#the battle for hillside

[pixielover1]

Wild Flowers.

Part one. Part two. Part three.

Monster!König x Reader.

The sun illuminated the quiet hillside like a stunning oil painting. You stirred awake as the beams of light slipped past your thin curtains. Yawning, you sat up in your bed. Waking up early was exciting today because it was finally time to harvest your crops. You quickly put on a floral sundress and a pair of sandals. Pulling on your gardening hat, you practically skipped outside, moving to the back of your quaint cabin. The wind nipped at your skin but the sun shooed it away with its warm rays. Your chest rose slowly as you took in a deep breath of the crisp morning air. You redirected your attention to the flourishing plants and a smile snuck onto your face.

You carefully tended to your crops, clipping off ripe fruits and veggies as you leaned over your developed plot. Gentle, melodic hums escaped your mouth as you tossed the produce into your woven basket, the birds singing with you. It was such a beautiful morning, but to König, you were the most beautiful.

In the camouflage of the woods he watched you through the foliage, panting. The sound of your soft music gave him goosebumps, his furred tail whacking against poor trees that concealed him. König was a victim of secret experiments when he was in the military. The underground organization subjected him to a series of operations, changing his DNA in a remarkable scientific feat. But what was supposed to be dog-like enhancements for battle, resulted in an uncontrollable lycan. König tore through the illegal facility shortly after he was deemed “ready” to be a weapon. Since that day he roamed the mountain side, hunting like an average wolf. Nothing resembling benignity was inside him, he was simply a wild beast. Until he found you. Humanity struck him the first time he spotted you foraging in the woods. In that moment his heart began to beat again, for you. Since then, he’s been keeping a watchful eye on you. Your life is peaceful and he likes to believe he is the cause of it.

Your focus on your activity was light until you heard a loud hiss. Startled, you look down to see an aggravated snake. You jump to your feet and wearily create space between you and the reptile. There was no way you were going to pick the thing up, but you also couldn't leave it here to eat your plants or mess up the roots. You kept your eyes on the snake until a shadow was casted upon you. From your left, a large hand comes down to grab the rowdy snake. It’s thrown deep into the woods and the threat is diminished. A small ping of relief fills in you until you realize. What the fuck just grabbed the snake?

Your neck cranes up to see a drooling König, his chest heaving. Your heart drops and you’re stuck in place. König stands at a firm 6'10”, dwarfing anyone's height. Wolf-like ears stick out from his short hair that was tangled with twigs and dirt. He wore a battered t-shirt, stained with what you believed to be blood and soil. He looked terrifying even as his tail swung behind him through his ripped up pants. He was delighted to finally be face to face with you. The way your face was illuminated as a gorgeous golden brown by the sun made his heart flutter like never before, even if you were also cowering in fear.

Your legs twitch as if begging you to run. So just then, you did. You turn and bolt into the forest, running faster than you knew you could. The beast was hot on your heels, easily catching up to your sprint. You kept up for as long as you could before your face harshly met the rough soil. König lingered above you, keeping your body pinned to the ground. Helpless whines escape your mouth as you assume this is your death day. You can hear his deep, shaky breaths as his body covers yours. At your side you catch a view of his huge hands and murderous claws. Your breath hitches and you squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the fatal blow. But it never came. Instead, König lifted you up and threw you over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing. Filled with a burst of bravery, you beat on his back and screamed at him to let you go. Opening your eyes, you gulp as you see how high up you were from the woods’ floor. He carried you back to your cottage quickly, not responding to any of your protests. He followed your scent as he pushed your front door open, accidentally breaking a hinge. He gently places you on your bed, the action a stark contrast to his appearance. He stands at the foot of your bed and you notice how he barely fits into your house. He has to bend his neck to keep his head from hitting your ceiling.

When he catches the shimmer of your sweet tears, something wakes within him. Feelings along the lines of sympathy and lust. His eyes reflect what he is feeling too easily, he is truly an open book. You remain on your bed, trembling from being subject to his gaze that is desperately trying to undress you. The silence breaks when his hand twitches, reaching towards you. You whimper, still assuming the worst. As much as he enjoys the tempting sounds, he knows he doesn’t want you to feel this way. His large fur-covered frame lets out a low growl and with the same speed he used to catch you moments before, he leaves your house. The sun was still kind and warm as you were left breathless and stunned from the freakish encounter.

Hello! This is my first story, i hope you enjoy. I am open to constructive criticism. :)

[clangenrising]

Month 19 - Leaffall

Being a mentor was the best feeling in the world. 

Floodstrike had enjoyed learning how to perfect a hunting crouch or best an opponent in battle, but nothing had prepared him for how much satisfaction came from watching Lakepaw do the same. She was so methodical about it, asking question after question, only actually attempting something once she was certain she knew what to do and then usually nailing it. 

“You’re not just saying that, right?” she had asked once when he had praised her. 

“No way, kiddo,” he had purred. “You’re just that good.” And she had swelled with pride and that had been the highlight of his day. 

Now, he walked with his littermates out towards the thunderpath where they liked to hunt, talking endlessly about how proud he was. “She’s a natural,” he said. “You should see her fish, it’s amazing. She’s gonna be such a great warrior.” 

“I bet,” Barleybee laughed. “She must be if she can get you to stop talking yourself up!” 

“Hey,” he laughed and bounced playfully towards her with a few swipes that she effortlessly dodged. 

“She’s very talented,” Sparrowsway agreed with a fond smile at their shenanigans. “It’s good to see you taking something this seriously.” 

“I take everything the right amount of seriously,” Floodstrike shot back. 

“That’s highly debatable,” hummed Sparrowsway. Floodstrike rolled his eyes and kicked up his pace to reach the thunderpath first. The evening air was still thick with the day’s heat near its surface. He squinted into the waves of warmth and opened his mouth to scent the strange stone. The smell was pungent but he almost enjoyed it for some reason.

“Careful,” Barleybee called nervously. “Remember, we’re not supposed to cross.” 

“I know, I know,” he said, looking over his shoulder as he took a step back to put her at ease. “I just wanted to see if there was anything interesting up here.”

“Interesting like what?” Sparrowsway frowned. 

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, trotting back down the hill. “Yarrowshade says he found Scorchplume on the thunderpath, right? Maybe we’ll find someone who needs help or something.” 

“Or someone who’s crowfood,” said Sparrowsway. 

“You’re such a downer,” Floodstrike rolled his eyes. “Russetfrond really drained the fun out of you, didn’t he?” 

“He taught me how to be realistic,” huffed Sparrowsway in a way that wasn’t not like Russetfrond. Floodstrike raised a skeptical brow in his direction. 

“Maybe the thunderpath is an appropriate time to put ‘the fun’ aside,” Barleybee tried gently. 

Floodstrike groaned, although it was mostly for show, “Fine, fine. Enough blabbing. Let’s hunt, yeah?” 

“Yes, please,” Sparrowsway said. Barleybee purred. 

Together, they walked along the hillside by the thunderpath, seeking out the small creatures that were starting to emerge from their hidey-holes for the night, only interrupted once or twice by the sudden roar of a monster and the rush of wind nearly tearing them off their feet. They weren’t particularly lucky as far as hunting went but Barleybee still managed to root out a few catches and Sparrowsway even helped with one. 

Frustrated, Floodstrike walked back up to the top of the small slope to look out over the thunderpath at the sparkling mass of lights in the distant twolegplace. It was then that he spotted something interesting -- a pair of yellow eyes blinking from the grass diagonally across the thunderpath from him. 

“Hey,” he said instinctively, straightening up, and the cat on the other side of the road flinched and turned to look at him. 

“What is it?” he heard Barleybee call. 

“Floodstrike!” The cat stepped out onto the thunderpath with a wide smile on her face. 

“Luna?” he gaped. 

“Yes!” purred the kittypet, slinking out to stand on the bold yellow lines in the middle of the path. “Oh, this is so lucky! I was coming to look for you, I wanted to-” 

“Monster!” shouted Sparrowsway from behind him and Floodstrike looked up to see the dim glow of a massive monster rapidly approaching behind Luna on the thunderpath. The fur on his spine shot up immediately and before he knew what was happening he was lunging for her. 

