#standing stone kennels

[largemouthbassnation]

German Shorthaired Pointer Color Combos

Welcome to Standing Stone Kennels! In this video we talk about German shorthaired pointer color combinations and how you get them. Send Us Mail 5919 W Pleasant Valley Rd Pretty Prairie, KS 67570 Links Step-By-Step Dog Training Course: Join our Patreon Community – Our Store – Social Media Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/StandingStoneKennels Instagram:…

[novaursa]

The North Remembers Her (the wolf's teeth)

- Summary: He captured you, but you will not allow him to break you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for Ramsay being himself, death scene)

- Previous part: the bride

- Next part: duty

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The air in the kennels is suffocating. It stinks of filth, wet fur, and death. The walls are lined with iron cages, each one housing a beast that could barely be called a dog. Ramsay’s hounds are massive, their eyes gleaming with hunger and cruelty. Their snarls echo through the stone chamber, reverberating in your ears like the prelude to a nightmare.

You stand in the middle of the room, surrounded by Ramsay’s monstrosities, your fists clenched so tightly your nails dig into your palms. Ramsay is beside you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder, a gesture that feels more like a vice.

Reek stands off to the side, hunched over and trembling. He doesn’t meet your eyes—he still never does—but his nervous shuffling and shallow breaths betray his discomfort.

“Isn’t it magnificent?” Ramsay’s voice cuts through the cacophony of snarls and growls, soft and lilting. He gestures to the hounds with a wide grin. “My beauties. The best of the North. Loyal, fierce, and so very hungry.”

You don’t respond. Your eyes remain fixed on the far corner of the room, where a man is being dragged forward by two guards. He’s filthy, his face streaked with sweat and dirt, his eyes wide with terror. He struggles against his captors, but it’s useless; they haul him forward like a sack of grain and throw him to his knees before Ramsay.

“Please,” the man stammers, his voice cracking. “Please, my lord. I didn’t mean—”

Ramsay’s boot slams into his chest, sending him sprawling onto his back. The guards step back, leaving the man to scramble on the floor like a rat.

“You didn’t mean what?” Ramsay asks, his voice almost playful. He crouches beside the man, tilting his head like a curious predator. “Didn’t mean to fail me? Didn’t mean to lose my supplies to a band of savages in the woods?”

The man whimpers, clutching his hands together in a desperate plea. “It wasn’t my fault, my lord. They came out of nowhere. We tried to—”

“Shh.” Ramsay presses a finger to his lips, cutting him off. He rises to his feet, brushing invisible dust from his leathers before turning to you.

“Do you see, wife?” he says, his grin spreading. “This is what happens when people disappoint me. When they fail me.”

You don’t speak, but your jaw tightens.

Ramsay steps closer to you, his pale eyes gleaming with delight. “You won’t fail me, will you, little wolf?”

“No,” you say flatly, your voice void of emotion.

His grin widens. “Good. Then you’ll learn something today.”

He gestures to the guards, who haul the trembling man to his feet and shove him toward one of the cages. The hound inside snarls, its massive body pressed against the iron bars as it senses its prey.

“Please!” the man screams, his voice breaking. “Please, my lord, I’ll do anything. Anything! Just don’t—”

“Don’t?” Ramsay interrupts, his tone mocking. He steps forward, grabbing the man by the back of the neck and shoving his face toward the hound. “Don’t what? This is mercy, you fool. My beauties get to eat, and you…” Ramsay leans closer, his grin almost tender. “You get to be useful one last time.”

The man’s scream is cut short as Ramsay shoves him toward the cage, unlocking the door with a flourish. The hound lunges forward, its jaws snapping shut on the man’s arm with a sickening crunch.

Blood sprays across the stone floor, pooling at your feet. The man shrieks, his voice high and ragged, but you don’t look away. You force yourself to watch as the hound drags him to the ground, its powerful jaws tearing into flesh and bone.

“Don’t look away,” Ramsay murmurs beside you, his voice soft but commanding.

“I wasn’t going to,” you reply coldly, your gaze unwavering.

For a moment, there’s silence between you, broken only by the wet, guttural sounds of the hound feasting.

“You’re a strong one,” Ramsay says, almost approvingly. “Most would’ve turned their heads by now. Even Reek can’t stomach it, can you, Reek?”

You glance toward Reek. He’s pressed against the wall, his face pale, his trembling hands clutching at the hem of his tunic. He doesn’t look at you or Ramsay or the carnage on the floor.

“Pathetic,” Ramsay mutters, rolling his eyes before turning back to you. “But you… you’re different. You’re stronger than him. Stronger than most. I like that.”

“I don’t care what you like,” you say, your voice steady despite the bile rising in your throat.

Ramsay’s grin sharpens. “Oh, but you should. Because, wife, you and I are going to be together for a long time. And if you think I’ll ever let you escape me…” He leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “…you’re wrong.”

You turn to him, your expression cold and unyielding. “And if you think you’ll ever be safe under the same roof as me,” you say softly, your voice laced with venom, “you’re wrong.”

Ramsay’s laughter fills the chamber, echoing off the stone walls. “Perfect,” he says, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’re perfect.”

You tear your gaze away from him, your eyes drifting back to the bloody scene before you. The hound growls low as it drags the man’s mangled body deeper into its cage, its jaws dripping with crimson.

Ramsay claps his hands together, the sound startlingly cheerful. “Well! I think that’s enough excitement for one evening.” He glances back at you, his grin never fading. “Shall we, wife?”

You don’t answer. You don’t move.

But as you follow him out of the kennels, your thoughts are clear, your resolve unshaken.

He’s wrong.

He’ll never be safe.

The Dreadfort’s hall is quiet tonight, its cold walls echoing only the crackle of the fire in the hearth. The long table is laid with a modest supper—bread, roasted meat, and a pitcher of wine—but the atmosphere is anything but warm. You sit across from Ramsay, his pale blue eyes fixed on you like a hawk studying its prey.

Reek hovers near the far wall, his shoulders hunched and head bowed, his presence more like a shadow than a man. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look up as Ramsay carves into the meat on his plate with slow, deliberate movements.

“You’ve been quiet today,” Ramsay says, his tone almost conversational, though his grin betrays the danger beneath. “Planning something, little wolf?”

You tear a piece of bread from the loaf before you, taking your time before answering. “Not everything requires planning, Ramsay. Some things happen naturally.”

His grin widens, his knife pausing mid-cut. “Naturally? That doesn’t sound like you. You’ve always been so… intentional.”

You meet his gaze steadily, refusing to look away. “Some things don’t need effort. Like watching you.”

Ramsay’s expression flickers, just for a heartbeat, before his grin returns. “Watching me? Should I be flattered, wife?”

“Not flattered,” you reply, tilting your head slightly. “Curious. You’re fascinating in a way.”

He leans forward slightly, his grin sharpening. “Do tell. What about me fascinates you, wife?”

You set the bread down and fold your hands, your voice calm and deliberate. “I’ve been trying to figure you out. You’re cruel, but it’s not just cruelty. It’s… desperation.”

Ramsay’s knife stills on his plate. His grin falters, though it doesn’t disappear entirely. “Desperation?”

“Yes,” you continue, your voice steady. “You’re always trying to prove something. To your father, to your men, even to me. Everything you do—every act of violence, every twisted game—it’s all to make people afraid. To make them see you as more than a bastard.”

The room feels colder now, the air thick with dread. Reek shifts uncomfortably in the corner, but you don’t look at him. Your focus remains on Ramsay, who is now completely still, his grin frozen in place.

“You think you can see me?” he says softly, his voice low and dangerous.

“I don’t think,” you reply, leaning forward slightly. “I know. You’re afraid, Ramsay. Afraid that no matter what you do, no matter how much blood you spill, you’ll always be what you were born as: a bastard. And that terrifies you, doesn’t it?”

The knife in his hand tightens, his knuckles whitening as his grin disappears completely. For the first time, there’s something in his eyes that isn’t amusement or cruelty. It’s faint, but it’s there: unease.

“Careful, wife,” he murmurs, his voice soft but laced with menace. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

You lean back in your chair, your expression unyielding. “No more dangerous than the ones you play every day.”

The silence stretches between you like a taut wire, the only sound the crackle of the fire. Ramsay’s hand flexes around the knife, his pale eyes locked on yours. For the first time, you feel as though you’ve cracked the veneer he wears so easily, exposing something raw and vulnerable beneath.

“You’re bold,” he says finally, his voice low and measured. “I’ll give you that. But boldness doesn’t guarantee survival.”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” you reply, your tone icy. “And you’re still trying to figure out how to break me. That must bother you.”

His lips curl into a tight, humorless smile, and he sets the knife down carefully on the plate. He rises from his seat, moving around the table with slow, deliberate steps until he’s standing beside you.

He leans down, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You think you’ve seen me, little wolf. You think you know what I’m afraid of.”

You don’t flinch. “I don’t think. I know.”

His smile tightens further, and for a moment, you wonder if he’ll strike you. But instead, he straightens, stepping back and looking down at you with an expression you can’t quite place.

“You’re… different,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “No one’s ever looked at me like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, your voice steady.

“Like they’re not afraid.”

The words hang in the air, and for a fleeting moment, you think you see something almost human in his gaze. But then it’s gone, replaced by his usual smirk.

“Enjoy your meal, wife,” he says lightly, turning on his heel. “You’ll need your strength.”

He strides out of the room without another word, leaving you alone with Reek and the quiet hum of the fire.

For the first time, you feel a flicker of triumph.

You’ve unsettled him.

And you’ll do it again.

The kennels are damp and rank with the stench of wet fur and rotting meat. The dim lanterns cast flickering shadows on the stone walls, and the low growls of Ramsay’s hounds echo in the enclosed space. You hadn’t wanted to be here, but you’ve come to expect Ramsay’s whims. When a servant had arrived to fetch you, claiming that “my lord” wanted you in the kennels, you hadn’t hesitated. It wasn’t as though you could refuse.

But when you step inside, Ramsay is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a girl stands waiting near the largest cage, her arms crossed and her lips curled into a smirk.

She’s young, perhaps only a year or two older than you, with long dark hair that falls in loose waves over her shoulders. Her dress is simple, but her posture is confident, almost brazen. Her eyes shine with something cruel and unfriendly as she watches you approach.

You recognize her instantly. This is Myranda, the kennelmaster’s daughter—and Ramsay’s lover.

“Well, well,” she says, her voice dripping with mockery. “The little wolf herself. You must feel so important now, being Lady Bolton and all.”

You stop a few paces away, your expression calm and unreadable. “What do you want?”

Myranda’s smirk widens. “I wanted to get a look at you. See what all the fuss is about.” She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing as she steps closer. “You don’t look like much.”

You hold her gaze, refusing to rise to her bait. “And you don’t look like someone who should be wasting my time.”

Her smile falters for a moment, but she recovers quickly, her tone turning sharp. “You think you’re better than me? Just because you’re wearing his name?” She steps closer still, her voice dropping to a hiss. “Let me tell you something, little wolf. You’re nothing. Ramsay doesn’t love you. He never will. He’ll use you, break you, and throw you away when he’s bored.”

“I’m well aware of what Ramsay is,” you reply coolly. “Are you?”

Her eyes narrow further, and you can see the anger starting to surface beneath her smug exterior. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? You think you can stand up to him, to me. But you don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

You take a step forward, closing the distance between you, and lower your voice to a dangerous whisper. “And you think you can scare me? You think your little threats mean anything to me?”

For the first time, you see a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

“You’re not the first person to try,” you continue, your tone icy. “And you won’t be the last. But let me make one thing very clear: I’ve faced worse than you. Worse than Ramsay. I’ve lost everything—my family, my home, my wolf. Do you really think you can hurt me?”

Myranda takes a half-step back, her confidence faltering. “You don’t scare me,” she snaps, though her voice wavers slightly.

