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emilykaldwen · 2 months ago

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High in the Halls

Ship: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (OC) Written for the @hotd-bigbang

Rating: Mature

Summary: Aegon Targaryen, the last true Valyrian Warlord, rattles at the machinations of his mother who tries to play Andal politics when he wants nothing more than to be left alone. A chance meeting of a maiden in distress in the Riverlands changes everything.

AKA the Old Valyria AU!

Notes: This is chapter one! Of what will probably be two chapters? I just didn't have the time to finish this, I'm so sorry.

Art by: @the-common-cowgirl / Beta: @vampire-exgirlfriend

Read on AO3

Author's Note: It's the old Valyria AU I've been hinting at for ages! It was a rough summer y'all, and this thing got finished while I was dying from Bronchitis (but before I got Covid) so I wasn't able to finish it. But this is absolutely a universe I want to have fun in and play with from time to time. I hope you enjoy it with me!

Sunfyre’s scream pierced the air, sending seagulls frantically fleeing from the battlements of Dragonstone, crying out as they took to the sky in an explosion of gray and white. The deep pink frills along the back of the dragon’s neck stood high, his head rearing back, snout vivid and wet with the blood of the sea beast he had dragged ashore for him and little Dreamfyre to feast on. His little sister’s dragon was twice the size of a horse, and the dead beast was at least two of her. The pair of them crouched around the great beast on the black sand beach, the waves crashing and little flits of multi-colored light caught in the air every time they broke against the rock of the harsh inlet.

Syrax hissed in response, her head rearing back in offense at being denied, but she eventually turned away, for Sunfyre was twice her size, and the smaller dragon was no match.

Aegon’s half-sister, on the other hand…

“Where is father?”

Aegon tilted his head, looking over his shoulder to where Rhaenyra, stood in the archway that led down to the stables. Her long, silver hair was tied back in a thick braid that fell to her waist, woven with charms that tinkled when she turned her head. The harshness of the style made her look more like Lord Viserys than her own mother, Lady Aemma, whose features were soft like his own mother.

He stayed silent, dragging his thumbnail along the near imperceptible groove of the stonework he leaned against. Did she think he was a servant? Did she think they were as close as their sire liked to pretend they were?

She arched her brows when he didn’t answer, her black boot tapping on the black stone. Before Aegon could open his mouth, there was movement behind Rhaenyra, heavily accented Valyrian answering for him.

“Helaena had another dream last night.” Lady Alicent met Rhaenyra’s eyes as she approached, silent maidens swathed in red following her. She was father’s second wife, taken in marriage when Lady Aemma could bear no more children. Even after all these years, she wore her long green gowns in the style of the continent: square necked and deep sleeved, a heavy, gold chain looped about her waist, her auburn curls held back a net of onyx and emeralds. Next to Rhaenyra in her dark gray riding leathers chased with crimson, Aegon thought his mother looked like a queen.

Rhaenyra ran her tongue over her teeth behind her lips, nodding curtly, and spun away with a swing of her long hair and vanished into the stronghold, vengeful and beautiful in the low light. Helaena’s dreams had changed fate for their family and Aegon did not know if it were better or worse. Some days, in the black of night, he wished he had gone down with the rest of their people in ash and flame. Others, he relished the freedom from politics that had plagued his earliest years. The fearful whispers of assassins, the way Uncle Daemon raged that they did not need to taint their blood to gain the Hightower gold—these things haunted him.

Mother pursed her lips, watching Lady Rhaenyra leave before her large, dark eyes met his.

“You cannot hide from me forever,” she told him in the common tongue. Aegon scoffed and looked back out at the rocky outcropping below where Sunfyre and Dreamfyre continued to devour the salt beast. He didn’t move as she approached, startling only a little when her hand combed through his shoulder length curls. “We must talk about this.”

“Must we?” he snipped, refusing to look at his mother. He kicked the toe of his boot against the stone and resisted crossing his arms to rest his head against them like a petulant child. Aegon was, in fact, acting a little like a petulant child, but he’d grown exhausted of the conversation that had circled for the past three years. “Go speak with Aemond about it. He’ll be more than glad to cross blades with Daemon and Rhaenyra- ow!”

His mother pinched and pulled at his ear to pull his face towards her and Aegon jerked from her grasp instinctively. Alicent Hightower’s lovely features were severe, delicate brows furrowed, pouty mouth pressed into a firm line.

“You are Viserys’ eldest son.”

“And Valyrian law dictates that Daemon inherits as his dragon is older-”

“Valyria is gone,” Alicent spat, her voice grating like the screech of kitlings or claws against stone. “If by chance you’d forgotten in your cups of strongwine, foolish boy. Valyria is gone, to fire and ash these past three years. Their laws of inheritance do not matter. The custom here, Aegon, is that of the eldest son. Sons before sisters, and all before uncles.”

“Then disown me,” Aegon snapped, pulling from his mother’s grasp before she could claw at him further. “Aemond will become your eldest and he shall eagerly fight with Helaena at his side. She could present it as a vision: Aemond inheriting Dragonstone with their children to carry his legacy on.” He clapped his hands together, smiling, although the gesture held no true joy. His smiles rarely did.

Aemond would relish at the opportunity to prove himself, to be more than what his position allowed him. Ever since their first son, Maelor, had been born, his younger brother had strutted about, speaking of his virility, dangling his son, and then soon after, their daughter, Daenys, in front of their father who so loved his grandchildren. Filling the hole that Rhaenyra left when her new family moved out of the fortress to the island of Driftmark, Viserys had indulged his grandchildren and Helaena was expecting her third soon.

The space between them grew as his mother drew back, her mouth pinched so tight that her lips had gone pale. Aegon loathed the way her gaze scraped at his insides and he resisted wrapping his arms around himself protectively, instead focusing on maintaining his languid, distant posture. To show weakness within the obsidian halls of Dragonstone was to be a death sentence. His mother was not of Old Valyria, but of these strange shores that he was more familiar with than the Freehold. She chafed at the ‘strange customs’, sick at the prospect of her children intermarrying with one another to keep their Valyrian blood pure. She misliked his lack of ambition, or how he preferred to spend his time in the brothel in the little fishing village while Lord Viserys lamented not being able to introduce him to the Ruby Palace and the most divine pleasure slaves the Freehold could have offered.

Lady Aemma misliked his father speaking so, although she was better at hiding her frustrations with her tender, tired smiles. His mother also did not care for the time Aegon spent in Lady Aemma’s solar, where they indulged in honey cakes together and she expected nothing from him, letting him lay his head in her lap while she combed her fingers through his hair when his mother’s anxieties turned her vicious.

If his own mother despised so much of him, then why was she so insistent to have him named heir?

“Aegon.”

He could not bear the anguish in his mother’s voice or on her soft features; the way it coalesced with the frustration like how the blood from the carcass on the beach turned the foaming ocean surf as pink as Sunfyre’s wings. Her shoulders that had bowed in on herself straightened, her breathing evening, and her delicate hands smoothed along the richness of her gown. “We will not indulge in such foolish things,” she said with an abrupt shake of her head. “You will be married at the end of the season.”

It felt like she’d punched him in the throat, the air rushing from him like a wheezing carcass. “I have no sisters to marry,” he rasped out, the blood rushing in his ears. Sunfyre’s call from below was a questioning one, and he saw his dragon lift his bloody face to peer up at him.

“One of the River Kings has need of a son in law,” she explained. “He is well known to our family, with only a daughter and the other river kings are circling. In exchange for you to protect his holding and claim his title upon his death, he will ensure that his armies are yours when the time comes.” She sniffed, twisting the ring on her right hand. “Which will be sooner, I think, than we all expect.”

Well known to their family? The Hightowers. The power that family held was ancient and worthy enough of Valyria, their origins a tightly guarded secret, but his father had said the Hightower blood was a special thing, and how lucky he’d been to snap up the daughter of so much power.

Aegon felt strangled and overheated, a pain coursing through his jaw as he clenched his teeth. “Does he know?” There was something guttural and full of warning running through Aegon’s words, and it vibrated through him. For a moment, he thought he tasted salt and metal, satiating and repugnant along his tongue, and he spat on the ground to rid himself of the taste of his dragon’s kill.

She sniffed again. “He has allowed me freedom to do with my other two children as I please, and Daeron is eager to become a Maester and not claim a dragon for himself. He will serve you well when his education is completed.”

Something cool and wet slapped against Aegon’s cheek and he blinked, tilting his head up as a fine rain began to fall. His mother hurried back inside, arms wrapped around herself, but Aegon ignored her insistent call to follow him. He stood there letting the rain hit his too hot, too tight skin, wondering if it would sizzle the way it sizzled against the dragons. A fine hiss of steam had surrounded Sunfyre as he continued to eat, Dreamfyre tucked beneath his wing, protecting her in the ways that Aegon was unable to protect Helaena himself.

Of course Daeron didn’t want a dragon. He knew nothing else but what he learned of on the ground.

“You’d barter me to some little king for the power of my dragon!” Aegon shouted, his voice heavy with rage, an anger that he’d rarely let loose coming to the forefront like the storm surge. The heat in his throat was a dragon’s flame - he’d spit fire if he could.

Rage was Aemond’s domain, was Rhaenyra’s, was Daemon’s. But Aegon was just as fearsome when he chose to be.

“Aegon-”

“You had no right!” His hands ached for something to throw, to bend and break and shoving over the brazier on his way inside would have to suffice. The coals hissed and bounced along the stone, the metal clanging loudly along the ground. Mother jerked away at the sound like something skittish, a doe perhaps, or a mourning dove, dark eyes wide at the display. Perhaps she did have reasons to mislike him. “You had no fucking right. Daeron, you can barter around, but I, in case you’ve forgotten, am a Warlord. My mount is not some overgrown horse, but fire incarnate, and should I ever so choose, I could turn your precious Oldtown to ash, and the rest of this land if the whim took me.” His nostrils flared as he breathed, wishing he could snag his mother and shake her until sense rattled in her head once more.

But she misliked him enough that he didn’t, the notion settling like a stone in his gut as he skirted her and followed the ghost of his elder sister. Mother shouted his name, but he ignored her, striding down the dim corridors that snaked through the fortress. Torchlight illuminated the slick walls and made the obsidian shine like some living, slimy thing.

Trilling, melodious and haunting, echoed down the corridor, but Aegon could hear the shifting in Sunfyre’s tone. ‘Bite? Attack?’ the sound seemed to question. The Dragonkeepers along the dock gripped their pikes, shouting for Sunfyre to settle, to calm, but the golden dragon would have none of it. He called, concerned, and it grated and echoed along the cave that housed the stable, boiling saliva and blood dripping from his maw and onto the black stone. Another cry shook dust from stone as Sunfyre made as if he were to scramble his bulk up onto the dock. The Dragonkeepers shouted once more, Keeper Arrax looking at him imploringly.

Aegon met his gaze briefly before approaching, tugging his riding gloves on from his pockets. “Lykirī!” he called up to him, but there was little command in the words. Sunfyre rumbled low in his throat, eyes flicking above Aegon and past him for whomever had caused such upset within his rider. It was only as Aegon lifted a hand to his bloody maw to scratch gently along his nostril, did Sunfyre relax, albeit with extreme annoyance at not having anything to attack.

The dragon snorted and settled, lowering himself enough that Aegon could make his way up the curve of his wing to the saddle. There were no words exchanged. None were needed. Him and Sunfyre were as one; the envy of the last Dragonlords.

The further west Aegon flew, the lighter the clouds became. There was something deeper within that, he was sure, and he could only imagine what poetic waxings his father would engage in had Aegon asked. Aemond would huff and let out the most annoyed of sighs and simply say, ‘Clouds move, you nitwit,’ and whatever obscure and esoteric insults from the books in their father’s library.

The breaking of the clouds revealed the lush green of what his mother’s people called the Riverlands. He’d flown over Crackclaw point and up the river that flowed into the Bay of Crabs, the great mountains of the Vale majestic and snow capped in the distance. The rolling green hills and dense forests were cut through with snaking slashes of blue and marked with weirwoods like drops of blood unfolded beneath him, a tapestry of a world he did not understand. His memories of the Freehold were fuzzy. The villa they’d lived in had been large, and he remembered the palanquin draped in the blacks and reds of their house as he made his way to the Dragonmont to claim Sunfyre. And then Helaena’s dreams had entranced their father and here they came.

Dragonstone was more home than Valyria had ever been, but even so, the obsidian fortress in the shadow of the mountain felt like a cage.

Out here above the Riverlands, Aegon breathed in the crisp air, the scent of the storm they’d passed through untainted by the smell of sulfur and salt that permeated the air of his home. These creatures of mud and root were meant to be subjugated. They were unworthy of the gift of flight, Aegon’s blood was a pure, magical thing, not something to be bartered to such a thing.

But his mother was of these people, and he loved his mother. Her blood flowed through him. She was just as fierce as his sister even if she lacked wings. His Uncle Daemon sneered and called him and his siblings half-breeds, shocked that they were able to claim dragons as they did.

Aegon shook his head, damp hair stuck across his forehead, and urged Sunfyre lower to better make out the land before him. Here, he could see the frightened sheep moving in a great herd as the shadow of the winged predator loomed over them. Sunfyre rumbled his desire and he tugged on the reins.

“You’ve had your fill,” he reminded the dragon, and the beast grumbled his annoyance. They swooped lower now, so Aegon could make out the details of the sheep and their startled herders, and hear the distant barking of the herding dogs that accompanied them. Aegon turned south, crossing over the Trident and soon they came upon Castle Derry nestled in the hills. His brow furrowed and he circled about it curiously. Was this where his bride resided? On the shores of the Ruby Ford?

Aegon flew further out still, towards the lush wood, settling his dragon down by a grove of bone white weirwoods, their crimson stained faces bearing witness to his sulking and self-pity. The forest floor was damp and gave beneath his boots as he approached the heart tree. The smell of petrichor clung in the air from the storms that had passed through; the scent of rich earth, of the pine scent of the evergreen trees that hugged the red grove a physical thing.

It was only the red sap that gave the look of bloody tears against the bark. That’s what the maester had said. Helaena, who received dreams from the gods, said they were the tears of those their visions could not help. Even though theirs were Valyrian gods - the fourteen flames that dragons like Syrax and Caraxes and even little Vhagar bore like badges of honor. Aegon had never felt close to the gods of his people, for they were angry beings that threw the Freehold into a melted, smoking husk and destroyed everything that they’d come from. The places in his hazy, childhood memory, the people who had visited, who had bustled in the forum below, were all gone, as were the multitude of dragons that had filled the sky from the other families, not to mention so many along the empire, and the many who had been unclaimed, roosting in the fissures of the volcanos.

Sunfyre rumbled behind him and Aegon waved a hand. “Go on,” he told him, Valyrian words feeling strange to speak in front of the tree. Sunfyre gave him a long look, as if assessing Aegon’s intent before his legs bunched up and he took off with a gust that nearly pushed Aegon from his feet. He ran his fingers through his hair before resting his hand on the pommel of his sword and looking around. Mayhaps he’d go for a swim. Climb a weirwood and fall asleep in the boughs. He could pilfer some clothes and dye his hair and vanish into the mists of the Riverlands, become something new and unseen. He could -

The scream that ripped through the forest was full of terror and anger, the words distant and shrill, but he could just make out the ‘NO!’ through the cacophony. Alarm took over and Aegon’s head whipped around trying to figure out what direction it came from. Another scream for help and he shifted direction, darting through the weirwood grove and bursting into the firs and evergreens of the rest of the forest.

