#soul parade ice burn

[forged-in-kaoss]

Soul King Brook in film: RED

[novaursa]

Fires That Never Freeze

- Summary: You receive the news about Rhaenys' death at Rook's Rest, before Jace arrives as he secures the Twins.

- Paring: targ!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is only daughter of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is bonded to a dragon. These events happen after The Heir of Ice and Ash. To read all parts in chronological order, or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 524

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

You cradle your son, Killian, against your chest, his soft breath a soothing rhythm amidst the storm brewing in your heart. His dark hair is thick for one so young, a stark contrast to your own silver strands that cascade down like a river of moonlight, braided intricately yet now trembling at the edges as you shudder with grief. His violet eyes—your eyes—peek up at you in curiosity, innocent to the world that has been drenched in blood and betrayal. You wish you could preserve this innocence forever, shield him from the horrors beyond these stone walls, but you know all too well that the winds of war spare no one.

The letter lies crumpled beside you, the wax seal of the Three-Headed Dragon snapped in two. The words are still fresh, cutting through you like Valyrian steel, sharper than any sword you could ever wield. Your grandmother—brave, indomitable Rhaenys—is gone. The Queen Who Never Was met her end at Rook’s Rest, where she and Meleys faced the combined fury of Vhagar and Sunfyre. The account is almost too monstrous to believe: how Meleys’ head was severed and paraded as a trophy, how Aegon the Usurper was carried away like a broken thing, sealed in a crate to hide his mangled form. They say he is scarcely more than a corpse now, held together only by pride and the twisted whims of fate.

Your tears fall silently, trailing over Killian’s soft cheeks as he looks up at you, gurgling without a care in the world. He knows nothing of what has been lost, what will never be.

Suddenly, you feel Cregan’s presence behind you—warm and steady like the roots of an ancient tree. He kneels by your side, his grey eyes searching yours with concern. His large, calloused hand rests gently on your back, grounding you in the present. “Y/N,” he murmurs, voice soft as the snow falling outside. “I heard. The raven...”

You can’t find the strength to speak, so you only nod. He understands without needing further words; he always has. The Lord of Winterfell was never meant for courtly games or gilded halls, but here in the cold North, his honesty and strength have become your rock amidst all the chaos. Yet even his unwavering strength can’t shield you from this hurt.

“I thought dragons were… unkillable,” Cregan says after a pause, his voice rough with both sorrow and disbelief. “The stuff of legends, creatures older than men, forged in fire. I thought they were eternal.”

You blink away the tears that threaten to blind you and force yourself to meet his gaze. There is no room for illusions, not in this world where even gods bleed. “Anything can be killed, Cregan,” you whisper, voice trembling yet laced with a fierce conviction. “Even the gods. Even kings and Kingmakers alike.” The venom laced in the last words is unmistakable. Ser Criston Cole, the leech in royal armor, the wretched man who enabled this war to take root with his false oaths and blackened soul—how you despise him. The thought of him twisting the fate of nations with his cruelty makes bile rise in your throat

Cregan’s brow furrows as he takes in your words. He knows of your distaste for Cole, for all those who put ambition over loyalty, who would see the world burn if only to rule over the ashes. He moves closer, wrapping a protective arm around you and Killian. “You’re right,” he says quietly, his voice a deep rumble, “but we’re still here, and we’ll fight back for those we’ve lost. For those who remain.”

Killian shifts in your arms, cooing softly, as if sensing the turmoil in your heart. You lean into Cregan’s warmth, letting yourself take solace in the strength he offers. “Rhaenys was always so brave,” you murmur, your voice breaking slightly. “She defied them all her life, never once bending to their will. They feared her because she was a woman who would not be cowed, and now… they parade her death like some kind of victory.”

“They can parade all they like,” Cregan says, his voice turning steely, “but a victory built on treachery and murder will crumble. Aegon’s body may still cling to life, but his cause is already rotting from within. The realm will see it.”

His words, though meant to comfort, bring little ease. The war rages on, and with it, the losses mount like a tolling bell. Your heart aches, both for those who have fallen and for those who must still face what lies ahead. Yet, as you look down at Killian, you feel a flicker of hope amidst the darkness. He is a symbol of all you fight for—a future not bound by the horrors of the past, but shaped by those who endure.

“Thraxata will know,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Cregan, your thoughts turning to your own dragon, the Midnight Fury. “She will mourn with me.”

Cregan tightens his grip around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. “And when the time comes, she’ll fight with you too, alongside us all. This isn’t over, Y/N. We have something they’ll never understand—a love forged in fire and ice, bound by loyalty.”

You close your eyes and let yourself be held, the flicker of strength in your chest rekindling. The tears still fall, but now, with every drop, there is something else too—a growing resolve. Rhaenys’ death will not be in vain. The world will hear the roar of her legacy through you, through your son, and through every soul that refuses to bow to the false kings who sit on thrones built on blood.

For now, you hold your family close, taking what comfort you can in the warmth of Cregan’s embrace, in the small heartbeat thrumming steadily against your chest. The autumn winds howl outside, but here, amidst stone and fur, there is still love, still life. The storm may rage, but you will not break.

Not yet.

The weirwood stands tall and ancient, its pale bark almost glowing in the dim twilight. The blood-red leaves flutter softly in the breeze, a stark contrast against the gray skies overhead. You feel small before it, like a child gazing up at something vast and unfathomable. The face carved into the heart tree’s trunk stares down at you with those deep, knowing eyes, as if it sees not just you, but every thought, every secret tucked away in the recesses of your soul.

You’ve been standing here longer than you intended, lost in the quiet of this sacred place. Yet, beneath the peace, there’s an unease gnawing at you. The chill of autumn clings to your skin, sharper now, more present. It crawls into your bones, but you can’t bring yourself to move. You’re here, but not truly—your thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind.

For a moment, everything sharpens. You feel the press of the cold more keenly now, and your breath curls in the air like faint wisps of smoke. Then, the world begins to shift. The rustle of the leaves grows distant, muffled, until it’s almost drowned out by something else—a whisper that’s barely more than a breath, carried on the wind. You stiffen, your heart quickening. It’s a voice, faint yet clear as the first crack of ice on a frozen lake.

Y/N.

It speaks your name, though you cannot tell whether it’s a man’s voice or a woman’s. It sounds old, ageless even, and it seems to echo within your mind as much as in the air around you. A rush of images floods your vision—flashes of faces, places, events yet to come or perhaps already past. You see fire and blood, wings spreading wide against a burning sky. There’s the glint of steel, a flash of a crown—someone crying out, their voice lost in a roar of flames. 

Then, as suddenly as it came, the frenzy halts. You stagger back a step, your surroundings snapping back into focus, the world real again. But the cold clings to you, more than it did before. The weirwood watches you, its eyes holding secrets it will never share. You swallow, trying to steady your breath, your heart pounding loud enough to drown out all else.

“Y/N!” A familiar voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, pulling you back fully to the present.

You turn, dazed, and see Cregan striding toward you, his expression tense with concern. Behind him is Maester Kennet, his gray robes fluttering as he hurries to keep pace. Cregan’s eyes are locked on you, his brows drawn together, the worry evident in his every movement. “What’s wrong? You’ve been out here too long—it’s freezing.” His tone is gentle, but there’s an edge to it, the underlying fear for your well-being.

You blink, still feeling the lingering echoes of the vision, the remnants of those hurried images flickering in your mind’s eye. “I… I’m fine,” you say, but your voice is shakier than you intend, betraying the truth of your unease.

Cregan stops in front of you, reaching out to cup your cheek with one roughened hand, his thumb brushing against your cold skin. “You don’t look fine, love,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours as if trying to find the cause of whatever has you so shaken. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” you admit, closing your eyes briefly as you lean into his touch. “The weirwood… I thought I heard something. Saw something.”

Maester Kennet approaches cautiously, his gaze darting between you and the heart tree. “The Old Gods have their ways of sending messages, Lady Y/N,” he says softly. “The weirwoods are their eyes, their ears. It is not unheard of for them to reach out to those who carry their favor.” 

Cregan frowns at that, his grip on you tightening protectively. “She’s been out here too long, alone,” he says, not taking his eyes off you. “Whatever she saw or heard can wait until she’s had some rest.”

But Maester Kennet shakes his head, his face grim as he pulls a folded letter from his robes. “I wouldn’t have interrupted if it weren’t important. A raven came not long ago—from the Twins. Your brother, Jacaerys, has secured passage for his forces. He’s on his way to meet you, Lady Y/N.”

The words bring a sudden, fierce surge of emotion—relief mixed with dread. Jacaerys is alive, fighting as he always promised he would. Yet with every victory comes new dangers, new battles. And the visions, whatever they meant, linger in your mind like a shadow cast over the joy of the news.

Cregan, ever perceptive, sees the conflict in your eyes and places a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “We’ll face whatever comes,” he promises, his voice a low rumble, the kind that always makes you feel like you’re standing on solid ground, even when the world tilts.

You manage a small smile, nodding. “Yes…”

But as you glance back at the weirwood, its face still and expressionless, you can’t shake the feeling that the Old Gods are watching more keenly than ever. The autumn winds whisper secrets you’re not sure you want to hear, and deep in your heart, you sense that whatever lies ahead, the choices you make will ripple far beyond the snow-covered hills of the North.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the tree, allowing Cregan’s steady presence to guide you back toward Winterfell, leaving the whispers of the gods behind—for now.

The winds bite sharper today, swirling through the bare branches of the godswood and over the snow-covered battlements of Winterfell. You stand beside Cregan at the edge of the courtyard, your cloak pulled tight against the chill. Thraxata looms behind you, her obsidian scales gleaming in the pale winter light. The Midnight Fury’s violet eyes are fixed on the skies above, where your brother is soon to arrive. The air hums with anticipation, the kind that makes your heart race and your fingers twitch. Beside you, Cregan rests a hand on the pommel of his sword, his gaze as steady as the stone walls that surround you.

“Are you ready?” Cregan’s voice is low, warm like a hearth fire, grounding you in the present moment.

You nod, though the tension in your chest remains. “I haven’t seen Jacaerys in so long. I only hope he’s as safe as his letter claimed.”

Cregan squeezes your hand, a brief but reassuring gesture. “If he’s anything like you, he’ll be stronger than ever.”

You smile at his words, but the edge of worry still lingers. War changes people, molds them into something else—sometimes into something harder, colder. You’ve seen it already in the eyes of the soldiers who have passed through Winterfell, men whose laughter now rings hollow, whose smiles are mere shadows. What has the war made of your brother?

Before your thoughts can spiral further, the distant roar of a dragon echoes through the sky, accompanied by the deep flap of massive wings. All eyes turn upward, and there—emerging from the rolling clouds—is Vermax. His green and bronze scales shimmer with an ethereal glow against the muted grays of the northern sky, his wings outstretched as he circles lower. Your heart lifts at the sight, despite everything.

Thraxata rumbles low in her throat, a sound that’s half-greeting, half-challenge. She shifts, restless, her powerful tail sweeping across the ground and leaving deep grooves in the snow. You place a calming hand on her side, feeling the heat radiating from her scales, even in the biting cold. “Easy, girl,” you murmur, though a part of you understands her unease. The bond between dragon and rider is one forged in fire and instinct—Thraxata senses your tension as clearly as you do.

Vermax lands with a powerful thud in the courtyard, snow scattering like dust beneath his claws. Jacaerys dismounts swiftly, his dark curls wild from the wind, his face shadowed with exhaustion and resolve. His eyes—dark brown—search the crowd until they find you. Despite the grimness that hangs about him, a grin breaks across his face.

“Y/N!” His voice is hoarse, but filled with unmistakable affection.

You rush forward, closing the distance between you, and throw your arms around him. For a moment, you’re children again, finding comfort in each other amidst the storms that have always threatened to tear your family apart. But the moment is brief, tinged with the weight of all that has passed. When you pull back, you can see the subtle changes in him—the deeper lines etched into his face, the hardened edge in his gaze.

“Brother,” you breathe, cupping his face, your thumb brushing against the scar just above his brow—a mark of a recent battle, no doubt. “You’ve grown into a man of war.”

Jacaerys huffs a quiet laugh, though it lacks the lightness it once held. “It seems the war gives us little choice in what we become.” His gaze flickers over your shoulder, landing on Cregan. “Lord Stark,” he greets formally, though the respect in his tone is genuine. “Your hospitality has been unmatched. It’s a comfort to know my sister has found such a strong ally—and husband.”

Cregan inclines his head, his usual sternness softened slightly by a hint of warmth. “Your family is ours now, Jacaerys. Winterfell stands with you, as do the men of the North. We fight together.”

The words, though simple, carry a promise, one that Jacaerys seems to take solace in. He nods, a flicker of relief crossing his features before his expression grows serious once more. “The Twins have bent the knee. Their armies are ready to march when we give the word. The Riverlands will rally to our cause, though they’ve suffered much at the hands of the greens.”

You clench your fists at your sides, feeling the familiar fire of rage ignite in your belly at the thought of those who serve the usurper, those who’ve turned against your mother, against your family. “We’ll make them pay for every drop of blood spilled,” you vow, your voice cold with determination. “They’ll learn the price of treachery when fire and blood rain upon them.”

Jacaerys’ gaze meets yours, a shared understanding passing between you. “We will, sister,” he says quietly. “But we must be wise in how we strike. Our enemies are many, and some hide in shadows even we haven’t uncovered.”

As he speaks, the men of Winterfell gather closer, eager to hear news from the South. Thraxata moves to stand beside Vermax, her violet eyes fixed on him, a low rumble vibrating through her chest. Vermax, ever the more temperate of the two, remains still, watching her with a calm curiosity. The two dragons are like night and day, one fierce and unpredictable, the other steady and patient—a reflection of the bond shared between their riders.

Maester Kennet steps forward from the crowd, ever the dutiful servant, and bows his head. “My lord, my lady,” he addresses you both, “the men are ready to host your brother and his retinue. Supplies are being gathered for the march south, but it would do you both good to rest and break bread together before the night grows colder.”

Cregan nods, though his gaze remains fixed on Jacaerys. “You’ve traveled far, and winter’s grip grows tighter by the day. We’ll speak of war and plans soon enough. Tonight, we celebrate family.”

Jacaerys glances at you, his eyes softening briefly before he returns his attention to Cregan. “I’d welcome that. It’s been too long since I’ve felt the warmth of kin.” He turns to you once more, taking your hand and squeezing it. “Mother would want us to stand strong, Y/N. For her, for all of us.”

You swallow back the knot in your throat, nodding. “We will, Jace. We will.”

As you walk back toward the Great Hall, arm in arm with your brother and Cregan beside you, the dragons shift close behind ready to take flight, their steps heavy on the snow-covered earth. Above, the first stars begin to pierce the twilight sky, cold and distant. You can still feel the echoes of the weirwood’s whispers, the glimpses of futures yet unwritten. But here, with your family by your side, you draw strength from the bonds that even war cannot break.

The Great Hall of Winterfell is alive with the low murmur of voices and the crackle of hearth fires. The long table is crowded with Stark bannermen, their weathered faces drawn with the seriousness of the discussion. The banners of the North hang proudly on the walls—gray direwolves on fields of white and gray. The smell of pinewood smoke and spiced wine fills the air, mingling with the scent of roasted meats brought out for the evening. It is a scene both warm and solemn, a brief moment of respite before the weight of strategy drags everyone back into the cold reality of war.

You sit beside Cregan at the head of the table, your hand resting on his arm as Jacaerys stands before the gathered lords. He wears his determination like armor, though there is a heaviness in his eyes that no amount of resolve can mask. His voice, strong despite the weariness clinging to him, rings out over the hall.

“Our enemies have grown bolder since my brother’s and grandmother's murders. Aemond has broken the oldest of laws—he’s a kinslayer, and for that, he’s forfeited not only his honor but any right to mercy. The greens think the deaths of Luke and Rhaenys will weaken us, make us retreat into mourning. They’re wrong.” His words are met with murmurs of agreement, grim nods from the assembled bannermen.

Lord Cregan speaks next, his voice deep and measured. “Justice for Prince Lucerys and Princess Rhaenys will be served, Jacaerys, but the North is not free of its own burdens. The men and Houses we pledged to your cause will march with you as promised—greybeards and veterans who have survived more winters than most. But the majority of our forces must remain here, at least until the winds shift and winter’s bite eases.”

A rumble of assent follows Cregan’s words. The greybeards, some of whom are gathered here tonight, nod their heads, weathered faces set in stony determination. These are men who’ve lived through harsh winters, wars, and endless trials. They know the cost of every step taken southward, but they also understand the weight of their oaths.

You lean forward, feeling the cold steel of duty and sorrow twisting within you. “The Wall grows restless,” you add, your voice quieter but cutting through the room. “Reports from our scouts say the wildlings stir, and there are whispers of darker things in the woods. The North cannot abandon its duties here, not entirely, not with winter closing in. We fight on two fronts—one for vengeance, and one to hold back the darkness that always comes with the cold.”

Jacaerys’ jaw tightens, though there’s no anger in his gaze, only acceptance. “I know what I ask of you, of the North. I wouldn’t pull you from your duties lightly. But we’re in desperate need of men who’ve seen true battle—men who won’t falter when the greens come for us again.” He looks around the table, locking eyes with each of the bannermen. “Aemond’s murders of Luke and Rhaenys aren't just an insult to my family, it’s a warning of what’s to come. They’ll strike at us all, one by one, until there’s nothing left to fight for.”

Maester Kennet, seated near the fire, clears his throat, his thin fingers wrapped around a goblet. “A measured approach is wise. The North is vast, and winter makes even the shortest march an ordeal. Splitting our forces to both hold the Wall and reinforce the Riverlands is a sound strategy. But we cannot be reckless. The cold is our greatest enemy—aside from the greens themselves.”

A grizzled voice interrupts, belonging to Lord Harwood Flint. “We’ve sworn our oaths to your mother, Prince Jacaerys, and those oaths stand. The greybeards and I will march south, aye, but only as far as the weather allows. If winter deepens, we’ll be forced to retreat—lest we lose more men to frost than to battle.”

Lord Cregan nods solemnly. “The North keeps its promises, Jace, but our duty here is unbreakable. If winter passes, we’ll ride in full force, dragons and all. Until then, you’ll have what men we can spare, the strongest and the most experienced. The rest must remain to guard our lands and prepare for whatever winter may bring.”