“Move!” he cried, grabbing her collar in his teeth and pulling her towards his side of the path. The sound of the beast was overwhelming, a rumbling roar that shook through his ribcage. Luna’s eyes were wide in fear as she stumbled towards him. 

“No, get down!” she cried, wrapping her paws around his neck and pulling him sideways onto the still warm stones. He panicked, and tried to stand but she threw her torso over his head and pinned him to the ground just in time for the roar of the beast to thunder over their bodies, washing them with hot gusts of wind. Floodstrike’s stomach tightened terribly as his body prepared for the blow he was certain was coming, but as soon as it had come, the wind was gone and the cool night air flooded back in to surround them. 

Sparrowsway and Barleybee weren’t far behind. 

“Oh, stars, are you okay?” his sister cried out. “Floodstrike, are you okay?” 

It was then that Floodstrike processed that he was face deep in Luna’s belly and he flushed and squirmed out from underneath her. She seemed to realize at the same time and scrambled away from him, stuttering out mumbled apologies. 

“I- I’m fine,” he blushed, shaking the feel of the thunderpath from his fur.

“Let’s get off the thunderpath, okay?” Sparrowsway said and Floodstrike nodded, wrapping his tail around Luna to guide her over to their side of the grass. 

“I’m so sorry!” she said as they went, “I shouldn’t have stopped on the road like that! I could have gotten you killed! But- Oh, you tried to save me! You did save me!” Luna leaned in to his side and looked up at him wondrously. 

“Uh, it was nothing,” he said, captivated by her expression. 

Sparrowsway cleared his throat pointedly. 

“Besides,” said Floodstrike, taking a small step away from her, “you saved me too. We’re even.” 

“What are you doing here, Luna?” Sparrowsway asked sternly. “I thought you said it was too dangerous for you to come visit us.” 

“Clearly,” Barleybee mumbled under her breath, still shaken it seemed. 

“I had to!” Luna said, curling her tail around her body as she suppressed a shiver. “I had to know if you’d really killed Bella!” 

“What?” Sparrowsway frowned. 

“Yeah, wait,” Floodstrike shook his head, “Bellaswan’s dead?” 

“Mhm,” Luna nodded, her mouth a tiny line, eyes wide. “They found her body yesterday. She went out to the wild territories and somebody killed her! Her friends Minerva and Tinkerbell too!” 

The three siblings exchanged serious glances. 

“And the city thinks we were responsible?” Sparrowsway asked. Luna nodded. “Why?” 

“Their collars were all torn and thrown in a pile,” Luna said. “Sardine is saying it was a message that you’re going to start invading our lands next.” 

“That’s it?” said Sparrowsway in disbelief. “That’s the only evidence?” 

“Wasn’t this Bellaswan challenging Sardine for leadership?” Barleybee said darkly. 

“Yeah,” nodded Floodstrike. “Definitely suspicious.” 

“And I just couldn’t believe you would do that,” Luna said, looking at him. “You were all so kind when you came to visit, I knew you couldn’t be behind that kind of thing. I’m so glad I was right.” 

Floodstrike smiled awkwardly. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he would have gladly torn out Bellaswan’s throat after what he’d heard about her run in with Fogpaw and Slatepaw -- after her behavior at the snow storm battle, even. Honestly, the news was a relief. One less threat to worry about. 

“This isn’t good,” Barleybee said, much to his confusion. “We should tell Goldenstar right away.” 

“Agreed,” Sparrowsway said. “Luna, will you be alright getting home on your own?” 

“Oh, she doesn’t have to go right now, does she?” Floodstrike said. “She nearly died just now, she can stick around until she feels a little better.” 

“She seems fine to me,” Sparrowsway scowled. 

Luna stepped back into Floodstrike’s side and leaned against him, batting her lashes. “No, no, Floodstrike’s right. I’d love to stay just a while longer, if that’s okay. I… I don’t feel brave enough to cross the road again just yet.” She bit her lip and glanced between the two of them. Sparrowsway scowled deeper. 

“It’s fine,” Barleybee muttered to him. “She can stay here with Floodstrike while we go report in.” 

“Absolutely not,” Sparrowsway hissed under his breath. “Do you want another Mystique situation?” 

“That’s none of my business,” Barleybee lifted her head. “But fine, stay if you want. I know the least about all of this stuff but I can make the report by myself.” 

Sparrowsway’s ears pressed back in a put upon expression. “Damn it, Barley.” She shrugged apathetically in response. Sparrowsway glanced over at Floodstrike -- who was equally displeased that they were having this conversation like he wasn’t right there -- then at Luna, then sighed. 

“Fine, I’ll go with you,” Sparrowsway said as if she had twisted his leg. “Floodstrike, I’m sure you’ll be on your best behavior.” 

“Bruh, relax,” he replied snappishly. “Worry about yourself.” Sparrowsway looked like he was going to make another comment but held his tongue. 

“Come on,” said Barleybee and the two of them headed off, back towards camp. As they went, she called over her shoulder, “And stay off the thunderpath!” 

“What did he mean, ‘another Mystique situation’?” Luna asked softly, smiling confusedly up at Floodstrike.

“His mentor had kits with Mystique by accident,” he whispered back. “Apparently if he leaves us alone I’ll take you to nest immediately or something.” He rolled his eyes. “Just ignore Sparrowsway, he’s a stickler about everything.” 

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” Luna laughed, stretching forward until her back legs were straight out behind her. “It means he thinks I’m pretty.” She smirked coyly at him and asked, “do you think I’m pretty?” 

Floodstrike blushed. What were you supposed to say to that? 

“I mean, yeah, definitely,” he ended up saying. Was that too strong? Luna seemed to like it at least. She rolled her steps forward out of her stretch and ducked her head demurely. 

“You’re very sweet, Floodstrike,” she said. “I’m sure you say that to all the girls.” 

“Not really,” he shook his head. “It’s mostly just my sister here. I don’t know that many girls.” Well, there’s Fishtrick and Boldmoth, he thought, but surely they don’t count. They were both very pretty, though, now that he was thinking about it. 

“Oh,” she said, her mouth a perfect little oh for a beat after she said it. Then she blinked and purred, “Well, don’t I feel special then!” She curled back around to butt her chin underneath his, the purr rumbling up through his jaw, and he stiffened. Maybe Sparrowsway was right to be worried. He swallowed, which was surprisingly difficult, and pulled away from her with a nervous laugh.

“Right, uh, maybe I should walk you home,” he said. 

“You don’t want to spend more time with me?” Luna’s expression fell. 

“No, no!” he hurried to reassure her, “I just, uh- I don’t think this is a very good idea.” 

“What’s not a very good idea?” she asked and he couldn’t tell if her innocence was feigned or not. 

“Look, you’re very sweet and pretty and everything,” he said, fumbling for an explanation as to why he suddenly wanted out of this very enticing scenario, “but uh, I shouldn’t get… involved like that. With you.” 

“Isn’t that what makes it exciting?” she chewed her lip and dragged one paw idly through the dirt. “A forbidden romance between star crossed lovers -- the Exalted and the Wild Cat?” 

Floodstrike squirmed uncomfortably. “I- I’m sorry, Luna. Clearly you’ve been, uh, thinking about this but I’m just not… ready.” It wasn’t the right word, not exactly. He wasn’t ready for this kind of thing but more importantly he felt like ants were crawling in his pelt for some reason and his stomach wouldn't stop twisting. 

Luna frowned softly and sighed. “Okay. I understand.” She ran a few self-conscious licks over her ears. “I’ll go home.” 

“Do you want me to escort you?” he asked, worried despite the nerves eating him from the inside out. 

“No, that’s alright,” she sighed, starting up the hill. “I don’t want to make you feel like you have to. But, um,” she paused on the top of the hill to look back at him, “if you ever do want to hang out, my house is the first one on the edge of town on the left. You can stop by any time.” 