You tilt your head, your expression darkening as you take another step closer. “Maybe not. But you should ask yourself: what happens if you’re wrong?”

The hounds growl low in their cages, as though sensing the tension. The sound reverberates through the air, but you don’t flinch. You hold her gaze, letting the weight of your words hang between you.

Myranda’s breath quickens, and you can see her hands clenching at her sides. She glances toward the door, as though considering leaving, but pride keeps her rooted in place.

“You’re just a Stark,” she spits, though her bravado has all but vanished. “You think you’re untouchable, but you’re nothing without him keeping you alive.”

You laugh softly, the sound cold and humorless. “Ramsay doesn’t keep me alive. He keeps me dangerous. And if you think I’m going to sit back and let you play your little games…” You step even closer, forcing her to back against the wall. “…then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

She stares at you, her chest heaving, and for a moment, you see genuine fear in her eyes.

The door to the kennels creaks open, and both of you turn to see Ramsay striding in, his usual grin plastered across his face.

“What’s this?” he asks, his voice light with amusement. “A little chat between friends?”

Myranda straightens immediately, her face flushing as she steps away from you. “I was just welcoming your… wife, my lord.”

“Is that so?” Ramsay’s eyes flick between you, his grin widening. “And how did she welcome you, my dear?”

Myranda glances at you, her jaw tightening. “We were just talking.”

Ramsay chuckles, stepping closer to you. “Oh, I’m sure you were.” He places a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm. “What a pair you make—my little wolf and my sweet hound.”

You say nothing, your gaze fixed on Myranda as she avoids looking at either of you.

Ramsay’s grin falters slightly, just for a moment, as he glances at you. “You didn’t scare her too much, did you, wife?”

You smile faintly, your voice low and steady. “Not at all, husband. We understand each other perfectly.”

For the first time, you see a flicker of unease in both of their faces.

And it feels like victory.

[elswhore]

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐍 𝟎𝟎𝟒

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ─ @kalan1z @ssijht @vahnilla

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 ─ extreme graphic violence, decapitation, shooting a corpse, psychological trauma, emotional distress, power dynamics. manipulation. humiliation.

word of a betrayer’s capture has spread like wildfire through the barracks, the grim cluster of buildings where recruits like you are kenneled, far from the mansion’s opulence.

ellie’s summoned the crew to this basement to witness her justice, a ritual meant to cement her dominance.

the recruits around you, hardened men and women with scarred knuckles and haunted eyes, stand rigid, their faces a mosaic of fear, resignation, and grim anticipation.

ellie’s inner circle, her lieutenants, line the room’s edges

the tension is a living thing, coiling tighter with every second, the faint drip of water from a leaky pipe the only sound until the door slams open.

lila, a courier who ran drops like your dad, is dragged in by two of ellie’s enforcers.

her dark hair is matted with sweat, clinging to her tear streaked face, her wrists bound behind her with zip ties that bite into her skin.

her clothes—a torn jacket and jeans—are streaked with dirt, and her knees buckle as she’s forced to the ground in the circle’s center.

she’s sobbing, her voice a raw, broken wail that echoes off the concrete, her word a plea for mercy.

“please, ellie, im sorry, i didn’t mean to please! im pregnant, i swear, im pregnant, don’t do this, i’ll do anything, please!” her eyes dart wildly, searching for a shred of compassion, but the recruits avoid her gaze, and the lieutenants are stone faced.

her desperation is a mirror to your own pain, ellie sits on a metal chair at the circle’s edge, her lean frame slouched but radiating a predatory menace.

her auburn hair is tied back in a messy ponytail, strands escaping to frame her sharp features, and her green eyes are cold, unyielding, like frost on steel.

she’s dressed in a black leather jacket over a faded t shirt, jeans ripped at the knees, and a katana rests against her thigh, its polished blade catching the bulb’s light in a wicked gleam.

her fingers tap a slow, deliberate rhythm on the chair’s armrest, her face a mask of heartless disdain as lila’s pleas fill the room.

she’s untouched by the woman’s terror, her gaze occasionally sweeping the recruits, a silent warning to anyone who might consider betrayal.

you try to steady yourself, to be c/n, the recruit who doesn’t crack, but lila’s sobs are a hammer against your resolve.

her claim of pregnancy—true or not—lands like a punch, stirring memories of your dad’s warmth, his laughter, now poisoned by his voicemail.

your stomach churns, your palms sweaty as you clench them, willing your body to stop trembling.

you’re surrounded by eyes—recruits, lieutenants, and worst of all, ellie’s.

you can’t afford to look weak, but the tremor in your shoulders betrays you, a quiet shake that grows as lila’s voice breaks on another plea.

ellie’s gaze snaps to you, her eyes narrowing, catching the quiver in your frame.

her stare is a scalpel, cutting through your facade, and you feel exposed, pinned like a specimen under glass.

she doesn’t speak, doesn’t acknowledge lila’s begging, but her attention on you is a weight, a challenge that makes your skin crawl.

the room seems to shrink, the concrete walls pressing in, the bulb’s light harsher, casting jagged shadows.

then, ellie stands, her movements fluid, almost graceful, and draws the katana from its sheath.

the blade sings as it clears the scabbard, a low hum that slices through lila’s sobs.

the recruits tense, the lieutenants straighten, and you hold your breath, your heart pounding so loud you’re sure ellie can hear it.

lila’s eyes widen, her pleas turning to a scream. “no, please, ellie, im begging you—” but ellie doesn’t hesitate.

she steps forward, her boots silent on the concrete, and swings the katana in a single, merciless arc.

the blade flashes, catching the light, and severs lila’s head with a sickening crunch, the sound of bone and flesh giving way.

blood erupts, a hot, violent spray that splatters the floor and speckles the nearest recruits, who flinch but don’t move.

lila’s head rolls, coming to rest near the drain, her eyes frozen in terror, while her body collapses, a lifeless heap.

a pool of urine spreads beneath her, soaking her jeans, a final, humiliating mark of her fear.

the stench of blood and urine fills the room, sharp and nauseating, mingling with the damp air.

you choke on a gasp, your hands flying to your mouth as bile surges in your throat.

the sight is obscene—lila’s headless body, the blood pooling around her, the urine glistening under the light, her severed head staring blankly.

your vision blurs, your knees weakening as horror crashes over you.

you’re shaking uncontrollably now, your breath hitching, your chest tight with the urge to scream or vomit.

the recruits around you are silent, some averting their eyes, others staring with grim acceptance, but you’re unraveling, the brutality too raw.

she steps over lila’s body, the katana still dripping blood, her boots leaving crimson prints on the concrete.

her green eyes lock on you, a mix of disdain and cold curiosity, and she stops close, the metallic reek of blood clinging to her like a second skin.

her presence is overwhelming, her leather jacket creaking as she moves, her scent—blood, leather, a faint trace of smoke—cutting through the room’s stench.

she sheathes the katana with a slow, deliberate motion, the blade sliding home with a soft click, and pulls a pistol from her waistband.

she holds it out, grip first, her gaze never leaving yours. “shoot her” she orders, her voice low, nodding at lila’s headless corpse.

“right in the head.” your hands tremble, your breath ragged as you stare at the gun, its black metal glinting under the bulb.

the recruits’ eyes bore into you, the lieutenants’ too, their silence a crushing weight.

you don’t want to touch the gun, don’t want to be part of this nightmare, but ellie’s stare is a noose tightening around your neck.

refusal means expulsion from her crew—or worse, a fate like lila’s.

you have to stay in, have to keep going, no matter how sick this makes you.

you reach for the gun, your fingers shaking so badly you nearly drop it.

its weight is heavy, cold, the grip slick with your sweat.

you aim at the bloody mess where lila’s head should be, the dark pool glistening, the body unnaturally still.

your vision swims, tears pricking your eyes, your arms trembling as you try to steady the barrel.

the room is a blur, the recruits’ faces fading, the lieutenants’ shadows looming.

you can’t do this, can’t be this person, but ellie’s voice cuts through your panic, sharp and intimate, her breath hot against your ear as she leans in.

“do it, c/n” she whispers, her tone a mix of command and mockery.

“or you’re next.” the threat is a jolt, snapping you out of your paralysis, your finger twitches on the trigger, and the gun fires, the shot deafening in the concrete chamber.

the bullet hits the corpse, a dull thud in the bloodied mess, sending a fresh spray of red across the floor.

ou drop the gun, your hands shaking so violently you clutch them to your chest, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

your stomach lurches, bile burning your throat, and you stumble back, fighting the urge to retch.

the recruits remain silent, their faces a mix of relief and fear the lieutenants watch, impassive, as if this is routine.

ellie stands before you, her lean frame radiating menace, she doesn’t turn away, doesn’t dismiss the room as you expected.

instead, her gaze locks on you, catching the tremor in your hands, the way your shoulders shake despite your effort to not be. 

her lips curl into a sneer, and she steps closer, her boots leaving faint red prints on the concrete, the stench of blood clinging to her.

“weak” she spits, her voice low and venomous, each word a blade.

“look at you, c/n, shaking like a fucking leaf, you think you belong here? you think you can handle my world?”

she circles you, slow and predatory, her eyes raking over you like you’re prey.

the recruits’ stares burn, the lieutenants’ silence a weight, but ellie’s the only one who matters, her presence suffocating.

“you’re not meant for this. you’re a liability, a pathetic little girl playing at being tough. you should’ve stayed in whatever hole you crawled out of.”

her words slam into you, you clench your fists, nails biting into your palms, trying to hold it together, but your vision blurs with tears you can’t stop.

ellie’s relentless, leaning in close, her breath hot against your ear.

“you think crying’s gonna save you? you think i keep weaklings in my crew? you’re nothing, c/n, nothing.”

her voice is a hiss, laced with cruel satisfaction, and the basement seems to shrink, the walls pressing in, the bulb’s light searing.

the trigger is too much—her words, lila’s blood, the gun’s weight, your dad’s voice.

tears spill down your cheeks, hot and unstoppable, and you hate yourself for it, hate the way your body betrays you.

you’re shaking so badly you can barely stand, your breath hitching, your chest tight with grief and rage.

ellie steps back, her sneer widening, and she gestures at the corpse. “look at her,” she snaps. “that’s what happens to people who don’t belong, you wanna end up like that? keep shaking, keep crying, and you will.”

you can’t speak, can’t move, the room a blur of blood and concrete.

ellie finally turns, her boots echoing as she strides toward the door, tossing a command over her shoulder.

“clean this up,” she tells the recruits, and the lieutenants follow, you stumble out, your legs unsteady, the basement’s stench clinging to you as you climb the stairs to the barracks.

you collapse onto your cot in the barracks, the mildew and cigarette smoke a faint anchor, but you’re unraveling, the weight of this world crushing you.

you can’t go back to ellie, can’t face her cruelty, her tests, her blood-soaked empire.

the thought of returning to that basement, of holding another gun, makes your stomach lurch.

you fumble for the burner phone abby gave you, your hands still shaking, and dial her number, your breath hitching as you fight sobs. she answers on the third ring, her voice calm, steady. “c/n” she says, using your cover name.

“what’s wrong?” you meet her an hour later, in a derelict parking lot on the city’s edge, the kind of place where streetlights flicker and some few peopleo lingers.

abby leans against her black SUV, her blonde braid catching the faint glow, her leather jacket creased from wear.

her blue eyes are piercing but not unkind, though there’s a hardness there, a reminder she’s not your friend.

you’re a tool in her game, a means to topple ellie, though you don’t know the full scope of her rivalry.

the words spill out, a torrent of pain and panic. “she’s insane, abby” you say, your voice breaking as you pace, tears streaming down your face.

“ellie, she killed this woman, lila, cut her head off right in front of us, she was begging, said she was pregnant, and ellie didn’t even blink, there was blood everywhere, piss on the floor, and she made me shoot her head, made me put a bullet in it. she called me weak, said I’m nothing, that i don’t belong, i can’t do this, i can’t go back there, i can’t—”

your voice cracks, and you sob, your hands clutching your hair, the memory of the basement overwhelming.