You watch Jacaerys as he absorbs their words, weighing them against the urgency of his mission. It’s a hard truth, but one he’s known in his heart. “I understand,” he finally says, though the strain in his voice is evident. “The North has always held its ground when others falter. Your men’s presence in the Riverlands will tip the scales more than you know. We’ll make every sacrifice count, for all of our sakes.”

A silence falls over the hall, filled only by the crackling of the fires and the occasional clink of cups against wood. It’s a heavy silence, the kind that carries the weight of lives yet to be lost, battles yet to be fought. You feel the tension in your own shoulders, the mix of sorrow and determination that has become all too familiar.

Cregan’s voice breaks the silence, firm and resolute. “Then it’s settled. The North will march with you, Jacaerys, and we’ll hold the line here until the time is right to unleash the full might of Winterfell. The Wall must remain guarded, our lands defended. But rest assured—the North remembers, and we will have vengeance for both Lucerys and Rhaenys.”

Jacaerys meets his gaze with a nod of gratitude, his eyes glistening with something more than just determination—hope, perhaps, or at least the stubborn refusal to let despair take root. “Thank you, Cregan. Thank you all. My mother will hear of your loyalty, and when the time comes, I’ll see that those who’ve wronged us pay with fire and blood.”

You reach out, placing a hand on Jacaerys’ arm, drawing his attention back to you. “We’ll see this through together, Jace,” you say softly, yet with unshakable conviction. “For Luke. For our family.”

His lips press into a tight line, but he nods, and in that moment, you see the boy you once knew, the one who would always protect his siblings, no matter the cost. War has hardened him, yes, but it hasn’t broken his spirit. And for that, you’re grateful.

The meeting ends with agreements made, plans solidified. As the lords begin to rise and drift away, you, Cregan, and Jacaerys remain, sharing a moment of quiet amidst the chaos. Thraxata and Vermax can be heard outside, their low growls a reminder that no matter how heavy the burden, you are not alone in this fight.

You glance at Cregan, who offers you a small, reassuring smile, and then at Jacaerys, whose eyes hold the same fire that burns within you. The North may be bound by its duties to the Wall, but when the time comes, it will roar in unison, and the South will tremble beneath the weight of vengeance and justice.

Until then, you steel yourself for the battles to come, knowing that winter is both your enemy and your greatest ally. The North will remember, and so will the world.

The chambers are dimly lit, the glow of the hearth casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The scent of pine and smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the faint hint of sage and lavender from the herbs hung above the door. Outside, the cold wind howls, but in here, the warmth is grounding—a cocoon that holds only the two of you.

You stand before the fire, watching the flames dance, lost in the flicker of embers. Thoughts of the day’s discussions linger in your mind, heavy like the weight of armor. You’re still processing the event, the decisions, and the weight of what’s to come. But for now, those thoughts seem distant as you feel Cregan’s presence behind you. His steps are soft as he approaches, yet you can sense the strength in each movement. When he wraps his arms around you from behind, drawing you into his chest, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Y/N,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice a deep rumble. There’s a tenderness there that you’ve come to cherish—an intimacy that only grows with each passing day. You lean back into him, feeling his warmth seep into your skin, grounding you in this moment, away from the burden of duty and war.

His hands slide over your waist, tracing the curves of your body with a reverence that never fades, no matter how many times he’s touched you this way. “You’re troubled,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. It’s not a question; he knows you too well.

You close your eyes, allowing yourself to melt into his embrace. “I’ve been thinking… about everything. About Jace, the war, what lies ahead. But mostly… about what I felt in the godswood.”

Cregan’s hands still for a moment, his grip tightening just slightly. He turns you gently to face him, his eyes searching yours, concern and affection mingling in his gaze. “You saw something, didn’t you?” he asks quietly.

You nod, reaching up to cup his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, roughened by stubble. “I did, but I don’t want to think about it right now,” you whisper, letting your thumb brush over his lips. “Right now, I just want to feel alive. I want to feel us.”

Something shifts in his gaze, the concern giving way to something deeper, more primal. His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, drawing you closer, and when his lips finally meet yours, it’s with a passion that sends a surge of heat through you. The kiss is slow at first, a tender exploration, but it quickly deepens, becoming something more urgent, more consuming.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly as you press closer, your bodies molding together as if trying to erase any distance between you. His hands roam over you, rough and strong, yet every touch is filled with affection. It’s a contrast that you’ve always found intoxicating—the fierce warrior and the gentle lover, both sides of him intertwined in every caress.

Cregan’s mouth trails down your neck, leaving a line of burning kisses along your skin. “Y/N,” he growls against your throat, his voice thick with desire. “You’re mine.”

You shiver at the possessiveness in his tone, the words igniting something deep within you. “Yours,” you breathe, tugging at his tunic, eager to feel the heat of his skin against yours.

Clothes fall away with hurried hands, the cold air biting at your exposed skin for only a moment before the warmth of Cregan’s body presses against you. You pull him with you, leading him to the bed, his eyes never leaving yours as he lays you down then, his weight a comforting pressure above you.

The passion between you ignites like wildfire. His hands grip your hips as he enters you, and you gasp, arching into him as he moves with a rhythm that feels like a dance, one you’ve perfected together over countless nights. Every thrust is filled with a mixture of desire and love, each one drawing you closer to the edge, making the world beyond these walls fade away until there’s only him—only you.

Your hands roam over his back, nails digging in as the pleasure builds, each moan, each whispered word of affection driving you both higher. There’s a desperation in the way you cling to each other, as if the passion is the only thing anchoring you both in a world that threatens to tear everything apart.

“Cregan,” you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips as you reach that peak together, the intensity of the moment overwhelming. He groans your name, his voice rough and breathless as he collapses against you, burying his face in your neck, holding you as if he’ll never let go.

For a long while, neither of you speaks, content to simply breathe together, hearts pounding in unison. The room is warm, the glow of the fire casting soft light over your tangled limbs. Cregan’s hand strokes your hair absently, his fingers combing through the silver strands as you lay nestled against him.

But eventually, the silence gives way to the thoughts that have been haunting you. You shift slightly, turning to look up at him. His eyes are closed, a peaceful expression on his face, but you know he’s awake, lost in his own thoughts.

“Cregan,” you say softly, drawing his attention. His eyes open, meeting yours, and the concern returns as he sees the seriousness in your expression.

“What did you see, love?” he asks, his voice gentle, though the tension in his jaw betrays his worry.

You take a breath, recalling the frenzied images that had flashed before you in the godswood, the voice that had called your name. “It was like a storm in my mind,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “I heard my name—felt something pulling at me. And then… I saw flashes of fire, blood, wings beating against a sky that burned. There was steel, a crown, and screams lost in the roar of flames. It was so vivid, so real, but I couldn’t make sense of it. And then it was gone, as quickly as it came.”

Cregan listens, his brow furrowed as he considers your words. “The Old Gods speak in riddles and symbols,” he says quietly. “I’ve heard tales of their whispers, of visions granted to those who stand before the weirwoods. But they’ve never been clear—they show what might be, not what is certain.”

You nod, but the unease still lingers. “It felt like a warning, Cregan. Like something terrible is coming, something we’re not prepared for.”

He tightens his hold on you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together. You’re not alone in this. The North is with you, I’m with you, and we’ll do everything in our power to protect what we hold dear.”

You close your eyes, letting his words soothe some of the anxiety that gnaws at you. “I know. But there’s so much at stake… and so many unknowns. I can’t shake the feeling that the gods are watching, waiting to see what choices we’ll make.”

“The gods may watch,” Cregan murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your skin, “but it’s our choices that shape the future. Whatever comes, we’ll face it, side by side.”

You find comfort in his certainty, the steady strength he always offers when you need it most. Nestled in his arms, you feel the tension slowly drain from your body, replaced by a sense of peace, however fleeting. For now, the future can wait.

[thebenjiblackwoodexpress]

Devil's Snare Part. 8

Aemond Targayen x Reader

Description: A raven arrives to King's Landing carrying news of Prince Lucerys' death. Aemond returns to find his wife has reverted back to the timid and fearful girl he'd first met, horrified by his actions and terrified of the darkness that festers within him.

Previous part

Writer's note: Here it is, the part I've been scared to write as this story has been mostly fluffy up to this point. This is angst city I'm not going to lie. I took inspiration from Stephanie Garber's Once upon a broken heart series. Even more angst to follow in the next part. Thank you as always to all you lovely readers!

Warnings: Aemond being possessive and a little toxic. Angst, angst, angst. Seriously, Aemond is in the trenches because his wife is mad at him. Female reader.

Years of training with Ser Cole to gain mastery over the sword, years spent studying to embody all that a Targaryen Prince should be, years bonded to the largest and most ancient Dragon in existence...all had taught Aemond control. But at the very real threat to those he loved at Aegon's coronation, the realisation that he did not have the power to guarantee the safety of his family, Aemond felt his tenous control over himself, over everything around him slipping.

Seeing Lucerys Velaryon again at Storm's End had been incendiary to Aemond, who already burned with rage and a desire for vengeance. The fear of losing those he loved, his fury at the Strong pup parading about the kingdom trying to steal his brother's inheritance, a loathsome feeling of vulnerability in the face of the boy who'd taken his eye from him and paid no recompense. All had lead him on a path of violence that there could be no turning back from. In killing Lucerys Velaryon, Aemond had begun a war that could lead to nowhere but death and destruction. He felt nauseous as he watched with horror the mangled pieces of Arrax fall from the sky. His mind swam with conflicting fears as he felt the true weight of what he'd done hit him, tightening his grip on Vhagar's reigns, the feel of the leather beneath his hands the only thing vesting him with a sense of reality. It did not matter that he had not meant to kill Luke, all that mattered was that he had lost control of himself and his dragon in turn. The Blacks would seek to retaliate tenfold, and if anything happened to his family now it would be his fault. The thought sent a jolt of fear tearing up Aemond's spine and he struggled to breathe, gasping for air. Then he thought of Y/N's reaction. He pictured her face contorted with disgust at his actions or worse still fear of him. The image sobered him somewhat as if a pitcher of ice cold water had been thrown over him and cleared his muddled senses. He gripped Vhagar's reigns and angled her in the direction of King's Landing. He expected it would not be long before Storm's End became aware of what had transpired and they would inevitably send ravens. He could not bear the thought of his wife hearing of what he'd done from any other lips but his own and that conviction had him pitching forward to urge Vhagar to fly faster.

The Prince's worst fears were realised the moment he stepped foot in the Red Keep as he was immediately rushed by his mother and The Hand, demanding explanations from him he could scarcely give and he knew then that he was too late. Whilst he had been panicking atop the clouds of Storm's End, Lord Baratheon had sent his ravens.

Aemond inhaled deeply, tentatively opening the door to the chambers he shared with his wife. Y/N's hair was mussed as if she'd been yanking at it and her breath was ragged as she paced about the room in agitation. Her head snapped up as he entered and he felt the look of fear in her eyes, of what he had done or of him, pierce his very soul.

He took small experimental steps towards her, unable to stop himself from reaching towards her. Though he immediately halted when she held a hand out to stop him.

Aemond was surprised to hear Y/N's voice break the silence first as whatever explanations, or apology he had prepared died on his lips.

"Is it true. Did you kill a child?" Both her gaze and her question were direct, but the waver in her voice sent a pang of pain through Aemond's heart.

He dropped his head, regret crashing over him all over again and contending painfully with the desperation he now felt to make Y/N understand that killing Luke had been a terrible mistake.

His voice got stuck in his throat as he took note of his wife's trembling form, the tears in her eyes threatening to spill over at any moment. He nodded almost imperceptibly and watched in horror as Y/N brought a hand to her mouth to ineffectively smother a sob, a look of utter devastation and betrayal on her beautiful face before she turned away from him entirely.

Her breathing turned more erratic and she clutched her abdomen as if physically pained by his confirmation of the terrible truth that her husband was a kinslayer.

"It was a mistake." Even to Aemond, this sounded laughable, a pathetic excuse and when Y/N spoke again, her voice was icy.

"You told me once that I was your light, an escape from the darkness that has ever haunted you since you were a child. But Aemond, what you have done..."

Y/N shook her head and rubbed the tears from her eyes, turning back towards him with a fiery resolve that Aemond had never seen lighting his wife's eyes.  "Was it all a lie? Was I simply ensnared by pretty words that dull the senses. Is this who you have always been?"

Aemond stepped towards her again, his words frantic. "No, you know I would never harm you."

Y/N looked at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. "I don't know anything anymore."

Aemond reached for her again but felt his own face crumple as Y/N flinched away from him, his arms falling back to his sides rigidly. 

He took a step back, holding his hands out in a placating gesture.

"I will not touch you if you do not wish me to."

Y/N said nothing, only continued to stare at Aemond with wide and fearful eyes.  Aemond watched her carefully, wishing to beg for her forgiveness but realising she was in too much shock and much too upset with him to take in his accuses.

Clasping his hands behind his back, he bowed his head to her, trying to keep his voice even though he felt his throat constrict painfully at Y/N's rejection. "I will leave you for now. You need have no fear of me." Aemond turned on his heel, quickly exiting the room, not imagining there could be anything more painful to him than the way Y/N was looking at him, with such unbidden terror, as others had his whole life, as if he would hurt her.

Y/N felt as if a mist had been removed from her vision. For all that she had shared with Aemond and for all she'd thought she knew him, she could never have imagined him capable of murdering a child.

She didn't believe it at first when the raven arrived, couldn't believe it. Had her husband not already told her that he'd long ago forgiven Lucerys for the loss of his eye? Had he not allowed his nephew Jacaerys to strike him, laughing it off? But in the space of a few short hours, Aemond had slain his nephew, become a kinslayer and started a war. Y/N was not prepared for this life and her mind was consumed by fears of what was to come. For surely Rhaneyra would seek vengeance. Worse still was the fear that she'd never known Aemond at all. Had she been in love with a mirage this whole time? Y/N recalled reading of a plant in a book of botany helaena had insisted she borrow, that while attractive to look upon was deadly to the touch. Devil's Snare it had been called. Even its flowers were toxic, able to cause delirium or hallucinations. Is that what had happened to her when she fell in love with Prince Aemond Targaryen, not fully understanding how dangerous he truly was? She'd paced their shared chambers, hoping beyond all hope that Lord Baratheon was mistaken. That Aemond would return, sweep her up into his arms and reassure her that it was all a big mistake, that all would be as it was. But she knew by the look on Aemond's face as he entered the room, by the slow and careful way he approached her, that nothing would ever be the same between them again. It did not stop her from asking the truth of it and with his nod of confirmation she felt the breath knocked from her, clutching at her stomach to hold herself together.

She'd finched involuntarily as he made to touch her, his eyes widening in alarm as a sob tore through her. Y/N was reeling from the unsettling feeling that had wound its way deep in the pit of her stomach that she no longer knew her husband. And what she did not know about him, what she could not understand in the conflicting images of him as a loving and gentle husband and a man who could murder his nephew, caused a wave of genuine fear to rise up within her. Perhaps he would lash out if she spoke to her horror at what he'd done.

Though Aemond quickly dropped his hands, wincing as if in pain at her rejection of his touch. Part of her wanted to reach for him, beg him for an explanation, tell him that everything would be OK though she knew it wouldn't. But she was rooted to the spot, lost in staring at her husband who until that moment she'd thought she knew better than any living soul. As Aemond exited their chambers she felt little relief. He had said "for now" and Y/N was certain he would try to speak with her again on the morrow. She doubted she'd be any more prepared than she was now to hear his excuses, to force herself to come to terms with the fact that he had killed a child in cold blood.

When Aemond entered their chambers the next day, Y/N noted the determined set to his shoulders and the seriousness of his expression and knew that this time he would not leave until she'd heard his explanations. Y/N had tossed and turned the entire night before she'd come to her own decision, and nothing Aemond said could sway her from it. She needed space to think, to begin to fully come to terms with all that had transpired in the last few days since Aegon had been crowned...to consider how they would move forward knowing now what Aemond had done.

Aemond spoke quickly, allowing no room for interruption.

"I know you are upset with me, that you are afraid. But I ask you to hear what I have to say, my love." He paused briefly, observing her before continuing as he seemed to find what he was looking for in her expression.

"I did not wish to distress you any more than I could see you were. But I must tell you now that whilst my actions were brash, I had no intention of harming my nephew, only of intimidating him. I acted out of anger and I lost control. I am sorry for it."

Y/N was gladdened at least to know Aemond had not intended to kill his nephew, but it did not change the bitter fact that he had. And she could not as easily accept this as she knew he wished her too.

She wrung her hands nervously, frightened to ask for what she wanted. Aemond appeared calm in the moment, but she had seen first hand how quickly his temper could turn.

Her voice came out meeker than she would have hoped. "I wish to be installed in separate chambers for the time being." It hardly mattered. Aemond stumbled a few steps backwards as if she'd shouted at him.

His voice was ragged.

"Why?

Y/N lowered her gaze to the ground, unable to look up at Aemond.

"I cannot pretend that I am not horrified by what you have done. And I need space to even begin to comprehend it...let alone try to forgive you, Aemond."

Aemond's response was breathless, as if he were trying to speak though a pressing weight pushed down on his chest.

"You cannot stand to be in my presence then? Do you no longer love me?"

Y/N gawked at him.

"I'm not sure I even know you any more Aemond. If you could just allow me some time to think..."

Aemond practically snarled in response, his anger taking Y/N by surprise.

"So easily you cast our love aside. You were meant to stand by me always as my wife. Am I not your husband?"

Y/N felt her own anger rise up and she pushed through her timidity to voice it.

"So I must forgive you any transgression, silently stand by as you commit atrocities? Simply because I am your wife? My thoughts and feelings are my own."  Within seconds Aemond had crossed the room and possessively gripped her waist. "You are mine." 