“Yeah, okay,” he said, his stomach fluttering. She smiled, lashes batting against her cheeks, and then looked both ways and darted across the thunderpath and into the night. Floodstrike swallowed and sat still for a while, trying to untangle the weird knot inside him. He had no idea why Luna made him feel so… high strung. Shaking his head, he got up and collected the prey Barleybee had cached earlier and headed to camp. 

As he walked down into the clearing, he saw Goldenstar, Scorchplume, and Russetfrond muttering in a small circle by the Stoneperch. Barleybee and Sparrowsway were loitering nearby and Barleybee noticed Floodstrike as he came in. He dropped the prey on the pile and then slank over to join them.

“Oh, thanks for grabbing those,” she said quietly. 

“No problem,” he said. 

“You came back sooner than I was expecting,” hummed Sparrowsway.

Floodstrike felt his hackles rising, just a bit. “Yeah, well maybe you should readjust your opinion of me. I told you I’d be fine.” Sparrowsway pursed his lips and looked away, clearly feeling guilty. 

“It’s fine if you’re interested in Luna,” Barleybee said.

“In what way?” Sparrowsway huffed, unable to resist. Floodstrike raised his brows in curiosity. 

“It’s not breaking the code to have those kinds of relationships with outsiders,” she told them. “No one gave Smokyrose any grief for having kits with Ghost.”

“That’s not true,” Floodstrike said.

“Sagetooth definitely did,” Sparrowsway finished his thought for him. 

“Well, she just didn’t like Smokyrose very much, did she,” shrugged Barleybee. Floodstrike’s ears fell backwards. That felt very rude to say but he couldn’t exactly argue. 

“Anyway,” Barleybee continued, “the only reason Russetfrond’s situation was a problem was because Mystique was an enemy prisoner. Luna’s an ally of ours.”

“So is EarthClan but that wouldn’t make an affair with one of their warriors okay,” said Sparrowsway stubbornly. 

“The important part of the code is that your loyalty has to remain to your Clan,” Barleybee said, lifting her tail authoritatively. “The only reason mates across Clans are forbidden is because it makes a conflict of interest if the Clans ever go to battle against each other. So as long as Floodstrike could theoretically keep his loyalties to RisingClan first, it wouldn’t be an issue.” 

“Hey, cool, can we stop debating this like I’m a training exercise or something?” Floodstrike grumbled, his tail twitching at the tip.

“What I’m saying,” Barleybee pressed, “is do what you want, Flood. If you think she’s cute then go for it.” 

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Sparrowsway groaned. 

“Well, I’m not interested,” Floodstrike bristled. “Can we drop it?” 

Barleybee blinked in surprise. “Oh. Oh, okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” 

“It’s fine,” he sighed. 

“Stars, I’m sorry,” she continued.

“It’s fine, Bee,” he said, “Really. I just… don’t wanna talk about her.” 

“Alright,” Barleybee said quietly, her big ears pressing back against her skull. Floodstrike pursed his lips tightly, feeling terrible. He leaned in and nuzzled his little sister’s shoulder. She inclined her head into the touch, wrapping one paw over his leg, and purred tiredly. 

“They’re done talking,” Sparrowsway whispered and Floodstrike looked up to see Goldenstar’s little meeting coming to an end. Russetfrond marched off to the warrior’s den and started calling for warriors to go on a patrol. Scorchplume slipped into Goldenstar’s den with a glance over her shoulder, looking troubled. Goldenstar looked over at the three young warriors and smiled, padding over to them. 

“What’s the word?” Barleybee asked, pulling apart from her brother again. 

“Scorch is pretty certain that Sardine made a power play and blamed us for the murder as a way to get the war started again,” said Goldenstar. “We’re going to send runners to the other Clans just in case and keep an eye on the border. Other than that, I’m not sure what else we can do. I’d like to talk to Schmidt but it’s too dangerous to go deep into the city like last time.” 

“We could go to Luna’s,” Floodstrike offered immediately.

“Oh?” asked Goldenstar. 

“It’s right on the edge of the city,” he said, feeling Sparrowsway’s eyes on him. “I bet she could go get Schmidt and bring him there.”

“Hmm,” Goldenstar hummed, studying him. “I’ll talk to Scorchplume about it. Thanks for the suggestion, Floodstrike.” 

“Yeah,” he said, blushing. “No problem.” 

Goldenstar nodded to the three of them and headed off to her den. Floodstrike sighed in relief. 

“Hey! Flood-bud!” Lakepaw ran up to them from the apprentices den. “Are we going to war again?” Her eyes studied his face with the same open curiosity that she always wore. Despite the serious topic, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Looks like it, kiddo,” he said. 

“Gotcha,” she frowned, looking off to the side. He watched her pupils flicker over something in the distance for a moment, her quick-moving thoughts displayed on her face. Then she looked up and said, “We should probably do some more battle training, huh?” 

“Sure, it definitely wouldn’t hurt,” he said. “You wanna go right now?” 

“If that’s okay,” she nodded. 

“I don’t see why not,” he shrugged, rolling to his feet. He glanced over either shoulder at his siblings. “Either of you wanna come?” 

“No, I’m gonna see if Russetfrond needs anything,” said Sparrowsway.

“Nah, I’m not particularly good at fighting,” Barleybee said. “You guys go enjoy yourselves.” 

“Alright,” he shrugged. “Come on then, kiddo, let’s hit the training grounds.” 

“Yessir!” Lakepaw jumped to attention and then giggled. Smiling, he smushed her face with a paw and set off with her in tow, happy to leave complicated issues behind for the simple pleasures of mentorship.

[darkdemeter]

HABITS OF MOTHER NATURE’S WILL II: AFTERMATH

◤✘WANDA MAXIMOFF SERIES/AU'S | CATALOGUE Wanda Maximoff x Werewolf! GN/Female/Male Reader, (Platonic) Avengers x Werewolf! GN/Female/Male Reader ISSUE NO.#2.1

WARNINGS! ↳ Fluff ending after a hard journey — slightly sad but it's comforting — brief mention of passed relatives — implied sex (fade to black style) — minor alcohol consumption — slight profanity slip. SUMMARY ↳ The battle was won and so begins the time to heal. You return to Alaska to have some time away, to take in the home you had once lost and you've come to your decision. When Wanda shows up with the team, you finally reveal to Wanda the special bond you both share. you will tell her that she is your mate. And of course, someone had to bring the red ball along...

✎ 4.5k

@alexawynters

↳ WANDA MAXIMOFF TAGLISTS

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ONE MONTH LATER

Fury had informed you that the Hydra resurgence operatives were apprehended during your recovery. The base was destroyed along with any weaponised supplies and what remained of the pack was unknown for the most part. Most likely moved on when they saw the state of their former alpha. A second warning wasn’t needed. 

True leadership was the betterment for the pack. You did for the pack as they did for you. It was not a matter of power dynamics, but respect. Packs were built through blood and loyalty: you were bound as family. 

You would do anything for family for one reason: love. You never understood your father’s lessons back then but now you finally did. You sat atop one of the taller hillsides that overlooked the valley; your territory. The evening wind blew gusts of white across the snowy peaks in the far distance. Half the lake had begun to splinter, the dark water softly lapped at the still frozen half, the orange hue painting the sky reflected off its surface. 

Your hair was swept by the oncoming breeze from behind. This was home. This was sanctuary. A place of peace and which, from the ashes, would arise with renewed strength. New memories. You’d recovered quite a bit from your wounds but a little more time was required before your next assessment and your go-ahead into the field. No one was risking putting you on the front lines anytime before then. 

Your hand fiddled with the little trinket you’d found in the locked room when you began to clear it out, and put things back where they belong. Deep in your thoughts, the wind howled a low and long note. 

Your head lifted slightly as your ears strained to hear something behind you. Footsteps crunching in the snow. You turned to look but saw nothing and your brows furrowed hard. The world suddenly slowed around you and any outside sound became muffled.

“I’m sorry I ran away,” you sighed in defeat, shoulders sagged as the burden was slowly lifted. “No,” your father said as he sat beside you, “I’m the one who should be sorry. It wasn’t right what I said. I never meant what I said.” 