‘Don’t stop screaming,’ he thought to himself, blood pumping in excitement for a fight. A dragonlord’s first weapon was fire and wing. His second was the blade, and Blackfyre hung reassuringly at his side - the gift his father had bestowed upon him on his twenty-second nameday. Next to fucking and drinking, he relished most the clang and scrape of metal against metal.Aemond could roll his eyes at his lack of finesse, but Aegon loved a good fight; blade, teeth, a punch to the face, all were ideal.

He slowed on approach, darting behind the thick trunk of a red oak large enough to seat his whole family for a meal. There were four men just past the trees by the stream, their horses lingering, pawing at the ground, perhaps from Sunfyre’s presence earlier. Three of them wore simple brown tunics and leggings, tabards of black and yellow with a sigil of eerie yellow eyes peering back at him. Aegon knew little of the houses of the area to know which this was. From the finer cut of cloth the fourth man wore, he was their liege. Tall, with dark blonde hair and broad shoulders, the leader of the group was clad in a tunic of black, his tabard half black, half yellow, edged with golden cording.

“Hush now, you’re safe,” he crooned to the hissing, spitting maiden clutched in his arms. She was a slight thing, her kirtle a deep, forest green, the skirt split over a pair of leggings, elegant embroidery visible across her gown. Aegon’s eyes darted around, looking for her horse, but none was to be found. A noble lady from the looks of it, but the oddity of her being alone in the forest was not his priority.

“Let me go!” she snarled, eyes wide and frightened, and she reached up to claw at the man’s face. Her little hand struck true, raking across his handsome features, and he yelled, striking her hard against the face in retaliation and sending her to the ground.

Sunfyre growled low in Aegon’s chest and before the man could reach for her again, he made himself known, unsheathing the Valyrian broadsword idly, clucking his tongue against his teeth.

“Is this how you Westerosi whelps treat your ladies?” he asked, brow furrowed in feigned confusion as his lilac gaze darted from man to man. “I confess, I’ve only been here for a little time, but from what I’ve been taught, there are laws among your people that frown on such things.” A lie of course; he could care less what laws Westeros had, but the woman was distressed, and he was doubtful any of these men owned her. Why he cared about her distress at all was something he would dissect later.

Aegon’s gaze raked over the men before lingering on the maiden still on the ground. The damp of the earth soaked into her skirts, her copper curls a frizz around her soft, tear streaked face. The ring her assailant wore had cut into her mouth, streaks of blood welling up and smeared across her chin. Her eyes met his in that singular moment, so vivid and bright, an endless blue. Aegon forgot to breathe at the sight of that frightened gaze that looked at him so full of terrified hope, his stomach twisting and pulling, wanting to drag him towards her.

How could he deny such a desperate plea? How could he deny her anything when she looked at him like that?

“Be gone with you, stranger,” the leader of this little band sneered, unbothered by the glint of Valyrian steel in the shafts of light that struggled to cut through the trees and clouds above. Aegon’s gaze met his and he smiled, lazy and unbothered. The creak of leather signaled the unsettled movements of his companions.

“Prince Ed,” one of them said, all nervous hesitation that pleased Aegon. “He’s one of them.” Fearful and othering, but he should fear him. Aegon was not some mortal clawed from mud. He was nearly a god himself, and the dragons were of the gods. Sunfyre purred deep in his chest, feeling Aegon’s amusement. He knew the dragon was approaching, and Aegon could buy himself some time and entertainment. Three against one wasn’t terrible odds. He’d been in brawls like that before, but rarely with a blade, and the swordmaster’s cautious words ran in the back of his mind to be cautious of how he picked his fights.

Sunfyre would be there before things got too out of hand.

The prince narrowed his eyes in Aegon’s direction and took in the languid stance and the Valyrian steel blade. There was a flicker of unease on his face before he set his jaw. “Are you sure?” he laughed, shaking his head. “I didn’t think they touched the ground, let alone come down from their mountain, too busy fucking their sisters and fathers and probably their dragons.”

There was a nervous titter of laughter from his group and Aegon joined in, his own manic giggling not quite reaching his eyes. He moved deliberately yet continued his easy stance before he stabbed forward, a flash of polished steel to slide across the arm of this prince of mud. Aegon smiled as they shouted and pulled their blades.

“She’s mine now. Be off with you. I would spare her from witnessing your rolling heads.”

The supposed prince spat at Aegon’s feet, drawing his inferior blade. “A daughter of the Riverlands will not be taken by an inbred Valyrian bastard,” he declared with all the mock chivalry and hot air that he’d been blowing. As if Aegon hadn’t just come upon them attacking the maiden. She’d been backing slowly away as Aegon had held their attention but she froze now as the man’s gaze shot at her. “Marvyn, grab her. I’ll slay this imp abandoned by his beast.”

He was brave. Aegon would give this so-called prince that much. Brave and exceedingly stupid, which often went hand in hand; Aegon would know, having been called such by his mother. The clang of steel against steel rang through the clearing and the shriek of the woman joined them as she lobbed a rock at Marvyn in her attempt to evade their reach. His opponent relied on strength, on the advance and powerful swings, and Aegon knew the type. He ducked low and got behind the oaf, kicking the man in the ass and sending him stumbling forward. With the space cleared, Aegon turned and shoved Blackfyre through the back of Martyn and removed the blade without catching any bone. Blood sprayed against the damp earth as he fell to his knees and Aegon spun the blood streaked blade, eyes on the third who had hold of the maiden’s arm, and back to the prince.

Aegon smiled brightly at him, all teeth and mirth and the feral edge of the dragon beneath his skin. “Shame about Martyn,” he said with a pitying shake of his head. “But at least it’s a first course.”

Above, a great, winged shadow appeared, blotting out the watercolor sun and casting them in momentary dim. The gust of wind from Sunfyre’s wings shook the tree, a few small branches falling to the ground from sudden and turbulent wind.

“Prince Edmund,” the other man’s voice cracked with fear, and his wide, sunken eyes focused upon the forest canopy, hand still clutching his sword and the other dropping from the maiden’s arm. Another shriek filled the sky and the trees filled with the frightened lowing of woodland animals fleeing, the birds shaking the remaining branches as they took off.

“Don’t be frightened,” Aegon laughed, shaking the damp curls back from his forehead. “Sunfyre is just having a little fun before he feasts. We’re both rather famished.” He opened his arms wide, the blood dripping from the dark steel of his blade. The clearing was quiet except for the low wheezing of Marvyn’s death rattles. He looked to the frightened man who was backing away before his gaze traveled back to this prince, taut and tense and gripping his useless sword with both hands. “What was it you were saying about inbred Valyrians abandoned by their beasts? There were four of you, weren’t there?” Aegon looked around again, and there was neither hide nor hair of the fourth companion, who seemed to be the only one with good judgment.

Sunfyre’s cry shook the forest once more. The horses had already fled in fear.

“Just leave,” the maiden said, finally finding her voice as she stumbled to her feet, her eyes like blue fire as she glared at the leader of her assailants. “Leave and take the gift of your life.”

She trembled with fear but her fists were curled into her skirt, her shoulders squared as she stared the man down. Her voice lilted, softly and strangely, neither melodic nor grating, but something altogether new to Aegon. The common tongue was not her mother tongue, and it gave a dulcet quality to her tone that those brutes lacked.

Aegon’s smile broadened, his teeth flashing as he looked at the prince. “Begone, you mud stricken thing.”

The two men fled, leaving the corpse of their friend behind, and Aegon watched their figures disappear into the trees. Sunfyre’s melodic trill echoed above and he chuckled, reaching down to wipe his tunic on the corpse of the man he’d stabbed. No need to stain his own clothes with such inferior blood. Sheathing his blade, Aegon Targaryen, eldest son of Viserys, the last Dragonlord of Valyria, straightened before the maiden he’d rescued. He knew she would be in awe of him, perhaps even frightened. That was certainly alright. He would reassure her, comfort her, and promise that he would bring no harm to her.

“My lady,” he said with the utmost courtesy. She stood there, several feet away, her arms wrapped around herself, her brilliant blue eyes wide and wild. There was a gentle, cracking sensation between his ribs as he took her in properly. She was a mess from head to toe, the skirts of her riding clothes soaked and stained. She was slight, shorter than he was, and fear had given her soft features a delicate quality that drew from how pale she was, how stark the blood and dirt looked across her face.

It took everything in him not to just reach for her and lick the blood away from her swollen mouth. To swallow her fearful cries away and replace them with precious little moans. She looked like she would make sweet sounds. The fight had his blood pumping with fever and the thrill of the win only increased the potency. He meant what he said: she was his now. He’d claimed her and sealed it through combat.

“Come,” he said, fingers wrapped around her wrist. Aegon was startled at how fragile the bones felt beneath his touch. He made sure he was gentle with it, not wanting to frighten her further. “We’ll fly back to Dragonstone and you’ll be given all that you desire.” The slap of her little hand against his cheek surprised Aegon more than it hurt, but still he reared back at the sting of it, looking down at the maiden with wide eyes. “I saved you!”

“From men who wanted to steal me to make me a bride against my will! You’re trying to do the same thing!” She yanked at the hold he had on her wrist, but he would not let her go, not now that he had found her.

“I’m not going to make you my bride,” he snapped, bewildered at the very thought of it. “You will be my concubine. Then if you prove yourself, I might wed you.” Bride? What a silly idea these Westerosi had. Not that the idea of tying this girl to him wasn’t appealing. To drag her at the foot of the Dragonmont, to sip wine and taste the blood on her mouth with the blood on his, it was an appealing vision. And it was his own choice, not one where he was sold for his precious dragon and his mother’s clawing attempts to change the succession. If Alicent Hightower wanted him to marry a Westerosi so much, Aegon had found his own choice.

From the furrow on her brow, to the flush that filled her lightly freckled cheeks, it was too late to realize those words would not entice her. A sharp pain radiated from his shin from where she kicked him.

“I will not be your concubine, you stupid dragon whelp.”

“You are precious when so angry,” he giggled with amusement and dodged out of the way of her attempt to rake her nails across his face. Abruptly, he released her, and the girl went stumbling back, breathless. He lifted his hands in surrender before clasping them behind his back. “I won’t touch you-”

“Go raibh maith agat,” she muttered and Aegon blinked.

“Did you sneeze?”

She huffed. “I was saying thank you. I will not have uppity Valyrians accuse me nor my people of being discourteous even as you are high handed.”

Aegon snorted. “It was your Westerosi brethren that sought to kidnap you, if I’m not mistaken.”

Her eyes were nothing short of vivid; such a brilliant, cobalt blue like the endless sky, rimmed red from tears and smudged black from lack of sleep. The softness of her vulnerability at his statement was unmistakable and she did not have a snip or barb for him. Instead, she wrapped her arms around herself and did not meet his gaze. At a loss for words now after she spent so many. Gods, she was a mess. Dirt on her cheek, her soft, molten red hair a mass of curls tied in an unkempt braid. Her wool kirtle was no better, torn along the sleeve and neckline, though it did little to detract from how fine a garment it was—or had been.

The twist of pressure in his chest was uncomfortable and unfamiliar, and Aegon did not know where to put it.It snaked through the pulsing arousal through his blood, the aching desire he had for her. “How long have you been out here?” he asked her, voice gentler this time, as if she were a skittish mare.

She desperately looked around, her lower lip trembling before her teeth caught at the ruined flesh. Blood welled up in the wound once more from the broken clot. The desire to lick it rose in him once more. Instead, Aegon tugged his handkerchief from inside his sleeve and handed it to her. The linen was carefully embroidered with golden beetles by Helaena, who’d been bedridden during her last pregnancy.

It hung between them, Aegon’s outstretched hand with the offering. Tear filled eyes met his before flicking down, eyeing his hand with all the wariness of a little rabbit before she whispered, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, just as softly, if a bit ashamed. Aegon looked down at the corpse that still lay near them and he carefully stepped between it and her gaze, gently herding her away from the sight and towards the weirwood grove he’d come from. He let her lead the way, keeping a distance between them, his eyes darting about for either horses or those fools. Sunfyre warbled above them and Aegon knew he was keeping an eye out before the ground shook at the dragon’s landing. The maiden stumbled and Aegon caught her elbow before she could fall.

She did not jerk away from him this time and he did not grab her roughly, the idea of further scaring her making him uncomfortable.

“What is your name?” It was a polite question and one Aegon should have asked her before telling her he was going to carry her off to Dragonstone. No matter; he could make up for it now.

She did not look at him and Aegon noticed how she trembled, likely from the come down after the fight. His own hands were shaking lightly, but he’d been well trained to manage it. He cursed under his breath and looked towards the clearing where Sunfyre landed. There was a cloak in his saddlebag he could give her.

“Abrogail.” Aegon looked at her, dark lashes shading her eyes, her pink tongue darting out enticingly to wet her lips as she dabbed at her mouth. “My name is Abrogail.”

Oh. “That’s… that’s a lovely name. Abrogail.” It even tasted lovely on his tongue. “I’m Aegon. Targaryen. Of House Targaryen.” How foolish he sounded.

Her mouth twitched with a promise of a smile and warmth bloomed in his chest. “I gathered as much… Aegon.” Gods help him, he loved the sound of his name on her tongue. Adjusting his course of action seemed to be working as the tension eased a little in her slim shoulders and her sweet face. The pulse of desire flooded through his veins once more and Aegon exhaled, looking up at the red leaves and white boughs of the weirwoods they had come to. The light was dimming as the clouds grew heavy with moisture and Aegon could smell the oncoming rain; petrichor and ozone and the promising crack of lightning. Could he make it back to Dragonstone to stay the night?

“Are you far from home?” he asked, the words ashen in his mouth. It was the right thing to do, even when all he wanted to do was bundle her up and take her away with him. She was meant to be his now. He had claimed her, won her in combat.

“Not overly far,” she said with a strange tone. Aegon looked down at her. Abrogail’s gaze had darkened, turned inward in her contemplation. “I left for my own reasons… and I find myself without my horse. I am not,” she paused, pushing a finger into his chest with fierce, flashing eyes, a kitten arching her back, “Saying I would come with you as your concubine.” She spat the word out with a wrinkled nose.

Aegon grinned at her, all bright teeth and amusement, a mad sort of giggle spilling from him. “Oh, you’ve made yourself quite clear, my lady. I promise not to make you my concubine, but I can offer you a ride away from here.” ‘To Dragonstone,’ he thought. She was escaping something, she said, and he could provide her anything she could want. All he’d ask for in return was a taste.

Abrogail tilted her head, rosebud mouth pursing in her wariness but the curiosity was easing her features.

Several tastes, perhaps. If she insisted on looking so appetizing.

“Your dragon?” There was a nervousness in her tone, but oh, that curiosity. Aegon nodded and held his hand out to her.

“Come,” he said softly. “You can meet Sunfyre.”

Thank you for reading! I would love to hear what you think! If you're looking for more Aegon and Abby, check out The Maiden and the Drowning Boy! and of course, be sure to check out the other stories being posted for the big bang <3

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bluegrasssax · 6 days ago

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Camelot looks different. It’s dreary.

Lifeless.

The grey sky eats into the stonework to suck all the colour from it. The red banners are drained to a dark burgundy, and the usually shining gold trim is tarnished. The wind howls around the citadel tower, whistling between the carved columns and cast bell; a scattering of doves flap out from their alcoves, trailing the gust down and out of sight. The sound of their beating wings echoes between empty walls.