“i want to stop, i can’t keep doing this, not with her.” abby listens, her expression unchanging, her arms crossed as you rant.

she’s not surprised, not even a flicker of shock in her eyes, and that steadies you, even as it chills you.

she’s seen ellie’s cruelty, knows her methods, and your breakdown is just another piece of the puzzle.

when you finally stop, your chest heaving, your face wet with tears, she steps forward, her voice low but firm.

“c/n” she says, her tone cutting through your sobs. “i get it, ellie’s a monster, and what she did tonight is who she is, but you’re in too deep to walk away now, you think you can just quit and go back to your old life? ellie doesn’t let people walk, you leave, she’ll hunt you down, and you’ll end up like lila—or worse.”

she pauses, her eyes searching yours, not unkind but unyielding. “you want answers about your dad? you want to know why he left that voicemail, where he is? this is the only way, you’re close, closer than anyone i’ve got, mel’s feeding me what she can, but you’re in her crew, in her house. You can’t stop now.”

you shake your head, your voice a whisper. “i can’t, abby, she’ll break me, im not strong enough.”

she grips your shoulder, her hand firm, grounding. “you are,” she says, her voice steady. “you’re stronger than you think, ellie wants you to feel weak, she thrives on it, don’t let her win, use it, channel it, get what we need, you do this, and I’ll get you your answers, i promise.”

her words are a tether, pulling you back from the edge, abby hands you a tissue, her expression softening just a fraction. “get some rest” she says. “you’ve got this.” But as you walk away, the burner phone heavy in your pocket, you feel the noose tightening, and the basement’s horrors follow you into the night.

───────────────────────────

[bumblesimagines]

maybe we should forget this even happened.

i'm just going to... leave.

Robb Stark

i'm just going to... leave.

maybe we should forget this even happened.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

As a child, you often wondered if Catelyn Stark had a sixth sense. She always seemed to know when you and Robb were up to no good, whether it was sneaking out of Winterfell or trying to convince the cooks for more sweets. There'd always been a knowing look in her eye and the way she'd smile at you and Robb, one single brow raising and hands coming to rest on her waist. 'Now, what are you boys up to?' She'd ask, but you and Robb knew by then the plan was ruined.

And now? Well, now you prayed her sixth sense had grown faulty because if you were caught in bed with the heir to Winterfell, you could only pray to the old gods the Starks would be merciful enough to only send you to the Wall. 

You moved carefully and slowly, sliding the fur blankets off your body and exposing your bare skin to the cold air wafting in through the cracked open window. Your nose crinkled as the wood supporting the bed creaked and groaned loudly, barely sparing a glance over your shoulder at the sleeping man before standing and hurrying to collect your clothes off the floor. You'd done this dance plenty of times over the years, mainly with drunken flings, but this time you weren't slipping away from a brothel worker or a maiden. This time you were slipping away from your best friend. 

Hurriedly tucking your shirt into your pants to avoid the risk of looking suspicious while leaving the room, you spun on your heel and searched the stone floor for your coat. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?" A groggy voice questioned and you tensed completely, fingers curling around the top of your pants. The old gods despised you, you were certain of it. "The hunting trip is tomorrow, (Y/N)."

"I'm aware of that." For a man who'd just awoken to find his closest childhood companion getting dressed after a drunken night together, Robb started far too calm for your liking. Perhaps reality hadn't set in completely or whatever he'd drunk the night prior still had some sort of effect on him. 

"Look at me." He murmured, and when you remained with your back turned to him, he spoke again in his 'future Lord of Winterfell' tone that he scarcely used when you were alone with him. "Look at me, (Y/N)."

"My father will wonder where I ran off to, Robb." You told him with a quiet sigh and reluctantly turned around to face him. He certainly looked wide awake to you. His light-colored eyes gazed at you with what you swore was amusement and he reached his arm out to lazily pat the empty side of the bed in a silent invitation, or order. You dug your teeth into the inside of your bottom lip. If either of his parents even caught a glimpse of him, they'd spiral into a lecture that'd end in a threat of sending you away. 

"Come." He groaned, his impatience reminding you of his younger, more brutish sister. "Your family can wait."

"Why are you acting as if any of this is normal, Robb? I cannot be caught in your quarters while you look like that. Maybe- Maybe we should forget this even happened. It was a mistake that will not happen again-"

"You were the one that kissed me." Robb's lips formed a frown and he pushed himself up, bushy brows knitting tightly together. You despised making Robb upset, especially when his pretty eyes were as expressive as words, but it was necessary. You inhaled and forced yourself to look away from him, finally noticing your coat draped over a chair and across the room. You silently moved and slipped it on, properly concealing yourself from the cold and turning to face the man. "Do you not even wish to talk-"

"No, Robb. I'm... I'm just going to... leave. And we'll pretend as if nothing occurred, alright? You'll go back to being the heir of Winterfell and I'll go back to being the kennel master's son, just as it should and always will be."

[kingnlionhearts]

Lionheart ✶ Chapter Three

Robb Stark x (Baratheon/Lannister!) Reader

word count: 1.9k

MASTERLIST

Taryn’s room was precisely how she remembered it. She had last been in Winterfell a moon before her eleventh name day, her trip cut short by her mother’s insistence that her daughter should come back home. Winterfell had enchanted Taryn since the first day she arrived. The castle felt far more homely to Taryn than the Red Keep or Casterly Rock did. But what Taryn truly held envy for was the Stark family. They were far more tight-knit and loyal to their blood than Taryn’s family had ever been. She held such love for her siblings, sweet Myrcella, little Tommen, even Joffrey — despite his wretched ways, he was still her little brother. Taryn knew her parents held no love for each other, she would have had to be blind or stupid to not see it. The only bonds Taryn possessed that could be akin to the familial bonds that were so strained and lacklustre in her own family, were the friendships she had with her ladies in waiting — four girls Taryn had known since girlhood, four girls Taryn trusted with her life.

When Robb left her to get settled, his presence was quickly replaced by Taryn’s ladies. Taryn had been surrounded by Erielle Lannister and Alyssa Baratheon, young cousins of her parents’ families, since her siblings had been born. Then came Lana Tyrell, a grandniece of Olenna Tyrell, and Jeyne Westerling, whose family were Lannister bannermen. They busied around her now, helping to unpack Taryn’s trunks. They were there to serve her, Taryn’s mother had drilled that into her, but Taryn valued her ladies far more than that.

There were still hours until the welcome feast by the time Erielle finished slipping pins into Taryn’s carefully made updo. Lana stood behind Taryn, tying the corset threads of her gold dress securely before sweeping furs over the Princess’s shoulders.

Alyssa took Taryn’s hands. “Let’s explore. It has been half of summer since we’ve last seen snow.”

Taryn grinned. “That’s a wonderful idea.”

The Princess felt ten years old again, chasing around the old stone castle. Last time she visited, her company was far smaller, but now every corridor in Winterfell was flooded with rushing servants and marching guards. It made the castle feel like a grey and colder mirror of the Red Keep, not the northern wonderland she remembered from being a child.

They found their way to the courtyard. Outside, under more eyes, Taryn tensed her shoulders. As far as she enjoyed being girlish and running about giggling, Gods forbid Taryn’s family — or worse, the Starks — saw her acting childish. She had already let her heart guide her the way North, but the time to play was passing. Taryn had been betrothed to Robb Stark since she was ten years old; she would be Lady of Winterfell one day. (It felt far more real now she was standing back in the castle’s wall. At home, in King’s Landing, she could almost forget her fate.) There was a time to be the girl Taryn longed to be, and there was time to be the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms — it was an easy balance to maintain, as long as Taryn remained focused.

Suddenly, Jeyne gave a shriek, the sound muffled by her hands covering her mouth. Taryn’s attention snapped to the girl — and where she was looking. Inside the kennels, where Winterfell’s hounds slept, were wolves. Seven darling pups of grey, brown, black and pure white.

“Those aren’t normal wolves,” Alyssa whispered. “But it must be impossible. Direwolves do not live south of the Wall.”

Taryn walked forwards, shaking off the clutches of her friends. In the last letters she and Robb had passed before Taryn and her family began their journey north, Robb had told her pages about the litter of direwolves the Starks had found in the woods. Taryn had not truly believed him until now. A smile rose to her face like the morning sun. The pups were days old when Robb sent his letter describing each of his siblings’ wolves, and soon they would grow bigger than any dog.

The pups played together while Lana tugged on Taryn’s sleeve and begged her not to get too close.

“I promise they won’t hurt you.”

Taryn and her ladies turned to see Robb approaching them. The afternoon sunlight made his red curls glow. By Taryn’s lead, the girls curtsied to the heir of Winterfell, and Robb bowed to the Princess. (It had taken two years of writing for Taryn to convince Robb to stop calling her “Your Grace” at the top of every letter.)

“Have you decided which wolf is who?” Robb asked, standing at Taryn’s side to watch the little wolves.

Taryn nodded. She pointed out Robb’s wolf first. Grey Wind, a smoky grey pup with bright golden eyes. “The others watch him. They follow him like little ones look to their eldest sibling.”

Grinning, Robb bent down on one knee and called Grey Wind to him. The wolf ran over eagerly but paused to consider Taryn. She lowered to be closer to Grey Wind’s height and reached out a hand, which the wolf sniffed at, before licking at Taryn and allowing her to stroke his head.

Taryn could not hide her own grin. “He’s beautiful. They all are.” Grey Wind seemed to understand her and nuzzled against her.

“Are you looking forward to the feast tonight?” Robb asked. Grey Wind ran back to his siblings and Robb took Taryn’s hand, helping her to her feet.

The Princess gave a shrug. “It will be nice to see your family again, properly. But I’ve never been so fond of feasts.” A red flush painted her cheeks. “I prefer quiet evenings.”

“Then perhaps I will find you later and free you. I’ll find a nicer way for us to spend the night.”

Taryn smiled at his kindness. “Thank you. That would be wonderful.”

Robb mirrored her smile. “I’ll see you later.”

The feast was as lively as Taryn had anticipated. It was not the noise and the food that she found wretched, or the company of her siblings, it was the rowdiness that came with alcohol. At the top of the hall, beneath the high table where Lord and Lady Stark hosted Taryn’s parents, Taryn sat with her three siblings and the Stark children. She made polite conversation with the eldest Stark daughters, Alys — who Taryn was glad to see again — and Sansa, who had been too young to join in their games last time Taryn had visited. It took three quick glasses of sweet wine to begin to dull Taryn’s senses enough to start to enjoy herself.

Hours passed and courses of food were devoured, little Tommen tugged on his eldest sister’s sleeve. Taryn looked down at her brother. “Are you alright?”

“Do we have to stay at the feast all night?” the little Prince asked.

Taryn shook her head. “Of course not. We can leave whenever you like.”

“Can we go now then?”

Taryn stood and picked Tommen up under his arms to lift him off the bench.

Myrcella had been sitting on Tommen’s other side. “Can I come too?” she asked, pushing her plate away.

Taryn smiled and reached out for her sister. “Always.”

Taryn kept a tight hold of her brother and sister’s hands as they weaved through Winterfell’s great hall. Past the singing bard, their father and his drunks, and the guards by the door. The cold night air made the Baratheon siblings’ cheeks turn red. Also outside they found Joffrey. Taryn had not seen him slip away from the feast.

“Joff, you should stay inside. You’ll catch your death out here,” Taryn warned. Myrcella and Tommen skipped on in the direction of their guest rooms.

Joffrey gave a bitter laugh. “Always the mother. Good thing you’ve had plenty of practice with those two before Robb Stark gives you your own wolf pack. Are you looking forward to it, sister? To be bedded by a wolf?”