Your breath froze in your lungs when his hand pressed against your wounded shoulder. Tears pricked in your vision. “I was scared you were going down that wrong path again, Y/N. I wanted to make sure you would pull through it - that you would be safe - before I passed on. I should have been more… understanding.”

You finally exhaled the iced over air caged in your chest. Your father - the former alpha - so instilled in the ways Mother Nature made him out to be, sniffled and broke into a sob. It was the first time you saw that headstrong demeanour crack. 

Who knew ghosts could weep and mourn the sorrows of their regrets after they were gone?

“But I was wrong about you.” His hand patted your shoulder. You looked at him and he gave you that nod of approval you’d spent years chasing. “You learnt what it truly means to be part of a pack. And I was wrong to think that bloodline was the only source such loyalty - such love - could be born from.”

“I learnt from the best,” you said, voice crackling slightly under the pressure of your own tears. He smiled with a shake of his head.

“But you’re far better than I. Braver than I ever could be. You surrendered yourself without fear to protect them. You always have. Mistaken for recklessness; you’ve a heart of pure wolf. You define Mother Nature’s intended protector. A leader.”

He leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours. The familiar scent of pine blended together with his signature musk, but you could smell one more thing. 

The one rare scent a wolf could ever smell. It was often said that a werewolf would only smell it during three points in their life. It was like when people said that water has no taste. But when blindfolded, they would know it was water because they could taste it.

That was what spirit smelt like.

Your father stood up from your side. “I’m proud of you, Y/N. I’m proud of the person you’ve come to be. To embrace who you are, no matter how else anyone perceives you.”

“Thank you, Father,” you said with a bow of your head. You watched him wander back to the treeline, your mother and siblings waiting for him there. “Oh,” he mused as he shot you a wink, “don’t shy out on her this time.”

You smirked. “I won’t.”

You found yourself waving at the barren treeline as the world resumed around you, eyes red from the tears that streamed down your cheeks but you weren’t stricken by grief or guilt any longer. You were smiling. You were done running. 

“Home. A wolf calls this home.”

The sun had fallen over Alaska’s horizon and the orange curtain with it. The inkling of Northern lights danced across the blue and black sky, but the moon was bright and full. Your eyes were radiant in their excited glow as the Quinjet flew over the top of you, heading straight for the landing pad. 

With a flick of your thumb, the trinket rolled in the air before gravity pulled it back down, you snatched it into the palm of your hand. Your gaze never wavered as the Quinjet’s ramp lowered with a hiss. 

“Are you sure you want to go alone? You don’t want me to come with you?” Wanda asked from her spot, sitting cross legged on your bed as she helped pack some clothes for you. 

You threw a smirk over your shoulder. “You just want to get into my pants.” She gasped and slapped a hand to her chest, mouth agape to feign shock. “Y/N M/N L/N, the scandal!” she laughed, “I dare say, it makes me wonder what else goes on in that mind of yours.”

You raised a brow as you looked back at her, that amber hue bright as ever. 

‘You damn well know, Velvet Cupcake.’

‘Oh, do I ever.’

You both chuckled together and you grabbed a few pairs of pants from your drawers and brought them back to the bed. Wanda stood and placed a hand to your chest, halting you from packing. Your eyes moved from the delicate way her hand rested against your front, up her arm to her face. Her eyes didn’t meet yours, however, as you thought they would. “I’m going to miss you, Wolfie.” Her voice had lowered into a whisper, a sigh of disappointment not too far behind her words. Your good hand - as it could be - raised to tilt her fallen chin until her eyes found yours again. 

“It’ll only be for a short while. I’ll let you know when I’m ready.” Her arms looped around your neck as your arm circled her waist and held her firm to your front. She took care to not lean her weight on you, afraid she would agitate your wounds. 

You didn’t really care much. You’d pull stitches fetching a stick she threw across New York’s busiest street during peak hour. 

“And you’ll finally tell me what it is you keep avoiding to tell me? Because I’m not letting you off the hook, Wolfie.” Your lips stretch into a toothy grin, a silent chuckle laced in your throat. You nodded in assurance.“Yeah, I’ll tell you everything.”

“Promise?” she purred with dangerously pursed lips and a sharpened glare. 

You nodded again slowly as you began to gently sway her side to side. “Meet me on the next full moon.”

She scoffed at this and rolled her eyes. “Where?”

You lean forward and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “Trust me… you’ll know.”

Wanda pulled her arms to cover her chest as a particular chill ran down her spine, herself and the team exiting the Quinjet. She couldn’t help herself as her eyes coasted over the landscape in search of one thing. 

You were all she could think about during the last month. Time was far too slow for her liking and she counted the days even the hours until she’d see you again. 

“Looking for someone, Wanda?” Natasha asked with an all too knowing smirk as she walked down the ramp to join her. Wanda didn’t need to answer her, her chin tilted to the ground was answer enough for the ex-widow. “Funny to say this, but it feels good to be back,” said Clint with a small grin, carrying his and Natasha’s bags down the trail towards the lodge. 

“Y/N said it was a beautiful place,” Steve added with a shrug. Wanda stared up on the vacant hillside, gaze pulled there by a force unknown to her. She just knew you’d been there at some point recently. 

“Come on, Wanda. Let’s get settled in.” Sam curled an arm around her shoulders and led her after the others. The walk felt peaceful down to the house. No looming threats of an attack, no distant howls that haunted the valley like a dark cloud. 

The lights were on when the team arrived in anticipation for their arrival. They wandered up the porch and entered, Wanda however, paused before she could fully commit to the first step. Her eyes turned towards the thicket of woods around them.

You were waiting for her. Her eyes shimmered with a scarlet hue. “I’ll meet you guys inside,” she said to the others. “I have somewhere to be.”

“Gonna go and find the pup?” Tony asked, his eyes flickered up when he heard something rustle in the bushes somewhere in between the cluster of pines. She nodded, the act all too eager, as her fingers laced together. “They wanted to meet with me. They… want to tell me something.”

Natasha waved her off, encouraging her to do what she felt she needed to with a smile. “Just be back in time for dinner, alright?” Wanda nodded again and when the team walked inside, she turned and made for the pier. Something was pulling her there.

The lake was beautiful from where she stood at the end of the pier. She understood your love for the spot. How comforted you looked when she saw you standing watch, arms folded over your chest and leaned against one of the posts. 

Anxiously, she waited for some form of sign of you as she stood there, silently. She wouldn’t allow doubt to intrude on your promise to her. 

‘I told you you’d know.’

Wanda turned fast on her heel. Her relief in her anxious smile pulled her lips into a toothy grin, the corners of her eyes glistened at the sight of you. Your fur gently swept along with the wind as you stood proudly on the other end of the pier. Your head lifted a little higher until the radiant colour of scarlet in your wolfish eyes was visible. Slowly, you advanced towards her. She admired you for your strength to carry yourself despite the scars that marked your body and would for years to come. 

They were part of your legacy; a battle hard fought to protect your pack. A trophy that outranked any hunter’s prized quarry. Nothing could ever garner more admiration and respect than bearing the marks of war. Because it showed they had the strength to keep fighting even when their body was so close to giving in.

Wanda felt the pull of that ethereal thread tug her closer. She advanced towards you, her mouth agape as her eyes misted over. You stood on your hind legs and your body shifted back, your arms spread wide open as Wanda pushed herself into a jog. She practically threw herself into your embrace as her arms looped around your torso. “Wolfie,” she sniffled, “I missed you so much.”

You ran a hand along her back as a way of comforting her, your other cradled her jaw with a tenderness reserved only for her. You leaned your forehead against hers with a sigh as her rose scent filled your nose, you failed to subtly nuzzle your nose into her hair. “I missed you too,” you drawled quietly against her head. 

She pulled her chin away that had been tucked against your chest to gaze up at you. Your own met her there already, the same vibrant red glowed in your eyes. She’d admit you looked mesmerising - intimidating - with those coloured eyes. But nothing could conceal the hint of amber behind them; flaming coals that burnt with such passion and fire. Unbridled and unmatched ferocity. 