Incensed, Y/N tried to push against the cage of his arms, huffing in frustration when she failed to move him even an inch. "You cannot possess a person, Aemond...If all you want from me is placid acceptance then perhaps it would be better to dissolve our union." She had not truly meant it, regretted it as soon as the words had left her mouth. But her words had the desired effect as Aemond's eye widened and his arms slackened around her. In the next second he had dropped to his knees in front of her, gripping her skirts. He placed his forehead against her stomach, his anger seemingly entirely dissipated, his touch and voice all gentleness. "No, my love. I will give you anything. But not that. Never that. I did not mean it. Of course your mind is your own and I always want you to speak it. Shout at me, tear this place asunder, strike me if you must. I can live without your forgiveness if you feel you cannot give it, I can live with you hating me.  But I cannot live without you."

Y/N felt her own heart soften at his gentleness, but she was still too upset with him to just fall straight back into his arms.

"Then will you agree to my request?"

Aemond tensed, his grip tightening slightly on her hips before he nodded against the fabric of her dress.

"If it is what you need, then I will see to it."

Y/N prised Aemond's hands from her then, equal parts relieved by his assent and pained at seeing him this way.  She whispered a hurried "Thank you" before moving around him and hastening from his chambers. She expected to meet resistance with every step but as she passed over the threshold she briefly looked back to see thst Aemond had not moved even an inch.

In the days that followed, Aemond scarcely saw Y/N at all. If he did it was  a mere glimpse as she hurried down a hallway, headed for the chambers his mother had settled her in at his request. He had made to speak to her on one occasion as he's come across his lady wife emerging from her chambers. But as soon as she saw him she quickly retreated back into her room. Aemond had rested his forehead upon the door that separated him from his love briefly, feeling the distance between them like a dagger to the heart. He had not meant any of the harsh words he had spoken when they'd last met. Her rejection had stung him and he had lashed out like a petulant child, spoken to her and acted as if she were a possession of his rather than the woman he loved. In his own disgust at himself he'd tried to bear their separation as best he could, but he hoped that with time Y/N's heart would soften to him again. He did not think he could bear what was to come without her at his side.

Two more days passed before he heard the sound of Y/N's voice again. Aemond came across his wife again in halls adjacent to his sister's chambers. She'd stopped, seemingly choosing between turning back the way she'd come or crossing paths and a clumsy servant boy bumped right into her, prompting her to pitch forward. Aemond swiftly darted forward to catch his wife by her waist, pulling her upright and holding her against him as he roughly shoving the boy away away from her. He glared at the boy, speaking through gritted teeth. "Watch yourself."

The boy looked shaken as he stuttered frantically. "My sincerest apologies my Prince, Princess." He nodded at them both before practically sprinting down the hall away from them, leaving Aemond and Y/N alone.

Still holding Y/N in his arms, Aemond took the opportunity to look upon his lady, though he was concerned to observe the dark shadows under her eyes and a certain hollowness in her cheeks. He lowered his head to gaze into her eyes, tentatively raising a hand to brush a lock of hair from her face.

He spoke softly, eager not to scare her away.

" Are you well?"

Y/N nodded, though Aemond noted that she looked anywhere but at him.

"Yes." Her timid reply sent a pang through his heart. He had fallen in love with Y/N's shy and gently nature quickly when they'd first met. It had inspired a protectiveness in him he could never have anticipated, endeared him from the first. From the moment he'd rescued her from Helaena's pet spider she had always just been his shy girl in is mind. But her return to the timid creature who could barely stand to look at him pained him beyond measure.

Lost in his own thoughts, he almost didn't catch Y/N's next words.

"I must go."

"Must you?"

Y/n did not reply, but  she began to push against him to extricate herself from his hold.

Aemond felt himself becoming desperate. "Please, my love."

"Release me, my Prince." Aemond let Y/N go as if she'd scorched him. In a way she had with her use of his formal title, as if she didn't know every part of him, couldn't see into his very soul, as if he were nought but a stranger.

Aemond found himself grateful to Aegon for offering him a place on his small council. Discussions on tactics and strategy gave him ample distraction during the day. At night he could not stand the conflicting feelings of guilt and loneliness that threatened to consume him, heightened by the emptiness of his chambers without the presence of his beloved wife. Each time a maid would enter his chambers he'd startle, feeling strangely as if he were seeing a ghost of the girl he loved. He could not stand it for long and spent his nights wandering about the Keep or the filthy streets of King's Landing, only returning to his chambers in the early hours of the morning when he was wearied to the bone.

His mother regarded him with an air of suspicion and wariness now, blaming him for starting the war with The Blacks. But seeing him look so piteous, she'd softened somewhat and Aemond was glad of the news she would bring him of his wife, of her daily customs and health.

He was unsurprised to learn that she had taken to spending the better part of her own evenings in his sister's chambers, often sleeping there. He'd observed with affection the tender bond his wife had developed with both his sister Helaena and her children.

The hour was late when Aemond came across Y/N again, making his way through an ante chamber that led from the household chambers to the lower levels of the keep just as she had surely been heading to his sister's chambers. She stopped in the middle of the room at the sight of him and Aemond halted, mimicking her movements. A fire crackled in the hearth on his left, casting a warm glow that illuminated Y/N's features. For a brief moment Aemond willed the flames to burst free from the hearth and set the room ablaze, just so he would have an excuse to carry her from it though he knew his touch was no longer welcome. Realising the mad turn his thoughts had taken he decided then and there that he had to fix this. He could not stand Y/N's silence any longer, this distance she had imposed between them. He had to make her understand.

"I will not deny the bitterness I have long felt towards Lucerys for taking my eye and receiving no punishment for it. But I never meant to kill him. It is true, I pursued him but it was his fear I wanted, not his blood. I wanted him to feel as I did when he took my eye. I did not anticipate Arrax retaliating in defense of his rider and...in truth I lost control of mine own dragon."

Y/N's expression turned pensive and conflicted as she mulled over his words 

"You killed a child, Aemond. Lucerys was no match for you or your dragon and yet you pursued him."

Aemond shut his eye briefly, inhaling slowly as he tried to calm himself enough to answer Y/N without frightening her further. He would not shout at her again. But he needed her to understand that the moment the crown was placed on Aegon's head, war was inevitable. He regretted Luke's death, but he could not undo it.

"There must always be casualties in a war. If it had not been my hand that struck the first blow then it would have been Rhaenyra's."

Aemond's voice sounded colder and more unfeeling than he'd hoped, but to him it was a plain and simple fact he'd long grown accustomed to. His siblings had been raised to fear their sister Rhaenyra, by virtue of their posing a threat to her claim to the Iron Throne.

Y/N's voice shook slightly as she spoke, though Aemond was glad at least that she met his gaze now and had not run from him.

"Aemond it was monstrous."

It was like a dagger had been thrust through his chest. Aemond had always been aware of whispers at court of the one-eyed Prince, of his disfigurement and intimidating presence. They had only grown louder since the news of Prince Lucery's death became common knowledge. But while Y/N had undeniably been wary of him when they'd first met, she'd never treated him as others had. She'd been able to see the good in him, the light in the darkness and pulled him towards it...towards her. But he loved her, and he knew that she still loved him too or she would not have listened to his explanations at all and would not still be standing before him. He recognised the warring emotions in her eyes, the agonising mixture of sadness, fear, and longing, because he knew she could see the same conflict in his one good eye.

Aemond suddenly felt that it did not matter if Y/N did think of him as a monster, as long as she thought of him, as long as long as she thought of him as hers.

"If that be so then I am your monster."

Y/N's eyes widened in shock, though he noted how they quickly softened as she shook her head sadly at him. She turned her face to gaze at the flickering flames and Aemond had to lean towards her to hear her.

"You are not a monster, Aemond. That is not what I meant. You would not regret your nephew's death if that were the case."

Aemond quickly closed the distance between them, emboldened by her words, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to draw her to his chest.

"I am glad to hear you say so for I cannot stand this silence any longer. I love you and whatever horrors I have wrought you must believe that I would never do anything to harm you. The thought is inconceivable to me. Can you find it within your heart to forgive me, to love me again my darling girl?"

Y/N sighed but Aemond felt his heart stutter as she leant against him rather than pushing him away as he'd expected.

"What would that make me Aemond? I was never prepared for this life of political intrigue and machinations, for violence and warfare."

Aemond tentatively raised his hand to cup the back of her head tenderly but the loud clacking of footsteps had Y/N jumping away from him, his hand falling to his side again.

A moment later his grandsire entered the room, shooting Y/N a withering look as she hurried past him. Aemond kept hoping she'd glance back at him, but she did not.

Angrily he turned on Otto.

"You frightened my wife, grandsire."

Infuriatingly, Otto bore an expression of amusement as he quirked an eyebrow up at Aemond.

"A wife would not scorn her husband as she does you, Aemond. The whole court has observed her unseemly behaviour towards you, her lord husband who she should obey. She makes a mockery of you. Aemond, you and your dragon are the single greatest power in this war and if she does not realise the importance of this fundamental fact then perhaps it is time for you you consider the disolussion of your marriage."

Aemond felt his blood heat and his temper rise dangerously. He did not wish to harm his grandsire, it would only upset his mother. But neither would he allow Otto to speak of his wife in such a way. He'd become far too comfortable doing so.

"I do not care for whispers. Y/N is my wife and she can do as she pleases. I will not impress myself upon her if she does not wish it but I will not listen to you continously besmirching her either. If you suggest that I annul my marriage again, I will kill you grandsire. I have already been branded as a kinslayer and it would serve you well to remember it."

For once, Aemond could see a flash of genuine fear in Otto's eyes as he was seemingly stunned into silence. Aemond brushed past him, not caring to wait for a response. He bristled with irritation as he passed the throne room, hearing his brother and his friends drunkenly inventing denominations for him as king upon the iron throne. He hoped that the cold night air would help to clear his mind though tonight he felt that the stars looked less desolate, the dark streets of King's Landing less eery and sinister. For a weight had been lifted from him when Y/N leant into his touch, when she'd told him that he was not a monster.

Aemond felt a sense of foreboding when upon returning to the Red Keep around the Hour of Ghosts, the whole keep seemed to be wide awake and and in a state of dissaray. Pulling his cloak from his shoulders, Aemond questioned the first guard he saw.

"What is the meaning of this raucous?"

At the sight of him the guard visibly paled but stayed infuriatingly silent.

"Speak quickly you fool."

At the Prince's stern command the guard stood to attention.

"The Queen was attacked in her bedchamber, my Prince and the young Prince Jahaerys slain. We have yet to find the perpetrator."

Aemond felt as if the ground were collapsing between him. His sweet sister, his little nephew...how could this have happened? Dread seeped into the pit of his stomach at the sick realisation that his wife tended to spend her evenings with his sister and her children. He'd seen her making her way in that direction before he'd left...left both his wife and sister unprotected.

"Where is my wife?"

The guard swallowed loudly, stepping back a pace. "Princess Y/N was with the Queen in her chambers during the attack. I believe they are both with the Queen Dowager now."

Without another word Aemond took off at a run, his heart pounding in his chest and his blood thrumming in his ears.

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[nipuni]

Hello Nipuni,

This isn't really an ask, but I wrote a little story poem about Vincent and Lucille, both of which I really like :) Here it is:

~~~***~~~

"A late October wind began to sing, from the north. In duet the sea waves riled up and began to lash out at the cliffs and wail for all they were worth. Lucille put down her book, enthralled in a flash, for her heart was filled with the ocean's soul, but though she heard its calling, Vincent did not. Like she'd told him before, in his chest was a hole, a pit filled with sharp ice, where it should have been hot and aflame, like what the ocean wished to convey through its screaming and singing with the wind as its guide and she knew not, as she watched his face then, with dismay, that his indifference, displeasure, was a guise meant to hide his own book, his own story, deep down in his heart, filled with darkness and loathing of both others and self, which she didn't, could not know; their hearts must be apart and this dark and horrible book firmly shut on his shelf.

"Mister Vincent," she said, turning to him from the window, at which she watched the waves soar, with unspeakable longing. "Let us go for a walk, let us with the wind mingle, In its passionate song find a sense of belonging."

Vincent looked up, from his practical paper of news and of business and things meant for men of his status. An eyebrow was arched, the mask of reading reserved for a little bit later, dark thoughts and jaw-clenching put on hiatus. Sharp words were brought to his tongue for this woman so strange, this woman so pitiably fanciful, innocent and romantic, she sent his damned, accursed heart far out of his range to control, sent his heartbeat and movements unpredictable, frantic, and his temper escaping from its papery cage, slipping through his steel fingers, fingers hardened by life, sending his insides twisting and turning with black, suppressed rage at himself and at her and at existence’s prison, casting between them the shadow of strife.

He donned his throwaway words with a chuckle and scoffed, "Go for a walk?" Then he thumbed at the cold, silver head of his cane as he thought. "I don't think so. Over this vile wind we won't hear ourselves think, save talk." He believed it was triumph with this statement he wrought, so he twitched his practical paper once more, preparing a theatre of silence and an occupation parade, when she moved with a face which deemed him a bore, away from the window, in her own masquerade; she summoned a servant, said, "My coat, if you please," and after donning it, turned, and spoke to him, prim: "What, Mister Vincent? I've a coat, I won't freeze. I know the way to the coast and it isn't too dim. You don't wish to come with me? That's all very well, it will give me something to speak of later; a short story to tell."

Vincent felt his veins searing, his muscles go tight, he rose from his armchair; his paper was crushed - he had tightened his fist so he his temper could fight; a fight which he lost. His face became flushed, as he met with her stubbornness, will unmovable, cursed for he loved it and hated it and let his heart burn every time they argued and feuded, and he deemed it the worst, for these matters they fought over were as trivial as rhyme!

"Are you foolish?" he cried, though the answer he knew, "Are you mad, Miss Lucille? Do you wish to be dead? Have you lived so little years, have you lived them too few? Have you really so little gathered here, inside your head? You will go to the coast in this ridiculous storm?! Great heavens! What now!"

He scowled down at her slight, very beautiful form, and found a frown on her face from his part in this row. "And if you found me dead, Mister Vincent, what difference would it make?" His heart stilled at her words, but she wasn't quite done. "By far you've only treasured silence, deemed my presence a mistake with your snide words and cold comments which over warm ones have won. Not everybody's a poet. Not everyone's blessed with a heart. But you're aground, I'm adrift. I can and will move, as you stay still as stone-" Vincent couldn't take it. She was tearing him apart with her words without truth. Heavens! She said she felt alone! But she didn't know! She knew not that the reason he could breathe when before he was drowning in his own passionate sea and had to bury his heart, let it sleep buried beneath the rocks he built his existence upon to be free, was her! Her alone, with her strange, silly fancies, her words which woke up the parts of him he forgot he possessed, her books which she hid the titles of sheepishly, her romances, she alone put his howling, black demons to rest!

Lucille's eyes widened. She didn't know this sight, which appeared when his heart twisted into knots like a rope, when his pain clawed itself out of his chest in a bloodthirsty fight with the rest of his tolerance and remnants of hope. Vincent leaned on his cane. His breathing was short - his left breast was finally soaked with the red of his veins - no words would help him, it was no use to retort for Lucille was right to think of her own hidden pains, which he knew not how and thus did not reach her to soothe, too used to his stupid, practical papers and silence. The former now lay crumpled and wretched and he could not move, save whimper and clutch at his chest in an attempt at vigilance. "Mister Vincent," she whispered, as he fell into his chair. "You are bleeding… Your chest!" His cane fell with a clatter as his eyes disobeyed him, shedding a tear. "It's nothing," he managed, voice hoarse. "I just need to rest." He looked at her and whimpered; in her eyes… Was it fear? What was it of? Of his pain, or of him? Could it be that she held him even a little bit dear?

"Vincent," she spoke, her voice quiet and firm, "you're in terrible pain." He didn't speak; he could not. He clutched at his chest, repressing tears and helpless snarls in vain, this damned stoic facade finally put to the test, and failing spectacularly. Lucille moved to his side. She was a step away, so close yet so impossibly far. "I hurt you," she spoke. She didn't seem surprised, nor unwilling to take a leap, far over this bar of propriety and tension still hanging thick in the air, as she abandoned all harnesses and sat in his chair- On his knees. Vincent froze, then relaxed at her touch, into her touch, as she placed a hand to his cheek. It was so gentle, so warm, so perfectly much, So strange, so alive, so needed, unique to this setting of dark and cold that he lived in, with his intestines, organs in shreds, from years of eating ice, from being the grounded cliffs which pierced the sea upon which memories were adrift in. And now he found himself on the doorstep of paradise.

"Lucille…" he breathed, his hands reaching out. Like a reckless child he embraced her, pressed her to his ravaged chest. "Don't go out in this storm…” he managed, “I know I need not shout… But so much bad can happen. You'll catch a chill at best. And what if something worse passes? What if… the sea takes you?" She warmed him with her embrace, so he could breathe again. "I know you hold the sea dear." He tried to smile, but failed. "I used to love it, too." Memories of waves and taken love made him wince in pain. Lucille watched him with her mismatched eyes, his blood soaking her white dress. She took a breath and sighed. "I understand," she said. "It was in the papers years ago, and so I will not press." Vincent finally said it. "It was I, who my brother to the stormy shores had led. It was my fault he went so early.” He hadn't spoken it for years, his brother's untimely death, his last words still ringing in his ears. His voice cracked like splitting rocks, as he remembered him, and pain. "I don't want you gone, Lucille. Please don't think that way." He clutched her tighter, as tight as he dared, and she did not complain. "In fact… The reason I can smile a little is because you stay."

She looked at him with her eyes wide, her lips parted in surprise, but not for long. She looked firm and clutched his hand, her chin tilted towards him. "Say it, then, Sir," she whispered, "don't wait for heart's demise." Vincent didn't dare believe it, but he took chance upon a whim: He enveloped her face in his hands, and though his heart paused beating, he bent down and said, "I love you", their lips and worn souls meeting."

~~~***~~~

HELLO!!! I need you to know that I've been losing my entire mind over this piece ever since I opened my inbox today. I don't know how you managed to capture the tone and characters and setting so well when I've shared so little about them!!! This is so spot on it can easily be a dream sequence in the actual story!!! It is also written so beautifully I'm restraining myself from making this an all caps wall of text singing your praises!!! I can't believe you wrote this about my characters I feel so undeserving oh my goddd you just breathed life into this little story in progress of mine and filled me with joy and motivation to work harder on it I can't thank you enough!!! This means so much to me I don't know how to convey it aarghhhhh THANK YOU SO SO MUCH 😭❤️❤️❤️❤️

[temptress-writes]

🪩 Disco Snow

A/N: soft, groovy seventies Harry.