Merlin stands beneath the looming portcullis. Glancing up, he finds the iron teeth pointed down at him, and when he moves away his boots scuff loudly against the ground.

He can’t remember where he was going, and so he goes no where at all, pacing uselessly against the cobbles as he circles the courtyard. The thatched roof of the stable rasps in the breeze, the hollow interior whispering with emptiness from within.

Pausing, Merlin cranes his neck to look at the windows high above. Set into the cold walls of the castle they watch endlessly and he finds himself nervous under their scrutiny.

He finds himself opening his mouth to call out, but is stopped when he can’t remember who he’s waiting for. Perhaps it is only him here, now. It makes sense, somehow. He’s the last one.

Merlin sits himself on the edge of the dry fountain, kicking his legs lazily to the tune of a song he’s forgotten.

The clouds don’t change – they’re still formless and matte in the sky, hiding a sun that must exist but doesn’t show itself. Moss creeps between the brickwork, and he watches its slow encroachment with mild interest; the time slips away and it’s uncertain just how long he sits there.

Eventually, when the first bricks begin to crack and the metal furnishing begin to rust, Merlin rises from the fountain’s edge and finds his way up the wide and welcoming stone steps into the castle. He thinks he sees ghosts on each one, but when he turns his head to regard them, they disappear.

Water has soaked through the flaking varnish of the heavy door, making it bow on its hinges. Merlin doesn’t dare touch it as he squeezes through the gap left at its frame, weary of its tendency to collapse. He knows it will, and sure enough, as he leaves the splitting shaft of white light behind for the allure of the dark corridor, there’s a splintering sound as the door finally lets loose of its binds. It thuds heavily on the stone, scraping and catching on the steps before it settles splayed within the courtyard.

Each padded step through the shadowed corridor is accompanied with a breath of dry air; the tapestries on the walls are browned with age, moth bitten and thready at the edges. He stops before one of them. Black splotches mar the image and obscure its meaning. He narrows his eyes, reaching out to touch at it.

As his fingers catch on the ridges of the weave it disintegrates, blowing away on an undetectable wind. Whatever image it held is now gone forever.

Merlin’s feet take him places unknown. Rooms and vaults that have no meaning, alcoves and cupboards that holds objects of nameless importance, halls and balconies that whisper with voices he can’t quite make out.

He enters a large space, one that shines in his eyes as once having been dappled in the colours of a thousand stained glass windows. High backed chairs sit on a dais at its furthest edge, one untouched by age, another weathered and featureless. The sweetness of the memory is short-lived as a hole in the arched ceiling opens up with a low boom. Stone and wood give way to draw the featureless sky into the room; the same whistling wind invades every corner and the chairs are left crumpled under the rubble.

Water drips steadily from the edges of the opening, a small stream catching on what remains of the padded seat to leave behind a stain.

When Merlin turns his back on the broken throne, something tickles at the back of his chest. Inside, on his skin, he can’t tell. Swallowing uncomfortably, he leaves the great hall behind.

Trailing his hand along the rounded walls of the staircase, he finds anticipation waiting in his throat. Every quiet rise has him holding his breath. He isn’t sure who he expects to suddenly appear around the corner, but every moment they fail to appear marks another drop of quiet resignation.

At the top of the staircase is a landing the extends out into a wide, long corridor. Unlike the rest of the castle, here all the windows are open and the curtains are drawn back. There are few shadows left. Everything is bathed in the same diffuse sunlight that haunts the wilderness outside.

Something taps at the back of his head.

There’s someone missing. But who are they?

As his foot touches upon the landing the wood flexes.

He waits.

The next step has the floorboards buckling under his weight, though they hold just barely as he moves across the failing structure. Soon only the shell of the foundations will remain, and then who will remember the magnificence of the city? Even now Merlin can see the vines crawling through the open shutters, encroaching like fingers that blindly reach for their own land to claim. They bud with wilted flowers, dead before they could even bloom.

The hallway stretches on and on, and soon Merlin is hopping from one beam to the next, the intermediary floorboards now fulling rotted away. If he looks down, he may see another hall below, another decayed level. He doesn’t dare, fearing that the exposed layer beneath is not the last. How deep does the castle go?

There’s a soft warmth that eases around his neck and drags him to a stop. Teetering on a weathered wooden support, he finds himself before a chamber door. The latch is tarnished and weeping black stains into the paled wood, and yet despite the crumbling façade it holds sure in its frame. He yearns to be on the other side of it.

There’s crashing in the distance far away. The clamour is distracting, but still, he won’t tear his eyes from the door. Somewhere, castle walls crumble. Maybe the dungeons cave in on themselves, or the battlements have given in to the constant expanding and contracting of the winter ice and summer sun. In any case, the door remains.

Plants encroach the edges of his vision, lining along the walls and consuming the dull solitude of the corridor; the beam on which he balances grows uneven beneath him, and with a soft drop he is no longer at the whims of its strength. Instead, a bed of moss lays the ground, and as the door degrades in the centre of his eye the ruins of the castle open up around them.

Only the door and he sit in the ring of stones, shielded from the wind but not the open surveillance of the sky.

A presence stands behind him. It smooths hands over his shoulder and down his chest. It whispers in his ear and urges him to turn around.

But he doesn’t want to. The door.

Why does he know this door?

It would be easy to sit upon the moss and let it overtake him. Let the creature of the misty morning seduce him into sleep, to crumble as the castle walls do.

Breaking away, he steps towards the door. Its frame of stone is jagged and ends in broken pieces where its corridor has melted away. He pushes carefully at it and it doesn’t yield. The wood is spongy against his skin, cold and wet.

Trying the latch, it catches on itself and won’t move, too caught in its rust. Merlin draws his lip between his teeth and thinks.

Again, a comforting warmth tiptoes up his spine. It almost pushes him forward, sensual and demanding in equal measure. Something on the other side of the door is reaching for him, he knows it. It doesn’t wish to bar him, no matter what the trapped wood and stone says.

It strikes at him with the subtly of the breeze, touching at his mind almost on accident.

Taking a deep breath, he raises his fist.

He knocks.

And the door swings open.

Beyond the threshold is a pristine chamber, lit with the brightest sunset oranges and rosy reds that he’s ever seen. Shards of sunlight streak across the floor, burning like radiant fire as they catch on the dazzling patterns of overlapping rugs. Gilded details call from the edges of frames, mirrors, bedposts, and each sing with a voice rich with life and history.

When Merlin steps through into the room, he’s met with a sense of peace.

Gone is the grey, the lost self, the remains of something forgotten – in its place is home. From the simple cups on the table, to the delicate refinement of the quill set upon the desk, each spark a smell, a taste, a sound.

The presence from before doesn’t follow him into the room, it settles at the doorway like a sleeping dog, content to let him go.

Merlin feels a hand in his, though looking down finds nothing there. It caresses at his knuckles, swirling circles at his pulse point, and soon the phantom begins leading him towards the canopied bed. When he sinks down into the plush silk and down, he feels the exhaustion of a hundred years of sentry rolling over him.

And as the last of the castle deteriorates into the dirt, buried by the land and all the things that have happened, Merlin falls asleep, safely in the arms of something greater.

#bbc merlin #merthur #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #merlin #merthur fanfic #arthur pendragon

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outofgloom · 7 months ago

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POWER (II)

“Kapura...”

He was lying down. He had not been lying down a moment ago. He had been standing in a cold, clammy chamber crowded with much larger beings. He had been trying to—

“Kapura!!"

He sat up and blinked. Blinked again. A black Pakari was bending over him, too close. The eyes were very...worried, yes. That was ‘worry’, wasn’t it?

“Are you okay?” the voice said again. “I was worried...”

Worried. He’d got it right.

“…that I was on my own.” The Pakari was Hafu, of course. The Po-Matoran pulled him up to a standing position.

“What happened?” Kapura said, checking his body for damage.

“I’m not sure, but it seems like we've both had a hard landing.”

Kapura registered his surroundings. They were at the bottom of a shallow, rocky ravine. Behind them there was a wall of earth, but ahead the slope was gentler. Probably climbable.

“Where are we, and where are we not?”

“Oh, don’t start with that again,” Hafu said flatly.

“The chamber...I don’t remember.”

“There was a sound—an explosion I think. It might have been in another part of the tower. I saw the Great Smith react. He did something to the air and space—twisted it like before. Then I woke up with sand in my mask.”

Kapura shifted his feet.

“There is a great deal of sand.”

Hafu sighed. “Let’s get our bearings. Up there should be better.” He pointed up the rocky slope.

It was a short hike, although the incline was treacherous with loose gravel. As they emerged, they could see that the sun had passed the top of the sky.

A single sun. No stars.

“Are we back on...Mata Nui?” Hafu asked, more to himself than to Kapura. “The Turaga said it was destroyed.”

“The air is warm,” Kapura said, “like Po-Wahi.”

Ahead, there was an expanse of wind-carved canyons and stone shapes, spreading to the horizon, where they blurred into mirage.

“It does feel like home, I guess.”

“I wonder if Artakha sent us here to keep us safe. You said you heard a noise?”

“That’s right. Just before the Smith did…whatever he did. Something happened in that tower...”

Hafu squinted into the distance, looking for signs of life. A faint breeze stirred the air, but nothing else.

“Whatever it was,” Hafu continued, “I’m sure it’d be no problem for the Smith, and the others. They're all powerful beings, and that tower was impregnable. I examined the stonework myself. Stellar quality, as one might expect from the Great Beings, but—”

Hafu stopped. Kapura’s hand had settled on his shoulder, nudging him to turn. The Ta-Matoran was looking off to the left, following the lip of the ravine. Hafu saw that the shallow crevasse extended about half a kio into the distance before it ended abruptly against a low ridge of stone. That ridge piled into another, and another beyond that.

There was a black scar across the series of ridges, as if something had scorched the stone. Strewn here and there were gigantic blocks of dark granite—even at this distance, they could be seen. And even closer, Hafu realized, partly embedded in the earth, was another shape: A rampart and crumbling wall, still partly intact.

Pieces of the Great Beings' tower, blasted to fragments.

“By Mata Nui...” Hafu murmured. “Whatever the Great Smith did...it must have brought part of the tower with us. But such destruction—Wait!”

Kapura was already marching toward the ruins determinedly. The Ta-Matoran was always faster than he appeared. Hafu jogged after him, trying to catch up, but strangely found that he could not. He was not used to this kind of exercise, he supposed.

By the time Hafu reached the piece of the tower they had seen, Kapura was sitting atop a pile of gigantic stones. The Ta-Matoran waved as Hafu paused to catch his breath.

“Have you…have you found anything?” Hafu called out.

“No bodies,” Kapura replied.

“Well, that’s good news.”

“There is something.”

“Ah, what is it?”

“Under the stones here,” Kapura replied. “I can’t move them.” The Ta-Matoran slid carefully to the ground as Hafu approached, and pointed to a gap between the slabs he had been sitting on. Something could be seen glittering in the dark.

Hafu looked morosely up at the heavy blocks.

“If I had my tools, this would be a lot easier…”

The two Matoran worked together to shift the carved stones. They were wedged tight, but with the right application of force, first one and then the other toppled away. A cloud of dust rose and Hafu coughed as he scrambled over the remaining stones to see the prize, hoping it had not been crushed. Kapura was already there, of course.

It was a hammer. Gigantic, covered in strange runes. It still glowed faintly. It was the Hammer of Artakha.

Neither Matoran spoke. Hafu looked around, almost expecting the Great Smith to appear and scold them, but nothing happened.

“Should we...?” Hafu looked at Kapura, but the Ta-Matoran shrugged.

After a few moments, Hafu reached out slowly, reverently. He tapped the haft of the hammer with a finger. The runes on its surface flashed, and then the hammer flickered into a series of shapes: a bent, rotating tool, some form of chisel or wedge, a pickaxe, and other stranger forms. It happened all in an instant, and Hafu shrank back. Artakha’s tool reverted to a hammer, as before.

“What should we do?” Kapura asked. “We should return it, shouldn't we?”

Hafu hesitated. “I’m not…sure…” He reached out again and gripped the handle of the hammer firmly. It came away in his hand, and he almost toppled over with surprise, thinking that he had broken it. But then he realized that the entire tool had simply shrunk and become lighter to match his size.

“Incredible,” Hafu whispered, hefting the tool and feeling its balance. He looked at Kapura and smiled. “I could get used to this.”

Hafu’s head snapped back, and his entire body seized as a strong electric shock emitted from the hammer. His mask jarred loose, and he fell heavily to the ground.

The hammer clattered from his grasp and rolled away, flickering and buzzing until it struck a stone and stopped. Smoke rose from Hafu's body. He did not move.

A long quiet moment passed. Then, a shadow fell over the hammer, and another hand reached out and gripped the handle in a very precise way, raised it.

Two eyes looked at the tool thoughtfully out of a red Pakari. The tool had clearly been warded, except for those with...certain knowledge.

“I don’t know why the Great Being chose to sacrifice me along with the others, back in the tower,” he mused. “I have served him well, and it saddens me. Maybe he didn’t know I was there...but he knows everything...”

The red Pakari turned to look at the unmoving body of Hafu. There were burn-marks on his armor, but his heartlight was beating faintly.

“You were not supposed to survive either, just like me. That is clearly the Great Being’s will, though Artakha interfered...And so...”

The hammer went up, and shifted into a blunt form. It hung in the air for a moment.

The eyes behind the red Pakari glanced down, then sidelong, then up. They narrowed. Thoughtful.

Out in the distance, across the wind-carved plain, what before had seemed to be a sparkling mirage had faded as the sun fell behind clouds. Now it was clearer: Far away, the shape of a mighty fortress rose against the sky, flanked by strange spikes of stone. And beyond that, there was gleaming ocean.

“And so...”

One moment, there were two Matoran amidst the ruins: one standing, arm raised, one sprawled on the ground.

The next moment, there was only one.

* * *

Context: Like its predecessor, this story fragment is set within the unknown landscape of possible futures which branch from the end of the unfinished Bionicle serials; specifically, the serial The Powers That Be, which trails off at a moment when a group of characters (including Hafu and Kapura) are being targeted by a mysterious murderer (the Great Being Velika), to be either killed or recruited to his cause.

#bionicle #art #writing #fanfiction #outofgloom #works #kapura #hafu

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pianokantzart · 9 months ago

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The Super Mario Bros. Redux (Pt. 4)

What would happen if, in The Super Mario Bros. Movie, after Mario and Luigi are separated, Mario was the one who ended up in the clutches of Luigi’s eventual arch nemesis, while Luigi teamed up with some of his own close allies to go rescue him?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

________

Luigi and E. Gadd get off the train at a station in the middle of a massive desert kingdom where the ground is covered in intricate, ancient stonework pathways, and the sky filled with enormous floating pyramids.

Birabuto Kingdom, while bustling, is not quite as crowded as the coastal circuit, so Luigi finds it far easier to keep up with E. Gadd's hurried pace as they move toward a sandstone palace in the center of the city that reaches so far into the sky it overlooks even the floating pyramids.

The whole time they are traveling, neither realize they are being followed at a distance by the ghost dog from the train. Turning invisible and slipping into walls to remain undetected, it seems to be paying close attention to Luigi in particular.

As E. Gadd and Luigi arrive at the doors of the palace they're stopped by two large Gao who, after evaluating the duo, allow Professor Elvin Gadd to enter– as they had been expecting him– but tell Luigi he must wait in the courtyard.