You took her face in your grasp and your tongue darted out to wet your bottom lip. “You’re my mate, Wanda.”

“W-what?” she asked with knitted brows and the adorable scrunch of her nose. You huffed faintly in amusement. “You’ve felt the bond yourself. You’ve felt it - even just an inkling of it - since the last full moon. When I fell into the ruins, the thread of our tie were under threat of severing…”

Your voice quivered as it fell silent. The realisation dawned on you both again that your strength had almost given in. The soulmate tie almost plucked loose with your very close demise. It was why Wanda had shrieked your name with such anguish, such vigour it compelled you to keep fighting. “Even now, you knew to meet me on the pier.” You let a hand drop from her face to grab hold of one of her wrists. You brought her hand to rest over your heartbeat. Like waves, something pulsed beneath the steady rate of your heart. 

“The dread that I had the entire time you weren’t awake, while Helen and Bruce worked to bring you back, I… I felt like I was drowning. Suffocating and when you awoke I broke free from that. I felt like I could breathe again.”

You nodded. An accurate description many mated couples expressed in stories of their own experience. “You and I, Mother Nature intended us to be for each other. But… I-I’ll understand if you don’t–”

She pressed a finger to your lips and silenced you completely with a small whimper. She swore if you were in your other form, your ears would be folded back so far they would be lost to the thickness of your winter coat. She shook her head with a smile. 

“I know what it is like to feel alone. To feel rejected. And I promise you that I want this bond. I want you; both the wolf and the human. Every part of you Mother Nature intended to be mine. I want it.”

The wolf retreated back into the depths of your very soul to make way for you. Two different sides, but still very much intertwined. It was a balancing act but each of you shared the common interest; the betterment and safety of your pack and your mate.

“You accept?” you asked, you tried to fight the growth of anxiety and excitement. She giggled. “I accept it with all that I am.”

You pulled her lips to yours without another moment to spare. Her body flush against yours as you held her to you by her waist. Your thumbs danced over the fabric of her coat. Her nails scratched along your scalp to deepen the kiss. You bit down on her lip and she moaned. Your tongue met hers in the intimate entanglement you shared under the silver full moon, bathing the two of you in her light. 

When air became thin and nearly nonexistent in your lungs were you forced to withdraw from each other's heated kiss. “Getting wild again?” you chuckled with a click of your tongue. She had a mind not to shove you off the pier. “Unlike someone else,” she cooed with a hot breath beating against your neck. You whined at her insinuation. 

‘Touché.’

She stepped around you with her hands in yours, she began to drag you back towards the house. “The others are excited to see you, and Natasha wants us in for dinner.”

You didn’t budge, however, and Wanda was forced to stop when she realised you weren’t going to follow. Her brows furrowed as a ghost of a frown made itself present. “Wait a moment, I… I have something for you.” 

Damn it, you were going shy on her. You reached a hand to scratch behind your neck. Wanda’s body slowly moved back towards you to bridge the gap between you both. She tilted her head and damn it all, if she wasn’t so adorable. She had that effect on you. “What is it, Wolfie?”

“I…” Your sentence trailed off on the single word as courage deflated. You shook your head and stepped forward. “I’ll save it for later.” Her eyes were pressing you with that quizzical glare. “I promise. Come on, let’s head inside the den.”

After dinner, the cluster of you all gathered around in the lounge room. Familiar faces from the mission and those who stayed behind at the compound finally took the venture to see the beautiful snowy slopes of Alaska. 

“Come on, I never got to see them! Please, just one? Just one and I’ll stop asking, I swear,” Peter pleaded with his best attempt at puppy eyes, he was jeered at by the others, each of them told him to leave you be. They didn’t want you to get your back up because of peer pressure. Though you couldn’t miss the curiosity that some of the others themselves were guilty of. They just wouldn’t ask while it was still all a fresh ordeal. 

You raised a hand up to bring order to the argumentative group. “It’s alright,” you assured them. Wanda shifted beside you as you moved to pull the neck of your shirt down to reveal the marred flesh of your shoulder. Peter’s face was beyond priceless, eyes wider than any full moon you’d seen and jaw practically hitting the floor.

“Holy sh–”

Steve pointed at the teenager accusingly with a firm raise of his brow. “Language.”

Peter, after regaining his composure, looked back to you. “That alpha did that to you?” 

“Yep,” you answered with a nod, “All the way down my back too. Didn’t feel particularly nice either.” Wanda’s fingers soothingly ran through the length of your hair. She wasn’t shy about showing a strong level of affection, the matter of relationship between you both was silent but in the air. Where exactly you were with each other wasn’t spoken and known by account on the others, but there was no argument about it. It just felt natural, especially now that you’d told her the truth. 

You knew what you were to each other and that’s all that mattered. Natasha couldn’t help but pull Wanda aside during dinner to speak with her privately when she saw you both enter the house, your arm wrapped around her waist and pulled into your side. And the look she’d given you both after that was all the more evident Wanda confided in her the new foundation of your relationship together. 

“It’s good to see what you’ve done with the place, Y/N,” Steve said from his spot on the couch. His blue eyes scanned the walls that were once bare of anything besides the odd abstract canvas of art, now a host to frames of people he never knew personally; but through you he could pinpoint what trait belonged to either your father and mother’s side. 

“Thanks, Cap.” Your head turned up to view the sill of the lit hearth. The most treasured frames adorned their space once more. However the wall above the fireplace was bare. It needed something to fill that space. You knew exactly what. “It means a lot to me to have you all here. I want you guys to consider this place as a sanctuary, if you ever need to get away for a while. This is as much your home as it is mine.” 

Slowly, one by one, your packmates nodded in gratitude. In your first few months with the Avengers, you had a bit of a reputation of being unable to share space without getting territorial. A minor and nasty habit at that. But you worked hard to break out of it. You wanted to share your space with those you saw as your family. “Thank you, Y/N.” Natasha smiled at you and raised her beer. The same brand you couldn’t drink without getting an upset stomach. “To Wolfie,” she announced and the rest of them joined in raising their bottles and glasses alike. “To Wolfie!” 

You gave a bow of your head with a wave to fend off their antics. You looked to Wanda but you were pulled away from her by that one, single and very familiar thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

First your eyes and then your head followed suit. Up and down. 

‘Ball.’

“Oh boy,” a few of your teammates chuckled, all amused by the sight of your fixation on the red ball Tony bounced. He looked up as if he didn’t recognise he’d caused the commotion. “Oh yeah, this,” he held the ball up, “I thought we could finally put that theory to the test.”

The ball flew towards you, pulled from Tony’s hand by Wanda’s magic tinged fingertips. She caught it easily and smirked, her eyes found yours. “But first, I think we’re owed a game of fetch.”

“I get the first throw!” barked Sam immediately as he darted up from his seat, racing to the front door, his beer discarded without a second thought. He really was dedicated to getting that throw you denied him. Everyone followed after the enthusiastic bird boy and promptly dressed themselves for the cold. Tony held a manner of professionalism as he swaggered by, his hand snatched his coat off the rack and pulled it over his shoulders. 

“Come on, Mate.” Wanda cooed playfully, the singular word made your spine tingle from the way her accent tinted voice said to lowly in your ear. 

Your paws crunched through the snow with great ease as you bounded after the ball, your movements fluent and natural in this environment. Sam had a very good throwing hand. 

Cheers and applause came from behind you as you bit down on the ball tucked between your hot, panting jaws. Your tail wagged madly and your front bowed slightly. 

“Bring it here! Come on!” You sprinted back towards Sam, eager for another throw that would have you halfway across the half frozen lake. You dropped the ball into his awaiting hand with a rasped, high pitched growl and your jaws snapped together as he feigned to make the throw; obviously teasing you. 

“Go get it!” He shouted as he put all momentum behind his throw. You bolted after it in the blink of an eye. Indeed, the wolf could travel faster than red. 

When you returned, Wanda was next to retrieve the ball. Your breath came in hot, ragged and fast puffs. “We should head inside, it’s getting late.” 