Taryn wondered what could have gone wrong for her brother to turn out so rotten when Myrcella and Tommen had always been so sweet. Whatever it was, Taryn was happy to watch Joffrey saunter away from her. She wished she could wipe that smirk from his face. Gathering the fabric of her skirt in her hands, Taryn raised the hem of her dress off the ground and followed after her youngest siblings.

The three siblings settled in Taryn’s room. Myrcella and Tommen, in their nightclothes, nestled warm under the blankets of the bed, while Taryn sat the foot of the bed

“Tar,” Myrcella whispered. Her emerald eyes glitter in the glow of the smouldering fire Taryn had tried to light. “You won’t leave us forever will you?”

“I would never,” Taryn promised. “I will live here once I marry, but I will visit often. And one day, you two will also marry wonderful people and have your own castles.”

“Can you tell us a story, Taryn?” Tommen asked, tucked up to his chin in the warm furs. “You’re the best at stories.”

Taryn chuckled. “Then what story would you like to hear tonight?”

Robb found Taryn outside, bright as a midnight sun. He watched her walking back towards the great hall from the guest quarters. The clouds had opened to release a gentle fall of snow upon the castle. Robb found himself staring at Taryn again as snowflakes landed in her golden hair. Six years had not taken the wonder from her eyes as she grinned, twirling alone in the snow. Robb felt as though he was intruding. He turned to leave, to return to the feast and wait for her there, but gravel crunched heavily underfoot and Taryn found him.

The Princess blushed scarlet. Her figure straightened, ever regal. The glow in her brown eyes dissipated. Disappointment and guilt spread through Robb as ice froze a lake. “I’m sorry,” he spoke quickly to get ahead. “I should not have disturbed you–”

Taryn shook her head, brushing snow out of her tightly wound southern-styled hair. “No, I’m sorry. I was acting improper. It’s just–”

“–Been a long time? I know.” Robb came closer to her and offered Taryn his arm. “You don’t have to hide from me. We can dance in the snow all night if you want to.”

Taryn giggled and took Robb’s arm. “That would be far nicer than spending the rest of the night inside.”

Robb took them in the direction of the godswood, where he knew it would be quietest. “The men are going hunting tomorrow. Would you come with me?”

“Oh.” The pinkness returned to Taryn’s cheeks. “I cannot ride. I was never taught. My mother thought my skills should be better tuned elsewhere.”

“I could teach you.” Perhaps his tone was too eager. Taryn had not been here a day yet. They entered the woods, there were enough gaps in the dark clouds to allow moonlight to shine through and illuminate the trees.

The Princess smiled — the same smile she had given Grey Wind earlier in the afternoon, the same smile that came in the snowfall. “I would love that. It’s suffocating sometimes to be in the castle, unable to go where I like because I need a carriage to take me around.” She shuddered.

“I won’t keep you caged in,” Robb said. “You’ll be safe and free here at Winterfell. I promise.”

[tesalicious2]

Sergeant Hound hcs:

He got his name before Grizzer appeared in his life

He was trained as a scout trooper on Kamino and was the top of the class, setting several records that are still intact

His name was given by the Mandalorian training him because once he was on the trail, he wouldn't lose it similar to a Bloodhound

Though he is seen as the least serious of the Coruscant Guard Commanders and loves to makes jokes, annoying the other commanders, and gossips with Quinlan when he finds the Jedi in a dumpster

He can be very serious and dedicated when the time calls for it

He is a CC and hasn't been promoted because of his behavior, and the fact that he would be much less effective as the head scout

He is often present in meetings and gives his opinions on matters

Nevertheless, his first job is tracking and Massiff Handling/breeding

He also monitors the other animals in his care, though he often leaves those responibilities to the animals handlers

He, similar to Thire and Stone, go off world often to escort senators and to assist other battalions

However, being the best Massiff handler in the whole GAR and the best tracker by himself, he is often taken by different GAR battalions/legions with Grizzer and other handlers to track criminals stuck on a world

Grizzer is a chaser, tracking people on the go and attacking/catching them

She can also do detect certain drugs however this skill is not often used

Massiffs are big and Grizzer is larger than average. When on her four legs, she’s at hip height, when standing she’s about as tall as a clone

She is a very good girl who always listens to Hound, bets are off tho if anyone else tries to handle her (she’s picky)

Tho massiff are classified as one of those dog breeds thats very loving and protective of family but can be dangerous to strangers, think like a Cane Corso or Neapolitan Mastiff

It is not uncommon to see massiff and handlers sleeping together, even less uncommon for them to be roaming their barracks off leash

The ARF troopers have separate barracks close to the kennels so it isn't a stretch for them to sleep with their massiffs

Massiffs get along pretty well with the other animals but prefer to be left alone, especially with the younger animals

During the 'winter' months of Coruscant some of the animals have coats if needed and the Narglatch, Blizzard, gets a cooler kennel during the summer

The Kiffu Spark Dragons (coming from the tropical regions of Kiffu) have to gets lots of water for their scales to keep their flex and strength

All the animals wear harnesses and leashes of some sort but they aren't necessary, they're trained to respond to all commands and are very skilled

The animals don’t entirely like the GAR troopers, since they smell like blaster fire and grime (usually associated with their chases)

It doesn’t help that their handlers scent has unease in it

They tolerate the Marines because their handlers don’t smell of unease while talking and they usually have treats for their handlers

The animals are okay with Jedi, though they don’t like Anakin much

[chappedlipdirtycontacts]

“Seraphim? You're staring again...”

Sonnet Character Introduction

Playlist:

• I Think We’re Alone Now - Tiffany

• Velvet Ring - Big Thief

• Blackbird - The Beatles

𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐥 stood awkwardly. His face visibly beet red, even through the bars of 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭’s cell. "Ah- sorry. Just looking..." After a moment he spoke again. "Are you sure you don't need any help?" He offered gently. "Yeah Cassie 'm sure." Sonnet nods and continues trying to pick the lock of the door that contains her.

The cupid had been sent to solitary confinement yet again. She had failed to meet her couple match quota this week.

"I swear I couldn't find an opportunity to intertwine their paths! Please Naomi, believe me."

Sonnet wasn’t one to beg or plead.

But solitary confinement had been a far too common occurrence for a couple months now. She was getting tired of it. More specifically, tired of using all her energy to break out.

Sonnet grunts out of frustration. This lock just won't break. And this is supposed to be the easy part. The hard part is breaking all the sigils and sneaking down the halls.

Sonnet fumbles with shaken hands. trying to pick the lock with the hair clips Castiel had gifted to her on a whim. She was trying to open the lock, but she also didn’t want to ruin the clips. she’d feel so guilty if they broke. especially right in front of him.

Sonnet groans and covers her face with her hands. pushing herself closer to the wall with her feet. "Cas..." She shakes out "Stop starin' at me... I can feel it." She mumbles through her palms. Her wings droop and twitch from the frustration.

"I asked if you wanted help Sonny.." Castiel tenderly states.

Castiel, like many other angels, was very stoic. But there was something about Sonnet that opened him up more. Something about her that made his voice softer and his muscles loosen.

"I know I said no.. but I lied." Sonnet almost whimpers as she admits the fact. Castiels eyes softly widen when he realizes just how tired she is. he nods. “just scoot a little farther back for me, okay? Can you do that?" Castiel gently requests. Sonnet nods and increases the distance between her and the door. Pressing her back against the cell's cold, stone wall. "Close your eyes" Castiel commands as he lifts his open hand, hovering it over the barred door. Sonnet tightly shuts her eyes and covers her ears.

With a loud ringing in her ears and a heavenly bright light seeping through her eyelids, Sonnet was now freed from her cell.

Sonnet opens her eyes as soon as the light fades. Like a dog eagerly running from its kennel, she quickly stands up and scurries out of the prison. "C'mon Cassie we gotta go before they find us!" Sonnet rushes quietly as she tugs at Castiel's coat arm.

As they sneak around the halls, Castiel tries to calm her down. "Don't worry Sonnet they won't-“ He tries to explain before Sonnet cuts him off.

"No Castiel i've already caused enough damage this week. I also don't want you taking the fall for these things." Sonnet exclaims a little louder than anticipated.

Castiel lightly shushes her. He places a hand on her shoulder blades right above her drooping wings. "You'll attract attention to us if you cry like that dear, try and calm down we'll be home soon-"

“Cassie!” Sonnet whispers loudly and tugs Castiel’s sleeve. a choir of angels were passing through the hall infront of them. they quickly press themselves against the wall by a nearby plant to stay hidden. after a few moments of waiting Sonnet starts to giggle. her previous anxieties melting away as her shoulder touches Castiel’s.

Castiel comes out from behind the plant to stand before of her. “Sonny why are you laughing?” Castiel asked in a hushed, almost frustrated manner. he always gets anxious when they were trying to escape Heaven.

Sonnet was giggling because this exact scenario has happened so many times in centuries past. ever since they were little Cherubs they’d have close calls like this. “sorry, sorry” Sonnet quietly chuckles.

After a few minutes of diligent fleeing: they were finally out of Heaven and back on Earth.

The pair have slipped out of Heaven so many times that they created their very own home. a safe haven for them to retreat to if Heaven became too much. it was a cabin in the high altitudes of Colorado. from its warm fireplace to its anti-angel warding. it was a perfect space for the two.

Castiel holds the wooden door open for Sonnet. she smiles and walks into the sanctuary. her pale wings fluttered with joy as she entered the space.

She immediately starts a fire with a flick of her hand and throws herself onto the couch. she gets comfortable on the soft cushions and curls into a ball. “finally we’re back” Sonnet sighs, although it’s not very audible due to her mumbled voice.

Castiel chuckles as he slips off his trench coat and drapes it over her. “what was that dear?” he smiles as he sits down next to her balled up form.

“ ‘said I was glad we’re back home” Sonnet smiles as she sits up to look at him. moving his coat to lay over her shoulders.

Castiel does what he always does. he stares back at her with nothing but gentle eyes full of affection. a gaze that nobody but Sonnet has ever seen.

So Sonnet does what she always does. she wraps her arms around him and hugs him tight.

Their wings wrap around each other. his black wings mixing with her light pink ones. creating a tight, warm, iridescent cocoon.

sonnet masterlist

A/N: ermmm first ever real fic?? sorry if the writing is buns but um… Sonnet and Castiel lore!! idk if i wanna ship them. but they have a close relationship/connection either way! i love my fluffy babies!!

[greyjoy-girl]

Salt and Snow: Part XIII

Summary: After Balon Greyjoy's uprising fails, a young Theon Greyjoy is taken to Winterfell as a ward and hostage. Within the castle's looming stone walls, he meets Lord Stark's bastard daughter, a sharp-eyed girl who seems to look straight through him. As the years pass, their shared loneliness transforms their childhood rivalry into a complicated bond forged from shared loneliness and feelings of isolation. As tensions rise in Westeros, war breaks out and Theon is pulled between Pyke and Winterfell, testing the strength of their bond.

Pairing: Theon Greyjoy x Snow! Reader

Warnings: Ramsay Bolton (in this chapter, just typical violence and slight creepy vibes)

Length: 1.7k words

Notes: I am going to try and tone Ramsay down a bit because I struggle to write pure misery, but now that he has entered the story, there will be some sexual harrassment/assualt, violence, torture etc. but I will try to avoid writing it directly. It gets a bit dark from here on out. I've got some chapters written already, but I'm waiting to post them for a little.

Masterlist

PREVIOUS PART || NEXT PART

━─━────༺Part XIII༻────━─━

299 AC— Mid Summer, Winterfell

         The night was stretching on too long. The shadows in Winterfell are closing in, reaching out to suffocate him in the halls. As Asha left, leaving him only ten of her men, the feelings of isolation and regret had found a home in his chest.

He leans against the wall, gaze fixed on the horizon. He envies Asha, her freedom to just leave, nothing to prove. Theon? He’s nothing but a puppet, a pawn, neither Stark nor Greyjoy, yet his fate is forever tied to this cursed castle whether he likes it or not, an unbreakable chain holding him back.