E. Gadd reassures Luigi it shouldn't be long, and enters the castle with The Poltergust on his back and a bunch of paperwork tucked under his arm. Luigi obediently finds a quiet, shady spot in courtyard, and waits.

While waiting, he holds his hat dejectedly in his hands, running his palm over the "L" stitched into the front, when he's startled by a loud bark. He turns, and is terrified to see a little white ghost dog bounding directly toward him.

He fall over backwards in a panic, whimpering in fear, but to his surprise the dog doesn't attack. Instead, it licks his face, then pushes its forehead under his hand in a less-than-subtle demand for affection.

Luigi nervously gives the ghost dog what it wants, then starts scratching the sides of his neck, and eventually can't help but smile as it leans into him in an adoring nuzzle.

"Heh... not so scary for a poltergeist. Not even very scary as far as dogs go. You're just a friendly little pup, aren't you? A silly little polterpup..."

Just as Luigi seems to be warming up to the ghost dog, it spots his hat and playfully snatches it away, turning to Luigi with a play bow and a wagging tail. Luigi meekly asks the dog to give the hat back, but Polterpup takes that as a cue to initiate a game of chase.

Luigi tries his best to retrieve his stolen hat, but Polterpup proves very good at keepaway. The two bound past the guards into the castle, with Luigi offering a quick "SorryI'llberightback!" over his shoulder.

Pandemonium soon follows. Polterpup's recklessness and Luigi's clumsiness knocks over people and furniture alike as they rush through palace corridors, and Luigi's numerous apologies do nothing to quell the slowly growing swarm of guards chasing after him.

Meanwhile, in a grandiose meeting room, Professor E. Gadd is speaking before The Four Kings of Sarasaland: A great water dragon (King Dragonzamasu), a hovering cloud (King Biokinton), a giant sentient stone head (King Hiyoihoi), and an enormous sphinx-like lion (King Totomesu). The Professor is explaining The Dark Moon, the dangers posed by its absence, the current state of Evershade Valley, and the looming threat of King Boo.

When E. Gadd pulls out blueprints of all the inventions that were destroyed when his lab in Evershade Valley was attacked and starts listing off all the materials he'll need in order to rebuild, King Totomesu silences him.

King Totomesu reminds Professor E. Gadd that he was promised sanctuary and a new place to live, nothing more. E. Gadd tries to insist that he has the knowledge and the tech necessary to nip the ghost invasion in the bud if he only had some help, but all four kings seem to doubt him.

King Hiyoihoi suspects that the ghost invasion isn't as nearly a big of a threat as E. Gadd is making it out to be, stating that Sarasaland can fight off King Boo's forces the same way it has the thousands of other armies that have threatened their lands in centuries past.

King Dragonzamasu reminds E. Gadd that he had a bad habit of losing his inventions– making mention of Bowser Jr.'s Magic Brush– and states they have no intention of funding anything they couldn't trust would stay out of enemy hands. On that same note, King Biokinton comments that King Boo was using Professor E. Gadd's technology– The Portrificationizer– as a means of holding hostages at that very moment.

Overall, the four kings seem to agree that however big the encroaching threat, they didn't quite trust E. Gadd when it came to how he handled his own tech.

That is when Luigi barges in, leaping upon Polterpup and finally retrieving his hat as the ghost dog disappears into the floor. Luigi places his hat back on his head, reveling in a short-lived sense of victory before he is slammed to the ground by roughly a dozen guards while another dozen try to explain the situation to their kings.

Amidst the pandemonium, Professor E. Gadd asks for Luigi's release. The Kings oblige, but not without demanding an explanation. E. Gadd's face slowly brightens as he cobbles together a story: "This is my new assistant! You are right, in my age I've started losing track of things, and that is why I hired Luigi here to take charge of all my new tech! The whipper snapper is strong as he is quick, and a real wiz with The Poltergust!"

The Kings seem skeptical, but can't deny that it's impressive he managed to get so far into the palace before being apprehended. They look Luigi up and down. Luigi stares vacantly back at them like a deer in the headlights.

King Totomesu, noting the man's obvious nervousness, decides to strike a deal: that evening they would hold a match in The Battle Stadium, in which Luigi would wield his Poltergust against Sarasaland's own reigning champion. If he proved himself worthy, they would give Professor E. Gadd everything he requested.

Luigi wrings his newly-recovered green cap in his hands as he tries to come up with an answer based on the little he knew. Looking at The Professor... who seems to sincerely believe in him... and looking down at the hat in his hands and remembering his brother, he ultimately agrees to the king's terms.

Luigi is rethinking the decision by the time he is at The Battle Stadium, being ushered to the arena doors by E. Gadd. Luigi is barely holding it together, shakily insisting that he doesn't know how to fight.

E. Gadd dismisses these fears. He tells Luigi to let the machine do all the fighting, explaining to him the two new features he added (the strobulb and the suction shot), before unceremoniously shoving him through the doors into the bright light of the crowded arena.

When Luigi's eyes adjust he finds himself in an arena more colorful and complicated than any he'd ever seen, full of obstacles and intricate moving parts. A strange turtle creature riding on a cloud holds a camera up to Luigi's face, and next thing he knows his own perplexed stare is repeated across giant screens all around The Battle Stadium.

As the overstimulation of the new environment wears off, Luigi realizes he's being booed. He nervously pulls his hat over the sides of his face to hide himself from the jeering crowd, and only dares look up when the audience is silenced by the twang of an electric guitar.

The upbeat rock music continues and the crowd's energy shifts, turning from an excited murmur to uproarious applause as a figure bursts onto the scene from the opposite end of the stadium. For a moment, Luigi can't make out more than the flutter of a bright orange dress until the arena screens brighten with a very different face– a bright, beautiful, cheerful, confident face.

"Hi! I'm Daisy!" his opponent declares, striking a victorious pose for the camera as the crowd goes absolutely nuts.

#Mario AU #Mario Movie #Princess Daisy #Super Mario Bros Redux AU #Luigi #Super Mario Brothers

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owlespresso · 1 year ago

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lavender haze. vere. tags: fem!reader, alcohol, vere being himself, not 18+

The Haze is a domed Eden, straddled comfortably on the border between Hightown and the Amaryllis District, coddled between stained glass lanterns and columns of stark ivory, sat in the midst of a sprawling patch of multi-tiered gardens. Lavender curtains of wisteria layer this verdant paradise into its different sections. The stone gardens and artfully arranged hedge sculptures and various water features each a sight to be seen on their own.

You enter from the east. To your left, a triangular cut of land rises between two merging brooks. Perched upon that jutting ledge is a gazebo surrounded by pale roses and fresh foxglove, vines strewn along strips of lattice fence, affixed to the gazebo’s bottom half. As picturesque a place to meet as any, but Vere has commanded your company indoors.

Up ahead looms the Haze, a series of seven, octagonal towers of varying heights. Each one is domed, stonework lovingly etched and painted, shaped into candy-colored spirals. Hooded windows of stained glass prod out in even rows. Buttresses and arches link the towers, alongside skywalks which hover stories above ground height. It’s a mess of a building, a decadent spectacle which intrigues and befuddles the eye. Bricks and ceramics layer the towers in different patterns, a stain of vibrant color against Eridia’s greys and whites. It’s still smaller than the Senobium, built so that it remains comfortably tucked into the spire’s grand shadow most of the day. On purpose, you would assume.

A group of guards, clad in tight black and red uniforms roam the premises, prowling along the various plazas in duos and trios. Two of them eye you as you approach, as discerning as the towering doors they stand watch over.

“Hold it,” the one to the left snaps as you ascend the final step. Your brow wrinkles. They don’t turn away patrons, Vere had told you. That’s the receptionist’s job. “You stink of the road. And you don’t look like you can afford the flat fee. Scram.”

Your face rumples into a sour frown.

“I was invited.” you inform them flatly. And you most certainly do not smell—not after an hour with Leander’s fancy soaps. “And the man who invited me doesn’t like to wait.”

That seems to give them pause. The Haze’s clients are all come from places of great wealth and power—from some of the Senobium’s finest sages to the old nobility of Eiridia’s founding clans. Holding up any one of their guests could hold dire consequences for those responsible.

“If I’m late, I’m going to have to tell him why. And I would hate for anything to happen to two find guards just trying to do their jobs.” you press, resting your hands on your hips, cocking your head to the side. Your lips remain twisted into an impatient frown, boot tapping staccato against the white marble. The difficult guard’s face contorts with righteous offense, cheeks flushing pink. The leather of his glove squeaks as his fist tightens ‘round the staff of his steel polearm.

“As if any of our clients would want the company of some filthy little street urchin,” he snaps, voice rolling down the ivory steps and into the gardens below.

“Keep your voice down, goddamn you!” the other guard hisses quietly, brown eyes blown wide. “Or Vernal’ll have both our heads—”

At his coworker’s prompting, the ornery guard seems to settle down temper kept at bay by the threat of this “Vernal’s” wrath. Regardless, he still looks at you with obvious contempt, clearly unmoved by your vague threats.

“We aren’t letting you in,” he repeats. “I don’t care who you say invited you—not unless you have an actual, physical invitation or the madam’s personal seal on your person. Now, scram. Before we have to—”

“What seems to be the problem, here?” a familiar voice drawls from behind the guards. The doors haven’t been opened. Vere seems to slide from the shadow cast over the building’s entrance, heels clicking against the pale marble. His head tilts as he drags his prying gaze over the scene, lingering on you for a mere moment before turning to the guard so insistent on denying you entry. Both of the sentries have whirled to face him, both suddenly wrought with tension. Their spines have gone ramrod stiff, shoulders squared as he prowls forward.

“Just another tourist, sir,” the guard says, barely keeping the shake out of his voice. “And she was just about to leave—”

“Really? That’s a shame, considering I invited her here,” Vere says, flat and frankly unamused. The color drains from the guard’s face, and any satisfaction you could feel in the moment is cooled by the frigid, heavy feeling that settles over the vicinity. The lingering humidity so typical to Eridia’s climate has been sucked from the air, the cold hanging heavy like morning fog. “I hoped the madam’s esteemed employees wouldn’t be dimwitted enough to lie to me. I’ll have to have a chat with her about the gutter trash she decides to hire.” he croons, oozing condescension and disappointment.

“My apologies, sir,” the man bows his head. You can practically hear the restrained outrage in his voice. It won’t be enough to satisfy Vere, you know immediately. He should be groveling on his hands and knees for forgiveness if he hopes to keep his life.

“How dare you even speak to me,” Vere begins coldly, cutting him off without hesitation, “After harassing my esteemed guest. You were hoping to shake her down for some extra coin, weren’t you? I’ve heard rumors about the guards here, but I didn’t think you would actually be this stupid. Consider yourself fired—” Vere snaps, fangs bared and eyes alight with visible animosity. The otherworldly pink glints, catching the sun’s last rays. Behind you, you’re sure the gardens look resplendent, dyed in that warm, golden light.

The guard looks up at that, eyes wide and wild, unsuppressed panic written across his pale visage. “B-but sir, I had no way of knowing—”

A clawed hand shoots out, fingers fixed in a crushing grip around the man’s windpipe. Nothing about Vere’s lithe build belies the unearthly strength he levies, a forceful reminder of what he so unabashedly is—of what you’ll attempt to unleash over the following weeks or months.

The guard squirms and chokes. His hands fly to Vere’s wrist, legs feebly kicking. His struggles are rewarded by an even more crushing grip. As his bones creak and his trachea crumples, you can't help the morbid curiosity that you observe with—the strange sense of awe that comes with Vere attacking your antagonizer with such little hesitation—

The remaining guard stays frozen in place, helpless but to watch in silence as his coworker’s air is stripped from his lungs.

—Surely, Vere isn’t doing this for your sake, for some feeble, twisted notion of chivalry. He’s probably just annoyed at being spoken back to, by someone he views as so incredibly beneath him. Yet still—

Vere inspects his free hand, looking over his perfect manicure with placid interest. A faint wrinkle to his brow is all that potentially belies his agitation. The guard is getting purple in the face.

—And where do you fall, on the totem pole? Will he do the same to you if you get into a disagreement? Based on the interactions you’ve had thus far, you don’t think so. You hope not. You are in possession of something he desperately wants. And you like to think you’re clever enough to avoid the beast’s bite. You have to be. To fail is to sup on nightshade and the noxious shadows which compose him, to impale yourself on the razor ivory and sable of his maw.

A resounding splash sounds from behind you. Something’s been tossed into one of the streams close to the very base of the stairs. When you look at Vere, the stubborn guard is no longer there. There’s a small, red splatter on Vere’s cheek. His long, pink tongue slithers out from between plush, painted lips to lick it up. The remaining guard stands still as stone at his post, unreadable gaze fixed straight ahead.

“I would have just brought you with me had I known the employees were so eager to shake down unsuspecting customers.” Vere says with a put-out sigh, before turning to the remaining guard.

“Tell me,” Vere leers into the poor man’s personal space, sharp teeth flashing. “How many times has he tried that on other people? How many times have you just stood there and watched?” His voice dipped from sanguine sweet into a low, gravely snarl—a noise no mortal would be able to make. The guard, much to his credit, does not stammer or wither away or begin to beg for his life.

“This is the first time we’ve been posted together—” he begins, but Vere steps away with another, dismissive scoff.

“Booooring,” he says. He glances at you, motioning you forward. “Stop gawping and come on. We’ve already wasted enough time.”

Not eager to test his already dwindled patience, you hastily bounce up the steps. Perhaps, if you were younger and braver and stupider, you would have been embarrassed at how readily you scrambled after him.

“Sorry for the trouble,” you apologize, because he’s still in a shitty mood and your blood is not hot enough to make you forget the ease with which he can dispatch a man.

“And what, my little morsel, are you apologizing for?” Vere’s eyes crinkle with teasing mirth, the tip of a fang prodding his lower lip. How many have stared down that maw just before being swallowed whole? Countless, surely. “You don’t have to grovel—but feel free to. It’s almost cute.” All wrath and rancor is left forgotten as he turns on his heel. The sheer fabric of his sleeves sways with the motion, glistening underneath the sun’s dying rays. Like a hound commanded, you are at his heels, head lowered. You can’t even look at the remaining guard, but Vere has no such trouble.

“Keep up the good work,” he says, a sneer in his voice. Will the man have to haul his coworker from the water with his own two hands? Or do they have people for that?

“Are you going to get in trouble?” you inquire, stepping through the threshold.

“Me? Get in trouble? Perish the thought,” “No one’s going to miss a single guard—not even the madame. Especially not one that acts like that. All of his coworkers probably hated him, anyway. We did them a favor.” he rattles on. He leads you past the entry point, to the second floor. You spare a glance down the rounded corridor. An overpowering flowery scent blows in your direction, making your nose crinkle. Translucent, pearly curtains, more like veils, flutter from rounded doorways. There are sounds, too, giggles and breathy moans, which makes your ears burn hot, despite already knowing this venue’s many, many purposes.

“Hurry up,” Vere scolds over his shoulder, and you don’t need to be told twice, hastening your strides. “Like I was saying—no one cares if a random guard or two goes missing. That’s why they all wear the same thing.”

“The sages who come here to get their dicks wet are the only reason this place hasn’t been demolished yet. They could commit murder in broad daylight and management wouldn’t say a word.” He rattles on, deeply sardonic. The kind of bitterness that could only come from someone with long-lived experience. There’s a graveyard’s worth of skeletons in the Senobium’s closet. You wonder how many he is responsible for.