Although there was a chorus of disappointed groans and pouts, Wanda assured them all that tomorrow they could play fetch all day long, if you were up for it of course. Your head bowed a few times with a snort, the team understood that you were in agreement with that idea.

Organising the sleeping arrangements was quite the carnival, but ultimately you and Wanda shared the master bedroom again. She changed into a similar style as she did the last time, an oversized shirt - one she had stolen from your stash - and a pair of panties. 

You now had free reign to let your eyes take in her form from head to toe, but a deep flush still bled into your neck and cheeks, your fluster made Wanda chuckle. The adorable and yet frightening alpha, her wolf and her mate. 

You pressed your forehead to her stomach when she stood before you, her hand found purchase in your hair again to massage your scalp. She knew your weak spot for head rubs was the small dip right near the juncture where your skull and neck met. 

You grumbled deeply when her fingers found that spot. “You’re too sweet on me,” you mumbled, not intentionally meaning for her to hear, but she lifted your chin so your eyes could meet. 

“Because you deserve it.” Her hands slipped down past your neck until they rested on your shoulders. Her body slightly arched forward as she tilted her chin down. Her state penetrated through the barrier of your mind.

‘And because I love you.’

Your brows raised and she saw your pupils shrink in response. Did you hear her correctly? What were you thinking, you’d never been bad for hearing. She confessed that she loved you.

Your hands ran up the back of her thighs and gripped her by her hips. “And I love you, Wanda Maximoff.”

She hummed and leaned down, her plump and soft lips ghosted over yours. She teasingly let the pink tip of her tongue press against your top lip. Your grip on her hips tightened a little.

“Don’t tease,” you rasped lowly, that dangerous glow marked the wolf’s return. She continued to ignore the warning. She was testing the big wolf before her, how much she could get away with, as your mate. 

“Or what?”

You flipped her over, your legs on either side of her and your hands pinned her wrists above her head. Your canines were longer now as you growled.

“Or the beast comes out,” you answered and Wanda shimmied her hips playfully from beneath you. Purposefully. She had you right where she wanted you from your first night together.

“And maybe I want that.” With a roll of her hips, Wanda Maximoff sealed her fate with Mother Nature’s finest killer when she pulled her stolen, oversized shirt up and over her head. 

Sunlight beamed in through the glass panel of the window, the idea to draw the curtains to block out the invasive light completely forgotten after last night. Wanda took the liberty of using you as her bed, her hair a little razzled and the scent of your climaxes only faint in the morning air. 

The blanket was pooled at the middle of her back, the rest of her body had you to keep her warm. Your hand absentmindedly ran up and down the column of her spine, your breaths even and slow. You heard her mumble softly beneath an exhale, her face calm and untroubled. She had everything she could want in that moment as did you. Seven years on the run had put you in a state that shut you off from everything and left you bitter because of the fear that one day Hydra would find you again.

Had you followed orders… you didn’t want to think about where you would be now. But that didn’t matter anymore. No one was ever going to tear you away from your mate or your pack. You were with them to the end of the line. 

Your other hand securely held the small trinket you’d saved, elegantly sliding along the golden chain. You decided to let Wanda sleep for a little while longer before you presented to her your most promising gift. Your everlasting vow that you would forever be by her side; come what may. 

THE END.

NOTES ↳ And there you have it, the finale of Habits of Mother Nature's Will. We've reached the end! Thank you to everyone who has shown their love and interest in this "trilogy". Truly, I appreciate it. More stuff to come, Babbies! Okay I'm just gonna... go back up to my treehouse now... bayy.

[adventuresofalgy]

The terrain around the peat bogs was treacherous for humans, who could easily become trapped in the deeper areas which could suck a full grown cow down into their depths, or sprain their ankles in the many concealed hollows, or trip over endless hidden stems and stones beneath the long grasses. And the surrounding hillsides were steep and difficult to climb, for the rocky outcrops were interspersed with a tangled mass of rough vegetation impenetrable in places, combined with numerous unexpected marshy swamps to snare the unwary wanderer, even on the higher ground.

But for a fluffy bird the landscape presented few challenges or dangers, and on a fine day when he could see where he was going, and didn't have to battle against the wind and rain, Algy was able to flit from perch to perch without any difficulty at all.

Flying up the slope of the hillside a short distance, Algy alighted on one of the many rocky seats which Nature had thoughtfully provided and studied the tapestry spread out across the land. He knew that there were many kinds of plants growing there, but from a distance they all blended into one colourful blanket. He was reminded of a poem by one of Scotland's most famous authors, although he knew that while most of the plants mentioned were present before him, he would unfortunately have to fly quite a distance inland before he could find any blaeberries. What a pity, for a fluffy bird just loves to feast on those ripe blue berries!

Scotland small? Our multiform, our infinite Scotland small? Only as a patch of hillside may be a cliché corner To a fool who cries ‘Nothing but heather!’ where in September another Sitting there and resting and gazing around Sees not only the heather but blaeberries With bright green leaves and leaves already turned scarlet, Hiding ripe blue berries; and amongst the sage-green leaves Of the bog-myrtle the golden flowers of the tormentil shining; And on the small bare places, where the little Blackface sheep Found grazing, milkworts blue as summer skies; And down in neglected peat-hags, not worked Within living memory, sphagnum moss in pastel shades Of yellow, green, and pink; sundew and butterwort Waiting with wide-open sticky leaves for their tiny winged prey; And nodding harebells vying in their colour With the blue butterflies that poise themselves delicately upon them; And stunted rowans with harsh dry leaves of glorious colour. ‘Nothing but heather!’ ̶ How marvellously descriptive! And incomplete!

[Algy is quoting the poem Scotland small? by the famous 20th century Scottish poet Hugh MacDiamid (pronounced roughly MacDermidt).]

[buttered-my-biscuits]

The First Kiss

Summary: (Y/K)’s first kiss with Fili & Kili - (Separately)

Pairings; Kili x Reader, Fili x Reader

Warnings; Hinting of Sexual Activities, Very soft; playful and fluffy.

Word count:

Fili - A Masterpiece: 737

Kili - The Game of Chase: 841

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Translations:

Berzêl. (Sun of all suns (gold)

Abnâmul: Beautiful

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Fili

It was a frosty winter morning, the cold nipping at your nose as your breath fogged the air. It was early enough that the birds only just began singing.

The others were packing the last of the camp, talking quietly amongst themselves. You’d ask to help, but were politely rejected.

So, instead, you allowed yourself a moment of silent solitude. Strolling thru the wet and dewy forest, you stopped on the edge of the hillside; the sunrise was to die for.

Pinks and golds and purples painted across the sky, the sun just barely peeking above the horizon. A soft breeze littered the clearing as you took a deep clarifying breath.

A branch snapped behind you, breaking your serenity.

Instantly, your dagger was pulled from its sheath, already raising to attack. A hand, however, stopped your arm from behind, as a deep chuckle erupted from one’s chest.

“It is just me, no need for such violence.” Fili offered with amusement.

“Well say something next time, before my blade decides otherwise, by accident.” You snapped back with a sigh, turning to meet those icy blue eyes.

Said eyes were crinkled at the corners, dimples standing attention on each of the tanned cheeks.

“My apologies, Berzêl. I did not mean to startle you. I was just simply curious as to where you wandered off to.” Fili chucked again, his eyes shifting to the sunrise behind you.

Following his eyes, you turned halfway and laid your own upon the horizon once more, watching as the purples and pinks slowly faded to red and orange.

“I cannot remember the last time I actually watched the sun rise…” you said quietly, the tranquility returning to the clearing. “They’re so beautiful… masterpieces presented to all right before our very eyes.”

Fili watched you wonder at the sky with a warm smile. The morning sun slowly extended its golden rays through the morning fog, streaks of gold shining on your rosy cheeks and through your hair.

“Abnâmul…” He whispered quietly, his eyes never leaving your face.

“Huh? Did you say something?” You asked as you turned your head to him once more. Instead of speaking, however, he crept in close. Sliding his arm slowly and gentle across your back, he turned you so that you two were chest to chest.