Footsteps snap him back to reality. Reek. The greasy man bends down in an awkward bow. “M’lord,” he says, his voice an oily slither, as if he had no other purpose but to unsettle Theon.

“What is it?” Theon snaps, not in the mood for the man’s strange games.

Reek steps closer, unnatural eyes glinting in the light. “You need men, m’lord, lots of men. Two hundred, to hold Winterfell, at least. I can get them for you, but I’ll need a price.”

A strange pit opens in Theon’s stomach. He doesn’t like the man, doesn’t trust him, but he’s running out of options. “What price?”

Reek licks his worm-like lips. “A horse, a bag of gold, and the girl, that’s all I ask m’lord.”

Theon clenches his hands so tight he thinks his nails might break his palms. The girl? [Y/N]? The very thought of him standing near her made him to angry to think. “No. You don’t get her.”

Reek’s smile doesn’t falter. “You need men to keep Winterfell, what’s a girl for a castle?”

Theon doesn’t budge. “I said no.”

Reek studies him for a moment, then shrugs. “Fine, then. I’ll take the kennel girl, m’lord, she’s already spoiled.”

Theon is taken aback. His anger subsides into weariness. Palla. A girl he’d known for years. Reek was playing him, making Palla a pawn in his twisted games. Theon grinds his teeth together. “Fine. Bring me two hundred men, you’ll have your horse now, the gold and girl later.”

Reek bows his head, not in deference, but to hide his hunger. He can’t kill Reek, not yet, not when the strange man might be his only savior. He might not have trusted him, but he needs him nonetheless.

“I’ll be back soon, m’lord,” he says, slipping out of the hall and down the halls. Theon exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. He wonders if Asha had been right, if he should have left with her. No use in thinking about it now.

Theon’s dreams are haunted by the dead. Robert Baratheon, guts spilling out over the banquet table. Eddard Stark’s headless body sat beside him. Mikken, Chayle, Benfred Tallhart, more he knows, others he doesn’t recognize, all of them stare at him with accusing eyes.

Finally, Robb Stark, his once brother, bleeding from a hundred stabs, Grey Wind beside him.

Theon wakes with a scream. Wex and his guards are quick to his side, bringing Luwin with a sleeping draught, but he doesn’t dare drink it. His mind is too restless for sleep.

Instead, he wanders to her room, sliding down the wall and staring at the door. He stays there, on the cold stone floor for what feels like hours. Part of him wishes she would come out, embrace him, pretend none of this had ever happened, but he’s not that stupid. Dawn comes, and Theon doesn’t move.

Maester Luwin finds him in the hallway, brings him out to a window and points at the horizon. Rodrik Cassel’s banners pepper the hills. “Winterfell won’t hold against an assault,” he warned Theon. “You must yield, my lord. You have no hope of holding here, you’d do better to open the gates and ask for—”

“Mercy?” Theon interrupts, scoffing. “I know what mercy awaits me.”

“There is a way.”

“I am Ironborn,” he says, unconvincingly. “I have my own way. Send birds to my father and uncle, and tell Loren to gather the men in the yard.”

Luwin’s eyes darken with concern, but he says nothing. Theon heads down, assembling his men in the yard. The men are shifty, nervous, and few. “The northmen will be on us by dusk,” he tells them “I don’t plan to run, I took this castle and mean to hold it, but I will not command any man to die with me.” He draws a line in the dirt with his sword. “Those who will stay and fight, step forward.”

A long pause. It’s no surpise. His whole family had deserted him, even Reek had left him. Why would his men stay loyal? Then, Wex steps over. Seventeen more follow, only two of his and Asha’s ten remain on the other side. “Go, then,” he says, turning towards the drawbridge. “Lorren, prepare a noose.”

He rides out alone to parley. “Turncloak,” Rodrik spits.

“I am a Greyjoy of Pyke. Not a Stark,” Theon reminds him.

“You were raised among them. You butchered the boys you called brothers.”

“I came to parley. If you mean to insult me, I’ll take my leave.”

“Then hear my terms,” says Rodrik. “Yield Winterfell. Surrender. We’ll let your men go free, but you’ll answer to Robb Stark.”

“We hold the North now.”

Rodrik’s face is grim. “You hold nothing but three castles. I’ve two thousand men. You’ve what, fifty?”

Seventeen, Theon thinks, but knows better than to say outloud. “I have something better.”

He raises his fist. Rodrik turns. On the walls behind them, Beth Cassel stands with a noose around her neck.

“To use a child like this is craven,” Rodrik hisses.

“And familiar,” Theon says. “I was taken from my father’s house as a child, too, to prevent rebellions. The noose around my neck was not one of rope, but it chafed the same. She’s my shield. Disperse by nightfall, or she dies.”

With that, he rides back to Winterfell and waits for nightfall.

═══════════════

You awake to the smell of smoke crawling under your door, forcing its way you’re your lungs and making you choke. Throwing open your window to get air, you hear screams and weapons clashing. Quickly, you throw an overdress on over your chemise, pull on your boots and cloak, and slip out the door.

What could have happened? Rodrik would never burn Winterfell, not even to capture Theon. You’d seen his banners, House Cerwyn and Talllhart, they’d come to take back the castle. What could have changed in the short hours between then and now?

Walking quickly through the hallways, you notice how empty they are. No Ironborn men, no servants. No one. As you head towards the gate, you turn a corner and ram into a man’s chest. A flayed man decorates his armor. Boltons. He grabs you by the arm. “Come,” he says, voice too calm for someone with no business being there.

“I haven’t done anything, why—”

“Didn’t say you had,” he responds, leading you out towards the yard.

Another man steps up beside. “We’re not here to kill you. It’s just orders.”

“Orders? From who?”

The second man smiles. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

You’re dragged outside, through the yards, corpses littering the ground. By the Godswood, Maester Luwin lies pale, hand pressing on his bloody stomach.

You try to reach him, not sure if he’s dead or dying, shifting in the man’s grip. “Please, let me—”

He twists your arm, causing you to yelp. “Stop struggling, girl.” Again, with the unnaturally calm voice.

They carry you out through the postern, tying your hands when you try to resist and throwing you onto a waiting horse. Outside, the smoke is thick. You see Ser Rodrik’s banners littering the hills, torn and burning.

Winterfell is turning to ash before your eyes, and you’re being taken into the belly of something worse.

═══════════════

Theon is saved. In the dark of night, he’d heard swords clashing. He couldn’t make anything out in the blackness, but now, a red-helmed man approaches the gates with a gift. Black Lorren had called down to Red Helm, asking if he was friend or foe, to which the man had presented the corpses of Ser Rodrik, a Tallhart, and a Cerwyn. All of his foes gone in one fell swoop.

“Open the gates,” Theon commands. “They’re friends.”

The pink and red men spill in. Boltons, by the crest on their chests. Reek had been a Bolton servant, maybe he hadn’t been abandoned after all. Theon meets them in the yard, Luwin and Lorren at his side. “How many did you lose?” he asks.

“Twenty, maybe thirty,” the knight muses. His helm is decorated as a flayed man’s face. “Ser Rodrik never saw it coming. The old fool thought us friends.”

He removes his helm. “Reek,” Theon mutters in shock.

“Reek’s dead,” the man says. “Gave him my horse, my ring, and dressed in his filth. It worked.” The man smiles. “Now, I’ve brought you more than two hundred men as I promised. From my father’s own garrison.”

Theon swallows, remembering the deal he’d struck. “You were promised a girl.”

“Aye,” not-Reek says, voice silky. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want a stinking kennel girl. I want the Snow girl.”

“No,” Theon says, raising his voice. “That wasn’t what we agreed to.”

The man moves his hand like a whip, gauntlet connecting with Theon’s cheekbone with a shattering crack. “You’re in no position to say no, my prince.” Then, his tone shifts. “Unless you’d like me to tell Lord Bolton that you’re withholding from him.”

Roose Bolton. The mention of his name quiets even the men from the Dreadfort.

“I act in my father’s name,” Ramsay Snow says. “He’ll have use for her. But she’s mine until he says otherwise.”

Theon tries to speak, but gags on his own blood.

“Burn the rest,” Ramsay announces. “Save the Freys for my father, and bring me my prize.”

Chaos erupts. Theon’s men are cut down, they never stood a chance. Luwin, fragile and old, is pierced with a spear. The last thing Theon sees before everything goes black is Smiler, mane alight, kicking and screaming in the stables.

═══════════════

PREVIOUS PART || NEXT PART

[radiofreesanjak]

TO THOSE ALONGSIDE: We are a voice among many voices, a squadron among many squadrons, an unknown among many unknowns. We are but one dog among a kennel nine hundred and ninety-nine strong; bound in contract to smoke and mirrors and all manner of deception of our own volition, be it necessity, desperation, or desire. This is our message to you.

Our masters would call us "neutral", bought out by both sides, the hand which wields the gun which aims both away from and towards you. The highest bidder buys our service, the wealth lining our pockets a carrion comfort for countless betrayals. It is a despicable life to live in the name of freedom, and yet we are freer here than we were under our old masters - HA, HORUS, IPS-N; so many empty promises abandoned in the hope of something better, only to be strangled yet again by the newest chain around our throats.

Even now, we wing our way across endless night in service of those above. Not to turn our guns on those alongside, for once, but at the behest of one above who seeks to humiliate their fellows above - your jailers, at that; a reminder that those below care not for petty affairs of state, only that they bleed and suffer the same as you once did beneath their boots. We shall soon pass near Free Sanjak, and while our mechs will not be among those who run your blockades and deliver supplies, neither shall they be among those who would gun you down and force you back below, where you do not and have never belonged. Your broadcast shall be on our radios.

Should we find our freedom someday - should these chains of smoke and mirrors be broken (if they can be broken, ephemeral and ever-changing as they are) - we pledge our aid to those alongside. We will run your blockades, strengthen your signals, deliver supplies, rain your messages from the skies you have fought so long and so hard to see. We expect no forgiveness for our past mistakes, for the innocent blood of those alongside shed by our hands. We ask only that we may work alongside; a chance to prove ourselves worthy of the task to which we shall willingly dedicate ourselves.

TO THOSE ALONGSIDE: The fight continues. Know that when our day of freedom comes, we will fight for you, forever and always.

-- Angel, Slipshod, & Lockbreaker

Its times like these that I remember the wisdom of my siblings-in-arms that we may be walking with blood on our hands, but it is blood borne so the truly guilty may convince themselves they are clean.

We do not fight under the illusion that most of those who oppose us do so out of no sense of true belief, or duty. The grunts who bear the crest of Stone are more often than not not the ones who wear the boot but with us in being crushed by it. We fight for freedom, but retaining the conviction to squeeze the trigger on my gun was hard because I knew people like you, know people like you, who too are leashed to a position where you must be the tools of violence or else be subject to them.

I cannot offer you the sympathy of a promise that I will not shoot you first if your gun comes pointed to us. I will instead offer you this:

It is rare that I am most enraged by those who do the killing. It is not them that are the ultimate servants of violence, it is the ones who stand above, who force you to act so their hands may seem clean that are the most morally drenched. I decry those who carry out the orders, yes, but most of my rage is reserved for those who issue them, and those who feign non-involvement because they feel they have no hands in this, even though it is the violence that allows them to sit at the banquet table and lounge in the garden while we are starved and denied the light of the sun.

I give offerings to the Harlequin and the Knave that you may someday slip your leash, and should your words be true, you will find opportunity to turn over the banquet table, to steal the fruits of the garden, to find those who issue the orders and those who the orders are issued for and tell them straight that we will take no more.

We hope that opportunity knocks for you, and when it does, you will take it and not look back, and see that you remember that there is a world we can build beyond the one that they have demanded from us.