C.W: DRUG USE. Just my usual nasty shit. Rough, spanking, choking, drug use, spit kink.

Word Count—6.8k

Enjoy x

* * *

Miami 1977.

Chemicals.

Blow.

Tangy, burning, and exciting.

They infiltrate your mind as you bend over the marble countertop in your kitchen.

You slowly come to a stand, wiping your left nostril. You feel your nose tingle and seep into a numbness you know will soon mirror in your throat.

Amber gently bumps your hip, taking the rolled-up bill from your fingers and smoothing out the line of powder laid out for her. She snorts it with a sigh of relief, straightening and flicking a smile your way.

"Feels groovy, huh?"

You roll your head back with a grin, feeling the buzz in your veins already. "So good."

"Let's go, disco chic!"

Miami. A bustling city with a nightlife that thrills you. A deep contrast to the person you are during more acceptable hours.

For tonight, you switched out your sleepwear for your favourite orange bell-sleeved mini dress. Your feet are settled into your white knee-high platform boots.

Amber's done your makeup in hues of emerald green, and orange lipstick to match your attire. She fiddles with the hem of her blue mini dress as you hail a cab to the curb and set on your way to the club.

The Hall of Mirrors.

A club infamous for its disco music, great alcohol, and acceptance for anyone. It's where you frequently go to have a good night, much like most in the city. It's where anyone of any sex could go and rely on the building to hold their secrets. Withhold judgment.

The Hall of Mirrors is no stranger to your secrets. To your nights of sneaking down dark hallways and slipping to your knees for a man, or into a supply closet to taste a woman on your mouth. Tripped out on pills or lines of snow.

The music calls to you before you even go in. The bouncer knows you well, allowing you entry without so much as a second glance. The club is packed, which isn't unusual. The collection of disco balls hang from the ceiling, the strobe lights reflecting tiny fragments of light from them. They bounce across every inch of skin, every section of the walls. The pattern heightens your sense of lucidity, red, pink, and purple semi-circular wallpaper that you know will begin to distort as the night progresses.

And as if you need a reminder of how much you're dying for a drink, you taste the stark sugar slipping down your throat. With a grimace at the strong taste of it, you pull Amber to the bar.

Cameron, one of the bartenders, waves at you, mouthing your usual? You nod, pleased when she places two gin and tonics on the bar top in front of you and Amber.

It's all feels like a blur. It always does during the buildup. The drive to the club, the quenching of thirst with gin. The night doesn't truly start until you're on the dance floor.

"Bottoms up, chic!" Amber yells over the bass of the music.

You cheer your glasses together and down the contents. The ice clinks against your teeth, but your gums are so numb you barely feel it.

"Let's show these bitches who own the dance floor!"

The two of you squish and squeeze past dancers to get to the middle, soon finding a rhythm along to The Hustle. Unashamed, you yell out the words, swaying and throwing your best moves her way.

You can feel the effects start to energise your body. The way it seems to make you feel unstoppable, sexy, otherworldly.

You wrap your arms around Amber's neck, letting her turn in your hold and rub against you. In any other setting, this would harbour attention from others that one could only deem as judgmental. But not here. Not in the Hall of Mirrors. Here you are free and open.

It's a sensation of effortlessness. You feel limitless. One with the music, one with every soul in the building. After a parade of songs, you and Amber pull away from the dance floor and slip into the bathroom, refreshing the buzzing high in your veins before heading back out.

And then you see him. It's an eerie sort of feeling. It's a dance floor, it doesn't necessarily have the best lighting and there are so many people. But it's almost as if you're meant to see him. A flash of light illuminates his existence momentarily before the strobe fades away and appears elsewhere.

What you notice first are curls. Dripping waves parted in the middle of his head that spiral along his forehead, sticking to the skin with perspiration. A jeweled hand comes up to brush them away from his vision before he erupts in a dimpled smile at his friend. Even from here, you can make out the shape of his bunny teeth.

And then he spins in a circle and throws some finger guns. From there, your exploration veers south. A low-cut black tank top, exposing two swallows fluttering their wings against his chest, a cross pendant nestled safely between them.

His broad shoulders sport more ink and your eyes dart across every bare inch of skin and you spot a smattering of tattoos along his arms.

As if to contrast his more intimidating attire, from the hips down is bubblegum pink. Flared pants that hug his hips and accentuate the length of his legs. He lifts his leg, the bell-bottoms sharing a glimpse of his footwear. Patent black leather books with an impressive heel. Already so tall and towering, you admire how he's wearing them as a fashion statement and nothing more.

He holds his friend's hands, arching them high in the air before swirling his hips and yelling along to the song. His friend, lanky and shaggy-haired, pulls away and gives his best shot at the robot.

Amber clicks her fingers in front of you. "You good?"

You blink, steering your vision away from him and back to her. "Yeah, buzzing now!"

And you dance like no one is watching. You try to drive your attention away from the man who clearly hasn't seen you.

Sweaty. Hot. Snow.

Your body feels like a live wire, the music thrumming in your veins.

Your feet are throbbing but you don't care. Your vision floats back to the man and a sense of delight washes over you at the sight of him. He's closer to you now, bumping his hips to the song. Your brows raise when he grinds his bum up against a man's crotch.

Amber doesn't question when you inch towards him. It's subtle, and you keep dancing and swaying and singing.

You look up at him again and every cell in your body freezes. He's looking at you. And there's this moment when your eyes lock that the music fades. Like a bubble encases you and almost mutes it. It's very brief but still so staggering.

Suddenly, you're all bubblegum and curls.

His lips curl up into a devastatingly beautiful smile at you. He's still dancing, you're still dancing. But you're smiling at each other and suddenly bubblegum flares and chocolate curls are moving towards you. He slips past people and your dancing doesn't slow as he approaches.

Amber, so out of it and not picking up on the interaction, leeches to a man next to her and swirls her hips against him.

Up close, the man is even more stunning. Your eye line is at his chest and you spy a light dusting of hair and a film of sweat.

He grins down at you and your cheeks blush bubblegum.

"Who can do the best sprinkler?" He asks you, having to yell over the music. His accent is deep and wispy. Of course, the man with one of the most daring outfits in the joint would be British.

"Oh, it's definitely me." You offer with a sultry smile.

"Confident..." He nods, resting his hands on his hips. "I like that."

"What, you think you can out-dance me?"

He throws you a playful glare, waiting for the chorus of the song to drop before throwing his arm around in a sprinkler movement. His other hand around his head while the sprinkler, jeweled fingers, splay towards you.

And you can't help but giggle, hiding it behind your hand but the glint in your eyes is far too telling. His expression of pure joy dropping into one of unamused horror.

"Let's see it then, foxy."

You laugh, shaking your limbs out and showing off your best sprinkler move. He sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly. You wrinkle your nose and shrug your shoulders up at the piercing sound.

"We have a winner!" He shouts, hands waving through the air and alarming a few people around you. You lightly shove at his chest, your cheeks hurting from laughing so much. "Does the sprinkler queen have a name? The people need to know."

You feel very shy, suddenly. As if the influence of the power has been overshadowed by him. You give him your name, not missing the way his lips curl around the letters as he recites it to you.

"'M Harry."

Harry. Smooth. Bubblegum.

"It's nice to meet you."

His fingers come up to toy with the flared sleeve of your dress. "Love the threads."

You gesture to his pink pants. "Yours, too."

He clicks his tongue, grabs your hand, and spins you in a circle. "You flatter me. Let's throw some shapes, foxy lady!"

You grab his hands, encouraging him to shimmy with you. He's a great dancer. Tall and unashamed, moving his body without thought and doing the most ridiculous dance moves. You feel so hot and you're not sure if it's because of him, the dance floor, or the snow you snorted before.

Harry spins on his heels, forming peace signs with his fingers and waving them in front of his eyes. You mirror him with a grin and he admires the way the disco ball reflects off your face and ignites your beauty. He feels like he's been kicked in the chest. What started as a chill night out and a boogie became so much more once he saw you.

Your orange dress, tangerine and inviting. Your green eyeshadow, an exotic lagoon he's lost in.

He brings you closer, pressing you flush against his body and moving his hips with yours. His hands squeeze at your hips and if this were any other man, you'd be slapping his touch away.

But Harry is soft and colourful. Endlessly endearing. You can tell he's confident and sure of himself and that's probably the sexiest thing about him. Aside from his bare chest and tattoos. And his hair. And his smile.

"You skiing the snow tonight, little fox?"

You nod, your head feeling like a bobblehead on your neck. Your spine is tingling and the way he's looking at you is making every limb feel like jelly.

He grips the side of your neck, holding you close and resting his forehead on yours. It happens so quickly but he's so confident and you're so comfortable so you don't mind.

"Keep a lookout, yeah?"

You give him another nod. You're always so sure of yourself and now this one particular stranger is leaving you speechless. But what else can you say?

He slips his fingers into his tight tanktop to produce a small clear bag from the confines. He wiggles his brows at you and looks around you briefly before opening it up.

It's unlikely anyone would be sober enough to cause a problem with it. But he's more avoiding drawing attention to it because people will flock to him for a hit.

He thumbs the bag open, his eyes lifting to meet yours before he throws you a wink. Lifting the pendant sat between his defined pecs, he gathers a small mound of snow on the longest bar of the cross.

"Ladies first."

The chain being around his neck means he can only bring it so far to you. You lean forward, pressed right up against him, and nudge your face up so you can snort the prepared powder.

You sigh through a smile as it seeps into your bloodstream. It refreshes your high. Your energy unmatched as you start to dance to the music again. But this time it's right up against him, his core tucked up against you. Bubblegum and snow.

His hand reaches out to wipe a bit of excess power decorating the edge of your nose with a soft giggle. He gathers his own smidgen of power and snorts it before putting the bag away.

And then you're dancing. Your ass works in sweet little circles against his crotch and you rest your head back on his chest, looking up at him to let him know. Let him know that you feel him against you, growing for you.

Hard bubblegum.

Melting snow.

He twirls you, bringing his hands onto your shoulders and using his feet to find a beat with the music. More Than a Woman starts playing and you both let out excited yells. He pulls you into him again. He can't help but spin you so your ass is against him. He wraps his arms around you, your hands tangling with his where they meet at your chest.

When you start grinding back on him, his hands melt down to your hips to roll them back. Gooey bubblegum.

You watch him, his hair parted in the middle with curls falling down his forehead. He smiles down at you, a slow, lip curling, dimple encased smile. It's earth-shatteringly beautiful and when he licks his lips, you feel it resonate directly between your thighs.

His hand comes up, running up your sternum and to your throat. He can feel your heart beating under the skin, fluttering just as severely as his is. His fingers grip your chin and he leans down. His nose brushes yours and your ass presses deliciously firm against his crotch and then you really feel him.

Your eyes flicker from his, down the strong line of his nose and to his lips. Bubblegum pink, plump, and inviting.

He lets out a soft moan and then he's kissing you. It's soft at first as if gauging your reaction. Maybe he's seeing how you like it. If you want it rushed. If you want it slow and patient and controlled.

Your hand wraps around his neck to hold him there and you open your mouth to flick your tongue against his lower lip. His comes out to meet yours and he tastes phenomenal. Like vodka and cranberry juice and lust.

Harry turns you in his hold and grips your ass in two strong hands. He hauls you upwards until your center is against his. He's hard and even through his pants, you can feel the impressive size of him.

The chorus seems to mirror the newly found excitement in two souls. Climaxing and exciting. You're dancing as if it's your love language. Melting into one person and obsessed with how his body feels against yours.

You can't help but kiss him again, obsessed with the way his lips cradle your bottom one. The way he nibbles on it a little bit. The way he moans against you and screws his hips up to you.

Your eyes open to meet his and over his shoulder, you can see Amber giving you an enthusiastic thumbs up.

His finger comes up to brush your lower lip before he kisses you again with a needy hum. You're not even thinking when you grab his hand and pull him towards the bathroom. You only register his warmth and his arousal and how you want to be closer to it.

He can sense your urgency, and you're both high as shit, two pairs of boots clicking against the floor. You're giggling messes of arousal as you lure him towards the bathrooms and try to find an empty one. There's a powder room, which seems all too fitting. It's deep mint green, luxurious for such a small space. The walls are orange swirls that wave in your vision.

You drag him in and close the door, automatically flipping the lock but he raises a brow when you unlock it again. His curls are askew, your orange lipstick in smudges on and around his mouth.

"Risky move, little fox."

"Shut up."

You're kissing him again. You press him up against the sink, his dick hard against you. He moans as you suck on his tongue and pull him as close as you can get him. His arms wrap around you, his hands fisting the material of your dress at the small of your back. It lifts, scrunching up and exposing your ass.

He grips the bare skin on his hands, rolling your center up against his. His fingers dip between your cheeks, slipping forward until he's brushing your clothed cunt with his fingertips.

You release a soft whimper and roll your warmth along his touch. You're already so wet, you can tell. And so can he.

But before he can explore any further, you're dropping to your knees. Harry swears under his breath as you palm him through his bubblegum pants, so hard and ready for you. You stare up at him, his pupils dilated from the snow and from you.

You pop the single button and pull the zipper down, suddenly not feeling very patient. Your attempt to inch them down so you can play with him further is stunted.

"These are so tight."

He offers a sweet little laugh into the air, pulling his pants down for you, his rings clinking as he does so.

When you finally set your eyes on him, it's then that you feel intimidated for the first time. He's not wearing underwear and for some reason, that alone is already so fucking hot. He's huge. In every aspect. In width, in length. The tip of him is the same colour of his lips, a rosy hue deepening the more turned on he's getting.

You slide forward, wrapping your hand around him. He's silky, smooth, and hot in your palm. You drag your fist up, a drop of pre-come pearling at the tip. You flick your tongue out against it, tasting the saltiness on your taste buds.

Harry groans at the sight of you on your knees for him. He bends down, cupping your chin and angling you up so he can kiss you. He tastes himself on your tongue and he spreads his hand along your cheek, rubbing it with his thumb.

"Keep going."

His expression is one of lustful encouragement as he straightens and you envelop the head in your mouth with a suck. You use your hand to work the skin, spreading the wetness from your mouth down his shaft.

You take him deeper, allowing yourself to become fully immersed in pleasing him. His hand tangles in your hair, guiding your mouth up and down his shaft.

He moans, deep and dirty and you feel it between your legs. He emits a soft sigh as you take him fully, your nose pressed against his abdomen. You can feel the hair there tickle your skin and you retract and start bobbing against him.

The bass of the music conceals the questionable sounds you're making and Harry's hand tightens in your hair as you work him. He rolls his head back on his neck, feeling the tingling in his spine sharpen and bridge out to every limb, every nerve.

Your mouth is searing hot and wet around him, your tongue caressing the underside of his dick. You struggle around the fullness of him but the way he's looking at you spurs you on. He feels amazing, the way he guides you, pushes you further but never past your unspoken boundaries.

You hold him in the back of your throat and the sound he gives you is almost a growl. It's low, derived from his chest and so fucking desperate. Using his hold on your hair, he pulls you back. You've made a mess of him and yourself. Orange lipstick smudges and your spit.

"Come here, little fox."

You stand, stumbling a little in your heels but he spins you and sits you on the countertop. Your dress slips high up your thighs and he squeezes at them. His touch slides higher and he hisses as he meets the lace of your panties.

Your hand comes down to meet his, encouraging it higher. Closer to where you need him. Harry kisses you, one hand on the side of your neck, the other up your dress.

And suddenly, it's like neither of you can wait anymore. You pull him towards you as he slips your panties down your legs, hanging from one ankle. His kisses move from your lips, a messy trail down your chin, your neck, the swell of your breasts.

Then he's kneeling in front of you, his gaze on yours before it slowly slips between your legs. You're saturated for him and his staring is so fucking intimate. He can't wait to taste you, to feel you.

His hand raises, his thumb brushing your clit. Your thighs tense as he rubs slow circles like he's winding you up. His thumb ventures south and parts your folds, collecting your wetness there and dragging it back up to your clit.

You let out a soft whimper as his pressure deepens. The added moisture from your arousal feeling somehow sweeter in addition to how he's touching you.

"Pretty thing." He coos, looking back up at you.

He withdraws his thumb and sucks it into his mouth with a hum. Without breaking eye contact, he lowers his head and flicks his tongue ever so gently against your sensitive clit.

You sway your hips up at the slight bit of attention, already desperate for more. He licks up your slit, fully tasting you and closing on your clit in a kiss. You gasp and take a fistful of his hair as he works your cunt with his mouth.

He moves lower, tonguing your entrance and slipping it inside of you while his nose buries itself against your clit.

He shakes his head from side to side, fully absorbed in you. He eats you out so intensely. An enthusiasm you've ever felt from another partner. You look down and his eyes are closed, fully enjoying his head between your legs where he's tasting you.

You pull his hair harder and he moans, the vibrations from it sent throughout your lower half.

Harry raises a finger to his mouth, sucking it past his lips to get it nice and wet. And then he slides it inside of you, flicking it up in a hook to press against your g-spot. Your spine straightens at the sensation, and he slips another finger alongside it. You whine out his name as he pulls the tips of his fingers along your sweet spot, pulsing them and building you up to your release.

He moves his whole arm with blinding speed, the pleasure increasing rapidly. No one has ever made you feel this way, a bliss so deep. He knows exactly what he's doing and he knows how insanely good he's got you.

He looks up at you and gives you the cockiest smirk before sucking on your clit. His teeth nibble on it gently before he traps it between them and flicks his tongue along it. You throw your head back, collapsing against the mirror.

Harry pulls you up, spinning you so you're bent over the counter with your ass perked back. He eats you this way, spreading you open to him and pressing his mouth tight against you. His nose is buried inside you, his tongue against your clit again and he slaps your ass. It's a mild slap but you moan nonetheless.

"Again." You gasp out, so close to coming and addicted to him.

"You're a dirty little fox, aren't you?" He spanks you again. Harder.

You turn and look at him. "Is that all you got?"

He breaths out a laugh and buries his face against your cunt once more, spanking the opposite cheek, hard. And then your lower thigh, right below your ass. The sting is softened by how beautiful his mouth is against you. He finds your clit again to drill his tongue on it.