“A murder in broad daylight.” you repeat dryly.

“Broad daylight. Not sunset,” Vere points out helpfully. “The Senobium can do whatever they want, wherever they want, to whoever they want. This place isn’t any different from the rest of the city, even if the window dressing is nice. And as an esteemed asset to the Senobium, their authority naturally extends to me… And even if it didn’t, what could they possibly do?”

The conversation moves. Vere leads you up flight after flight of stairs, until you stop bothering to keep track. You’ve already leaped into the lion’s mouth. There’s no point in counting your steps or turns. Did he have to climb down all this way just to meet you at the doors? Suddenly, you find his ire more comprehensible. Your legs feel leaden by the time he leads you from the stairs, through an arched doorway. A current of air, thick with magic, ripples over you as you pass. A warding spell, you realize a moment later. Only select people can enter this chamber.

The chamber itself is massive, a circular room with a glass skylight, the soft shine of the stars flooding the room. The moon’s pale face peers down through the glass, shining off the marble floors. A circular bed sits on a platform up against the wall. The rest of the furniture is just as fine, all carved wood and black velvet. A bottle of… something sits atop an elm table at the room's center. It’s rounded with a suspiciously tall neck. Vere snatches it up, pours it into two crystalline glasses which sit next to said bottle. It’s a pearlescent, amethyst fluid. Curls of white and silver churn amongst the pale purple, the liquid covered in a glittery sheen.

“Here,” he holds out a glass. The fraction of a second you spend hesitating makes him roll his eyes and scoff. “What reason would I have to poison my new and incredibly useful little friend? Don’t be stupid.”

You take the glass begrudgingly, because you’ve seen what his displeasure looks like. The body crumpled in the fountain sticks at the forefront of your memory. It could have been you. It still could be. He knocks back the whole glass, swallowing its glittery contents in one, smooth go. You watch the rhythmic bob of his throat, the elegant line of his neck pulsing with each swallow.

“Happy now?” he drawls, frosted with forced sugar, like he’s talking a child into taking their medicine. The condescension is grating, but you fend the feeling off. You’ll earn more flies with honey than with vinegar.

Yet, you have to wonder, how would he eat you if he grew bored, or decided this arrangement isn’t worth the trouble? Would he swallow you whole, or sever you into smaller cuts, morsels to dip in honey and savor over time? What are you in your most consumable form?

You tilt your head back and drink deep of the draught. Thicker than water, not as viscous as you feared, or cloying like syrup. Sweet in a way that somehow makes your eyes water. It coats and clings to your tongue. You blink the tears out of your eyes. Vere laughs. You’re glad he finds it funny.

“Delicious,” you deadpan, licking furiously at the roof of your mouth in hopes of scrubbing the taste. You’re quietly glad for something else to focus on, because you feel hopelessly out of place amongst the soft silks

When you turn to look at him, he’s lounged atop the elevated mattress, sheer silk parting to give you an unobstructed view of his stomach and chest—all lithe muscle framed by the silvery chains which drape from his collar. You take care not to let your gaze wander, no matter how tempting. The long lines of his legs are just in your periphery, one bent and folded atop a thick, bunched thigh. His chin is propped in the palm of his hand, roguish smirk curled onto fittingly fox-like features. He’s looking at you, eyes two pinpricks of luminescent pink. Unnatural in their vividity, their glow.

You look down at your feet, at the floor, at the table. Anywhere but into those prying eyes. “What?”

“You look so lost, poor thing.” Vere coos. “Come,” you take a single step towards him. “Oh! But be a dear and bring another glass with you.

And so you do. Unfaltering and unquestioning. Hopefully, if you’re compliant enough, you can finally get some answers to your burning queries. It all ends with you flat on your back, staring up at the ceiling. He’s still on his side, only a few centimeters away. It doesn’t bother you as much as you thought it would.

“Why did you call me here?” you stare up at the myriad stars, an endless trail of them emblazoned across the dark, dark sky. If there ever was proof of a god, it’s hanging right above your heads.

“Do you really have to ask? I went through the trouble of inviting you and getting you inside just so we could be alone,” he purrs, an insinuation in his voice. One of his hands splays over your hip, fingers curling possessively into the thick fabric of your trousers. You squint at him, flat and unimpressed, ignoring the gnawing unease which eats at you. It’s been a constant, enduring feeling, crushing at the sides of your wearied brain since you entered this city. Yet, Vere brings it front and center, alongside a heady heat you don’t care to examine too closely. You school your expression into one of near perfect neutrality, ignoring the weight of his hand until he breaks, rolling his eyes as he rolls onto his back. Long waves of russet fan around his head like a lion’s mane, feathery tips of several strands teasing your upper arm.

“Because I wanted to get you drunk and pick your brain.” Vere replies, almost boredly.

“Hm. If you have questions, you can just ask.”

“You play your cards close too close to your chest for me to just up and ask you.” he says dryly. “Remember your first night here? You cowered when I so much as looked you in the eyes. Thought you were going to piss yourself.”

You frown. “Not true. Keep in mind that you stole from, grabbed and threatened me only hours before.”

“Didn’t stop you from following me into a dark alley after,” Vere chimes, the corners of his smile a little tight, a little too smug for your liking.

“Because you were the only honest person in the room. I knew you wouldn’t give me any bullshit.” you reasoned.

“And is that all it takes? You’re a cheap date, darling,” Vere purrs. You open our mouth to once again protest, but he continues. “You have a shitty sense of self-preservation, which means I’ll have to keep a close eye on you. Be good and listen to everything I say from now on, if you want to stay out of trouble.”

The encroaching haze blankets the edge of your good sense and sharp wit, yet another reason as to why you seldom imbibe. Even so, you only had one drink. Whatever he bullied you into drinking was no joke.

“Did you invite me here just to bully me?” you mumbled, on the edge of a complaint. Your foundations are fracturing. You observe the destruction of your carefully crafted countenance as though you are a distant spectator. Your oak spillars splinter, cracks spider-webbing up your brick walls. You’re left to flounder about in the debris, but it’s not as alarming as you assumed it would be. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but you can’t bring yourself to reach that fever pitch of fear.

“Oh,. please. I haven’t even started bullying you yet,” Vere clicks his tongue, chiding.

“Well. You’ve already tried to shake me down with my own roomkey. That’s kind of like… stealing my lunch money… I should have tattled to Leander.”

“Ew, no. That slime doesn’t deserve any more excuses to talk to me,” Vere reaches over to his nightstand and gulps down another dose of amethyst bliss, arching his back and raising his arms above his head in one, serpentine stretch. “We have to move you out of that shithole as soon as possible. I don’t trust that freak.”

“Me neither,” you muse, realizing it aloud, in that very moment. “Who gives out free food and board to someone they just met like that? He said I didn’t owe him anything, but—”

“He could take that back at any time. And what could you do about it?” Vere finishes for you, looking at you with an unreadable expression, pink eyes calm and flat. “Tell him ‘no’? On his turf? Full of his drooling goons? They practically run that part of the city. He could find you no matter where you hide or who you pretend to be.” Vere murmurs. You tilt your head to look at him. You glance down at his lips and swallow. That gets him to smile, smug and mischievous. No more of that monotone dread, that sense of being evaluated, the feeling of being sized up like a meal.

“Why are you helping me?” Vere asks after a long moment of silence. You blink at him. “I was surprised when you decided to take me up on my offer.”

“You said you can get rid of my curse,” you regard him carefully, ruminating over each word. Or maybe it’s the substance. Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, thoughts slow and sticky like summer haze.

“Bullshit. You wanted nothing to do with me even after I made that offer, and I have no doubt that slobbering beast Leander made you a similar one. Did he promise?” Vere’s voice dips into something sugary sweet and mocking, a mean edge to his smile now. “Did he hold your hand, look right into your eyes when he said it? Was he on his knees? That’s one of his favorite places to be. Really, it’s the only place he’s of any use.” Vere pries and rattles on. The small space between you feels cold, all of the sudden. Still, you are not sobered. “Why not cozy up to him? Or that fucking doctor, because I just know he offered.” His tail comes to lay over your thigh. You look at it through hardly open eyes.

Something seizes the underside of your jaw. It takes you a moment to realize that it’s Vere’s hand. His nails bite into your cheek as he forces your attention upwards, into the dark maw of his gaze. Your hands, which have flown to his wrist on sheer instinct, freeze.

“I don’t know,” you begin, words falling out of your mouth in a current, previous caution utterly forgotten in the face of animal fear. “You’re dangerous—but you’re honest—and I don’t know why you were locked up or what’ll happen when you get free, but I also don’t really care.”

“You don’t care?” Vere inquires, lips curling into another smile. He looks relentlessly amused. “What if I told you… that I plan to eat every man, woman and child I see after I get out? I’ve been hungry for that kind of flesh since before you ever dreamed of coming to Eridia. Eating off the same menu for centuries will do that to you. And they won’t stand a prayer, you know. Do you really not care?”

“I probably should, but I think… I realized I can’t worry about everyone, especially people I don’t know. I’m not Leander. I’m not delusional enough to think I can save everyone.” Your pulse rings slow in your ears. It’s grounding, somehow.

Vere releases you, the tight warmth of his hand gone with him. If you were sober, perhaps you would be mortified at how much you miss it.

“You can’t play nanny to every poor sod that comes crawling up to you on the street.” Vere observes airily. “I suppose that’s a start.”

“Gee,” you say.

“Oh, please. Don’t pout,” he tuts, tapping you on the nose. He’s closer now, pressed right up against your side. “Human morality is the first hurdle to realizing our goals.” he drawls, lifting himself over you as he continues. His knees dip into the mattress on either side of your hips, eyes go bright through the lavender haze which permeates the room. “You’ve mounted it with flying colors. Now, do I need to throw in a little extra something to get you to stop moping? I wouldn’t do this for just anyone, but you’ve been such a good—”

He rattles on, voice falling to the wayside as his plump lips run absentmindedly along your jaw. Your world becomes that single, molten point of contact. Your head tilts to the side, eyelids dipping low as he whispers his filth into your skin. Little pinpricks of pleasure wind straight down your spine, throbbing pleasure building between your thighs.

The tips of his hair tickle your exposed skin, where your shirt has ridden up to expose a sliver of stomach. Belly-up, you realize idly, close enough for him to dig straight into your soft center.

“Surmounted,” you mumble groggily.

“Pardon?” Vere asks, looking up at you with one eye. His face is half-pressed into the column of your throat. A fang peeks out from between his lips. There’s a pleasant numbness settled at the back of your skull, a silvery sense of weightlessness. Whatever you were worried about before has been washed away by that dreamy lavender, that pearlescent hue which even now veils your vision.

“Before—you said I mounted it. But you, uhm, meant to say. Surmounted.”

Vere reaches out and pinches your cheek. “You have me in your lap and that’s what you’re thinking about?” He settles atop of you, chest-to-chest, one cheek gracefully perched atop his palm. “I don’t know if I should be offended or worried. That brain of yours isn’t smoothing out, is it? Your skull isn’t getting soft?”

“I’m drunk,” you remind him, still coherent enough to try and inch away from his hand, nose wrinkling. You stretch your neck until the muscles creak in protest, smooshing the back of your head into the pillow.

His finger freezes a centimeter above you, and he laughs. “You are, aren't you? Forgot about all that.”

“You’re the one who made me drink,” you grumble.

“Ah, ah, ah, I didn’t make you do anything. I simply offered my honored guest a refreshing beverage, like any half-decent host would,” Vere tuts. “Trying to blame my good manners for your sloppiness? You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m not really cute,” you hum, reaching over to gently toy with his hair.

“Don’t be dense,” Vere coos, pressing his finger against the tip of your nose. Your eyes cross to look at it. He snorts, privy to some sort of irony beyond your current ken. His hair gleams like… rubies under the watery light. It’s soft as it looks, silken and smooth where it washes over the sheets in tides of russet.

He sighs, “I could swallow you whole here and now and you couldn’t do a single thing to stop me.” he says, wistful.

“I know, but I would taste like—like that weird nut stuff the Wick makes.”

“Nut stuff? Now you’ve caught my attention,” he purrs in a way that even drunk, you know spells trouble.

“I don’t mean anything—dirty. Y’know, the stuff they put on the counter. It tastes bad,” you stammer. You blink several times in succession, as though it’ll make your thoughts less syrupy. The world still blurs at the edges of your vision. You’re thinking through a layer of cotton.

“Of course it tastes bad, it’s free,” Vere retorts. “Nothing worth anything comes for free. Not in this shithole.” You hum in consideration. His bushy tail is still behind him, rested off to the side, next to your thigh. You don’t dare touch it, even though you’ve already touched his hair.

He radiates warmth, and you find yourself lulled by it in combination with the downy soft mattress at your back. You make a small sound, nestling closer to the heat, to the craven beast with nary a peep of protest. Perhaps being devoured is a far better fate than you initially thought. Because it’ll at least be warm inside. Warm like the breath which fans over your cheek.

“Got to come here for free,” you mumble in the last throes of consciousness. There’s a pause.

“Well, aren’t you sweet,” he says, voice dripping with fond condescension. He says something else, and something else. Vere, you get the sense, sometimes talks more for himself than he does for others. But you can’t say you mind, because you say so little. And what a wonderful ability, to be able to spin such incredible weaves of conversation out of thin air. Not that you’ll ever tell him as much.

Soft lips press to the space above your brow. In the dark, a small voice whispers. “You’ll pay your dues later.”

---

Run, the fawn within you, weak and knobby-kneed, beseeches. Its cries go unheeded.

#oz write #vere #vere/reader #touchstarved/reader #touchstarved game

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i-fondued · 1 year ago

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Kinktober 2023 | Call Me Mama | Ghost

Our resident Swiss Army Ghoul decides to get into a little bit of mischief while on tour and 'borrow' Papa's robes for the evening, what ever could his plans be for them and his favorite Sister of Sin on tour with the band? Pairing: Swiss Ghoul x Reader Rating: Explicit Warnings: just shameless smut actually pretty vanilla compared to my normal shit tbh A/N: ** kicks down the door ** AHAHA IM BACK AGAIN BABY! THIS TIME AS A GHOUL GIRLIE LOL

This was mostly inspired by what happened on my birthday in August because yes my situationship did fuck me on/over a desk and pick me and throw me on the bed like i weighed nothing. getcha a man like that y'all (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

“Swiss I think this is a really bad idea…”

“Darlin’ you think everything is a bad idea.”

The Re-Imperator had just finished out the US leg and we were heading down to South America for the next few weeks. I was one of the siblings in charge of the ghouls, there were a few of us since they tended to get into tons of mischief on the road. I love them all, however one particular multi ghoul had all my attention lately…

“Yes well I’m supposed to be the one to keep you in line and stealing-”

“No, not stealing. Borrowing .” Swiss chuckled, turning and giving me a wolfish grin as he carried his hard earned prize into our hotel room for the evening. “C’mon haven’t you’ve always wanted to put them on?”

The bundle in the ghouls arms made me gasp slightly, Papa Emeritus IV’s papal robes and miter. I couldn’t help but run my hand across the material, soft and supple under my fingertips.

“S-swiss you did not steal-”

“Borrow.”

“Fine, borrow these robes…these are Papa’s papal robes. What if something happens to them?” I corrected myself, rolling my eyes before looking up at the ghoul.