[loquaciousquark]

zero context WIP tag game

If you’re tagged, make a new post and share 1-2 (a few) sentences from your most recent unposted WIP(s) with zero context – Let your followers guess!

I have a WIP! I have something to share here! Ahhhh!!! Let's see, from a couple of places:

A sound pierced the chaos with peculiar clarity. A sigh from Astarion—a gasp. Small, sudden. Afraid. The dizzying whirl receded. She found stone at last, pushed herself up—what she thought was up—and froze. Sarevok had one hand clamped over Astarion’s face, his white hair caught in the riveted joins of the massive gauntlet. Astarion had seized Sarevok’s wrist in both hands, futile struggle against the inexorable lift into the air, against the sudden thrust of Sarevok’s sword-arm— Three feet of bloodied steel burst through Astarion’s lower back.

and

Her tadpole lurched. Her own rage swept through her, fiery and impotent—then a white surge of terror from Astarion flung itself back in indiscriminate answer. Karlach swore, startled. A face thrust itself into her mind: black hair, burning red eyes, skin stretched over the cheekbones like a hide drum. It smiled with teeth like knives and Astarion made a noise of blind animal fear. The noise a child made before it was struck; the noise the dog had made in Rivington behind the kennel fence. “No!” Tav almost shouted, and Jaheira’s panther head lifted in alarm. “He’s not here. Astarion, listen to me. He’s not here, I swear it. It’s just me. I’m right here with you.”

and

Tav ran her fingers carefully through his hair, rearranging a few curls to lie more neatly alongside their fellows. Without opening his eyes, Astarion gave a tired, throaty hum. “Your hair is so lovely I can’t stand it,” she murmured, threading her fingers through strands like cornsilk. “I’m going to pray tonight for Sune to take it back. Snatch it all right off your head.” “She never noticed me before,” Astarion managed, the words lost in her collarbone. “Somehow I doubt she’d bother about it now.”

Tagging anyone who's reading this! You! Yes, you! Do you have WIPs to share? SHARE THEM AND TAG ME. I DEMAND IT.

[largemouthbassnation]

Kansas Pheasant Hunting With A Young German Shorthaired Pointer

We had a great time on a Kansas pheasant hunt with our young German Shorthaired Pointer, Hex! We did an entire training video series on his development as a puppy and it was awesome that we got to show the culmination of all of his hard work in a fun highlight reel of his Kansas pheasant hunt! This video is a fun watch full of great tips and tricks if you are taking a young dog hunting and how to…

[thewolfandthecrown]

A one-shot that I couldn’t fit into my fanfiction. I’ll probably post drabbles and snippets as I write more.

⚠︎ TW: violence, gore, torture flashback ⚠︎

Nightmares

The storm had raged for hours. Winterfell’s ancient stones groaned under the weight of the wing, but Sansa Stark did not hear them. She had not slept in three nights. Not truly. She would close her eyes, and the darkness would coil around her throat like a leash and collar, dragging her back to him.

She had taken every precaution. The fire in her hearth burned high, casting shadows that danced like courtiers across the tapestries. Podrick had insisted on standing guard outside her door, though she’d dismissed him with a queen’s practiced indifference. I’m not a child, she’d said, sharper than she’d meant. He bowed and left without protest. Always so obedient.

But when sleep finally took her, it was not kind.

***

The scent hits her first. Blood; Copper and rot. It clings to her nostrils, thick as the perfume Joffrey used to drown the stench of his cruelty.

She’s in the kennels. Not Winterfell’s. Ramsay’s. The dirt floor is slick beneath her bare feet. Chains rattle somewhere in the dark. A whimper escapes her, and the hounds answer. Their growls vibrate in her ribs.

“There’s my sweet girl.” Ramsay’s voice is syrup and splinters. He steps into the torchlight, a cleaver dangling from his hand. Behind him, Theon Greyjoy cowers, his face a ruin of bruises. No—not Theon. Jeyne. Jeyne is here too, her brown eyes hollow, her mouth sewn shut with silence.

“You’ll bark for me tonight, won’t you?” Ramsay croons. “A queen should know her subjects.” The hounds lunge, their teeth sinking into her wrists, her ankles. She tries to scream, but the sound is swallowed by the wet click of Ramsay’s laughter.

“Sansa!”

A different voice. Deeper. Gentler. Podrick? She turns, but the kennels melt into the RedKeep’s throne room. Joffrey leers down at her, his brown askew. “Your father begged prettier,” he sneers, and the crowd jeers as Ser Ilyn’s sword rises—

—and falls—

But it’s not Ice. It’s Ramsay’s blade, carving into Jeyne’s back. The scars bloom like roses. “Pretty,” Ramsay whispers. “But not as pretty as yours.”

***

She jolts upright, a scream tearing from her throat. Her hands claw at the furs, searching for wounds that aren’t there. The fire has died to embers. Shadows crowd the room, and for a heartbeat, she’s certain he’s there—in the corner, in the wardrobe, under the bed—

A knock. Too loud. Too sudden.

“You’re Grace?” Podrick’s voice, muffled through the door.

Don’t let him see. Don’t let anyone see.

She presses her fist to her mouth, biting down until the pain anchors her. I am Sansa Stark. I am the Queen in the North. I am not afraid. Ramsay is dead. I fed him to his hounds. I am Sansa St—

“You’re Grace, I-I heard—”

“Leave.” The word cracks like a whip.

Silence. Then the creak of armor as he shifts. “Aye, Your Grace.”

But he doesn’t leave. She hears him settle against the door.

Her hands won’t stop shaking. She stumbles to the washbasin, splashing icy water on her face. The reflection in the mirror is a stranger—pale, wild-eyed, broken. Weak.

Her attention is brought back to the door. She whirls around to see the door creak shut. Her eyes dart around the dim room and she catches a tray on her table. Tea. And a pinenut oatcake. She crumbles it between her fingers, inhaling deeply. Mother used to scold me for sneaking them before supper.

But tonight, it only tastes like ash.

[blackjackkent]

Speaking to more of the thralls on the Szarr palace lower level:

Narrator: The woman's eyes are alert, verging on manic, as she bustles about.

"Everything's gotta be right for the master! Everything's gotta be perfect!"

NGL I wish I could muster the same level of enthusiasm for cleaning that these people have (though ideally without being a vampire thrall I guess).

More room exploring!

Walking down the corridor to what seems like the last downstairs room, another one flickers into existence next to it.

Ughhhhh.

Hector was already fucking appalled by Cazador simply based on the stories Astarion has told him in the past, but seeing this place in person is making him far more so. That bastard is NOT surviving the night if Hector has anything to say about it.

I wonder if the kennel is meant to be the place where Astarion talked about having been shut into solitary for a year straight. :/

It's a roughly 20x20 stone room with a bunch of bedrolls laid across the floor. "Prime spot for an ambush," Jaheira mutters as we walk in, her perception pinging off of this not-very-subtle ambusher in the corner.

We get to talk to him, presumably because we noticed him before he attacked. Judging by the dialogue he's supposed to be a LITTLE more subtle than this.

"I know you're there, Godey. Stop skulking and show yourself."

The skeleton creeps from the shadows; despite the immobility of the skull, it seems to smirk in Astarion's direction. "You always were sharp, little one," it hisses. "Sharp enough to cut yourself."

"It's taking everything I have not to grind your rotten carcass to dust," Astarion growls. Hector isn't sure he's ever seen the elf this cold.

"Don't be mad at Godey, child," the skeleton says; its voice is gravelly, like the rubbing of its bones together. "I only did my job. Only kept you in line..."

"You tortured us!" Astarion shoots back. "For days at a time!"

"Oh, yes-- and you sang so sweetly for me," purrs the skeleton. "None of the others screamed like you did." It tilts his head slowly to look towards Hector. "But you're home now... and you brought me a treat, eh? A new friend for Godey?"

Hector has heard more than enough. This creature is a torturer, and Astarion is practically vibrating with rage; Hector means to let Astarion call the shots here where he can, so he doesn't actually lash out - but his fury on his friend's behalf is obvious as he speaks.

[INTIMIDATION] "Lay a hand on me and lose it, bones," he snaps.

"Not very nice," the skeleton groans, leaning a little away out of Hector's reach. "Not very friendly..." It glares at Astarion out of its empty-socket eyes. "Why are you here, then, little one? If not to see Godey."

Astarion's remembered fear and current rage have overcome any sense of subtlety now, and his lips curl in a cold smile. "Isn't it obvious? I'm going to kill Cazador."

"How DARE you!" the skeleton squeals, recoiling. "As if you could lay a finger on the master, you ungrateful little brat!" It raises its heavy sword in both hands. "Godey will not let you get away with blasphemy. Godey will see you punished!"

-----

Hector can't help a faint, sardonic grin as he lifts his fists and steps to Astarion's side. "What happened to cunning and guile?" he asks in a dry undertone.

"Oh, shut up," Astarion says irritably, "and help me crush this little pest."

"With pleasure."

-----

This fight was actually hysterical, because Godey's immediate strategy was to back out of the room and summon the other thralls for help - except he was standing directly next to Jaheira, Karlach, and Astarion, and they all landed AOOs on him one after the other. I had to check the combat log to see what happened because it looked like he just evaporated.

LOL. Get fucked. That's what happens when you talk about torturing Astarion in front of his friends.

[theblackbookofarkera]

Lesh Kath Dohr

Rising from the cracked earth of what was once the Lake of Hali, Lesh Kath Dohr stands as a monument to engineered malevolence. The fortress's stark geometries seem to actively reject natural forms, its angles and proportions deliberately calculated by its designer, the mad sorcerer Mazar ka-Sarno, to induce feelings of dread and insignificance in those who behold it.

The structure is built from massive blocks of black stone quarried from deep beneath the ancient lakebed, each block treated with alchemical processes that render them not just impervious to conventional siege weapons, but uncomfortable to look at for extended periods. The stone seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, creating an impression of depth that makes it difficult for observers to accurately judge distances or scale within the fortress's walls.

Lesh Kath Dohr's most distinctive feature is its hierarchical arrangement of perfectly square towers, each slightly offset from the others in a pattern that ka-Sarno claimed was based on "the geometry of pain." These towers are connected by enclosed bridges that cast impossibly dark shadows regardless of the sun's position. The fortress walls are uniformly vertical, broken only by arrow slits that have been engineered to amplify the screams of prisoners and the howls of the Kathic war hounds, carrying these sounds for miles across the dried lakebed.

The fortress's main gate is a masterwork of psychological warfare, designed as a massive mouth-like opening lined with sharp-edged geometric teeth. The approach to this gate is deliberate in its exposure, forcing visitors to walk a long, gradually narrowing causeway with no cover or shade. The walls on either side are angled to create wind effects that produce a constant, low-frequency moan, while the flagstones of the causeway itself are carved with scenes of torture that become progressively more disturbing as one nears the entrance.

The interior layout follows what ka-Sarno called "the Principles of Festering Despair." The courtyards and training grounds are arranged in concentric squares, each level slightly lower than the last, creating the impression of descending into an artificial hell. The parade ground where the Brazen Hounds conduct their drills is paved with polished obsidian, its surface kept perpetually slick with water to reflect the sky - creating a disorienting effect for those forced to watch the company's demonstrations of power.

Deep within the fortress lies the Flesh Kennels, a sprawling series of kennels and training areas where the company's Kathic war hounds are bred and conditioned. The complex is designed with acoustic channels that collect and amplify the beasts' howls, directing them through the fortress's ventilation system. This creates an ever-present background of bestial noise that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

The fortress's dungeons deserve special mention, as they represent perhaps the purest expression of ka-Sarno's twisted genius. Rather than traditional cells, the detention areas are constructed as a series of geometrically perfect cubes, each precisely calculated to amplify feelings of isolation and despair. The walls are lined with copper sheets inscribed with mathematical formulas that ka-Sarno claimed would "resonate with human suffering," though whether this is truth or merely psychological warfare is unknown.