"I'm close," You reach back, taking a fistful of curls and hold him there.

"That's it," He coos against you. "Come all over my face."

Your orgasm is an eruption of euphoria. Searing hot pink that melts into bubblegum pop. You cry out his name, your entire body going lax against the counter as you fucking shake.

His mouth never lets up, letting you ride through the pleasure of your orgasm. His mouth is slow to leave you as you come down, his lips kissing the skin of your ass.

You're not expecting it when his hands leave your ass all too quickly. You watch him in the mirror as he retrieves his little bag.

"Stay still." He orders. He taps powder onto your ass, right over a handprint he's left. He ensures the line is relatively straight with his finger, one that he soon after gives you to suck the powder off. And he snorts the line he's prepared, licking the residue off your ass with a devilish smile.

And, for good measure, he slaps you again.

You bite your lip to stifle a giggle, reaching back and wrapping your hand around his dick. You work his shaft and he staggers in a couple of steps closer. The tip of him nudges your ass, his pre-come kissing your skin and leaving it wet.

He moans, moving to grip your hips and fully standing behind you. His cock brushes between your legs and you whimper at the anticipation of feeling him even more.

"You want me to fuck you, sweet fox?"

"Yes,"

"Where are your manners?" He's teasing you now. You both know there's no way he's not fucking you.

He's just making you simmer in the heat he's stirred up.

"Please fuck me, Harry."

He loves how your name sounds leaving your mouth. Orange painted lips caressing each letter, sweet and fiery at once.

"There's a good girl."

You feel his tip slide between your folds, he dips his knees to adjust his angle. One hand around his shaft to guide it, the other on your hip with a grip that almost too tight. He takes a step forward, glides his hips forward. And it's pure ecstasy.

The way he stretches you is heavenly. It's a low, humming burn almost. A buzzing delight of feeling so full. He's so big and thick, tucked right up against your g-spot. It feels so fucking good and he hasn't even moved yet.

You release a hefty gasp as he moans out your name at the feel of you.

His other hand wraps itself in your hair to keep you looking at him in the mirror and then he's fucking you. His thrusts are delicious. He's fluid, like rolling waves to shatter a galaxy inside of you.

Your eyes meet his in the mirror and he gives you a slow smile before slapping the skin of your ass again. Before you can even cry out at the stinging sensation, he's fucking you so hard you have to bring a hand up to the mirror to balance yourself.

He settles behind you, his lips at your ear. Two sets of breath fog the glass of the mirror.

"That's it, watch me while I destroy this pussy."

The Hall of Mirrors. A second home to you, reflective and encasing. Now you're watching this man fucking destroy you in the bathroom mirror. Your pupils are dilated, much like his are. Black holes, targeting each other and threatening to consume each other.

He wraps his hand around your throat and screws his dick deep, massaging your g-spot so perfectly. You're sure that without the stability of the counter holding you up, you'd be a quivering pile of bones on the floor.

"Fuck, and you thought my pants were tight?" He smirks at you in the mirror.

You release a breathless laugh that's swept away when he starts pounding into you. He grunts with every thrust, taking you so hard you can barely breathe. His skin slaps against yours and he squeezes his hand around your throat to hold you still.

The snow is heightening every sense you have. Your ass is stinging more than normal, your arousal higher than normal. But you know that has more to do with him than narcotics. And when his other hand reaches around to rub your clit, you feel that so strongly that you cry out his name and fucking writhe underneath him.

"Take it, little fox. Take it like the good fucking girl you are."

He moves his hips more sharply, hitting that sweet spot inside of you. He pushes one of your legs up onto the counter and he's so much deeper that way. That in combination with the way he's playing your clit is driving you mental. You're so close and he can feel it, feel your walls tremble and tighten around him.

You're gasping out his name, helpless to how relentlessly he's fucking you. He growls as you clench around his dick, his hand on your throat slipping up so he can put two of his fingers in your mouth. You suck on them gratefully, using your teeth to show him how good he's fucking you.

You're so fucking close but he does the unthinkable... he pulls away. Completely. Leaving you empty and teetering on the edge, yanking you back abruptly.

He doesn't give you a second to question him before he's spinning you around and sitting you up on the counter. He steps forward and you scoot towards him, wrapping your legs around his waist.

Your hand takes his shaft once more, pulling the skin in a firm first. He moans and lulls his forehead against yours.

"I was so close." You pout hotly against his lips.

"I'll get you there again," He hums, grabbing the base of his dick and running the tip of it between your saturated folds. "Is this what you want?"

"Please," You lean forward and kiss him. His length nudges your entrance but he makes no move to do anything further. "Give me your cock."

"That's what I want to hear."

He smiles, wrapping his hand around your throat again and sliding inside of you with one smooth movement of his hips. Your mouth drops open at the fullness of him. He's so much deeper this way, and so much more intimate with the way he's staring at you.

"Fuck me, Harry. Hard."

He releases another moan, this one more of a growl, and starts fucking you again. Using his hold around your throat and another hand on your hip. He leans you back a little so he can fully enjoy the display of your body and watch where he's fucking you.

He brings your head forward by your throat, your mouth opening at the force and he takes the chance to spit in your mouth.

"Get your clit for me while I fuck this pretty little cunt."

You whimper, sticking your fingertips into your mouth to get them wet with your spit as well as his. And with a shaking hand, reach down with and rub your clit. You feel the bursts of your orgasm brewing, your walls quivering around him.

It's building quickly and you kiss him again, feeling them tingle in your toes with every brush of his tongue. The door behind him starts to open, a drunk man slurring his words behind it. Harry slams it shut while your hand flies from your clit.

"Ocupado!" Harry yells out, his hips faltering momentarily as he locks the door.

Your cheeks heat at the prospect of someone walking in and seeing you this way. A little in embarrassment, a little in excitement.

Harry senses that you're thrown off and fucks your harder, his fingers finding your clit. "Don't worry about him, sweet little fox. You're so close, let's get you there. I can fucking feel it."

You cry out as he destroys you from the inside out, working you into a pleasured frenzy. His hand pulls the top of your dress down over your tits and they spill out. He squeezes them, pulling at your nipples and biting them.

"Harry, oh my god-"

"That's it, come for me." He growls. "Put me away wet."

Your orgasm rolls through you intensely, staggering. Your hands claw at Harry's shoulders as you shake uncontrollably. His dick is unrelenting inside of you, his fingertips not letting up in the delicious patterns against your clit.

"Fucking shit." He marvels over how you feel, how tight and amazing you feel. He's so fucking turned on by you and his hips keep screwing against you.

You wrap your arms around him, burying your face into his neck and biting the skin there. He smells amazing. Like he's been dancing in a pool of vanilla and lavender all night. As you come down from your climax, you retract and watch where he's fucking you.

"Dreamy little cunt," He babbles, so out of it. "get so wet and tight when you come, don't you?"

"Only for you." You coo, kissing him again. He's already far better than any sexual partner you've ever had. Your walls are still trembling around him and every single tremor sends him closer to his end.

"I'm gonna come so hard- shit, you feel so good."

"I want you to come, Harry."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, I want you to feel as good as I do."

He smiles at you, dimples galore, his cheeks as pink as his pants. And then he pins you to the counter by your throat, spreading you back until you're pressed against the mirror. He starts fucking you harder, messier as his cock throbs inside of you.

"Stunning little fox, so fucking perfect. Dancing in this tiny little dress," His hands grip at your breasts some more.

"Harry-"

"Grinding your ass against me, getting me hard for you. Dirty girl, fuck. You own me."

He's working himself up now, his hand tightening around your throat and forcing you to keep looking at him. He's spouting out filthy words into the air between you, unashamed and doing so much for you. You can't help but reach down and play your clit again.

He gives you a laugh, one almost of disbelief. "You like when I talk to you, hm?"

"So much."

"You gonna let me fuck you again, sweet little thing?"

"You can fuck me whenever you want." Because you both know this is the beginning of something new and exciting.

That sets him off. His orgasm blooms and spreads. Pops like a bubble of gum. He pulls out, working his hand on his shaft so fast it's a blur. You move your hand and watch him in awe. He comes directly on your pussy, mouthing dirty words and breathless moans. His other hand gripping your thigh so hard you know it will bruise.

He watches where he's painted you, his come dripping on your lower abdomen, along your clit and your folds. He's a mess, breathing heavily and working the rest of his high from his length.

Thoughtless, he crouches and licks his orgasm from your skin. You moan as he kisses you there, licking every ounce of his come in his mouth. His tongue teases your clit and your thighs jump at the sensitivity.

He stands, cloudy and slow. And he grips your chin harshly, forcing you to open your mouth. As soon as you do, he's spitting heavily into it.

"Don't swallow."

As you fully taste his come on your tongue, he's kissing you. You moan, tasting his orgasm with yours, his tongue with yours. It's so dirty and unhinged but you can't help but feel fucking feral for him over it.

"Good girl." He praises as he pulls away.

He rights his attire, his movements lagged. Like the only thing he can fathom is you and everything else is a chore.

You stare at him, your panties hanging from one ankle, your pussy glistening and spent from him. Bubblegum obsessed. Chocolate curls addicted.

"Gorgeous little fox. Should we ditch this joint and head back to mine?"

You sit up and throw your arms around his neck and kiss him. "Yes, please."

"I want to enjoy you properly." He sighs against your mouth. "Get you out of this dress. Spread you along my sheets, watch your tits bounce while you ride me."

You breathe out a soft whimper at the idea of continuing this for the rest of the night. "I love the sound of that."

He kisses you, deep and wet. "Make you come until I'm dripping in you."

His length, returned to the confines of his pants once more, twitches against your thigh.

"We need to actually leave this room for that to happen." You muse.

He lets out a loud cackle, cupping the back of your neck to draw you towards him. He helps you fix your dress, your panties stripping from your foot and you raise a brow as he tucks them into the back pocket of his pants.

"Didn't know you'd have much room for anything else in those."

"That cheeky mouth is why you're not getting your panties back."

After another round of kisses, the two of you emerge from the room. And while you're both giddy with excitement from what has happened and what else the night holds, no one else in the club bats an eye. Your underwear feels heavy and scandalous in his pocket as he guides you through the crowded dance floor, both of your hands wrapped around one of his.

Thanks to his already tall frame, and heels, he locates his friend quickly. Who is chatting to Amber. You raise a brow at her with a cheeky smile at the sight of them dancing together.

Harry's friend holds his hand out to you, "Mitch!"

You shake his hand and introduce yourself, projecting your voice over the music. You turn to Amber. "We're going to head off, are you okay here?"

She nods frantically. "Honey, I'm so okay!"

Mitch and Harry exchange smirks and hug goodbye.

"Peace, love, and granola, Mitch!"

The air of Miami cools your skin as you step out onto the curb. Harry lags behind, admiring the curve of you and the skin the low hem of your dress offers. He grabs your hand and spins you in a little circle before giving an ear-piercing whistle to hail a cab.

He's all over you in the back of the car. His lips going from yours down your neck, the swell of your breasts. The hem of your dress hitched up, your legs slung over his lap as he fucking devours you. Savours you. Ravishes you.

His apartment, much like his attire is bold, bright, and brave. Warm oranges and reds. Like a sunset on fire, or the heated and sizzling arousal between you. It cozy and art deco and very much Harry. He offers you a half-assed tour of his home but he's undressing you with his eyes. The silhouette of your dress begging for him to see just how much better you are underneath the material.

And once you reach his bedroom, the large, circular bed is all you can focus on. Mint green bedding. The room itself is impressive, the wall behind the bed sporting what looks like a melted sunset. Orange, pink yellow all mended together to offer an accent. Harry peels off your boots and the yellow shaggy rug is soft against your toes.

He puts a record on to spin, Just One Look playing softly in the air.

Suddenly, you're on your back on the bed. Harry hovers over you, his hand cupping your cheek as if he really can't believe you're real.

Is he tripping on a tab of acid or are you really in front of him? Unbelievably lucid and dreamy. Causing fireworks and sunsets in his tummy.

Your eyeshadow matches his bedsheets, he realizes. Little fox, you're meant to be.

His sheets are crisp and smell of him. The tones of his sheets are similar to the mint green of the powder room as if a continuation of what started in there. Dirty, open, and vulnerable.

Like the disco balls in the Hall of Mirrors, fragments of two glass souls mended together in beautiful unity. Dazzling, luminous. Capturing every fraction of light to reflect it in hues every spectrum can admire.

[thetraumaking]

The Accursed Crown

Other Chapters

Chapter 15: Thief

One thing Azula hated most were thieves. 

Unfortunate souls who could not get a proper grasp on life, stealing from others around them. The scum of the world, pathetic weaklings deserving nothing but waste and scrap. 

As a princess, she had her fair share of encounters with thieves. Petty little servants worming their way through the cracks and ending up in her chambers. Not knowing that they will soon be caught red handed when they’re elbow deep in her treasury. They even had the gall to wear her jewelry, parading around as if they stumbled up to a gold mine. 

She has no tolerance for those who steal. Especially if they take what is hers. 

Especially if they are some petty brat from a primitive nation that still uses huts and wooden boats. No engineers, no notable achievements, no nothing. Beggars who survive off of what little they manage to hunt and bits of ice.  

Scavengers, that’s what they are. 

From the moment she got word that those water fleas would be coming to their palace, she was against it. Honestly, what was her grandfather thinking? Letting these peasants inside their palace. Allowing their poor polished floors be sullied by the mud and grime they track in. 

She burned those lowlives who stole from her, at least they made some nice dummies for her to blow off some steam. A healthy way for her to manage her anger. 

A productive way for her to channel her emotions to make sure she’s under control. 

For the past month or so, it was a great way for her to train and maintain peace within her mind. Though, as she looked at the low life carelessly touching you. 

Oh if she could treat her like how she treated those who stole from her, it would have been grand. Those filthy hands that grab at her belongings should burn like the cinders. Cracked, smoking, and hot. 

‘Having a proper outlet for strong emotions will help you in maintaining a cool head in battle’

Your word rang in her head like a mantra. She couldn’t possibly attack her without repercussions, Yue may be from a back wash nation but she is a princess nonetheless. Maybe challenge her to an Agni Kai? No, she’s not fire nation nor is she worth such an honour. 

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes. 

Yue currently had her hands placed over your cheek and neck, where the most notable of scars lay. One from the brand and one from the very first offence Princess Ursa had committed where you had to burn off. 

A ball of blue danced on the palm of her hands when she took aim. 

Azula knows she can’t possibly harm the great Northern Tribe’s little Princess, so she curls her finger just so her fire would graze ever so slightly against Yue.

An audible click of the tongue was heard when you dove to save the water girl. Your hand on the back of her head, protectively pulling her closer to your chest to better dodge any more possible “attacks.”

Deducting that her acting skills might need a bit more work, she clasped her hands together. “Oops, I’m sorry, my hand slipped.” Azula tilted her head ever so cutely, feigning innocence. 

Her eyes remained on Yue. If she has a working brain, she should know to play along. An open hostility towards their host nation won’t bode too well, especially if they want their negotiations to go well. 

She unclasped her hands when she saw you help the water girl up. When she got a closer look at you, she noticed that your skin seemed to be looser? Walking up to you, she got a better look. The branded scar on your cheek was healed, the skin looked even and smooth. That’s a first. Though the tattooed number remained intact. And that large scar in your neck was also missing, replaced by smooth skin. The hands that released Yue were quick to be snatched by her, she inspected your palms and only then did she notice the lack of those signature calluses and wounds that littered your hands. The very wounds she used to trace and play with when she was younger. 

She let go of your hands before dismissing you, sending you off to fetch beverages for their esteemed guest. How dare she modify you without informing her. Just because you’re a princess doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want. 

She watched Yue fidget under her gaze, although she’s taller and older than her, nothing but a simple angling of the head can’t fix. 

“I don’t know about you but I’m famished.” When you came back with a tray in hand, she smiled at the girl, “Well? The tea isn’t going to pour itself now is it?” 

Yue wouldn't be able to defy her. They are in their territory and they are the ones looking for appeasement, they are the ones who are looking for financial stability. When she saw Yue nod, she couldn’t help but smile as if a weight had been taken off of her. 

Good. The water tribe’s princess wasn’t a fool. 

Though, she wasn’t the wisest. One should never try to appease the aggressor. But she doesn’t need to know that. 

Yue kept her head down as she raised the cup to her, offering the tea. Keeping her smile on, she brought her hand to raise it, only for glass to shatter and hot tea to spill. 

“Oops, my hand seemed to have slipped once more.” The rich brown stained the white and blue of the princess’s dress. “Pour me another.” Lifting her empty —waiting hand— she smiled. 

The grimace she was rewarded with was quite satisfactory. She waited for the second pour and like before, her hand “slipped.” She heard the lid of the teapot rattle from how her hands shook. Despite being able to follow her father around for political affairs, she’s no good at masking her emotions it seems. 

The corner of her mouth twitched. She was enjoying this. 

Though, sparing you a glance, she lets out a huff. “Geez, you’re no good at this at all, Princess Yue. In any case, why don’t you use your bending to clean this mess.” She lazily gestured to the spilled tea and shards of glass littered across the grounds. 

“But, since my purpose wasn’t to come here to humiliate you–” at first, “It appears that your father’s plea may come to fruition—” there was a hopeful gleam in her eyes at her words, and she was about to crush it. “If he manages to win the duel to show his worth.”

She watches Yue try to suppress her tears, her lips trembling and brows furrowed. 

From what her father had told her, the water tribesman would be going against Zhao. Although he is the lowest ranking soldier that is within her circle, he did manage to land a position as their trainer. He must have some skill if he can, allegedly, fill your position. And your position is nothing to scoff at, rumoured to have royal blood, a young powerful soon to be general, the youngest and fastest to have risen up the ranks, and someone who has survived and thrived within the child officer program that had the mortality rate of sixty nine. *HAH.

Though, even if he did lose, it simply means that there will be a job opening for one fortunate soul. There will be no true losses on their part, a lousy lieutenant is hardly worth anything, besides, it's a small price to pay for the entertainment that they get to have. 

Before she could taunt her more, Yue sped past her towards the direction she came from, the glass teapot shattering upon impact. 