“He’s got spares.” Swiss purred, as he placed the robes on the bed beside us. “I want to see you model them for me, baby.”

I couldn’t help the blush spread across my cheeks, smiling softly as my eyes flickered away from him to the robes.

“I don’t know…”

“C’mon Sister, please…just for me?” He moved to bow slightly towards me, hands in a begging pose. I couldn’t help but laugh and gave him a playful shove. He knew I couldn’t say no to him half the time.

“Fine, but I’m only doing this once.” I called back to him as I scooped up the robes and headed towards the bathroom. “After this, you have to bring them back, you hear me?”

“Yes Ma’am. Ghoul’s honor.” Swiss laughed, sliding back on the bed in a slightly commanding pose while his tail twitched back and forth playfully. I knew that meant he was planning something, probably something I would regret letting him get away with later.

Quickly I slipped out of my street clothes, something us tour siblings view as a treat to be able to wear instead of our normal habit and dresses, and paused only for a moment when I was down to nothing but my underwear and bra. Suddenly a mischievous thought popped into my head and before I could stop myself I took them off; tossing them in the pile on the floor and slipping the robes over my head. The layers of silk, brocade, embroidery, and intricate beading and stonework were much heavier than I thought they would be. I could hear the dragging sound of the fabric behind me as I stepped towards the door, my bare feet padding on the cold stone floor.

Before I could open the door I turned around and let down my hair from the clip I’d thrown it in mid show and, with great care, slipped the miter on my head. I turned back and forth admiring how the robes looked on me and smiled softly before opening the door. Swiss had moved from the foot of the bed to lean against the headboard, the picture of casual disinterest. That was at least till he noticed me standing there in the low light. He let out a low whistle, his eyes behind the mask dragging up and down my form so intensely that I could feel my cheeks heating up.

“Mama Emeritus the First…” Swiss chuckled, he slid off the bed and stalked towards me. My heart sped up as he circled me, his fingertips just barely brushing against my body as he went. “I kinda like it…”

Before I could make a comment on me being Mama I felt him press against me, his hardened cock against my ass, and I gasped. I couldn’t help but roll my hips back against him and his hand came to grip my hip possessively. I moaned quietly, unable to keep it between my lips, and I could feel the deep rumble of his chest as he chuckled. Swiss leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to my neck after brushing away the tails of the miter. He started to nip and suck at the sensitive spot by my pulse point and my legs trembled slightly. When I felt his tail slide under the robes and start a slow teasing path up my calf and towards my inner thigh I couldn't help but reach back and grasp at his waist to pull him closer, gasping slightly.

“Swiss…”

“Yes Mama?” He purred in my ear, his warm breath making goosebumps break out over my sensitive skin.

“Please…”

“Please what, Mama?”

“Don’t tease me…”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Darlin’...” Swiss chuckled, his tail lifting the robes till he was able to grab them and he blew out a low whistle again. “Naughty Mama…I don’t think your predecessor wore nothing under his robes.”

“I-I’m going to take the Clergy in a new directio-Oh!” I gasped as he picked me up and placed me on the desk behind me like I weighed nothing before settling between my legs.

Swiss purred low in his throat as he ran his hand over my ass, claw-like nails leaving soft red marks in my skin. I rolled my hips forward, desperate for any friction, and leaned forward to try and capture his lips in a kiss but he pulled back with a chuckle.

“So needy…”

“Only for you.”

Swiss growled then, sharp teeth exposed for a moment before capturing my lips in a searing kiss. I whimpered into it as my arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him into me. My body pressed firmly against his as he nipped my bottom lip and I gasped quietly, his tongue slipped in my mouth and coaxed mine to caress his. The ghoul rolled his hips forward and grinded against my naked core and I couldn’t help the embarrassingly loud moan that came out. He chuckled and I couldn’t help but cup his face under the mask, feeling the texture of his stubble for a moment before pulling his lips to mine again. We stayed there like that for what felt like ages, plucking simple pleasures and sounds from each other, till finally I was squirming so much I almost slipped off the desk.

“What do you need, Mama?” Swiss chuckled, low and gruff in my ear as he cupped my face affectionately.

“You.” I said it with no hesitation, it even seemed to surprise the ghoul in front of me. “Only ever you.”

Swiss growled in a way I’d never heard before; the sound made my heart race, my cheeks flush and heat pooled in my belly. I watched slightly stunned as he quickly undid his trousers and his cock sprung out, painfully hard already. I felt my cunt clench as he pulled me forward by my hips to the edge of the desk.

“Say it again.” He said gruffly before slowly running his cock up and down my soaked slit. I gasped and my head fell forward to rest on his shoulder.

“Only ever you, Swiss…” I whimpered as the head of his cock brushed against my clit, an electric jolt running down my spine. “P-please…”

Without another word the ghoul pitched his hips forward and slowly, torturously so, slipped inside me. I gasped at the feeling of his girth, the feeling of the head popping against my walls as I squeezed him. When he was fully inside me we both hissed at the feeling of him slowly pulling out again before starting up at a torturously slow pace. I gasped and groaned, digging my nails into his back through his shirt. My leg came up and hitched around his hip and tried to pull him deeper unsuccessfully. I tried to make him pick up the pace by digging my heel into the base of his spine but he knew me too well at this point and his ghoul strength was no match for me.

“Easy Darlin’...easy…” He groaned in my ear as he leaned to lightly drag his sharp teeth against my pulse point. “We’ve got all night girl…”

“Swiss, please…” I moaned, throwing my head back and kissing him with such heat and desire it even surprised me.

Instead of answering me with words, Swiss placed his hands firmly on either side of my hips and leaned forward which in turn made me lean back on my elbows as he started to snap his hips more aggressively. He was looking at me so intensely, my cheeks flushed deep and I bit my bottom lip to hold back the whimper that threatened to burst out of me.

“W-why are you looking at me like that?”

“I like seeing the faces I can make you make…” He chuckled before tilting his thrusts, his cock prodding at that sensitive spot deep inside me and I couldn't help the gasp that slipped out. “Just like that baby…”

I pushed up on my hands, pressing our lips together again and wrapping my arms around his neck.

“Take me to bed.” I demanded in my most Mama-esque voice. “...and call me by my title, ghoul.”

“Anything you desire, Mama .”

In one quick motion, without even pulling out of me, Swiss picked me up and carried me to the bed without even a struggle. I clung to him instinctively before he began to thrust harder into me. I cried out, legs wrapping tightly around his hips and rolled my own hips to the pace he had set. I could feel the tightening in my belly, the heat beginning to pool almost painfully as he plucked all the pleasure from my body. I couldn’t help but reach out and tug his grinning face to me, pressing our lips together with a moan.

“I-I’m so close…” I whimpered, back arching as he begun to drill into me and aimed right for the spot he knew made my toes curl.

I held onto him, arms around his shoulders, moaning and whimpering in his ear as he growled and nipped at my neck. The heat in the pit of my belly begun to reach its peak and I couldn’t help the borderline squeal that slipped out as Swiss hooked an arm around my thigh and pushed my knee back as far as possible, completely changing the angle of his thrusts.

“Come for me, Mama…” he growled in my ear, his tail wrapping around my ankle possessively.

Without warning I felt the coil of my orgasm suddenly snap, a white hot heat in my belly as I cried out. Swiss groaned as I clung to him, a few more static thrusts before he too followed me over the precipice of pleasure. He came with practically a roar before remembering we were sharing walls with his tourmates and he suddenly bit down on the crook of my neck, leaving a bruise in his wake. I arched up against him, gasping and desperate to get a solid breath. Swiss practically collapsed next to me, pulling me into his arms and tucking my head under his chin.

We stayed like that for what felt like hours, I felt drowsy listening to the sound of his heart.

“We need to get the robes back before someone finds them missing…” I spoke, breaking into a yawn mid sentence. Swiss chuckled, leaning up slightly to press a kiss to my forehead.

“We’ll worry about that in the morning, for now Mama you should rest. I have more plans for you…”

I couldn’t help the thrill that ran down my spine at his words.

“Your robes, your Eminence.”

“Thank you, Kevin…wait…”

“Yes Papa?”

“Why do they smell like that?"

"Like what, Papa?"

"Like…sex?”

#ghost #the band ghost #swiss ghoul #swiss ghoul x reader #swiss x reader #my writing #kinktober 2023 #ghost kinktober 2023

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assortedvillainvault · 2 years ago

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ok if acceptable I'm dropping one more before closing time

"I remember you" with a reader being the reincarnation of someone the Horned King once loved

*Clutches chest* ROOOSSEEE-

This hurts me. In like, the best way. Here we go, modern reincarnation because I low-key would like to get lost in the Welsh Mountains forever (I have deadlines).

Also please forgive the Google translated Welsh at the end I did not have the time to look up proper medieval Welsh and asking someone real to translate would have been good to think of before I started operating on 5% brain. If anyone following me is a native Welsh speaker pls DM me or leave a comment and I'll correct Google's attempt.

The Horned King x Reincarnated!Reader : 'I Remember You'

You have no fucking clue why you're here.

'Here' being the Ass-End of Nowhere, Wales. No phone reception, no services, no people and no tourists. Except, uh, yourself. Obviously.

You got up, drove out, picked a random direction between two hills and. Started walking. You don't even know why.

You just know that there's something further into the mountains that your soul is ITCHING to get to. You've always felt it, but recently ignoring it has started to feel like being pulled through barbed wire.

The ground is rough and uneven, tussocks and hidden rocks threaten to turn your ankles every other step. The trees that twist their way along the crevices of the high moorland are all but draped in moss and thorns. The mountains arching up behind them are unwelcoming, cold and cragged.

It's...eerily quiet. No birds, no people...even the sheep seemed to stop at some hidden border a few miles back. Just the low moan of the wind accompanies you.

As you walk, you find yourself stealing glances at the sky. You tell yourself it's for birds - Kites and eagles maybe - but you have to keep a strange disappointment down that it's nothing larger. What are you expecting for fucks sake? Dragons??

You're so busy scanning the skies that you topple arse over tea kettle down the next scree slope like a graceful spaghetti mannequin with a screaming feature.

You manage to scrabble and hiss to a stop, skin on your arms and legs scraped raw. And upon looking up suck in a breath that has nothing to do with your sliced up hands.

It's as though a giant scooped the earth away and set it on fire for good measure. Bare reddish black rock contends with a bitter snarl of dead grasses and lonely tree corpses. Beyond lies a dessicated crevass that looks like a lake drained away overnight.

Beyond that, is a castle.

You blink and tear the vision that seared across your eyes - of a fully fleshed gothic fortress - away. What lies before you is a ruin. The bones of the structure, at best.

The barbed wire in your soul is all but yanking you toward the ancient structure. You don't notice that the path you tread towards it is one you can find without looking, despite the terrain.

The bridge, rotted and rusted as it is, is mostly secure. You keep your weight to the bolted metal crisscrossing the wood as you make your way across, slow and steady and feeling as though phantom archers have their sights on you from atop the wall.

As you pass under the archway to the courtyard, you shiver violently. The feeling of passing under so familiar that it almost clawed it's way out from your skin.

The very air seems to hold it's breath as you make your way deeper into the crumbling structure. Water drips from the stonework, the doors all long since rotted from their hinges. Tools lie forgotten on the cobbles. If it wasn't so creepy it would be an archaeologists dream.

Why does no-one around seem to know this is here? Why is this place so undisturbed?

You stumble into what must have been the Great Hall.

Cold sunlight shafts through holes in the ceiling, the corners in absolute darkness. Skeletons lie in piles across the floor, roughly around where large tables should have been, weapons scattered akimbo as though they didn't even get a chance to use them before they fell.

Your eyes are dragged to the dias. There's a body on the throne.

It's slouched, slumped, as if whoever this was had thrown themselves back on the seat and collapsed in exhaustion. The mothbitten red robe and fur stole is strung with spiderwebs connecting them him to the throne, but this isn't what yanks on the barbed wire in your soul.

The pair of great, regal thorn like horns protuding from the figures hood are angled towards you.

Your feet carry you forward.

The figures face is obscured but you know it, the fingers curled loosely still with flesh, after all this time, no weapons around the dias but no evidence of wounds on the body as if he would need them, as if they could ever lay a finger on their King-

Your hand trembles, reaching out to touch the nearest horn irrestisably, not even daring to breathe.

The corpse lurches.

An arctic vice closes on your wrist, bones grinding as he yanks you to your knees on the stone. His fist is impossible to pry loose even as you scrabble at it, nails ripping at leathery hide- heart pounding-

His second hand closes on your neck and you freeze.

Twin red lights blaze from under the hood. Pupils in a black socket that focus hazily on your face, blinking as if rising from a dream that still has its hooks in him. The hand on your neck squeezes and you gasp, eyes bulging, wrist forgotten as you plead with your hands against the unstoppable force around your neck.

Brows twitch as he watches you struggle. Marginally, the fingers loosen and you suck in air, sounding like a broken bellows compared to the cathedral-esque empty quality of the air passing through his chest.

Gently, reverently, knarled fingers parse hair from your forehead. You didn't even realise he'd released your wrist. Your throat remains in his grip.

You meet his gaze as the last of the fog clears from his sockets. His voice, rusted and broken from disuse, still rumbles from his throat like a shuddering landslide.

"Rwy'n eich cofio, fy annwyl."

"I remember you, my dear."

#thalassa responds #rose this is one of the best asks ive ever gotten thank you #i hope you like this!!#the horned king x reader #disney villains x reader #the horned king #disney villains #x reader #HOOOO let me tell you this was a major self insert moment #what will it take to get me a lich king bf honestly #lich simps arise

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blackjackkent · 1 month ago

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I accidentally clicked on Jaheira and discovered she has follow-up dialogue about the Minsc reveal! How did I never think to check this with Hector?

This is actually a delightful (and feelsy) little conversation.

"The Counting House. More bastion than bank, I'm afraid. Minsc must have a way in, but he's never had much use for coin beyond whatever sharp steel it could buy."

(Rakha reflects that this seems to be yet another similarity between this Minsc and herself.)

"There must be something in the vaults the great Chosen are after," Jaheira continues thoughtfully. "All the more reason to get there - swiftly."

Perhaps a slightly pointed comment given that Rakha just got sidetracked in order to blow up a building full of Absolutists.

"So you do believe he's working for the cult?" Rakha asks.

"I have no reason to doubt the guildmaster's information," Jaheira says ruefully. "Only her conclusions. The Stone Lord she describes sounds nothing like Minsc. As for the name, well..." She frowns. "A bad joke, perhaps."

She snorts, seeing Rakha's evident puzzlement. "The Time of Troubles ended almost a century and a half ago. I weathered the years between with all the elven grace you have no doubt come to expect. But do you know how Minsc, a human, passed those years? I'll give you a hint - they named him the 'Beloved Ranger.'"

There's an expectant pause while Rakha searches her rotted-out memory for any record of these words. But there is nothing - beyond, of course, the beast's low-level grumbling of disgust and rage at the mention of Minsc's name.

Jaheira quirks an eyebrow. "No? It was a statue, dedicated to one of the city's lost heroes - only it *was* that hero. Minsc, frozen in stone for a century. And freed, the story goes, in the city's hour of need."

Rakha makes a thoughtful noise, digesting this. Curiosity takes over, subsuming the rage-instinct for a moment. "How could he have been stuck that way for a century?" she asks.

Jaheira grins sardonically. "Because who would question a statue to our friend, thinking Minsc of Rashemen had returned to a hero's welcome *in* Rashemen?"

