him. The sleep he had savoured was a rare gift from the gods especially when he stepped foot in the north.

The finest sleep he had enjoyed in months.

Surely this humble tent wasn’t as extravagant of his chambers in King's Landing. The Wildling’s tent was as if it brings comfort to him than the Night's Watch barracks. Here, the simplicity of his shelter was a luxury in itself, a sanctuary far superior to the cramped mattresses and the chill of the stone walls. Aemond’s gaze fell upon the fur and blankets that cocooned him—a gift of warmth from the Wildling woman who had shown him unexpected kindness; he knew he might never be able to fully repay her. As he drew the fur closer, he inhaled deeply, savouring the lingering scent of the wild, a subtle fragrance of her that spoke of forests and untamed lands.

Aemond took his time layering his new clothing that formerly belonged to the wildling named Yuri, one of her wildling companions. He wondered if she herself could make good clothing. Putting on the thinnest layer first, he wrapped the sheep skin next around his waist up to his chest. After several layers, he topped it off with the wildling’s distinctive camouflage fur coat. Tying it up, he peeks through his tent, finding the area already alive. Stew boiled as children ran through the snow.

Far much different that the smallfolk yet they were just as simple as they were.

He slips on his boots also made out of thick fur, possibly sheep skin.

Tying his hair like he always did since he was a child,

He looked up to the tent’s opening.

It’s time.

Parting the tent’s entrance, revealing himself as Aemond stepped out of his tent, he felt eyes on him. Some were the same, some were positive stares. Through all that, he couldn’t help but to feel a sense of insecurity washing over him. Yet he masked it well enough, walking through the crowd, searching for familiarity in this foreign world he walks in. And he finds his answer well enough when he spots her.

Sitting on a wooden log on the edge of the camp, beside the stallion he brought from castle black, sharpening her arrows. He stepped closer as his heavy footsteps stomped through the snow. Heavy enough for her to notice him, turning her head around. “Snow haired! You’re finally awake. A good night's rest, I suppose?” She teased with a childish grin across her face. “It was well enough,” he said with a smirk. His wildling friend could only smile back before carving her handmade arrows once again.

“Do you sharpen your arrows everyday?” He asked curiously.

“No, not everyday. Just for special occasions or for hunting,” she said as she shook her head. “And what is today’s occasion if I may ask?” Satisfied with his question, the she wildling turned her head once more. “We are going to take you…hunting, Prince Aemond.” Saying his title with a hint of tease, standing up before him. “Taking me for a hunt?” He repeated.

“Why yes. If you shall fight with us, we would like to see first how well you hunt. How you ride your horse, how quiet your steps are–,” tapping his feet with her bow, recalling how heavy his footsteps were wearing her kind’s heavy boots, “–and how true you were of your skills in swords and such.”

“You want me to prove myself to you?”

“Oh not to me. But to the Chief, to Gruff, to Yuri, and the whole tribe, basically. I have no doubt for you, my prince,” she mocked with a chuckle, bowing ridiculously in front of him. “Do not taint my title,” Aemond said, a bit frustrated with her childish behaviour yet his words did not scare her, it just made the situation more amusing to her. “You clearly are no fun! But is it true though? Are you actually a prince?” Her bow reaches out to swipe his hair away from his shoulder in which he swats it away with a scowl in his face. “Yes, I am.”

She snorted.

“You don’t act like one.”

Walking away to their horse, Aemond took hold of her with his grip on her arm.

“Was that supposed to be an insult?”

She snorted once again. Amused with his temper.

“You tell me,” she cockily said to him before taking her arm away.

“Besides, I can’t imagine you sitting on a tall palace drinking wine as your servant pour you more into your cup. Whilst you stare down at your people like some kind of god–,”

“–I hate to break your imagination, but I simply do not do that–,”

“–Now you just made me doubt for a second. Maybe you really did do that in your lavish castle,” she teased with a laugh. “And what? You have ten girls surrounding you?” She mocked once more, turning herself to face him as she walked backwards. “If you are asking if I have ten whores, no I do not,” he snarled. “I beg to differ, snow haired. I bet you cuddled with them all day as they fed you the ripest fruit in the realm!” She cackles, throwing her head back as she started to walk side by side with him

“And what of you? You yourself are surrounded by two men,” Aemond bickered back, playing with her games.

“Gruff and Yuri? You disgust me. They are like brothers to me.”

“But do they see you as a sister?–”

“–Gruff has a wife and Yuri has two children. Do not speak of them that way.”

Surprisingly, he was satisfied with her answer.

They walked side by side as the sun shone down on them.

“But do you actually have maidens by your side?” He heard her ask.

“Maidens? No, not all the time,” he hummed, his hands behind his back.

“Not all the time? Then when do you have maidens beside you?”

He knew of the maidens she meant. Not just ordinary girls but women who threw themselves at him. Lovers or mistresses. He recalled one or two. Sylvie and another woman he replaced her with. He doesn’t even know if Alys is considered one. But he didn’t want to admit this to her. And he does not know why. She was just a stupid wildling, why would he care what she thinks of him? She could not change his past and he should not care if it did affect the way she looked at him. But he couldn’t.