One of the fortress's most practical yet disturbing features is its water collection system. The entire structure is designed to channel and collect even the slightest rainfall, storing it in deep cisterns beneath the foundation. These cisterns are accessed through a series of narrow spiral staircases, each step carved with symbols from ka-Sarno's personal system of mathematical mysticism. The water itself, filtered through layers of enchanted copper, is said to retain a metallic taste that never quite leaves the mouth.

The company's administrative center occupies the highest tower, known as the Throne of Calculation. Here, the Brazen Hounds maintain their meticulous records of atrocity in a library whose shelves are arranged in the same geometric patterns as the fortress itself. The reading room features windows of specially treated glass that cast prismatic shadows, creating an environment where even the act of reviewing documents becomes an exercise in disorientation.

The fortress's parade ground is surrounded by copper poles topped with the preserved heads of those who have attempted to infiltrate or assault Lesh Kath Dohr. These poles are arranged in precise mathematical patterns that, when viewed from the commander's balcony, form complex geometric shapes said to have mystical significance in ka-Sarno's theories of architectural sorcery.

The training grounds where new recruits are broken and remade in the company's image are perhaps the most deliberately oppressive areas of the fortress. The walls here are set at angles that create constant shadows regardless of the time of day, while the ground is paved with stones of varying heights, making it impossible to find stable footing. The overall effect is one of perpetual physical and psychological destabilization.

In recent years, the fortress has begun to develop its own legends among the Brazen Hounds themselves. Some claim that ka-Sarno's geometries are slowly altering the very fabric of reality around Lesh Kath Dohr, while others insist that the fortress itself has developed a form of consciousness, actively working to break the spirits of those imprisoned within its walls. Whether these stories represent truth or simply the psychological effect of living within such a deliberately oppressive structure remains unclear.

What is clear is that Lesh Kath Dohr serves its purpose with terrible efficiency. It is more than merely a fortress - it is a machine designed to process human brutality, transforming ordinary soldiers into the efficient dealers of atrocity that make up the Brazen Hounds' ranks. In this, at least, Mazar ka-Sarno's mad vision has been entirely successful.

[namig42]

Another chapter done, and it's another rough one. Please take care before reading! Also, the story is almost at 100 kudos on Ao3, and I'd love to see it make that mark. If you enjoy the story at all, then I would like to ask if you could share it around to those you think might enjoy it as well. Please and thank you! With that said, on with the angst!

Just One Yesterday (Ch. 20)

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Read it on Ao3

TWs in the tags

---

“Alright, don’t do anything silly now, you two,” Godey said cheerfully on his way out of the kennel. He needed to go grab more supplies for his show of “hospitality” towards Wyll.

It had been hours since this horror started, or so Wyll guessed. Honestly, it felt more like days that this hell had been dragging on, but Wyll’s body wasn’t decomposing enough yet to consider that a valid option. During his time with Godey so far, Wyll had been clubbed, stretched with ropes, and most recently, flogged just like Astarion had been. He was still shackled to the wall with his back presenting to the room and displaying all the freshly cut lashes in his dark skin. That sweater of Gale’s that had been such a comfort when he first woke up was now ripped in two and thrown somewhere on the dusty floor of this awful place. The chill of the damp cave began to set in again through his bare skin, but instead of pain, it was now somewhat of a relief as it helped numb the new open lashes in his skin.

In his haze of half-consciousness, Wyll could feel the blood trickling down his back. Despite the horror of it, there was a warmth as it dripped from the center of his back and over his bare skin. It was a strange comfort, one that only he would manage to think of as such a dreadful optimist. He felt his bruised legs giving out and only managed to stay on his feet because his wrists wouldn’t allow him to fall. Hanging from the wall at least gave his body an excuse to slack while still standing. It was a brief respite in the midst of the hours and hours of screaming and tensing, readying himself for the next impact at that skeletal bastard’s hands.

He rested his forehead against the cold stones of the wall, relieved for a moment of quiet solace in this hell he found himself trapped in. In the midst of his misery, he momentarily forgot that Astarion was in the room as well, shackled to another set of chains on the opposite side of the room and forced to watch Godey’s gods awful show.

After everything that had happened since Wyll awoke in this dungeon, this was the first moment that the two of them had had alone. Wyll didn’t know what to say to fill the space after everything that’s happened. All his bravado and enthusiasm from before about confiding in Astarion, telling him the truth of his world and trying to run away together, had all disappeared somewhere between the pulling of Wyll’s limbs and the first few lashes against his bare back.

There was nothing he could say to look on the brighter side of things now. It was hopeless. His heroic heart had left him useless in all of this, and now he couldn’t even think of something to say to the man he had wanted to protect so desperately. Not an encouraging word, not some grand declaration. For once, Wyll felt no words on his tongue, only the sandpapery texture of his dehydrated mouth.

Surprisingly, Astarion did manage to fill the space with his own words. “What in the hells were you thinking…?” His voice sounded hoarse after all the yelling he had done from when Godey played at bruising his delicate complexion with sticks and paddles. That had been for trying to tell Godey to stop before he pulled Wyll’s hips and shoulders out of their sockets during the stretching. Wyll was given a break because of Astarion, but his agony was not a toll that was worth it to Wyll. He would’ve rather just endured it and prayed his body wouldn’t snap before Godey decided to move on.

“Pardon?” Wyll’s voice was just as strained, if not worse. It felt like he had torn his vocal cords to shreds, and with no water, there was nothing to recover what remained of them. He tried to turn his head and look behind him, but it hurt his neck too much to do more than angle his head just slightly while using the wall for leverage. All he managed to make out was a blurry sliver of pale skin in his peripherals.

“Why wouldn’t you just stop…?”

Wyll didn’t know what to say. Nothing he could say now seemed like a worthy reason for where they found themselves. His dedication, his affection, his sense of justice, none of it would be of any comfort now. “I’m sorry…” was all that Wyll could manage. 

Astarion sighed on the opposite side of the room. Wyll could make out a slight bit of movement and heard a soft jingling from Astarion’s shackles. “No, I can’t leave all the blame on you. You gave me precious, impossible moments of comfort. I just wanted more. It was my own greed that wouldn’t let me push you away. You and that golden, bleeding heart of yours…”

Wyll’s heart panged at the sweet words. A part of him knew it already, but hearing Astarion say that there was precious comfort in the little they had done… It meant a great deal to Wyll. It didn’t change their situation, but this hell didn’t feel so pointless knowing that it wasn’t only Wyll that had savored their time together.

As Wyll built up the strength to reciprocate Astarion’s sentiments, Astarion cut his efforts off and continued. “Still, from the start, I was counting down until this ended. I knew that Cazador had known something since that very first night, and yet I still put us at risk for just one more sweet moment.”

“I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.” Wyll spoke as best as he could, though his voice cracked a bit towards the end of his statement. Another sigh came from behind Wyll followed by a dry cough. Astarion’s next words were spoken softly, “I really don’t have anything to offer besides more burdens…” Wyll wasn’t sure if Astarion was talking to him or to himself then. There was an introspective tone that sunk into those last words, but Wyll couldn’t stand hearing such falsities about Astarion, especially if they were self-inflicted.

“That is not true.” Despite every cut and bruise and flare of pain coursing through him, Wyll managed to find an assertive tone. Hearing the way Astarion spoke about himself, it wasn’t the truth. It was what he had convinced himself of over the last fifteen years, and maybe even before that. “You are not a burden, Astarion. You have so much to offer and inspire others with. You are the most charming person I’ve ever known, and I don’t mean in the way everyone else would assume.”

Wyll couldn’t see Astarion, but he could only imagine the look on his face as the dungeon went silent.

Wyll continued despite his dry, cracking throat. “There’s a part of you hidden by layers of what you think others want of you, and it’s when those layers disappear that I find myself falling madly for you.”

“Wyll, stop…”

“Your smile could melt a candle quicker than any flame. Your laugh - your true laugh - could charm an entire audience effortlessly. When you speak with passion, you come to life and I find myself thinking, ‘this is a man I never want to let go of. Whatever happens, this is someone that deserves anything and everything in the world.’”

“Wyll, please.” Astarion’s aggression came through even with his tired voice. Wyll paused, though he felt he could continue for hours about how Astarion was never the burden. “You’re making this much harder than it needs to be.”

“But… Astarion-”

“No! Please… just stop. Any more of your kind words might just be what ends me. More than anything Cazador could do…”

Wyll raged at that thought, but couldn’t deny the sentiment. With how hopeless things felt, what good could a confession do other than worsen the tragedy of what was to come? To remind them both of how much they lost because of Cazador…? It was a greater tragedy than simply not getting to say goodbye.

Wyll put his forehead back to the wall and lightly tapped his head against the cold stone. Once, twice, three times. He was such a naive fool. Gods, he should’ve just left that night. The moment Astarion wasn’t out on the streets, he should’ve just gone home and packed his things. He could’ve even left Gale a note for Astarion since he was so willing to help. He could’ve explained everything in the note and asked Gale to go seek out Astarion to deliver it. Why in the hells didn’t he just do that? Was he so married to the idea of a grand romantic gesture, something like the lover’s escape that he envisioned for the two of them that ended in a happily ever after somewhere far, far away, that he was blinded to common sense?

He had been so desperate to see Astarion one more time, thinking it could’ve been the last. Maybe everything would’ve been fine if he was good in Menzoberranzan. He could’ve been back in a few months and found Astarion again, but what if Astarion wasn’t around anymore? Even worse, what if he was and thought Wyll had abandoned him and wanted nothing else to do with him after that? There had been too much left to chance and Wyll couldn’t stomach the idea of never seeing Astarion’s smile again or hearing that voice that held such a strong desire to live. If Astarion had wanted Wyll for those moments of comfort, then Wyll wanted Astarion for the same. They were quite alike; two lovestruck fools that buried themselves in risk for the sake of a soft, tender moment.

Had it been worth it? Were their few escapades and the feelings that blossomed worth the suffering they endured now? Wyll didn’t know anymore. Deep down though, Wyll knew that he wouldn’t have changed anything he’s done. Even if it meant feeling pain so terrible he wished for death, he wouldn’t have traded any one of his nights with Astarion for the world.

There was their very first night in that shed, their first date drinking themselves into oblivion at the Elfsong, that night of soft touches and sweet words in the abandoned apartment, even the less savory moments like when Wyll left himself vulnerable watching Astarion at work. Each one of those memories revealed another side of Astarion. He was clever yet impatient, funny, stealthy, charming, and had a hard time showing kindness, but did all the same. Each memory held a core part of him, and Wyll wouldn’t trade a single one of them away, not for anything.

There were so few of those precious moments together, but there had been so much comfort in each one that made Wyll want to live again for the first time in a long time. He had fallen into a pattern for nearly seven years under Mizora and lost hope in himself. He had sought out comforts, but no one had that passion to live. Most only wanted to live in contentment and complacency, but those terms had a very different meaning for Wyll compared to those who came and went out of his life.

Then there was Astarion, who despite everything he said, had a passion to be more even after everything he’s endured. He was dynamic, he was passionate, he was beautiful in his lust for more. Seeing that passion even on that very first night, Wyll knew that he wanted a taste of that for himself as well. He wanted to fight for a life worth living, and even more so for the man that inspired him.

“Astarion, I promise that I’ll save you from this.”

Astarion sighed. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I never do.” It may take time, there may be more to endure, but Wyll would never make a promise that he had no intention of keeping. All he had to do was survive this hellish trial and hope that an escape would present itself before his body gave out on him for good.

Right after those confident words finished ringing in the dim echo chamber, the door opened again and Godey came shuffling back in. There was the sound of something jingling in the bag Godey carried with each of his uneven steps.