A second passed in silence before she crossed her arms, clicking her tongue, “That girl, she could have at least made herself useful and cleaned up this mess.” She then looked at you, you were still holding the tray. “Does she even know where the arena is?”

You stayed silent. 

Grumbling, she looked down at the spilled tea and porcelain. 

“What a waste.”

[cinewhore]

From Russia, With Love

Pairing: Captain Jonathan “John” Price x Fem!reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: fighting (reader is a boxer), blood, explosives, coma, angst. Reader is roughly the same age as Price, I don’t do age gaps! If I missed something, let me know. 

A/N: Finally getting hip to the COD boys! Reader is referred to as “Memphis” which is the name that was given to her while serving with the 141. I have plans for these two teehee. Also dropped in an Oberyn reference! dedicated to @mikeisthricedeceased  & @pettyprocrastination Hope y'all enjoy. Credits to the gif creator.

You wish they would kill you already.

You’ve been in this position for at least two hours, hands tied at the wrist, strung up like a goddamn piñata. You try your best to keep one pointed toe on the ground to help with your fluctuating shifting of weight.

The people responsible for you at the moment circle around you like piranhas, their thirst for blood knowing no end.

“You’re stronger than you look.” the bald one mutters, voice rasped by a long nasty habit of smoking. You hang your head as he approaches, wrinkling your nose against the stench of his warm breath. He rears back and punches you in the stomach again, sending you for a small spin. The ropes tug and burn your skin, the calloused material leaving your wrists rubbed raw.

The other man sits towards the back of the room, watching. It’s all that he did. He never interacted with you, letting the others get their hands dirty for him instead. You could hear the clinking of ice in his glass, a rather calming sound in comparison to the broken moans that slipped out of you as you continued to be pummeled. The ice clinks again once more and the glass is sat down, signifying the man's own interest in the events unfolding in front of him. He waves his head and the bastard gets one more lick at you before he retreats.

You cough and sputter, blood steadily trickles down the side of your mouth. The head honcho finally rises out of his seat and makes his way towards you, hands clasped firmly behind his back. He takes one of his index fingers to lift your chin up, eyes penetrating the depths of your soul. You’ve been in plenty of situations where you gave death the bird and paraded around without a single care for your life but this, this was different.

For once in your life, you were afraid of what the outcome would be.

“You are one with the infamous one-four-one, no?”

You nod weakly.

“You are one with me now. I own you. Do you understand?”

Silence.

“You are a fighter and I admire that. Not once did you break your loyalty to your team but yet, you landed here in my lap. Nearly left one of my men for dead. A silly little boxing game! I can take you to the big leagues, get you out of the gutter you were rotting away in. We can make some big cash, you and me. Just do what I say, when and how I say.”

He does something that scares you more than anything. You were expecting a hard slap, maybe even another punch but no. He kisses your cheek softly and leaves. Within a blink, you were cut down from your post and hoisted up by the others, all careful not to agitate your wounds. You had been inducted into a mob and didn’t even know it.

- TWO YEARS LATER -

It’s the fucking bout of the century.

The crowd sounds like the angry wrath of the sea, a constant white noise in your ear. That is, if you could fucking hear out of the left one. You had taken a hit to the side of your head and you were sure you were concussed but adrenaline kept you up on both feet.

Your mouth is pried open by your cornerman, Usov, who squirts some liquid into it before shutting it. You tilt your head back, swishing it around before spitting it out in the bucket shoved in front of your face. The once clear liquid was now rinsed red. His hands are steady as he tries his best to patch you up, your chief second spewing strategy in half broken english.

“I can’t hear you.” you mutter, wincing when Usov touches a particularly tender area.

“What?”

You point to your left ear. “Can’t fucking hear you.”

Solomin sighs but lowers himself in front of you, angling himself towards your right side. “Better?”

You nod. “Better.”

“You can beat this one, eh? You’re pulling your punches! That is not what I teach you.What should’ve been a clean knock from start, last too long. What are you scared of?”

Failure.

“She’s too quick.” you lie through your teeth, knowing that Solomin could see right through it.

“Yes, she is quick but you are quicker. She’s aiming for your left side because that is where you’re the weakest now. You must use that to your advantage and strike back twice as hard. You are the Red Viper! Never lost a match and now is not the time to start.”

Solomon grabs you by the back of your neck and you force your eyes off of the lights and your opponent in the adjacent corner. “Remember what it took to get here. The position we are both in. Death comes first.”

You didn’t need to turn around to know whose eyes were boring into your back. The whole reason you were here. A rumor spread that he put half a billion dollars on your head for tonight's match.

You could not lose. Too many things were at steak.

The bell tolls and Usov and Solomin give final words of wisdom before you're thrusted up off your stool and back into the ring.  

Nodding your head furiously, you begin prancing along on your feet, smashing your boxing gloves together in a steady rhythm.

The boss smirks as he senses a burst of energy in you, knowing that you were gonna bring it home to glory. The cigar he puffs on rests gently between his fingers, other hand preoccupied by the drumming of his digits. He could smell the copious amounts of cash you were gonna rake in for him and he desperately needed a vacation to the beach. Russian winters weren’t his favorite.

The ref signals for the next round to start and you’re off. You buzz around the ring like it's nobody's business, landing hit after hit. The crowd goes crazy as you corner your opponent, striking her viciously. The Red Viper never gives up until its prey is defeated.

But today, the Red Viper gets a surprise attack.

You do the one thing you were told to never do and that’s look into the crowd. Even for a millisecond, you shift your focus and gaze up. It’s almost as if your body had been taken over, forcing you to give in to curiosity.

Jonathan Price stands smack dab in the middle of a section, beanie low and chiseled arms crossed against his chest. He sees you and knows that you see him. A mistake so fatal you knew you were done before the moment passed.

A glove crashes into your face, hard, and you are down for the count.

Everyone in the crowd stumbles up to their feet, swarming into a frenzy. The once mysterious now beloved fighter was on the ground for the first time in her entire career. This was not good for business.

One.

You attempt to steady your breathing, eyes glossed over in a hypnotic haze. With a few slow blinks, the ring had vanished. You were laying on the ground amidst rubble, body emitting a low throb. Your brain kept signaling to the rest of your body that you were in danger but you couldn’t react.

“She’s over here!” you could hear the accent of Soap as he began to hurl slabs of concrete out of the way, creating a path that led straight to you.

Two.

Your head was supported as hands grabbed at you, lifting you from what you thought your final resting place would be. You were trying hard to form words but could not get your mouth to cooperate. It was as if you were weightless, floating aimlessly among the dark sky. In reality you were being carried by Soap and Gaz, who had taken you to the waiting chopper that was now clearing ground and  transporting your team to safety.

You thought you had enough time to clear the explosive but you just weren’t fast enough and caught the brunt of it.

Three.

You waver in and out of consciousness, the various faces of your team pleading for you to stay with them. You wanted to! They were your family, your safe haven and backbones. You’d take a bullet for each and every one of them. You didn’t expect the bullet to be a goddamn rocket launcher.

The injuries were extensive. The medic was sure that you wouldn’t be able to walk again, much less be mobile on your own. He expected you to make a lengthy recovery if you ever came out of a coma. Days turned into weeks and that slipped into months.

Work never ceased. The boys felt terrible leaving your side but they knew that they couldn’t sit around and wait for your eyes to open, if they ever did. Price was hit the most, an unspoken thing between the two of you. He showed no sign of emotion when others were around but when it was just the two of you, he poured his heart out. He urged you to wake up, to return back to him and the 141.

You never did.

Four.

He was leading a mission in Mexico when you woke up. He didn’t receive the message until a week after and when he returned, you were gone. Upon asking the medic where you went, the poor fellow just shrugged.

“What do you mean you don’t know where she went?”

“I already told you. She was awake, given clearance to continue her healing at home, some guy came to pick her up and she vanished.”

Some guy. Your brother.

You kept your familial background to yourself but had let Price know that you had an older brother who stayed in trouble. He was too smart for his own and that often caused him to get into situations he could never really quite get out of.

Five.

He knew that if he probed enough, he could find out your whereabouts but knew you. If you wanted him to know where you were, you would’ve told him. So, he waited. And waited. 

Six.

Your eyes roll around as you regain some sort of composure, legs shaking as you push yourself up off the ground.

“Holy shit.” Solomin whispers as the ref checks in with you quickly before jumping out of the way of your opponent. You smack your glove against your head, trying to get your head straight before you entered hell again.

The ref waves his head and you are back in the throes of war, clinging onto any semblance of hope left.

Your opponent swaggers over to you with a smug look on her face, certain that with another good hit or two, you’d be on your ass for good. You match her energy and smile widely, bloodied mouth and split lips creating a ghastly image. The Red Viper was no longer here, she was now replaced by a dead woman walking.

The hot water stings as you stand underneath the flow of the cascading shower. After a brief examination, you learn the outcome of the fight. You suffered a concussion, temporary hearing loss in your left ear, bruised ribs and cheekbone swelling along with the usual cuts and bruises. Pretty chill for such a huge occasion. You’re easy with yourself as you slowly wander back into your locker room, Solomin and Usov conversing quietly.

You had zero intentions of interacting with the cameras and groupies that awaited you beyond the doors, wanting to go home and fall victim to your bed. You knew that you had to remain alert for a few more hours given your injuries and Solomin normally stuck with you through them.

“You look like hell.” Your coach grins and you shrug him off, dropping your towel to the ground. Solomin turns his back to you as you manage to slip on a shirt and loose shorts, rolling your neck around.

“Been there and it’s honestly not as bad as it seems.” you reply, groaning as you flex a muscle in your arm.

“I hear the boss is very happy. He wants to celebrate tonight.”

You give Solomin a look and he nods, wringing his hands together. You weren’t one for the nightlife and knew that partying with the man who wagered such a high bet on your life wasn’t the best idea. Besides, you were in no shape to be around throngs of people and loud music.

“Maybe some other time, hm? I’d like to crash if that’s ok with you.”

“Doctor says you must rest for a minute,” Usov cuts in. “Are you hungry? I can get us some kebabs. We can eat here and wait for the people to leave.”

You honestly couldn’t stomach anything but nodded politely at Usov’s suggestion. He claps his hands together, patting you softly on the back as he exits the room. As he leaves, he passes by two individuals, brushing shoulders with one.

“Извини́.” Excuse me.

A guard stands at the entrance to your room and holds a hand out as the two men approach.

“No fans past the barrier. Fuck off.”

Price looks at the masked man beside him. “We’re here for a business proposition, per the boss's orders.”

The men looked extremely American, or at least not in the slightest bit Russian, to him and his stance falters. Their accents weren’t American though and he didn’t know what to make of it.

“We’re comrades of the fighter.”

“You’re not friends unless she says you are.” the guard retorts. So much for a smooth plan.

The door behind the guard swings open and Solomin steps out, a cigarette in his hand. He knew you dislike smoking and walked out to indulge in his habit. You feel that sinking feeling return to your stomach and you glance at the door, spotting Price and Ghost being hassled by the guard.

The guard turns to you, clearly flustered. “Do not worry, I will get rid of them.” He assures you but you motion at him to stop. Solomin can tell something is amiss by your cagey stance and lingers, awaiting your instruction.

You stare at the two men from your past, millions of memories flashing through your brain vividly. You had half a mind to tell them to kiss your ass, to have them sent away but once again, your inquisitive side wins.

“Let them in.”

You jerk your head at Solomin who continues on his quest to smoke. The guard makes way and your old teammates enter your locker room, the door clicking shut behind them.

Ghost stands back as Price draws near. Your breathing quickens at his scent, causing your throat to tighten.

“Hello, Memphis.”

[oceanlipgloss]

MISERY

SAERAN. [RAY_ROUTE]

+ warnings: heavy angst.

What does it mean, to be happy?

Happiness is a hard thing to understand. It is a treasure difficult to have. The sun shines every day, but the moon does not glow every night. If darkness itself stays and prevails, why wouldn’t misery?

When all he wanted was to gaze at the sky and watch clouds float away and by, why did tragedy have to nestle so deep inside his bones?

There was always something to despair about, something to feel the heart bleed over.

There was always something to hear, something to see, something to do.

There was always someone to obey, someone to listen to.

Freedom is a sweet fantasy.

So much like ice cream.

The first meeting tastes sugary on the tongue, but soon enough the cold spreads and freezes the lips—and, should one be the slightest bit late doing what must be done, the entirety of its softness drips and melts off into nothing.

Ice cream comes in so many colours, so many flavours. How did humans, with all their heartlessness and bitterness, make a confection so sweet?

It is sweet, but it also leaves a sort of heartache...

Was it because of the bittersweet memories it gave?

Freedom parades as an abstract of one entity, though in reality it too has a thousand flavours to its many charades.

There is the taste of sunshine in summer air and the way it caresses a sad child’s innocent face.

There is the scent of ocean, rich with salt and free to reach wherever it may please.

There is the white of clouds, which spreads over the blue sky like icing sugar and cream.

Clouds...

Clouds meld together, seep into one another. Waters meet, from both ocean and river. Seasons change, and yet they all four of them make a year.

Then why was his soul fractured into so many shards? He could not even find them all. Where had he dropped them, and where had they gone?

Long forgotten...

It was almost impossible to remember.

Why was his heart cut into so many pieces?

Why was his spirit shattered and his very self broken?

Why were there separate parts of him?

He was not him.

He was not him.

He was not him.

The kind, brave weakling.

He was his own being.

But how he wished...to be no one at all.

To be nothing at all.

Not a flower, not a weed, not even a thorn.

What was his place in the world?

He did not desire one anymore.

The fire had died. Now all he wanted was to watch the sky, follow the moving clouds with his eyes.

What would it feel like if he could pinch a little piece of cloud between his fingers?

It, too, shall melt and trickle away from him.

It, too, will leave him, like everyone else did.

If only he could hold a cloud in his arms, and melt away with it, too.

She had never given up on him, but no heart could ever accept who he was. The moon can never be the sun. Night will never become day. Light was never dark.

No one...needed him.

He had been trying to live, to prove those who hurt him wrong. He had been burning up for so long.

Every candle meets its end.

The truth is, he was meant to leave the very moment he was born. There was no way to deny it now.

His was a redundant existence. He did not believe in religion, yet he was crucified in this hell—nailed, speared, forever still.

Clouds...

Even clouds could move.

Even clouds were moving.

Where were they going?

Where would they go from here?

Would they float away to yet another slice of sky, or would they run off and disappear?

At least they would leave, then come back to hang up there for him forever again. The sky is vast and eternal, smooth like a bathtub. So no matter where the warm breeze takes them, no matter where the icy wind shoves them, they will always be born again, won’t they?

Unlike him.

It seemed that to the icy eyes of the world, it was as though he never even existed.

He had no rights. His soul was a mistake. Everything in nature and most everyone in civilisation seemed to have something they were entitled to.

Then what did he have?

Violence and intoxication had ever quite stitched his heart. He could feel the pesky organ getting torn from the seams to its core.

There was so much blood. He had lost so much blood, and yet the bleeding wouldn’t stop. Just like the pain, the despair.

If he truly never existed in the world, if he truly was not even something as invisible as a ghost, what would the throbbing wounds and oozing scars in his heart be, if not evidence of his soul? What did that make his memories?

It was so, so real...it had never been a fantasy. They were proof, the anguish, the agony.

Clouds had the chance to start over, to condense into a new life—so why didn’t he?

Why couldn’t he?

Why?

Why?

Why?

As a child, he had dreamt of growing up and roaming free. He had dreams made of cloud and sky and ice cream. He had held his other half dear.

Now, he had nothing.

He was empty.

Yet, as much as he missed some things, he did not want to go back to being a child.

It meant ‘promise of happiness,’ the lily of the valley. He can't make her happy, but maybe the hopeful one could. And if he could stay, he would just quietly watch over them from afar.

Promise of happiness...

Happiness would never be his ally. That’s why all he wanted was to gaze at the sky, watch the clouds as they go by.

It was all torture and torment either way. What difference would revisiting childhood or staying in the present make?

He may not agree with him, the trampled weed, the ray of light, his other side—but wishes are hideous traitors, horrendous heartbreakers. They are the useless paper swords of silly little knights.

Although that’s what wishes were, he had a wish.

He had one.

He dared to hold one of those pathetic, brittle swords.

All he wished was for someone to erase every thought in his mind, to smear his memories into nothing.

+ MASTERLIST

+ AO3 POST

©𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙨

[allvalleyskillschallenge]

November: Loss & Life

From the cooling weather to the turning colors of the leaves, Autumn is a time of transformation and reflection. Of mourning and celebration. It's a bittersweet season; the falling leaves remind us that in the sorrow loss, there is also great beauty in letting go.

Accordingly, the All Valley Skills Challenge theme for November is:

Below, you will find this month's prompts. Our mods have created a series of moodboards, each inspired by a Festival of the Dead from a culture represented in the Karate Kid and Cobra Kai universe. We've also included a short description of the unique traditions of each:

(Moodboards by @idontknowkaratebutiknowcrazy, @desolateice and @wicked-jade.)

Dia de los Difuntos - Ecuador Celebrated on November the 2nd, and coinciding with All Souls Day, Ecuador's Dia de los Difuntos (Day of the Deceased) is a holiday that combines Catholic tradition with the death rituals of the indigenous Quechua people. On this day, families gather to honor and celebrate the lives of loved ones who have passed away. Traditionally, they visit cemeteries to clean graves and to bring gifts of flowers and food to share with those they've lost. The belief is that the food will help give souls strength for their journey to the afterlife. Stalls selling guaguas de pan (bread babies - a sweet bread piped with colorful icing, shaped to resemble a doll or baby) and colada morada (a thick, dark purple corn drink, served hot) line the streets, along with vendors selling other treats and grave decorations. In rural areas, it is common for families to dress in their finest clothes and share a picnic together in the cemetery. The festivities also often include carnivals and parades.