“Why do you want to know so badly?” He instead said, smiling smugly at her. And he swore to the gods he saw a faint of red tint in both of her cheeks. Surely she had them before because of the cold but he could differentiate her usual red cheeks with a woman’s natural blush. “Badly is a strong word. I was just merely curious,” she replied, inserting her arm into her bow. The one eyed prince has a smirk painted on his face as he watches his flustered friend walking ahead of him. It seems he had struck a chord. And he liked it.

Hunting was a rare activity for him at his youth. His father was too sick to even teach him how to hold a bow and arrow or even a sword. The last time he went hunting was for his ten-and-four nameday. Ser Criston Cole was the one who guided him, Aegon, and Daeron through the woods to catch the biggest boar they could find. Even in that, ser Criston was the one who slew the boar himself for the guard told him that he should not risk himself with hunting since it could put him in risk.

And now Aemond finds himself hiding between trees and shrubs, sitting close with the she wildling. The others hid in other places around them as the snow fell from the sky, slightly covering the area around them. “Look!” She said, pointing towards a doe, walking curiously around the forest as it sniffs an area uncovered by the light snow. “It should be an easy target,” smirking at the one eyed prince before lending him her bow and arrow. A crossbow, yes he has taken hold of that weapon. But to act as an archer? He is ashamed to admit that he is untalented of that particular skill. “I shall skin the deer–,”

“–No, I want you to do it. Prove to them,” she insisted, nudging his arm with her bow.

If he lied– no. There is no escape to this.

“I am untalented with this weapon,” he said, boring his healthy eye onto her eyes that resembled the doe they’re hunting. His heart rate quickened when he didn’t earn an instant answer from her. They were cramped as they hid themselves quietly from their prey. In a swift motion, she positioned herself beside him, guiding his calloused hands to her bow.

“An untalented can be talented if they try,” she whispered.

Her whisper was relevant for their situation, yet he felt tiny bumps erupted across his arms. Every word she spoke was like a spell to him, obeying her as he took the bow into his hands. Her small calloused hands guided him to the bow’s grip, close enough for him to feel his cheek pressed to hers.

“You have your foundations for archery. You just need to take another step further– Keep your grip tight, now pull the string back.”

He did as she told him to.

Fixing his fingers with hers, calloused and rough that made him want to know every single story behind it.

He took a deep breath, aiming at their prey.

“Do not let it slip. Just breathe,” she whispered to him.

Aemond’s hands were steady, but his pulse hammered like a war drum in his ears.

His bowstring flicked, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he drew the bowstring back, the taut cord singing a soft, tense note. But it hits a tree beside their prey, causing it to flinch and move from its place.

No, he failed.

“Oi! Catch that deer!” He heard Gruff say from a distance, assuming he said it to the other wildlings that came with, but Aemond wanted to prove himself. He was the one who startled it, letting it run. So he took no choice, leaping from his spot and sprinting to the deer. Startled by a human’s presence, it started to run. But Aemond was close enough to leap and trap the deer with his arms. Tackling it down, he pulled out his dagger.

Ready to stab his hunt.

But he looked down, finding the doe’s eyes looking up at him with fear.

It was alive, and it reminded him so much of her.

Doe.

He asked himself, why did he become so weak?

Was it grief? Fear? Was it all consuming his bravery?

Or did he just know how to feel once more?

To be alive like he was before they took his eye?

His train of thoughts were suddenly interrupted when an arrow shot through the doe’s body. He looked back, and saw her standing not far from him, lowering down her bow as she saw how distraught he was. She saw through his cowardliness and he was ashamed of it. All this time he thought of her as his prey, someone he could easily devour. But now he was the one who felt powerless.

He even could not shed a single blood from a doe.

“You are angry.”

The tent’s flaps were yanked open with a force that sent them flapping wildly against the tent’s sides. Aemond stormed inside as she followed along behind him. His boots pounding the earth with a ferocious rhythm that echoed the thunder of his anger. Each step was a declaration, a defiant stamp that shook through the small, confined space. He grunted, throwing his sword and dagger away.

“Snow haired–,”

“–Do not call me that!” He hissed, pointing at her as he glared the seven hells out of her.

“Is your temper that short, Aemond?”

“My temper can be as short as I please.”

Ignoring her question, he sits down and looked away at her as he felt so defeated.

“Then why was it short today? Was it because of the doe?”

“No,” he coldly replied.

“Then what is it?” She asked again, sitting on the fur covered ground beside him. Then he felt it, her hand placed on his shoulder. “If it is not because of the doe, then what is it?” Her tone is careful and gentle. Aemond forgot the last time someone asked him why he was angry. Not why he did what he did, but why he was angry. He turned his head slightly towards her direction, but not fully showing her his vulnerability.

“When you first saw me, what was the first word that came to your mind?”

A comfortable silence.

A faint laughter of small children bleeding through the tent.

“Different,” she answered honestly.

“How so?” He asked, not daring to lock his eye with her.