The smile fades rapidly, replaced by a troubled expression that is tinged with guilt. "I don't even know how he was freed. Harper work would take me from the city - sometimes for years at a time. The few occasions I visited his monument, well... I took it as a moment for reflection. To think of old friends, and the fight I had to continue in their name." She clicks her tongue, waving a hand in frustration. "And during all my self-serious brooding, that big, dumb, *insufferable* buffoon was staring me in the face!"

Rakha nods slowly, following the story. "And you stared right back," she says pensively, "without even realizing it was him."

Jaheira laughs again, too sharply. "I did. On occasion, I even found myself critiquing the stonework. 'Surely his head was not so large as this?'"

She sighs, rubs at the bridge of her nose, and shakes her head. "I am not a particularly good friend," she mutters. "But I am his friend. And I cannot let Nine-Fingers have him."

Rakha watches as she turns away, and feels a flash of puzzlement.

Jaheira has known this Minsc for many years. She has fought battles with him. She describes him as someone like Rakha - capable of berserk rage and mad charges, addled and strange - but nevertheless she traveled with him, and no doubt gave him the same guidance she gives Rakha. She now drops everything to find him, to save him.

What reason can she possibly have to call herself a poor friend? What more could there possibly be than this?

#bjk plays bg3 durge #rakha the dark urge #y'all i love jaheira so much #and i have so many feelings about her #and i want to give her a hug :(

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dukeofriven · 1 year ago

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So I haven't watched Spy Kids for probably 20 years? It came out in 2001, I never saw in theatres, but my stepbrother had it on VHS. I remember watching it several times when my step-mum and father first started dating but never after they moved into a house together, which I think cannot have been any later than 2003. The podcast How Did This Get Made just got me to watch 2004's Sleepover staring Spy Kids' Alex Vega, and it had me going 'man, I should rewatch Spy Kids, a film I used to love—hell I should watch all the Spy Kids movies because I've only ever seen the first and Robert Rodriguez is a director whose work I want to dive into' and since its 2023, with a little bit of effort I can easily do that. (Also, I always thought, based on a vague knowledge of their similar poster design, that Spy Kids 3D and The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl were the same movie, but apparently not! Also, Sharkboy et al. had a 2021 sequel? That was popular? And is getting its own sequel? Will have to investigate.) Thoughts on the opening ten minutes of my Spy Kids rewatch:

This production logo is so ugly it causes me physical pain. I hate this boy with his Kate Moss arms (Miraculous Ladybug arms, for you youngsters out there), his ugly beanie, and unbearable smirk.

Also, the telecine weave on the production logos is very noticeable, they're bouncing all over the place and it got me idly musing as to when more modern image stabilization techniques simply took that away. Not that we really noticed in 2001 because even with auto-tracking, gate-weave and other playback artifacts were just accepted as a given on your eight hundred pound convex CRT TV with 480 Ps of resolution that output enough radiation to kill grandma with a Jeopardy marathon. Do young people know about VHS tracking, auto or otherwise? Does the above paragraph make any sense to them at all? Do they know the pleasures of laying your hand on a still-warm television screen and having your whole body shiver as the static discharge runs through your unresistant flesh? Kids today with their big pants and their blue-tooth hula-hoops and their fancy PSPs just can't understand.

The opening shot of the movie is so under-exposed (or, more likely, over-exposed and then over-corrected in post) that Rodiguez's 'written and directed' credit is unreadable. You can see its blur to the right of the red 'FILM' there. It's so bad I thought there was something wrong with my copy so I... uh... found a new copy with a larger file size and it turns out that, nope, it actually just looks like that. Even in fancy 1080p this is just a terrible ærial shot. There's some fantastic shots and cuts in this film so to open with such a stinker is bizarre. Was it bad coverage that day, only one good shot in the can, did somebody fuck-up the film in the lab? I am curious.

Carla Gugino is so cute in this movie it's criminal. Not to be a lesbian but oh my god oh my fucking god. 12 year-old me was all about Carmen but adult me just wants 90 straight minutes of Carla Gugino in casualwear wandering around her lovely home smiling coyly. I would buy a BluRay player to own that movie on BluRay. I'd not picked-up that she played the mom on The Haunting of Hill House because she had long styled hair instead of this absolutely flawless textured pixie cut. 10/10, no notes.

I would like to spend an hour talking about the incredible tilework in that bathroom and nothing but the incredible tilework in that bathroom. I will update you if the film has any further shots of the incredible tilework in that bathroom but I fear it does not. As as an aside, kind of furious that this film was not more influential in the field of home decor. Two decades of effing shiplap and cold grey suburban blandness—what if we'd given up on bloated cookie cutter micro-mcmansion shitboxes and instead gone all-in on brightly coloured Andalusian rough plaster and stonework? What if we all had great tilework in our bathrooms, like the kitchen sink in Howl's Moving Castle?

You know what I mean, you depraved tile nerds.

I don't want you to think Antonio Banderas is not also a total smokeshow in this movie. Because boy howdy. He's a goddamn hunk.

There's a four-second long shot of Banderas flicking this ring box along the coping of the Eiffel Tower balustrade, and all I can think of how hard it was to get to get that box to stay in a straight line, how completely frictionless the box must be (did he shellac it?), and if his marriage prospects would have been ruined had it—in all rational likelihood—gone flying off the railing and smashed into the Champs de Mars.

You know you're in for a rollicking good time when the helicopter perfectly slices-off the stone heads of the two statues, but it's the padre giving the benediction while attack choppers go roaring over head that gives you chills.

A particular shout-out to this lovely unnamed bridesmaid on the left here who not only takes 'putting a parachute on the bride' in stride but looks gleeful and fabulous doing it. Where's her movie?

In 2001 we really thought computers were going to be cool and fun instead of machines that sold our personal lives to corporations and gave children crippling anxiety disorders.

Carla Gugino has a track built into the floor so that her vanity-computer chair can slide backwards across the room so she can have face-to-face chats with her husband. From this we learn two things: 1) she does this so often she's automated it for maximum efficiency, and 2) Banderos, in an ordinary desk chair, never attempts (or knows better than to attempt?) the reverse. To be continued?

#spy kids #spy kids rewatch #antonio banderas #carla gugino #robert rodriguez #alexa vega #shiplap #interior design #andalusia #tile work #howl's moving castle #miraculous ladybug #telecine #films #weddings #spies #kate moss

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butternuggets-blog · 4 months ago

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FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba-blog @dogblessyoutascha

Part Fifty-Three

Summary: Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to irritate him every other century

Also on AO3

Baldwin was white-knuckling the stonework as he listened to the laughter echoing from just around the corner.

He'd had hours.. days (Gods, it felt like hours) to get it through his thick skull that he lo-loved his best friend and now he was here and laughing and why the hell couldn't he walk around the damn corner-

Baldwin took a deep breath.

He was going to stand here forever, like an absolute fool, or pry his fingers from the wall and march.

He took another deep breath.

Which promptly choked him as he stepped around the corner and saw Martin smiling at Yvette.

He's glowing.

Backlit by sunshine streaming down onto the courtyard, his skin was dappled caramel by the afternoon sky. His hair was spun up into short, cropped snow, fashionably unkempt and light in the breeze, standing out starkly against the rich turquoise of his tunic and the tan leather of his boots.

He looked like a god and Baldwin was ready to lie down on the altar.

'Well!' Godfrey clapped his hands together loudly and stood up. Baldwin nearly jumped out of his skin; he hadn't noticed his brother sitting behind Martin on a low brick wall. 'I shall leave you all too it!'

Please-do-not-leave-please-do-not-leave-no no no no Fuck!

'Lucius!'

'Still Baldw-oof!'

And now Martin was hugging him, strong arms wrapped around him and his mouth inches from Baldwin's ear. He desperately swallowed the high-pitched whine that was rising higher and higher in his throat and ignored the way his skin prickled and pulsed with heat where Martin was pressed against him.

'Thank you for taking care of Yvette for me,' Martin said, quietly.

Everything was apricot and tobacco and sunshine and Baldwin wanted to cry.

________________________________________________________________

Yvette was beginning to worry that her uncle was going to wear a hole right through the floor of the library.

She had been put in charge of sorting through the enormous amounts of scrolls, books and loose sheafs of paper that were in Sept Tours' library in order to try and figure out what organisational style Hugh's ghost had used to 'tidy up'.

It must be very boring, being dead; relying on the living for entertainment.

Baldwin had come in while she was browsing Great-Uncle Philippe's collection of astrolabes someone had used as bookends for a collection of illuminated bibles. He was focused on something that was troubling him deeply; Yvette saw the oddly-haunted look in his eyes he chased away with a smile and an offer to help her reshelve the manuscripts, but when he turned away the set of his shoulders told her that the look had returned.

He was now pacing the length of the library, Bible in his hand. She had sent him off into the room to put it back but he kept "forgetting" where it was supposed to go as an excuse for him to retread his steps.

On second thought, he may actually have been so distracted by whatever was bothering him that he really had forgotten about the book.

'Do you wish to talk about something, Uncle Baldwin?' Yvette piped up.

'Hm, what? Oh, sorry sweetheart,' Baldwin kissed the top of Yvette's head, put the Bible where it was supposed to go, and zipped back to the table. 'No, it is nothing.'

'Are you sure? Perhaps you should talk to ɸatīr-' a strange strangled expression passed quickly over Baldwin's face, '-he is only downstairs.'

'No, no,' Baldwin swallowed. 'It is nothing we need bother your ɸatīr about.'

'ɸatīr has taught me that when I cannot find the right words, writing down my thoughts can help,' Yvette commented, smiling encouragingly.

________________________________________________________________

I lo

I have feelings f

We have been good friends for centuries and I have never been unsure of this until now.

I am sorry.

I will get better at this. I promise.

Author's Notes

The latest book in the series, The Black Bird Oracle, has just been released. I will be encorporating some background information from the book into later chapters of this story if I deem it necessary, but for the most part I will continue focussing on the first trio of books and the tv series.

#baldwin montclair #bibaldwin #baldwin de clermont #adow #all souls series #all souls trilogy #a discovery of witches #a discovery of witches season 1 #a discovery of witches season 2 #a discovery of witches season 3 #a discovery of witches tv series #all souls tv series

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silvergolddraco28 · 11 months ago

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King of Shadows- open roleplay- shadowpeach

OG Wukong and Macaque get sent to a Role Swapped Universe while battling a minor demon with a taste for forbidden spells.

()()()()()

Golden eyes slowly opened, a throbbing headache echoing in the owner’s head and body as they sat up. “Ow… why the hell am I in Macaque’s dojo?” the golden monkey muttered in confusion before the last events flashed through his brain and he let out a long stream of curses getting to his feet and letting a wave of golden magic cover his form. It was a simple spell to hide his minor cuts, small tears in his clothes, and the golden blood he was not going to explain to random strangers. He then cast a secondary spell that would render anyone unable to notice him unless they were already intuned to his magic aka Mk and his group. ‘You’d think letting Mk have a week off to get therapy would give Mac and me time to just get into the flow of things again but no the first demon we encounter uses forbidden spells and then sends us spiraling through an unknown portal.’ the golden monkey thought before swiftly booking it out of the dojo and up into the rooftops of the city scanning for anything that was a large tip-off to what was going on. He saw the date on one of the homographs screens and mentally cursed. ‘Okay, I got dumped at some point before Spider Princess shows up. Just great. Just my monkey luck cashing in again. This is going to end up in some sort of fight. At least I know when and where I am, small miracles Wukong.’ The golden monkey, Wukong, mentally went over in his head and he ran easily jumping and flipping over the rooftops with the ease of a seasoned acrobat.

Wukong came to a stop hearing a familiar sound before the scent of pears mixed with paper and noodles wafted to his sensitive nose. “Shouldnt you be at home right now Kid?” Wukong asked aloud turning to face the teenager only to be met with an angered Mk wearing a plum purple jacket and dark pants instead of his usual orange jacket and red pants. ‘This is a red flag… Mk doesn't own anything that is majorly purple.’

“What are you doing back here Wukong? Come to try and convince me to be your student again? Well, hard pass!” Mk sneered before attacked the golden monkey.

“Hey wait- damn it Kid!” Wukong easily dodged the strickes he did not teach Mk. ‘Those strikes are similar to Mac’s style.’ Wukong thought falling into a familiar groove of dodging the staff until he finally caught the staff. “Will you stop trying to hit me and listen for a minute Xiaotain?!” Wukong snapped using the teen’s birth name to snap him out of the anger.

“Don’t you dare call me that!” Mk shouted yanking the staff out of Wukong’s grip and sending a wave of purple magic at the monkey.

Wukong braced bringing his arms up as the wave passed him but caused his many spells layering his body to shatter in a flash of gold. Crystalized golden irises set in demonic red sclera looking at the teen in shock, golden blood trailing down the golden monkey’s light cuts along his arms and left side, his normal attire messed up with tears and slight burns, shocks of icy blue and white colored fur broke up the golden fur like small veins while a thick golden crown rested snuggly on the golden monkey’s forehead worn with age and battles long forgotten by time. The teen gapped at the golden monkey in stunned stupidor. “That…. That was just supposed to knock you away… not… not do what ever it just did.”

Wukong didn't have time to process what the kid was saying before a wave of dizziness crashed into him his ears ringing while his vision became spotty before he blacked out.

()()()()()

Crystallized demonic red sclera with molten gold eyes cracked open seeing familiar stonework glowing with faint purple runes before the owner of the crystal eyes shot up hissing in minor pain from the many cuts that had been cleaned while something thick was around his throat. ‘A collar?!?’ Wukong thought as he looked to see he had been changed into a dark pair of pants and a dark purple silk sash around his waist.

“Well, this is just humiliating.” Wukong frowned as he got off the cot and examined the doors and walls. “Magically resistant… but not impervious,” Wukong noted as he pulled his fist back and punched the door sending it off its hinges with a small smirk on his lips.

‘Someone didn't take into account my natural strength and underestimated me.’ Wukong thought as he looked about for a way out and proper clothes or at least a shirt to cover his top. “Why did i let myself get so fat to begin with?” Wukong muttered lowly idly poking at his chubby sides and stomach self-consciously. Compared to mortals he looked to have a ‘dad bod’ from what he had over heard Mei and Mk comment the one time they saw him shirtless. He shoved those thoughts aside as he made his way to the staircase and began to climb the stairs straining his natural senses for anything hint of Macaque. ‘Where are you Mihou?’ Wukong thought picking up speed wincing slightly as his bare feet touched the cold stone stairs. ‘Damn it. Why are the burns acting up now!?’

The Golden monkey reached the landing of the new floor picking up a faint tickle of shadow magic down the hall. ‘There!’ Wukong steadily made his way down the hall coming to the last door at the very end of the corridor. He grabbed the handle and easily twisted the metal to break the internal lock pushing open the door to a pitch-black room that made his fur stand straight on the back of his neck. “Moon?” Wukong cautiously called before helping as a cold and rubbery mass wrapped around his ankles pulling him inside as more of the mass immobilized his limbs.

“Well well well~ you're definitely not Shihou, far too strong to be him.” a familiar yet slightly darker voice spoke from the pitch-black darkness. “Just who are you?”

#lmk au #fanfiction #lego monkie kid #shadowpeach #collab help #sun wuking x macaque #lmk rp #six eared macaque #sun wukong x macaque #lmk wukong #role swap au #dark universe

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brushstrokes-and-builds · 1 year ago

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This blog was created with the intent of documenting my work-in-progress for various hobby projects.