Kyu-Bon (Obon) - Okinawa/Japan The Obon Festival, also called Kyu-Bon in Okinawa, is celebrated throughout both Okinawa and Japan. While the holiday is based on the solar calendar in mainland Japan, in Okinawa, it follows the lunar calendar. This means it can fall anywhere from mid-July to early September. Always starting on a Monday, the celebration lasts for three days. It is customary for Okinawans from all over to Japan to return to their hometowns, in order to observe the holiday with their families. On the first day (Unke), families hang glowing lanterns outside and leave their doors and windows open, to guide and welcome the spirits of their ancestors home. They also leave offerings such as sugarcane sticks and uchikabi paper (money for the afterlife) on the family altar. On the second day (Nakanuhi), families prepare food, visit other relatives homes, and exchange gifts. The final day (Ukui), is a time for feasting, celebrating, and sharing stories. Prayers and goodbyes are said before sending the spirits back to the afterlife. Food, handwritten notes, and uchikabi paper are placed in a large bowl as a gift for the ancestors. The contents are then burned, so the spirits can take the offerings with them when they go. Over the course of the festival, colorfully clad Eisa dancers march through the streets, entertaining both the crowds and the spirits by dancing, chanting, drumming, and playing folk songs on the sanshin.

Chuseok - South Korea Celebrated on the full moon of the 15th day of the 8th month of the lunar calendar for about a 3 day holiday. People return home bearing gifts, visit and clean grave sites, and share a feast. Parts of these feasts include songpyeon (a type of colorful rice cake), types of Hangwa like the honey cookie yakgwa, fruit, baekju (a type of alcohol), jeon (savory pancakes), japchae, bulgogi and more. Food will also be set out at a in-home memorial for the ancestors and those who've passed. Games are played like Yut Nori, as well as sports like Ssireum (a type of wrestling), and Taekkyon (a type of martial arts). There is also a dance, Ganggangsullae.

All Souls Day (Il Giorno Dei Morti) - Italy Also coinciding with All Souls Day, Il Giorno Dei Morti is the Italian Day of the Dead. While November 1st (All Saints Day) is the day to honor the Catholic saints, November 2nd is reserved for honoring dearly departed loved ones. On this day, families flock to cemeteries in order to pay their respects to the dead by lighting candles and laying flowers - customarily, bouquets of chrysanthemums - on their graves. In Sicily and other parts of southern Italy, parents will hide small gifts, such as toys, sweets and Pupi ri Zuccaru (sugar puppets) around the house for their children to find. The children are then told that the gifts were left for them by their deceased relatives, who came to visit them in the night. Traditional foods vary from region to region. Pan dei morti (bread of the dead) is consumed in almost every part of the country. Other treats include Frutta di Martorana (marzipan sweets from Sicily), and Ossa dei morti (bones of the dead - crunchy, almond-flavored cookies that are shaped to resemble bones.)

You will have one month from today to create and submit fanworks inspired by this theme. This is your chance to show off your creative skills, whatever they may be. From writing, to art, to everything in between. Our goal is to encourage all forms of creative expression within the TKK/CK community. All pairings and ratings are welcome.

This round will officially close on Monday, November 30th at noon, CST, so if you would like for us to share your works, make sure to submit them before the deadline. Tag us @allvalleyskillschallenge and #allvalleyskillschallenge, to make it easier for our mods to find and reblog your works!

We’ve also created an AVSC Collection on ao3, if you would like to add your works there. We highly recommend that artists who wish to share uncensored, NSFW content do so on ao3, to avoid violating tumblr’s guidelines.

Please check out our FAQ for more details. If you have any further questions, feel free to contact us at @allvalleyskillschallenge, our asks are open.

[endawn]

the execution of the divine crusader angle in the knights of the nine dlc could’ve been better, but im of the mind it put pax on a demigod power level. or, well, made him a demigod ( physically augmented, even more dogged endurance, deeper connection to his arcane abilities/magicka, etc… ) but one bound on strict parameters set in place by all nine divines. they did not want a repeat of the first divine crusader. too many missteps outside of these rules and they strip the champion of their blessed divinity. it’s considered a lifelong honor and obligation. pax relinquishing his mantle stirred a certain bitterness in his gods, especially akat..osh. the dragon god. the aedric spirit is the ultimate god of the cyro..dilic empire, where he embodies the qualities of endurance, invincibility, and everlasting legitimacy while promoting the virtues of duty, service, and obedience. being the chief deity of the imperial pantheon, his word reigns over the other eight. they cast pax down; forsaking him in their anger. returning him to his place as a mere man once more. as he fell from their gaze, darker forces conspired at the opportunity; laying in wait. a vampiric sect of the former mythic dawn cult was the first to make the move with mol..ag bal orchestrating the attempt. granting his spawn the ability to plunge a town in darkness. asking them to feast from them, sending their souls to him. to draw his true prize out. do this and they would be bestowed more power as a vampire lord. drink the blood of the gods from their champion and they’d be reborn in mol..ag’s image. and they did, they lured him. captured, bloodied and broke him. paraded him among the skewered corpses of the men that followed him to their demise. impaled on defaced totems of the eight gods. prepared him to receive their lord atop an alter of stone. blood of the so symbolically sacrificed coalesced with the blood of the father of undeath that poured forth from the alter and into a basin. from this basin, they collected the holy corruption and forced pax to consume it. he could remember the looks on their faces, twisted & eager. knowing if they did this, they’d be rewarded beyond imagining. it disgusted him. scared him. he was tainted. almost taking hold within him in an instant. ice forming in his veins, spreading through his body until it reached every inch of him. then, it turned hot. burning, melting. yet still freezing. it was unbearable and he screamed in an attempt to overcome the pain. they jeered. his skin rippled as if thousands of tiny air bubbles were trying to escape, it felt like his bones had snapped, his muscles ripped. he screamed until lungs turned to sludge within ribcage. gurgling replaced the sound as he attempted to scream more. he could feel his heart start a course of rapid, racing beats that threatened to pull itself from his chest. his back arched against the cold stone, legs kicked in an attempt to carry his body away from this hellish reality he found himself in. many hands grabbed him and pulled him back into it. his fingers curled into his palms, cutting into his own skin as muscles tightened and grew rigid. the beats of his heart slowed, but they slammed into his chest and ears. pounding as it tried to leave its contaminated vessel. falter it did in its attempt and the beating grew weaker. the pain no longer registered in his mind. nothing did. a dagger hung above him, swinging as if tethered like a pendulum. his eyes gazed passed as their faces blurred and morphed into grey smudges while darkness crept into the edges of his vision. tendrils filling them until the light was choked out. the dagger dropped, piercing chest. a ninth representation of their weak gods. the dragon hilt weeped as it split the heart of its forsaken champion.

[imsogayyippee]

favorite lyric from each mcr album?

oh that's. pretty hard to decide hold on

long ass post sooo ↓

so from bullets, some lines i really like are:

"and you must keep your soul like a secret in your throat" (vampires will never hurt you)

"Oh, how wrong we were to think that immortality meant never dying" (our lady of sorrows)

"with ice cold hands and grabs a hold of your heart/that's if you've still got one that's left inside that cave you call a chest" (skylines and turnstiles)

"i'd end my days with you in a hail of bullets" (demolition lovers)

"And after all the things we put each other through and/I would drive on to the end with you/a liquor store or two keeps the gas tank full and/I feel like there's nothing left to do/But prove myself to you and we'll keep it running" (demolition lovers)

"All we are, all we are/Is bullets, I mean this" (demolition lovers)

"As lead rains will pass on through our phantoms/Forever, forever/Like scarecrows that fuel this flame we're burning/Forever and ever/Know how much I want to show you you're the only one/Like a bed of roses, there's a dozen reasons in this gun" (demolition lovers)

from three cheers for sweet revenge:

"Can you hear me?/Are you near me?/Can we pretend to leave and then/We'll meet again/When both our cars collide" (helena)

"well, don't I look pretty walking down the street in the best damn dress I own?" (give 'em hell, kid)

"pain in my heart for your dying wish/I'll kiss your lips again, yeah" (you know what they do to guys like us in prison)

"pull the plug, but i'd like to learn your name/when holding on/oh, i hope you do the same" (the jetset life is gonna kill you)

"Preach all you want, but who's gonna save me?/I keep a gun in the book you gave me" (thank you for the venom)

"Don't stop if I fall and don't look back/Oh, baby, don't stop/Bury me and fade to black" (hang 'em high)

"when you go, just know that I will remember you/if living was the hardest part/we'll then one day be together/and in the end we'll fall apart/just like the leaves change in colors" (it's not a fashion statement, it's a fucking deathwish)

"And we'll love again, we'll laugh again, we'll cry again, and we'll dance again!/and it's better off this way, so much better off this way/I can't clean the blood off the sheets in my bed!/and never again, and never again/they gave us two shots to the back of the head/and we're all dead now" (i never told you what i do for a living)

from the black parade:

"you might wake up and notice you're someone you're not/if you look in the mirror and don't like what you see/you can find out first hand what it's like to be me" (the end.)

"and would you even turn to say i don't love you like i did yesterday" (i don't love you)

"tell me i'm an angel/take this to my grave/tell me i'm a bad man/kick me like a stray" (house of wolves)

"You should have raised a babygirl/I should have been a better son" (mama)

"and if you would call me your sweetheart/i'd maybe then sing you a song/but there's shit that i've done with this fuck of a gun/you would cry out your eyes all along" (mama)

"so shut your eyes/kiss me goodbye/and sleep/just sleep/the hardest part's the awful things that i've seen" (sleep)

"na, na, na, na, na, na, na (let's blow an artery) /na, na, na, na, na, na, na (get plastic surgery) /na, na, na, na, na, na, na /keep your apology, give us more detonation" (na na na)

"coming out of this place in a bullet's embrace" (bulletproof heart)

"are we still having fun?/are you holding the gun?" (planetary (GO!))

"they laugh, we don't think it's funny/if what you are is just what you own/what have you become when they take from you/almost everything?" (DESTROYA)

there's probably more but it's late and ive been writing this for like an hour LMAOOO im sorry 4 not answering before

[ghoulangerlee]

this is something completely separate to Necropolis, because in this one Copia isn't the one struggling with coming back, but it's Sunshine and Rain struggling with Copia being back.

not a full fic (hopefully) just some thoughts and bits and pieces and overall Copia being patient with the two of them. I adore Sunshine and Rain so much and the potential (in my mind) as the first and last ghoul summoned... (this is my hc for it haha)

tw for this is main character death/described murder but that's about it :) hurt/comfort little scene where Copia loves his two ghouls.

They haven't left his side since he came back, at all times they're there. Waiting by his bed while a group of nurses and assorted ghouls make sure his stitches are healing properly, make sure there are no sort of irregularities with his reanimation.

There isn't, and when he finally gets the clear and the nurses and assorted ghouls clear out, he breathes a deep sigh of relief that pulls a brief wince to his face at the way his lungs suddenly fill with air.

When he looks over at his two ghouls, he feels a twinge of sadness, something sorrowful tugging at his bonds with them—that had come back too, thankfully, no need to rebond and risk hurting the two of them more; it had just woken up only a few moments after his own eyes had opened, snapping into place and rushing over him like fire and ice fighting for their place.

He goes to sit up properly, the latest round of testing had left him half reclined in a position that wasn't too kind on his lower back, and both Rain and Sunshine rush over to him suddenly, their hands were gentle and part of him was grateful for their help, but something about it felt wrong, as they helped him sit up properly, Rain's hands leaving him to tuck his pillows behind his back.

It's a bit strange then, as they both seem to flinch back and come to parade rest at each side of his bed, like they're being too familiar, like they're scared of him.

He doesn't like it—neither of them have removed their helmets since the room had cleared out, despite the three of them being together in the privacy of the papal suite where no one else would disturb them.

"My ghouls," he says, warm and gentle, a careful offering of all his cards packed within two words, "No one else should bother us now," he continues, reaching down to pat the bed with his bare hand, "Come and sit by me, it seems there are things we need to discuss."

It's not an order, but with the way both Sunshine and Rain act, it's as if he ordered them to sit by him or their death would be called for instead—he hates it, the way their bodies seem to move unnaturally as they try and settle on each side of the bed, as close to the edge as possible.

He aches, wants the two of them closer, he knows his death had affected everyone, he knew that's why he was brought back; his death had been premature and uncalled for and he already had the others looking into it, trying to find as many leads as possible, for their death would be much more drawn out, less of a mercy than he had been allowed. (A knife to his throat, a horrible horrible mimicry of before. He'd bled out, dying slowly in the basement, while he clawed at the ground and tried to weakly pull on his ghouls' bonds.)

"Thank you for saving me," Copia says, for the first time, looking between Rain and Sunshine, "For bringing me back." He reaches out, carefully, towards Rain and takes his hand, feeling the water ghoul jump at his touch, "I heard that with your quick thinking you were able to find a spell that could restore my soul to my corporeal form," he squeezes Rain's hand and through that he can feel him shake.

He keeps his hand in Rain's as he looks over at Sunshine, staring through the lenses of her helmet, copper eyes brightly burning even through the darkened glass, "And you, my lovely," he says, holding his hand out, nearly wincing when Sunshine grips his hand so tightly the blood flow is cut off, "You did so well, helping Rain, keeping me safe," he squeezes her hand back, even through the tightness of her grip, "I am forever grateful to have you two by my side."

Neither of them react much beyond just looking at him, and he knows, and understands, he must be patient with them, careful. He'd heard before of what had happened to previous ghouls, the madness when their summoner had passed on, he thinks back to Omega and Ifrit and even Mist had experienced a touch of the madness after his predecessors' deaths.

He couldn't imagine how his miraculous reanimation would affect any of it.

"Please, take your helmets off, just for me. I know..." He trails off, wonders if even asking this of them is something he can do, but they're the only two he hasn't been able to see, to make sure they're alright, "I won't order it of you, but, if you want to now. Just around me, I want to see your faces, I want to make sure you're alright."

There's silence, and it's thick and heavy, but he waits, ever patient, and slowly, Rain pulls his hand away from Copia's, bows his head and slowly removes his helmet.

His hair is messy, shaggy and hanging somewhat limply around his ears, and he has dark circles under his eyes—he looks tired, and Copia's heart aches for him, longs to bring him into his arms and hold him.

The bed shifts and Sunshine's next to pull away, her movements clumsy as she removes her own helmet, the sharpness of her gaze, the distrust, makes Copia wish he could turn back time and be better prepared. Be more aware.

His death was no one's fault but the person who had called for it, but he'd never considered in the past what that would mean for his ghouls. How they would handle it. And for that, he was guilty. He would do better. He would be more aware of his surroundings. Be more careful with those he befriends.

He reaches his hands out once again, one to each of them, "I have one more ask of you, tonight," he starts carefully, waiting for them to place their hands in his, and then he tugs them carefully, closer, projecting through the bond an image of before his death, late at night, the three of them curled up together in this very bed. Rain and Sunshine purring as Copia held the two of them close.

Sunshine makes a noise, somewhat of a snarl, a choked off sob and when Copia looks over at her, she's got tears in her eyes, holding steady but threatening to fall.

"Oh Sunshine," he whispers her name, sweetly, "Come to me, my Sunshine, you've kept me safe, let me hold you now," he murmurs, giving her hand one last gentle tug before she folds, nearly throwing herself onto the bed beside him, her arm around him as she clings to him tightly.

Rain is watching them, guarded and careful, pain in his eyes, pain shining through the bond, and Copia pulls him in slowly, "I'm right here, Rain," he says softly, guiding Rain down beside him, letting the water ghoul press his face into his throat as he curls an arm around his shoulders, cradling him close.

"Oh, my loves, I never wished for my coming back to hurt the two of you this much." He whispers after a few moments, "If me coming back hurt you this much, I only wish my death could have given you more closure."

There's a snarl, twin angry sounds that echo in the quiet room, and Rain is the first to lift his head, glaring down at Copia with, "Your death would have destroyed us," he says with such a strong conviction that Copia feels faint suddenly, pulling Rain back down into his embrace as he murmurs apologies into his hair.

[flushthethrone]

(Southern Vangard) Episode 368 - Southern Vangard Radio

BANG! @southernvangard #radio Ep368! Summer is in full swing - Doe and Meeks are here for every single second of it. A brand new bottle of Rowan’s Creek kicked off this weeks episode something lovely, you don’t want to miss this one. In other news, we hit Affiliate status on the Southern Vangard Twitch channel this week - make sure you show your appreciation for 8 years, 368 mix shows and over 250 interviews by subscribing. With that sub, you get some fly custom emotes designed by the one and only WHITE SAYED, and you support the best hip-hop mix show / podcast / Twitch stream on the planet. Yeah that’s right we still ya daddys and YOU WAAAAALCOME!!!!! #SmithsonianGrade #WeAreTheGard // southernvangard.com // @southernvangard on all platforms #undergroundhiphop #boombap #DJ #mixshow #interview #podcast #ATL #WORLDWIDE #RIPCOMBATJACK

Recorded live June 25, 2023 @ Dirty Blanket Studios, Marietta, GA

southernvangard.com

@southernvangard on all platforms

#SmithsonianGrade #WeAreTheGard

twitter/IG: @southernvangard @jondoeatl @cappuccinomeeks

Talk Break Inst. - "Deleted Never" - Dub Sonata

"Hostile Takeover" - Teflon ft.. Benny The Butcher (prod. DJ Premier)

"Konnected" - 2 Eleven & T.F ft. Trizz

"Wind Parade" - J Scienide X Napoleon The Legend

"Yeah" - Rec Riddles & Capo

"Kami's Lookout" - Mvck Nyce

"Excuses (The Beatjunkie314 Remix)" - Edo. G & Mr. Skip

"Chatham Kids" - Vic Monroe

Talk Break Inst. - "Everywhere I Go" - Dub Sonata

"Money 2 Burn" - Substance810 & Observe ft. DJ Grazzhoppa

"Episodes" - Hus Kingpin & SmooVth (prod. Giallo Point)

"Special Sauce" - 2 Eleven & T.F ft. Roc Marciano

"Inspired By Martial Arts" - NapsNdreds (prod. Nottz)

"Flushing / Lefrak" - Royal Flush ft. N.O.R.E.

"Ice Man" - Hus Kingpin & SmooVth ft. M.A.V. & SageInfinite (prod. Macapella)

Talk Break Inst. - "Somebody Shoulda Warned Ya" - Dub Sonata

"Mayor Of Bronzeville" - Waterr & Spanish Ran ft. Vic Spencer

"Ghostdrop" - DNTE & Hagakure

"Rack Em Willie" - Rec Riddles & Capo ft. The Bad Seed

"Make A Deposit" - Substance810 & Observe ft. Josiah The Gift

"The Whole Leaf" - The F.O.G. (AOS & J Biz) ft. Dynas

"7 Day Cycle" - Waterr & Spanish Ran ft. M.A.V.