You looked up into his pale eyes, confusion splaying across your features. Fili raised his other hand and brushed a lock of your (h/c) hair behind your ear, before coming to rest against your cheek.

Time nearly stopped in it’s place as he leaned down.

The kiss lasted no more than a few seconds, Fili pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, the tips of your noses still touching.

He was reading you; his expression tinged with worry — worry that maybe he should not have done that.

After a moments time, and after the initial shock wore off, a soft giggle escaped your lips.

Confusion slowly creeped its way across his face at your reaction, causing another giggle to escape.

Leaning up, you closed your eyes as you rubbed your nose alongside his. You practically felt the sigh of relief exhaled from his lungs. He returned the gesture, your noses slid slowly and intimately against one another.

This time, it was your lungs that released a sigh as you felt his lips press against your own once more.

Your hands found themselves wrapped around his neck, his earthy yet sweet smell intoxicating you as his own hands landed on your hips.

He pulled you in against his chest, his tongue swiping against your lips requesting access. Access you happily granted.

A battle began between tongues, a soft moan escaping your throat as you fought a losing battle.

Far too quickly, though, your lips parted.

The two of you retreated to your earlier stance, foreheads and noses against one another again; both of your eyes closed as you took in the moment.

Once more, a giggle made its way past your lips. Another. Fili happily returned the sound; the two of you high on endorphins.

The sun had made its way higher into the sky; the colors of a sunrise no more.

“We should get back to camp before they worry…” You whispered, your arms still wrapped around Fili’s neck.

“I agree.” Yet, neither of you moved.

Another kiss was shared. Then another. And another.

…The others could wait a bit longer.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Kili

The game of Chase

Word Count: 841

Your feet echoed across the stone as you ran as fast as your little legs could carry you. Your heart beat at rapid speed.

Another set of footsteps could be heard following quickly behind, though these footsteps were heavier — louder.

You squealed in surprise as you were grabbed from behind, being thrown over a broad shoulder.

“I got you!!” Cheered a loud, deep voice.

Your hands beat against said shoulders, struggling to escape the strong arms that kept you captive as you screamed once more.

One swift jab of your knee to your captivators stomach sent you tumbling off and landing with thump against the stone floor of the mountain.

A groan of pain rang through the air before they yelled “That’s cheating!”

“It’s only cheating if you’re a sore loser!” You returned back, a cocky smile painted your face and you huffed from exertion.

Quickly scrambling to your feet, you began the game of chase once more. However, you were too slow.

A strong hand reached out and grabbed yours before you could run away before shoving your back against the wall. Had a hand not strategically been placed behind your head, you would have surely been left with an ache.

“Kili! What gives!” You cried out, finding yourself trapped between his arms.

“I win.” Kili stated matter of factly as he heaved — out of breath from running for so long.

As the adrenaline slowed down, the realization of how close the two of you were, settled in.

Your breath hitched as you stared into his beautiful brown eyes. Hints of gold speckles mixed with warm amber.

You were not the only one who took notice of the close distance.

Kili’s eyes flickered to your lips before returning to your eyes. Slowly, ever so slowly, he leaned in.

Too slow.

Just as his lips ghosted your own, you tore out of his grip and down the hall with a giggle.

Kili visibly deflated for a moment before a devious smile plastered itself onto his face.

You turned, halfway down the hall to lock gazes with him, offering a big playful smile. “You…” he growled before taking off after you.

Another playful scream escaped as you fled towards the door you knew would lead outside. Pushing it open you attempted to slam it behind you, but you were too slow.

The wood creaked as Kili’s brute strength pushed against the other side. With one last shove, the door swung open, causing you to tumble backwards right onto your rump.

In an instant, Kili was on you. Pushing you backwards with arms on either side of your head, his thighs locking your own together.

Laughter rang loud and clear from the two of you, Kili’s a bit more devious, excitedly celebrating yet another victory.

A soft breeze rustled your messy (h/c) hair, bringing with it the soft sweet smell of spring.

You two had ended up in one of the lesser known royal gardens. One that scarcely had visitors. Your breath panted out harsh breaths as you struggled to catch your breath due to laughter.

As your laughter whittled away into giggles however, a gasp tore itself from your throat.

Soft and gentle lips found your own — Moving slowly and languidly. Releasing a euphoric sigh, you felt your own eyes slip closed, your hands finding dark brunette locks to reside in.

Kili kissed you deep and intimately, pushing you into the soft grass beneath you, taking in the smell of your sweet strawberry oil you often used on your hair after a bath.

A deep groan released itself from his chest as he deeper the kissed further, his tongue slipping between your lips.

Your hands tightened in his hair as his tongue plundered your mouth. Tearing himself from you, his mouth quickly moved to your jaw, kissing and sucking gentle down to your neck.

Sighs and moans filled the air as he kissed a rather sensitive spot right below your ear.

“Kili…” you tried, his name sounding a bit too breathless. “Kili.” You tried again.

With one last kiss against your sweet spot, he pulled himself from your neck, staring into your eyes.

Your breath hitched upon looking at him. His eyes were dilated, honey brown quickly turning nearly black.

Releasing his silky locks, your hands slid down to rest upon his shoulders. Locking eyes, you gave one last playful smirk, before shoving him to the side, rolling the both of you over so you were the one sitting in victory.

A victory he was very much willing to let you have.

His hands gripped your hips as your thighs made their home on each side of his. Leaning over him, it was your turn.

You kissed him once, twice. Your arms found their place beside his head, dropping to your elbows as your tongue fought for dominance.

Your victory however, did not come.

Kili gripped your hips, before grinding up against your own. Your back arched as you cried out.

Licking his lips, Kili smiled deviously. “I win.”

[sgtgrunt0331-3]

“Lions of Little Round Top, July 2nd 1863″

Late in the afternoon of July 2, 1863, on a boulder-strewn hillside in southern Pennsylvania, Union Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain dashed headlong into history, leading his 20th Maine Regiment in perhaps the most famous counterattack of the Civil War.

The regiment’s sudden, desperate bayonet charge blunted the Confederate assault on Little Round Top and has been credited with saving Major General George Gordon Meade’s Army of the Potomac, winning the Battle of Gettysburg and setting the South on a long, irreversible path to defeat.

(Painting by Don Troiani)

[di-in-al]

~Drifting Into Desire~ Katsuki Bakugou x Reader PART I

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After studying abroad in America, Y/N returns to Japan with big dreams and a degree in hand, only to find herself struggling to meet societal expectations. Pushed too far by her uncle Aizawa, she becomes entangled in the thrilling yet dangerous world of street racing, battling her own aspirations and rivalries. Particularly her rivalry with the King of Musutafu Pass, Katsuki Bakugou.

>Bakugou x Reader, Shinso x Reader

>Warnings: Profanity. Implied sex. Sexual themes. Smoking.

>Word Count: 2.7k.

>A/N: Hi! I've had this idea for a while. It's lightly based off of the anime Initial D, with our fav MHA characters. I'm planning on making this a series, so I hope you stick around for the ride!