“Your hair. It was silver. And your posture, your physique was not big and rough like northerners,” she explained further. “Did I scare you? When we exchanged words in that bridge?” Playing with the dagger he previously tossed away. “I know I should be, and I was at first. I was scared that you would not help me or my people,” she answered again. “But did I– scared you?”

“You’re asking the wrong person, snow hair.”

A chuckle erupted from him.

A genuine one.

“It all felt so easy back then. To kill, I mean. I rode Vhagar on dragon back and burned everything to the ground as I please,” he told her, spacing off to a distance recalling his rage and anger throughout the war. “She was my pride and glory— my dragon, Vhagar. The only thing that preserved my identity and power as a Targaryen prince,”

“So you were not a kind prince,” the spearwife pointed out, listening to every word he uttered.

“I believe so. A war cannot be won merely by someone occupying a position on a council or residing in a castle. It requires more than just strategic planning and oversight from a distance. Someone has to take direct action on the battlefield, face the dangers, and engage in the conflict firsthand. That was the role I had to take on, and I embraced it more than anyone.”

“But it was not a pure act, I must admit. All the bloodshed I have done were sins that I must pay— and I believe the way to pay for my sins were to suffer like them. The Gods kept me alive a little longer for me to endure the torture I have placed upon— innocent lives at war. I suffered when I placed my foot on winterfell. I suffered when I heard of my brother’s death. I suffered when the gods left me to realize that the war was not worth all the pain.”

Throwing his dagger aside, Aemond clenched his fists tightly, his knuckles paling. It was true—he was furious. His anger was directed at his own blind ambition during the war, the realization hitting him with a pang of regret. Everything he had fought for now seemed meaningless, and he was tormented by uncertainty about his family's fate. While he remained free in the wilderness, he could only wonder what had become of them, knowing he had abandoned them in the process.

Where is duty?

Lost in his own labyrinth of his mind, he didn’t feel her shift. Their arms touched as the wildling leaned on to speak,

“Everyone who took part in a war has ever felt that way, Aemond. They all thought about what-ifs to escape for a moment from their fate. A war must be won one way or another. But even the one who wins made as many sacrifices as you did. You both endured the same grief as the other.— Both spilled as much blood as the other.”

“But you are still alive now. You might see it as a punishment, but you have a purpose in life.” Placing her palm on his chest. “You are more than just a pawn at war. This place is not your realm anymore. We live beyond the wall and you are free. You are welcome to be anything, for the wilderness does not limit the people.”

“But what is my purpose if I am not a Targaryen? What is the purpose of being free if I know that the people I love are caged in the walls of—.” He halted, a pregnant pause.

Aemond swallowed a lump in his throat, desperate for an answer.

“Then that is your purpose, is it not? You are free so you could rescue your loved ones from misery. To lead my people back into the wall— pass through it and sail your ship home. Save them from their torment. When 5 people are trapped in a cage, without any of them escaping or letting loose from its cage, they would all be trapped in that cage forever. But you— have escaped. You are outside of your cage and it is your mission to find the key and let them all out.”

As the wildling’s words flowed, a spark of intrigue ignited in the the one eyed prince’s eye. Each carefully chosen phrase seemed to resonate deeply, building a sense of connection and understanding. His posture relaxed and their gaze sharpened with growing admiration. Slowly turning his head to face his now companion.

“How old are you, wildling?” He asked.

“I just turned twenty years of age. Why do you ask?”

“I am one year older than you, yet I feel like a boy beside you.”

She smiled gently at him, letting out a bashful chuckle.

“Your mind is clouded by your emotions. I am sure you are just as intelligent as anyone.”

The air crackled with a charged tension. The girl and the prince sat close, their proximity amplifying the intensity of their unspoken connection. Shadows danced on the fabric walls as they exchanged glances that lingered longer than usual, each look revealing a flicker of vulnerability and curiosity. The silence between them was thick, filled with an electric anticipation, as if every word they might speak could unravel the depth of their hidden emotions.

“Preserving my identity as a Targaryen means so much more to me than I can imagine,” he whispered.

“Then preserve it. Don’t let it slip away from your grasp.”

Their nose almost touched as Aemond felt his body drawn to her. The way she never felt him lesser, validating his feelings that no one could ever did in his life. Helping him to crawl out from his own darkness.

Her eyes still reminded him of the doe he failed to kill. He could devour her right now if he wanted, for she was supposed to be his prey and pawn. But something changed within him. He does not wish to over power her. He does not want to exploit her the way he did with the others. She was his prey but he did not want to make her as one.

He refused to kill the doe.

He refused to harm his doe.

His doe.

Brushing a strand of hair away from her face, he sighed. “But I have changed now. I am not the same person I was in the war,” he confessed.

“Then what shall you do about it?” She asked.

Reaching out for his dagger once more, he looked down upon the sharp edge of it. “The Targaryens were identified with its silver hair, and I would like to keep it that way.”

Taking her hand gently in his, he placed the dagger in her palm.

“But I want to leave bad omen from my identity. For I have changed. My hair was long when the war started— and now it has ended. It is time to cut away the man I once was.”

a/n: they’re evolving😈😈😈 STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER🌷✨🎀

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