Doing little bits of work, each day, will hopefully boost my productivity and keep me motivated.

Today, I dry brushed up the stonework and base coated the ground for a Hirst Arts project, The Forgotten Tower.

It’s turning out great and I’m looking forward to trying out some new weathering techniques.

Hobby Streak - Day 01

#terrain building #hobbystreak #mordheim #frostgrave

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backgroundbaker · 1 year ago

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Don't look now: Fic 4 for @remadoramicrofics

..................

"Don't look now, but there are two people behind us who have followed us all the way from the High Street."

A younger Tonks would have struggled to fight the urge to turn and look, but her years of auror training had knocked that out of her. While she wasn't great at 'Stealth and Tracking', she was surprisingly good at stealth and being tracked. She didn't even react to Remus' words, the only indication she'd heard them was the gentle squeeze she gave to the hand she was holding.

They were spending their Wednesday evening investigating a tip off for the Order: apparently, a dodgy herbologist was selling lots of Mewt Algae - an important plant in necromancy - to some of You-Know-Who's lackeys. The fact that the tip off came from Mundungus Fletcher meant that Tonks hadn't one hundred per cent believed it, but she was doing due diligence in following it up. On the plus side, it meant that she got to spend an evening wandering around the small city of Wells hand in hand with Remus. They had taken to posing as a couple when out on a mission, not only because it deflected attention, but also because it allowed them to communicate via small movements and signals in the hands they were holding. Smart really, and they had gotten very good at it. The fact that Tonks also enjoyed holding Remus' hand was her little secret, one that she hadn't shared with anyone.

The herbologist lived on an old muggle street next to the city cathedral, but they had apparated to a spot just off the High Street so they could walk about and get the feel of the place. At 10pm, all the shops were closed, and, being a Wednesday, the pubs were relatively empty. Thankfully, the people who were out for a drink were all huddled together inside, probably as close to a fire as they could get, and were not bothered by strangers out for a walk. It did, however, make it easier to notice when other people were following your path - and as soon as Remus had mentioned to her they were being stalked, Tonks became very aware of the echo from four sets of footsteps on the road.

Her opportunity to turn around and look came as they stepped onto Cathedral Green. The grass in front of them was lit by the glow coming off the face of the cathedral itself, warm yellow lamps angled against it to show off it's decorative design. It stretched out behind them, illuminating the buildings around. She made a show of being fascinated by the history of the area, studying each of the buildings in the golden light. Whilst admiring the medieval masonry on a city gate, she was able to observe the two men following them in her periphery. Both were heavy set, wearing thick cloaks and being anything but subtle as they walked through an archway towards them. She took an extra second to look at the stonework before turning back to Remus.

"Darling," she said, looking up at him (she enjoyed playing up the fake coupleness), "can we go get a closer look at the cathedral?"

With her hand she was tracing a circle on the base of his thumb, indicating it was time to change plans. Remus, however, was apparently not willing to.

"It's getting late, maybe tomorrow."

His finger was drawing a straight line firmly on her thumb - stick to plan.

The space they were in left them quite exposed, and Tonks was worried that the men would try something stupid, like starting a duel. They wouldn't be a match for herself and Remus, but she didn't want things getting too messy. Reluctantly, she let Remus lead her down the road that skirted the grass, getting closer to their destination.

She sensed the moment that one of the men drew their wand and immediately her hand flew to hers. A spell came flying right at her, clipping her slightly on the cheek as she swerved. It must have been a slashing curse because she felt blood spring from the trail across her face. Her only reaction was to throw a return stunning spell, hitting her target almost instantaneously. Remus had also now grabbed his wand, firing a rather angry freezing spell at the other man. Before he'd even hit the ground, Remus was dragging Tonks into a run, away from the two unconscious men, muttering under his breath about how they weren't supposed to create a scene.

They ducked under an arch in another old gatehouse, Remus giving her a firm pull into the dark recess of a doorway alongside him. For a moment, all she could see was his eyes, full of concern and looking intensely at her. Her stomach flipped. She was so close to him she could feel his heavy breathing in his chest, slightly laboured from the short run. She was sure he would be able to feel her wild heartbeat and hoped he put that down to the run too.

"You okay?" He asked, almost in a whisper, his hand coming up to trace a line just under the cut on her cheek.

How he expected her to answer that when he was touching her so softly, she didn't know, but she managed to give him a nod, followed by a quiet "yeah."

She realised straight away she should have lied and said no, because on seeing she was alright, Remus was dragging her off again.

"Good, looks like we've stumbled on the right road to visit our herbologist as well."

He was right, the distinctive cobbled street lay right in front of them. Even in the dark, it was easy to make out the two rows of identical houses, their tall chimneys disappearing into the night sky.

"You know that Mewt Algae is used a lot in necromancy?" he asked her casually, marching on ahead of her down the road, as if nothing had happened.

#remadora #nymphadora tonks #remus lupin #remadora microfics

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b4mpyre-k1zz3s · 1 year ago

Note

you help bam pull a silly prank in castle bam again !!! (filling the whole house with gravel or something dumb)

It’s On!

A prank war at Castle Bam escalates to more than anyone could’ve expected!

Bam Margera X Gn!Reader

2k Words

(Fluff)

Warnings: Suggestive content, crude language, shit, bars

An: Thank you for all the requests!! I’m working on some older ones now, but I’ll be starting on the newer requests soon!! :)

You were woken up from your slumber on your floor mattress by a yell from next door- Ryan’s room. This sort of thing wasn’t uncommon in castle Bam, but it never ceased to annoy you when all you wanted to do was sleep in on the weekend. Then, there came the running down the hall, followed by him banging on Bam’s door- the regular, everyday symphony of chaos. You tried to listen in on the dull roar from the ensuing argument, but you couldn’t pick up much until you heard the sound of your boyfriend running down the hall again, Ryan’s heavy steps following him.

Throwing it open, Bam slammed your plywood door behind him with the sort of giddiness he only got when he was doing something really bad. Bracing himself against the rattling door jam as Ryan pounded on the other side, his eyes glinted as he finally acknowledged you as you sat up in bed, thoroughly confused. “Bam!! What the fuck’s going on?!”

“Y/N!” Bam ran across your room, jumping into the air and tackling you down to your bed! He wrapped his lean, muscular arms around you, giggling as he pinned you to the mattress. Turning your face away from your sheets, you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing, “What-what did you do?”

“Just put some shit’n Ryan’s shoe…now he’s all mad n shit!” Standard procedure. You rolled your eyes at how surprised he sounded that putting shit in someone’s shoe would anger them, “Oh, is he?” He pulled up off of you, straddling your hips and giving you a great view of his bare chest. You shamelessly ogled his muscles as they flexed under his pale skin, how his gray flannel pajama pants sat so low on his hips, and how they showed off the tattoo he had low on his pelvis, the way h- thump.

Bam righted himself after falling off the bed, stumbling to his feet. Sitting up and shaking yourself out of your trance, your attention was drawn back to the door, “Oh, huh. What should we do about that?” Before you could look back, your boyfriend already had one leg out your now open bedroom window.

“You think Ry’s gonna get back at you?” You and Bam sat on the side of the house and smoked. “Of course he’s gonna!” He took a drawl, cracking a smile and leaning against the rough stonework, falling snowflakes dappling his dark hair and immediately melting, “We just gotta get’im first.” Standing up, you flicked your butt into the grass, your cigarette going out as soon as it came into contact with the cool snow. “Oh? Like what- bucket of water over the door?” Your boyfriend snickered as you made your way to the front door of the house, hoping Ryan had cooled off after all of this.

But as soon as you stepped through the door, you were on your back. Disoriented by the slam you took, it took you a second to realize what had happened. Opening your eyes, you noticed that the hardwood was freckled with little crystal blue spots. Taking one into your hands, you felt the smooth, spherical surface.

“Marbles!” Laughing in disbelief, you got up to right yourself, “Motherfucker used marbles!” Even Bam couldn’t help from chuckling at the simplicity of the prank as he rubbed the back of his head- some real Home Alone Shit, he’d later say. “Ohh, I am going to get his ass!” He almost growled, somewhere between being entertained and pissed off. From around the corner, you two heard snickering. In a split second, your eyes went wide and, making a break for it, you dashed down the hall, turning the corner and throwing yourself at Ryan like a cheetah pouncing on a gazelle.

“Aah! Oh- oh my god!” He was still laughing as you two tumbled to the ground. Rounding the corner, Bam shrieked before leaping into the air and performing some sort of mock Superfly Snuka jump onto both you and Ryan, body slamming the two of you and knocking the air out of your lungs. It would be an odd sight, for sure- given all the shouting and writhing as you wrestled. Ryan tapped on your back in a plea for mercy, “I- I didn’t even ‘fuckin do it- Novak did!”

“Where is he?!” You continued to struggle with Ryan, now just for the hell of it. “He said he’s going out! He’s- he’s in his room!” Bam stopped, thinking for a second. Getting up, he darted towards the kitchen drawer. You looked down at Ryan as you got up, and making a mock cutting gesture across your throat, you followed after your boyfriend as he gathered supplies for his next plan, leaving Ryan lying on the floor, still chuckling to himself.

“Are you sure this is gonna work?” You looked up at your boyfriend from the filthy trough behind the driver’s seat in Novak’s car. “Yeah, yeah! You got this!” His e outrage meant did nothing to dissuade your concerns. Glancing to one side, his eyes went wide and he slammed the door suddenly, taking off. That left you, curled up on the ground holding one of those long clicky lighters and ‘a shitload of smoke bombs’, as he put it.

You held your breath as you heard the familiar sound of a car door opening, then closing. All you could see from your position was the old, stained, gray upholstery and a pair of tattooed, ringed hands shove the key in the ignition and turn. Digging in your jeans pocket, you grabbed one of the smoke bombs and, after fumbling with the lighter, hucking one into the trough below the passenger’s seat.

Given that you hadn’t even left the driveway yet, Novak’s attention was immediately brought to the fizzing cherry shaped pyrotechnic as you lit a second one, throwing it on the dashboard. He whipped his head around just in time to see the blur of you hurting yourself upright and throwing yourself out an open car door, somersaulting onto the pavement and rolling up to a sprint. Glancing back at the scene, he had given chase, abandoning the car while somehow holding the smoldering fireworks in his bare hand, shouting obscenities at you, “Motherfucker! Y’were gonna catch my car on fire- you asshole!”

Giggling, you ducked behind some bushes, burying yourself deep in the foliage until Novak gave up, grumbling obscenities before heading back inside, clearly not taking it quite as well as Ryan. You lingered outside for a minute, apprehensive to go back inside too quickly. Just as you emerged from your dense hiding place and started plucking the twigs from your hair, a purple blur skidded out in front of you.

“Get in!” Your boyfriend rolled down the window, grinning as you ducked inside the low car door. You smiled at the warmth inside that hit you like a wall as you peeled off, the seats melting off the chill from outside. “So, where’re we going?” You asked with a hint of flirt in your voice. “I am taking you on a romantic, expensive, and very sweet date.” He grinned as the wiper blades cleared the falling snow from his view, his pale eyes on the road ahead. You knew it was too good to be true, but you probed sarcastically, sinking into the black leather of the seat, “Oh really? Where?”

Pulling up to the red and white building, you rolled your eyes and leaned your head against the glass as your boyfriend broke out into snickers, “What? Just because it’s McDonald’s doesn’t mean it can’t be romantic- here, we can Lady-and-the-Tramp a burger if it’d make you happy.” Even you couldn’t hold back a giggle at that suggestion,”You know what? I’m gonna hold you to that.”

As you waited for the minimum wage employee to fetch you your bag of high brow cuisine, you and Bam chatted about anything- mostly about some skate thing he was going to in a couple weeks, “Dude, you gotta go! I mean-“ The window slid open, and Bam went to get the food, “Everyone’s gonna be there!”

Leaning out the window to grab the white paper bag, Bam grasped…nothing. You put the pieces together first, when you saw a smear of pale skin dash in front of the car. The look on your boyfriend's face said it all, somewhere between shock, enthusiasm, and annoyance. He leaned out the still open window, “Raab! Gimmie my fuckin food back!” Ignoring the door entirely, and in an incredible feat of his physical prowess, Bam unbuckled his seat belt and hoisted himself out of the window, making chase.

It was almost like a scene from Scooby Doo- when Raab, who you had noticed was now only clad in a jockstrap and a sweatband, dashed to the right, and Bam followed. Raab ran to the left, so did he- you could play the Benny Hill theme over it and it’d fit. And there you were left, making occasional awkward eye contact with the server, both witnessing this incredible display while the line of cars behind you got increasingly annoyed.

Eventually, you did get your food back, significantly colder than you would have otherwise. You stared over at your boyfriend as he grumpily ate his burger, looking out the window like he was in some sad Linkin Park video. As much of a man child he was, it made you bummed to see him so dejected. You piped up, getting an idea, “Hey, why don’t we get Dico and Rake in on this? I bet those two could really help us win this thing!” He stopped mid munch, the gears turning in his head, “Hmm…” You could see him getting ideas in that little mind of his as he turned to you, “Y/N. I think you’re the smartest person I know.”

Dico swiped a finger across the cake, sucking the fluffy white frosting off in a dramatic gesture. You stood back, admiring it, “Jesus, man! This- this is good! Like, really good!” He nodded, a little smug, “Yeah, idiots’ not gonna see it coming for a mile!” You had to give it to him- for as annoying as he could be, Dico sure could come up with good plans in short notice. “How’d you even get this idea anyway?” Snickering, he leaned against the bar, “I just wanted to see if I could get Rake in lingerie.”

Your eyes darted over to the door as your boyfriend directed Raab into the crowded bar, giving him some bullshit about it being his birthday party, though it wouldn’t be his actual birthday for months. Nonetheless, he seemed excited to be there. “Yeah, dude, we got- like, a stripper cake for you!” As the two got in earshot, you had to hold yourself back from laughter, while Raab seemingly believed him. “Really? Oh dude!” Bam smiled and played into it as they got settled, your boyfriend carefully positioning himself behind the birthday boy.

Everything stilled for a moment, before- pop! From the top of the cake, out came the super sexy stripper! Well, sort of. Dico popped one of those confetti cannons as Rake really hammed it up, parading around in nothing but his pale ass and the cheap lingerie you found. You had to giggle with how into it he was- you have nothing against Rake, but he really is no stripper.

“Aww, seriously, man?” Raab, falling victim to his own optimism, was caught just off guard enough for Bam to take him by surprise, grabbing a handful of yellow cake and buttercream and shoving it in his face. Frozen in confusion, it took a couple seconds for what happened to set in while Dico and Bam collapsed in laughter- but in a split second, Raab, with icing still dripping from his face, snatched a hunk from the cake, smashing it into your boyfriend's face. Somehow, he was surprised that this happened. From behind you, another handful of cake was thrown, this time hitting the back of your head. Of course, this escalated to an all out cake war, with globs of the sweet stuff getting hurled around the bar until you were unceremoniously kicked out by the bouncer for causing a scene. With all of you standing outside, a truce was agreed upon, only after all parties were thoroughly coated in sticky dessert.

#jackass #bam margera #ryan dunn #brandon dicamillo #brandon novak #chris raab #rake yohn #jackass fanfiction #jackass fanfic #jackass x reader #bam margera x reader #fluff #this sounds like a nightmare but I want it so bad

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