"Just For You (For Christopher "Crescendo" Mercado)" - Soy Is Real & Knaladeus

Talk Break Inst. - "Tranquilizer Dart" - Dub Sonata

** TWITCH ONLY SET **

"The Universal Magnetic" - Mos Def

"Don't Nobody Care About Us" - Phat Kat (prod. Jay Dee)      

"Pause" - J Dilla x Frank 'n' Dank

"Make'em NV [Dilla's Mix]" - J Dilla

"Rare Species (Modus Operandi)" - Mobb Deep

"All 4 The Cash" - Gang Starr

"Truly Yours 98" - Pete Rock ft. Large Professor & Kool G Rap

"Half Man Half Amazin'" - Pete Rock ft. Method Man (prod. Grap Luva)

"The Twilight" - J. Sands ft. Grap Luva

"Who Am I (Remix)" - Sound Providers ft. Grap Luva

"The Field" - Sound Providers

"Mad Scientist" - Large Professor

"I Juswannachill" - Large Professor

"Disseshowedo" - Souls Of Mischief

"Catch A Bad One" - Del The Funky Homosapien

"You Flunked" - Casual

"That Bullshit" - Casual ft. Pep Love & Saafir

"Burnt" - Del The Funkee Homosapien    

"Soul Flower (Remix)" - The Pharcyde

"Jayou" - Jurassic 5

SOUNDCLOUD

https://soundcloud.com/southernvangard/episode-368-southern-vangard-radio/

https://on.soundcloud.com/3NYjm (SHORT LINK)

APPLE PODCASTS

https://itun.es/us/QyyX9.c/

SPOTIFY PODCASTS

http://bit.ly/svrspotifypodcasts

YOUTUBE

https://youtu.be/omOaTkxppFc

GOOGLE PODCASTS

http://bit.ly/svrgooglepodcasts

TWITCH

http://twitch.tv/southernvangard

MIXCLOUD

https://www.mixcloud.com/southernvangard/episode-368-southern-vangard-radio/

#SouthernVangard #DJJonDoe #EddieMeeks #DubSonata #Teflon #BennyTheButcher #DJPremier #2Eleven #TF #Trizz #JScienide #NapoleonTheLegend #RecRiddles #Capo #MvckNyce #EdoG #MrSkip #VicMonroe #Substance810 #Observe #DJGrazzhoppa #HusKingpin #SmooVth #GialloPoint #2Eleven #TF #RocMarciano #NapsNdreds #Nottz #RoyalFlush #NORE #MAV #SageInfinite #Macapella #Waterr #SpanishRan #VicSpencer #DNTE #Hagakure #RecRiddles #Capo #TheBadSeed #JosiahTheGift #TheFOG #AOS #JBiz #Dynas #Waterr #SpanishRan #SoyIsReal #Knaladeus #MosDef #PhatKat #JayDee #JDilla #FrankNDank #MobbDeep #GangStarr #PeteRock #LargeProfessor #KoolGRap #MethodMan #GrapLuva #JSands #SoundProviders #SoulsOfMischief #DelTheFunkyHomosapien #Casual #PepLove #Saafir #ThePharcyde #Jurassic5

[jmscornerlibrary]

So I liked @nipuni 's Vincent and Lucille so much that I wrote a little story based on them! (Nipuni if you are reading this I hope you don't mind :)

"A late October wind began to sing, from the north. In duet the sea waves riled up and began to lash out at the cliffs and wail for all they were worth. Lucille put down her book, enthralled in a flash, for her heart was filled with the ocean's soul, but though she heard its calling, Vincent did not. Like she'd told him before, in his chest was a hole, a pit filled with sharp ice, where it should have been hot and aflame, like what the ocean wished to convey through its screaming and singing with the wind as its guide and she knew not, as she watched his face then, with dismay, that his indifference, displeasure, was a guise meant to hide his own book, his own story, deep down in his heart, filled with darkness and loathing of both others and self, which she didn't, could not know; their hearts must be apart and this dark and horrible book firmly shut, on his shelf.

"Mister Vincent," she said, turning to him from the window, at which she watched the waves soar, with unspeakable longing. "Let us go for a walk, let us with the wind mingle, In its passionate song find a sense of belonging."

Mister Vincent looked up, from his practical paper of news and of business and things meant for men of his status. An eyebrow was arched, the mask of reading reserved for a little bit later, dark thoughts and jaw-clenching put on hiatus.

Sharp words were brought to his tongue for this woman so strange, this woman so pitiably fanciful, innocent and romantic, she sent his damned, accursed heart far out of his range to control, sent his heartbeat and movements unpredictable, frantic, and his temper escaping from its papery cage, slipping through his steel fingers, fingers hardened by life, sending his insides twisting and turning with black, suppressed rage at himself and at her and at existence’s prison, casting between them the shadow of strife.

He donned his throwaway words with a chuckle and scoffed, "Go for a walk?" Then he thumbed at the cold, silver head of his cane as he thought. "I don't think so," said he. "Over this vile wind we won't hear ourselves think, save talk." He believed it was triumph with this statement he wrought, so he twitched his practical paper once more, preparing a theatre of silence and an occupation parade, when she moved with a face which deemed him a bore, away from the window, within her own masquerade; she summoned a servant, said, "My coat, if you please," and after donning it, turned, and spoke to him, prim: "What, Mister Vincent? I've a coat, I won't freeze. I know the way to the coast and it isn't too dim. You don't wish to come with me? That's all very well, it will give me something to speak of; a short story to tell."

Vincent felt his veins searing, his muscles go tight, he rose from his armchair; his paper was crushed - he had tightened his fist so he his temper could fight; a fight which he lost. His face became flushed, as he met with her stubbornness, will unmovable, cursed for he loved it and hated it and let his heart burn every time they argued and feuded, and he deemed it the worst, for these matters they fought over were as trivial as rhyme!

"Are you foolish?" he cried, though the answer he knew, "Are you mad, Miss Lucille? Do you wish to be dead? Have you lived so little years, have you lived them too few? Have you really so little gathered here, inside your head? You will go to the coast in this ridiculous storm?! Great heavens! What now!"

He scowled down at her slight, very beautiful form, and found a frown on her face from his part in this row. "And if you found me dead, Mister Vincent, what difference would it make?" His heart stilled at her words, but she wasn't quite done. "By far you've only treasured silence, deemed my presence a mistake with your snide words and cold comments which over warm ones have won. Not everybody's a poet. Not everyone's blessed with a heart. But you're aground, I'm adrift. I can and will move, as you stay still as stone-" Vincent couldn't take it. She was tearing him apart with her words without truth. Heavens! She said she felt alone!

But she didn't know! She knew not that the reason he could breathe when before he was drowning in his own passionate sea and had to bury his heart, let it sleep buried beneath the rocks he built his existence upon to be free, was her! Her alone, with her strange, silly fancies, her words which woke up the parts of him he forgot he possessed, her books which she hid the titles of sheepishly, her romances, she alone put his howling, black demons to rest!

Lucille's eyes widened. She didn't know this sight, when his heart twisted into knots like a rope, when his pain clawed itself out of his chest in a bloodthirsty fight with the rest of his tolerance and remnants of hope.

Vincent leaned on his cane. His breathing was short - his left breast was finally soaked with the red of his veins - No words would help him, it was no use to retort for Lucille was right to think of her own hidden pains, which he knew not how and thus did not reach her to soothe, too used to his stupid, practical papers and silence. The former now lay crumpled and wretched and he could not move, save whimper and clutch at his chest in an attempt at vigilance.

"Mister Vincent," she whispered, as he fell into his chair. "You are bleeding… Your chest!" His cane fell with a clatter as his eyes disobeyed him, shedding a tear. "It's nothing," he managed, voice hoarse. "I just need to rest." He looked at her and whimpered; in her eyes… Was it fear? What was it of? Of his pain, or of him? Could it be that she held him even a little bit dear?

"Vincent," she spoke, her voice quiet and firm, "you're in terrible pain." He didn't speak; he could not. He clutched at his chest, repressing tears and helpless snarls in vain, this damned stoic facade finally put to the test, and failing spectacularly. Lucille moved to his side. She was a step away, so close yet so impossibly far. "I hurt you," she spoke. She didn't seem surprised, nor unwilling to take a leap, far over this bar of propriety and tension still hanging thick in the air, as she abandoned all harnesses and sat in his chair- On his knees. Vincent froze, then relaxed at her touch, into her touch, as she placed a hand to his cheek. It was so gentle, so warm, so perfectly much, so strange, so alive, so needed, unique to this setting of dark and cold that he lived in, with his intestines, organs in shreds, from years of eating ice, from being the grounded cliffs which pierced the sea upon which memories were adrift in. And now he found himself on the doorstep of paradise.

"Lucille…" he breathed, his hands reaching out. Like a reckless child he embraced her, pressed her to his ravaged chest. "Don't go out in this storm…” he managed, “I know I need not shout… But so much bad can happen. You'll catch a chill at best. And what if something worse passes? What if… the sea takes you?" She warmed him with her embrace, so he could breathe again. "I know you hold the sea dear." He tried to smile, but failed. "I used to love it, too." Memories of waves and taken love made him wince in pain. Lucille watched him with her mismatched eyes, his blood soaking her white dress. She took a breath and sighed. "I understand," she said. "It was in the papers years ago, and so I will not press." Vincent finally said it. "It was I, who my brother to the stormy shores had led. It was my fault he went so early.” He hadn't spoken it for years, his brother's untimely death, his last words still ringing in his ears. His voice cracked like splitting rocks, as he remembered him, and pain. "I don't want you gone, Lucille. Please don't think that way." He clutched her tighter, as tight as he dared, and she did not complain. "In fact… The reason I can smile a little is because you stay."

She looked at him with her eyes wide, her lips parted in surprise, but not for long. She looked firm and clutched his hand, her chin tilted towards him. "Say it, then, Sir," she whispered, "don't wait for hearts' demise." Vincent didn't dare believe it, but he took chance upon a whim: He enveloped her face in his hands, and though his heart paused beating, he bent down and said, "I love you", their lips and worn souls meeting."

~ JM Wonsowski

[jotunkhiicha]

Nora; her character reminds me of the personification of yesterday and tomorrow—not quite ever there, but always lurking.

Vermin.

Gazing out of her balcony window at the shattered cosmos beyond the planet’s delve, Nora swirls her lime tonic with a rapturous gaze. Even though these planets and stars, if the bitter remnants could be described as such, have had their entrails scattered across the chaotic spiel of the universe to tell of warnings—to forbade travellers from entering—she still adores the grotesque sight as much as the sight of them burning in their prime. These tattered remains meant that death, and the rapt destruction that naturally births death like Nyx and Thanatos, proved to her that death still lurked right on her tainted doorstep, even if lamb’s blood was sloshed upon her door.

She wished to taste that glorious moment where the last morsels of her life meet with the ruinous air. Much like sparks in a room filled to the brim with flammable gas, she desired to have her life rupture, to have her last moments be creating an operatic tragedy where she obliterates all she had made so no one else can sit atop her empire—could claim her fortune as their own. She wanted her corpse to be paraded around in the stars, to be full with the souls of those she has consumed in gluttonous fashion, and to have them be like swords that burst from her chest cavity.

And yet, be that as it may, these orchids are like lion cubs that she fosters in the hopes that, one day, they roar and eat her from the inside out—all claws and teeth.

Ah… let it be so. Let the world be as she desires, filled with rapt ruin and vivacious viciousness.

“Your Mind Flayer is… misbehaving.” Her secretary says as she grips onto a sleek object, one that seems wet as something dully thuds upon the floor.

Plop.

Nora leans back in her chair, her head handing over the back of it in a, strangely, alluring manner, as she still mindlessly swirls her glass and the spherical ice cube spins. “All children have tantrums, Eris. Not all require a… firm hand.” She drawls as she brings the glass to her lips, opening her mouth to pour the sour liquid into her gullet.

The liquid sloshes down and she smiles as the chill permeates through her entire body, clashing with her natural warmth and illuminating the dark pathways of her arteries and veins.

It sets her on fire.

Eris raises her head and drops an icepick onto Nora’s desk, one sullied with blood and, even under the dim light of the blue sun, she can see brain matter upon the weapon and the delightful splatters of blood upon her secretary’s white clothes—now this, this catches her attention.

“I believe this fulfils the requirement for your intervention, Nora.” She hisses as she places both hands upon Nora’s desk, drawing her in as she leans forwards as she comes to stand, gently taking the icepick and admiring the brain matter.

With one simple look, she knows whose brain it is; Eiphillia, one of her beloved friends and emanators of Nede Priamus’ divine power.

“Seems a shame about the suit, Eris.” Nora muses and she pulls her white napkin from her blazer pocket, strokes the icepick in a most scandalous fashion, before tossing the soiled item on her desk and wielding it as her weapon, “What is it you want?”

Her words slither up a vine and come forth as a forbidden fruit, desperate to be taken by her secretary.

Eris furrows her brows and folds her arms. “I want it to suffer for what it showed me.”

“Ask…” Nora taps her cheek with the icepick, catching blood on her cheek, “And you shall always receive.” She chuckles as she clicks her fingers and warps, in a red haze, to her beloved basement where she keeps all of her prized pets.

These concrete slabs are absolutely caked in blood and the iron is intoxicating. It hits her and drags her beneath the daze, beneath that iron stench that stars are born from. That stench of fresh blood and the squelching sound as she steps into this decrepit funhouse of horror, swinging the icepick around in her hand and delighting in the way the screams, the clamour, and everything else slowly dies as their beloved Priestess waltzes into the fray, clad in black robes of ruinous origin.

This is how it should be.

Her heels clack and she admires Eris’ handiwork in how she has strewn the corpses of the corrupted emanators across the halls. Some of them have tendrils coming out of their eyes, some have it out of their mouths and ears, and some have none at all; perhaps mere cannon fodder for the greater show. Flowers bloom where corpses lay in a show of her pet’s desire to see the outside world—clad in darkness and delusion.

When she comes to her observation room, she sees the door is propped open with a corpse, probably by Eris in her attempt to come back to the surface and warn her patron about the chaos beneath her heels to invite her within. It’s certainly a grand invitation and who is she to reject such an advancement?

Curling her fingertips around the edge of the door, Nora pushes it away from her, uncaring if she steps into the blood, brains and the entrails, as she steps over the leg of an emanator and sees her beloved Mind Flayer with its tendrils in some poor attendee’s brains, sucking upon the remnants of what they once were, and who they will never be again with a silent scream bursting from their parted lips.

Nora smirks as she walks up to the glass and taps it thrice with one of her baby blue nails, catching the creature’s attention and, when it recognises the familiar short silver hair, her dull grey eyes filled with unquestionable rage as she presses her nose against the glass, a palatable terror erupts into the world, igniting her mind at the sight.

She gently presses the microphone and keeps her index finger pressure upon it while she speaks. “You’ve been a very… naughty pet, Haichong,” her voice is like molten magma as it has been burned into its brain, searing her sweet, saccharine destruction into the depths of its mind, “And bad pets ought to be punished, don’t they?”

Like an Iron Maiden’s intoxicating embrace, fear comes into the Mind Flayer’s system like spikes piercing its flesh. Perhaps that is precisely what Nora is. She is both the spike and the balm—the end and the beginning.

Nora steps back and her heels clack against the concrete as she manoeuvres across corpses and organs alike, peeling her heels off the floor and uncaring of how much blood seeps into her trousers. She moves like a leaf in the breeze; deftly balancing between the dreaded twin stars of fate as she pushes the door to the cage for her beloved Mind Flayer.

Her nails scrape against the metallic door and she grins as she watches it writhe under her intense gaze, like that of a burning eclipse. Its tentacles slither across the back wall and it attempts to flee from its owner as she steps closer with slow, calculated steps while she twirls the icepick in her right hand lackadaisically, embracing the denouement of her pet’s independence—its defiance.

“It seems like you need to be house trained again,” She wistfully sighs and she tilts her head at it retreating, “It’s such a chore. So, sit tight and suffer well for me, Haichong. Maybe this time you’ll remember.”

The Mind Flayer screams at her while she scorches her lessons into its cortex, but she doesn’t relent—Nora never relents.

Reprieve, it begs. Suffer, she howls.

It is a constant cycle, like that of a world coming too close to its patron; it burns and it burns so bright. It’s meant to be painful, the light of the dawn and the twilight at dusk.

Just as the stars implode, and just as she has seen them be born, she will await the day that they take her with them for what she has done, and all she is bound to do, because a lesson learned twice is a lesson never learned at all.

[howlingmidnightmoonlight]

Distant shores

I see the morning rise slow within your eyes, the world glows

As the fire builds within our hearts weeping sweet tears

Tomorrow will never know the sorrow mounting

As death holds close, winter growing as the ice in my veins tonight

Dreams tied away to the darkness of the moon running rampent

Ravaged in the soulless neon light low on the call as midnight comes

Waiting to draw in the cold as whispers are shared between stars

Yesterday fades as I watch the world seem to explain itself away

Wishing on the pyre ignited in the dawn burning since the world began

On the river road no where fast, left on the last tank of gas I had

From the city the lights buried in my soul came to find a death

In the corner lamp light between the neon sounds of neon glasses

Between the shakes and the money disappearing in the shadows

Saw the devil smiles lights went down on the docks they working hard

Cold answers on the steering wheel as the man stares through you tonight

Walking on the avenue ghostly now, in the years gone grey too long ago

That I might remember the moment I saw your eyes glow, your smile

The whisper of something more creeping up my spine as I beheld you for the first time

But the glass shatters the record scratches to halt as the old machine crawls to stop

Walking into the ocean as happiness fades to a silent parade on the street

City steps drowning yesterdays gone among the dusty lights

Weeping in the stairway, searching for a rose I'll never find again

My veins are glowing with pain as winter drives home the point

To a truth in my mind, answered in the damned running through the hills

I am mad without hope of finding a cure, since you are gone

Out west I heard you went, maybe to stay who knows

Don't believe none of the stories crawling on the walls

As the morning comes to find another outline in shadows