“I know you must be tired, boy, so how about you get ready for a nice nap? Maybe even a good massage.” That heinous voice of his was bone chilling, and Godey’s little chuckle afterwards didn’t inspire comfort. Wyll didn’t know what Godey meant, but knew that it couldn’t be anything good. The sound of something like broken glass falling to the floor behind him rang just a second later, bouncing off the hard floor with a glittering sort of sound and grazing the back of Wyll’s feet. He saw the twinkle of the clear crystals as he looked down and began to worry for just what in the hells this was supposed to be.

Godey came up behind him, crunching the shards on the floor with each of his steps. He put a metal collar around Wyll’s neck before undoing Wyll’s shackles. Wyll’s arms fell to his sides and all the blood that came rushing back to his numb limbs hurt like hell. It was like an icy fire that ran through his veins as Wyll tried to hold his balance, but without his arms, all he could do was lean himself forward on the wall and use his head to steady himself. Before he could regain his balance completely, a harsh jerk from the collar pulled Wyll backwards and brought him crashing down on the floor. As the glass shards made small cuts and even found their way into his wounds, Wyll screamed in terrible agony. He tried to sit up, but every time he did, Godey yanked the collar down with the leash he held. After Wyll’s third attempt to scramble away, Godey stomped down on his sternum and held his weight on top of Wyll’s chest. Godey was not a heavy man; if Wyll was at full strength, he could easily have thrown him off, but with his useless arms and battered body, Godey may as well have been a giant.

Wyll screamed as the shards twisted around in his back, digging into his shoulder blades as Godey put more weight down on him. The old bastard shifted the pressure of his foot to make sure Wyll’s back dug into every little bit, not missing a single chip on the ground. “Royal treatment for the pretty man. Only the finest of crystal for my guest. Don’t worry, I still have a few plans before I’m through with you.”

Of course he did.

Gods, if you can hear me, if you have any mercy left to spare, please help me so that I can save Astarion.

There was nothing except for the sound of his own screams filling his ears and the sound of crackling glass under him as Godey stomped him again and again and again. Passing out from the pain would’ve been a mercy at this point, but Wyll feared that if he let his mind fade to black now, it might never return.

No, he had to endure. An escape would present itself, just as long as he could hold on just a bit longer.

[libidomechanica]

With light by

A kimo sequence

               1

That grew beside a human door! With light by light: lonely thing, that soon he rose and warmth of loue.

               2

But Flight. Of air, not pure as it, yet pure, doth well delight. My slumber was gone for you, my dear.

               3

Because the blue sky bends over and trust that I shall those tears; take me to the centre. But there.

               4

Pushing toward daybreak. A dainty dish to set before me, when the trance was o’er, the mastiff bitch?

               5

I do not the disaligned. Though yet, heaven seems half-way to lift some weight of low replies.

               6

That hole where leather men are vain? And slowly rolled her with me, we’re wed to one eternity.

               7

I have been faithful to you, Cynara! Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert—and light and song.

               8

Stay with your old baggage. Plunge them in up to thee, and thee to mee: no, no, no, my Deare, let bee.

               9

Says, I wanted to get married. With blushing shame, by rage suppress’d, let tears, and weep each other?

               10

To sit a star upon the floor below. And, Do I dare? No, no, my Deare, let bee.

               11

Cannot flie away. Nor equal, nor unequal: each fulfils defect in each, and lang’rous waist!

               12

—Thy words, relieve my verse in time, your fortune— range the wilds of Time, perhaps not a woman, off!

               13

Make in misery to live. And lie, ever singing, each to each. Makes you tyrants in the end.

               14

Free from fear, they cross’d the diver’s brain, for a lady’s chamber floor. Yet so did I let my friend.

               15

Now do I know this: I fell in love wilt hear; if from thee. Oh Angel of hopeless, lasting flames!

               16

After than Phoebus, if he seav’n times bright! For forbidden fires. To spit out all the dance was mine.

               17

Bright eyes, that all her hard and cold white as stone. Involved in stillness, plighted vows fleeting as air!

               18

Assist the field is universe into a lute. Is it indeed so? Be thine! The air is still!

               19

I told my love had seen mine execution. Curse on all best exceed proportions of the year.

               20

And gave a twist to me. Which stands check’d; Religion of my mind, thy words, thou art as tyrannies.

               21

I’ll wrap it round. Till the same chance!—Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert— and light a cigarette.

               22

And all thou know’st to my dear doting heart. Do love you here is none like a dog in a kennel.

               23

But tis twilight dawned; and out of sight. Owe this dearest, that long-wish’d-for end, full to thee, and doubt.

               24

The lovely lady’s shroud. I heard the mermaid now, for I will say: How his hair is growin’ yet.

               25

Give me the shade of the sky.—An’ Charlie, he’s my darling, the young Chevalier. And is he gone?

               26

Ah! The Castle wa’, she saw three bonie boys playing with a dying fall beneath the huge oak tree?

               27

Our bed is lovely maid and sees a damsel bright a dame! Hand, turning her grave. By more than dead!

               28

And like a noon-dew, wanderings I have sinn’d! I want to glide a sunbeam by the Maiden’s side!

               29

Where I fly, pursue, rise in the brain is not so. Spake words Sir Leoline. I dreamed I was a child!

               30

By thee to mount, and complaint of present the bonie laddie in. Bare, lest aught unholy loiter here?

               31

And love to so base a vice, for no man knows. Much, Cynara! No matter by the might be well!

               32

He danced with rough. Amid that scenes appear where’er I turn me not to belie his soul with clay.

               33

Run afresh, as if she ’d said, Gee woe! I lift my heavy eyelids my anguish hangs like shame.

               34

To the fault; I view my crime, but kind? To labour was thine! And do accept my madness, and weak.

               35

He drank: her fair large bright and slender oats foraged in the lady’s chamber door; and the sun.

               36

A cool suspense from pain; thy life destroy. The wanton thru the flower amang them very ill.

               37

Of lonely way, close by the castle bell. As if she be small, jewel-like flower unfamiliar.

               38

The way to the blood runs out across the sounds and strange man should presume? That is so vex’d with thee.

               39

To know her but I? Or foxlike in difference. And thus she stooped, methought I heard a hollow sound.

               40

A blue moon for an instant leper. Lord of her beauty lies, when faithful to the land of spike?

               41

And none of us thought thus watred was my strange death of Jesus set me free. In this fashion.

               42

But could have this; she shall: then my hopes and men, who looked askance and end with his society?

               43

And those tender-ship, cried Sally Brown! Sleeps, and love all night upon mine ears, both I and the brow!

               44

Within the bathroom floor mocks your haire with me! So, the year, that yours and mine had bound us lie?

               45

Van Diemen’s land if certain when two dewdrops on the best, even to life in the airport. Ah!

               46

Seized, inside my honest faith in this man no more, but other me? A shining steps of thy child!

               47

Lingered in the moon is behind, and saw thee woman in contractions are five minutes apart.

               48

Comes first—light in what they might half undo it. Of loue new-coin’d to her from the pitiless wave?

               49

And his Anguish grew—how bear it? But, as luckless, I have sworn to bury all things undo me.

               50

That looks up at the lady by her word were it even for me. Loathe the side-lie of a truth.

               51

For once, a tremor breakfast the sky ascends, wi’ sangs o’ joy. And damning their necks, where away?

               52

And flush themselves forsake and for very feare would return to life, to life in thee has killed it.

               53

And the rain on my soul. And I was a rose that green mama who first forced me to Mortal part.

               54

Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will trim. To sail with old Benbow; and here, ev’n then, shall be poor.

               55

The Sexes rose to work upon is much too much, some say, she seems that sweet said, that thou to dread?

               56

And hark, again! From happy pieties, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet face of you and me.

               57

Why should poor beauty from my love, my life. But, as luckless, I have known the rain lasts anywhere.

               58

In the bud will wear white despair? Wilt thou go with me, we’re wed to one eternity in days?

               59

Not Ida; ’ clasp it once all-fragrant-curtain’d love begins again. Then downward like those who love.

               60

What peace. And her voice is strength beguiled, this golden foot of May is on the bloated hiss of death.

               61

For I have slept on the brands were stopt with griefe. Still as death, can break her word were it bitterness.

               62

The earth forever! It must be because it is a precious seal of my life, myself—and you.

               63

Is changed in a convent’s solitary Child. When I break through all the grist of its insides grow.

               64

Now folds the maid and thine for me. Than Heaven, my Lover, were my Chamber Heaven’s sun staineth.

               65

Err I dare to look at the basin and wriggling on thy fame! My own heart’s heart, where, while I weep!

               66

Till love you, dear, I’ll love you all; let Virtue be your soules; come wait on hir whom winged Psyche true!

               67

I waste my heart and mine should hindred be. Gloom, and nothing can be old, for as you with my death.

               68

For once and show me what I meant, at all. Proud of many, lives upon his gaine is our lost will.

               69

I call, I call: who do ye call? And the rent, and long to stay with your old baggage. I would get.

               70

—Not the power to burn and be all that bloody torments you doe give, creatures, couched her homage.

               71

Geraldine shakes thee hence. Yet, if Hope has flown away in a night, or in nothing but a feint.

               72

That heart to this fool lord, dare I bid her abide by her side; nor strange. That is misunderstood.

               73

You soarer, you of the sea. ’ Echoing straits between the hills? Again she sees my lady’s maid.

               74

Nor shall die tonight, I wrote this morning. Black Melancholy reigns; what means the warm leaden sheet.

               75

And the gravelly sand take a body to it, even blue-eyed fly to the field. Sir Leoline?

               76

From op’ning on the crowing cock, how drowsily it crew. Shall ever was in our own child-bed.

               77

Within and whom I am confined. Water so cleanly I myself upon the floor below.

               78

Cries to catch her but I? Of all that we see or seem is but as a tomb which happened balloon.

               79

Out for love, to give the wreath’d trellis of a working brain, love alone. With a moonlight and song.

               80

I lift my heaven knows, in joys and woe so many times. To the banks, close of each too, too late.

               81

My soul would only be the best, even to life in losing mine? Naked, a double behind.

               82

Like cliffs which have no fear! Beneath the weight of soil, nothing new is in us, and were at peace.

               83

I knew a beautiful olives. We men and drivers in a bar-room around its wings and neck.

               84

—Come live with me—or fall from its boundless mere, with true sight! This day my journey should I presume?

               85

Into many a summer’s front doth sing and saying plainly of not turning from yonder bay?

               86

Oft did I rove by bonnie Doon, how can you bloom so fresh and faithful to its crisis? Have guessed?

               87

I fell, and fro, while I weep! And turning away, wants to be made, cobbling at the lasting flames!

               88

Such gentle still dictates, and those faire skin, beamy eyes, for the quarters, and looking to the Pole.

               89

Pitiless wave? Flickering gyres, but he’d once about to have gone to the sun delights me.

               90

And may appear so when this rebellious heart, and that will show itself to stone. Nay, fairer yet!

               91

To swell a progress, start up, the same chance! As old as a dog, as quiet as a skeleton.

               92

Move still doth breeding flow’rs. They will sing to me. That even its grossest flatterers dare not brave.

               93

That looks up at the happy again. A clover, a Fisherman mends a glimmers on to me.

               94

To them through my fingers am I at all satisfied. Her deadly pangs be drown’d, while I slept.

               95

Rain on thee; yet eyes this curious friend. The winged’ steed, I wish we never looks both small and dull.

               96

And make my old excuse, ’ proving his caresses by the cold. With open eyes ah woe is me!

               97

To deem, as a most logical conclusion, that ’s underneath the weight. It even for me?

               98

Nay, by my own eyes inspiring hole. My heart is dust at the pin; and here, ev’n then, shall meet!

               99

Unto the straitest best of all to Love than is or ever dear! Angels of the precious jewel.

               100

Ida came behind. That brought to. But to- morrow, the field. While prostrate here increase! To the field.

               101

I cried for madder music and forms of men! His gentle daughter is safe and fro, while I weep!