>Tags: 18+ only + future smut: minors and empty blogs DNI + all characters are over the age of 21 + 1990's themed (No quirks) + repost + reader insert

~~~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~~~~

As the sweltering heat of summer began to wane, a refreshing chill hovered in the air, whispering promises of change. The whispers flew past your ears, picking up loose strands of hair and dancing with them. The drop top to your car has been tossed back, allowing you to see the changing leaves as they fall into the reckless abandon that is Musutafu Pass. A location renowned for its breathtaking vistas and winding roads that seemed to twirl gracefully around the mountain itself. 

As you navigated through winding rural roads, you felt the warm embrace of late summer still lingering around you, but as you ascended, the atmosphere shifted. Cool air swept in, wrapping around you like a soft blanket. It was a gentle reminder that the exuberance of summer was drawing to a close, making room for the crisp vitality of autumn.

Musutafu Pass is famous for its spiraling descent, a serpentine route that captures the thrill of driving while offering eye-popping views. The road twists and turns, encasing the mountain, each bend revealing a new perspective of the natural beauty surrounding it. This enchanting drive is not just a means of getting from point A to point B; it is an experience that invites you to become one with the landscape. This fact grabbed the interest of a certain group of people.

Street Racers.

As you reached the base of Musutafu Pass, the sun began its slow descent, determined to rest its eyes for the day. You accelerated with eagerness, your heart beating in rhythm with the car’s engine. The drive up the mountain brought forth a sense of childlike excitement, reminiscent of road trips taken in the blissful days of youth. Each turn felt exhilarating as the sprawling hillsides moved closer and the golden leaves began their transformation, shifting from deep greens to vibrant shades of orange, red, and yellow.

Along the way, you paused to absorb the views. Each glance outward revealed a canvas painted by nature, where the late afternoon sun highlighted the rugged terrain. The mountains stood proud, their craggy peaks contrasting sharply against the fiery hues of fall foliage. The air felt electric, teeming with anticipation as the landscapes shimmered in the waning light of the day.

It was a moment of serenity amidst an ever-busy world—a chance to breathe in the crisp mountain air while allowing nature’s beauty to captivate your senses. You took in the sounds around you: the rustling of leaves, the loud hum of your exhaust, and the gentle breeze dancing through the trees. Time seemed to stretch, inviting reflection on the passing seasons and their significance.

As you ascended further, the shadows grew longer and the chill in the air deepened. You felt the need to reach the summit quickly, not just to catch the views, but to relish the changing of the guard from summer to fall in this picturesque paradise. You accelerated slightly, eager to witness the breathtaking panorama that awaited you.

Upon reaching the top, you were rewarded for your journey. The expansive view opened up, revealing a majestic landscape of undulating hills and valleys, now cloaked in the warm colors of autumn. The setting sun hung low on the horizon, casting a golden glow that illuminated the spectacular transformation of the world below.

The hum of the engine faded to silence as you turned off the ignition, an intimate moment of calm before the chaos that always surrounded your passion. With a steady hand, you pulled the e-brake, feeling the weight of the car resting securely on the side of the mountain road. You stepped out, the cool air wrapping around you like a familiar old coat, both comforting and chilling. Your heart raced in tune with the memories of asphalt and adrenaline that flooded your mind.

A year had passed since you returned to Japan from America, where the rhythm of lectures and study halls echoed in your head like a forgotten melody. You had aimed to seize your life, to transform the dreams that danced just out of reach into a tangible reality. But the moment you set foot back on Japanese soil, the thrill of the classroom quickly faded, replaced instead by the weight of your uncle Shota’s expectations. 

Pulling a pack of cigarettes from your pocket, you ignited a flame, watching the red glow travel towards the burning tip with a sense of both resignation and rebellion. With each puff, you let the bitter smoke swirl around you, consuming the fears that danced at the corners of your mind. The ashes drifted away, disappearing into the abyss below, just like the plans you’d made for your future. 

Shota had questioned you relentlessly since your return. “When will you use that fancy education to get a real job?” he would ask. His voice bore the burden of disappointment, a reminder of every underachieving day spent behind the counter of a coffee shop rather than on the racetrack where you longed to be. To him, success had a defined shape—one of stability and societal approval. To you, it manifested in the rapid consumption of fuel and the roar of engines translating raw potential into sheer power. 

Yet despite the ticking clock of responsibility, your mind remained quenched by only one pursuit: racing. The siren call of the open road was an irresistible temptation—a seductive promise of freedom. It was the rush of drifting around corners, the exhilaration of overtaking competitors, and the sweet taste of victory that gnawed at you like a relentless itch. Racing wasn’t merely a passion; it was the cure for the noisome thoughts that crowded your brain. 

You stood at the edge of that mountain, gazing down the winding road that curled like a snake through the lush green valley. This was where it all happened. The thrill of racing wasn’t lost to memory; it pulsed within you. All of your thoughts converged here, each day propelling you closer to the moment when you could reintegrate your life and racing as one. 

But how?

When the roar of an engine beckoned you like a lover calling your name in the night. 

Your heart raced as you felt the weight of time pressing upon you. You took one last drag of your cigarette and flicked the glowing ember over the cliffside—a symbolic gesture of letting go of the ashes of expectations. You could stand still and succumb to your uncle’s pressure, or you could dare to awaken the engine of your soul. 

The choice danced in your mind like the tires that would soon grip the pavement. You took a deep breath, filled your lungs with the cold air infused with the scent of adventure, and exhaled the burdens of yesterday. 

With renewed resolve, you climbed back into your car, the familiarity of the leather seats embracing you as the engine roared back to life. The world outside thrummed against the cage of metal and glass, but within, your spirit soared. 

As you merged onto the winding road, a smile crept onto your lips. The race wasn’t just a distant dream but a promise to yourself. It was time to find your place in the world—one drift, one acceleration at a time. Everything else would have to wait; the siren song of racing was calling once again, and this time, you were ready to answer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your pop up headlights whirred as they closed, causing a small grin to take over your face. The air had chilled even more, nipping at your cheeks as you made your way to the stairs up to your apartment. With a look over your shoulder, you noticed your roommate's car parked. Momo was probably long asleep by this point, her strict schedule having a death grip on her. 

You ascended the stairs, fumbling your keys to find the correct one. Unlocking the door, it swings open, surprising you with light flooding through. You step in, removing your shoes and replacing them with slippers. 

Momo must still be up.

As if she heard you, she comes around the corner from her room. Her dark hair cascaded down her back, and she peered at you with relaxed eyes. 

“You were out late. Running the pass?” She could read you like the back of her hand. 

The two of you had been best friends since grade school. By each other’s side until college approached. She attended UA University here in Mustafu, while you went abroad. 

“Yeah.” Was your quick response, and as you walked by, she scrunched her nose with disgust. 

“And obviously smoking cigarettes again.” With a scoff, she turns and retreats back to her room. You only gave a small chuckle as you stripped your jacket and hung it up. 

“It’s called an addiction for a reason.” She returns with a disgruntled look on her face, tossing a stack of papers in your direction. 

“Yeah, well, those can be broken,” She flipped through a couple pages before directing your attention to some models. “Here’s the modules you asked for. We can go out tomorrow and run them, see if they’re any good.” 

The two of you belonged to a street racing team known as Impact Velocity. IV for short.

A newer group, you guys just came together a little under a year ago. You decided to take a year to work on every dynamic before taking to the streets. 

“Once we're done, we should have a group meeting. I think we're close to being able to race.” You gave her a nod, and with that, she returned to her room. 

“Get some rest, Y/N. You look like you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since you came back.” Her motherly tone caused you to roll your eyes, and nod your head. 

“Thanks, mom. That’s a great morale boost.” Her chuckle floated through the air as her door clicked close. Taking a peek at the pile of papers in front of you, your eyes began to throb. A migraine was starting to form behind your eyes, and you took that as a sign to meander your way to the shower. 

The bathroom filled with steam as the water poured from the spout, the mirror reflecting an image of you undressing. Pulling your hair out of the confines of a claw clip, you brushed through it a couple times. Entering the hot shower, you hoped it would wash away the agonizing feeling of being in a constant tug of war with your own mind. 

It didn’t, but you hoped some shut eye might help. Reaching your room, you towel dried your hair as you pressed play on the voicemail, it shining bright with the number one. 

“Hey, it’s me.” Shinso. You threw the towel in the dirty clothes basket, and snatched up your pack of cigarettes. Waiting on him to continue, your feet pad over to the balcony attached to your room. 

“I haven’t seen you in a couple days, and I was… thinking about you today. If you are free tonight, I could swing by. Lemme know.” With that, the machine beeps and erases the message. The lit cigarette in your hand burned with each puff, the smoke swirling around and thankfully away from Momo’s room. 

Hmm. Hopping up on the balcony rail, your feet dangle in the cool breeze. You contemplate Shinso’s offer, knowing there was more behind his words than what the voicemail led on. 

He’d been a student of your Uncle’s, often coming over to the shared house of you and your uncle to study. You’d moved in with him while you got back on your feet, and had the chance to meet Shinso. He’d been timid at first, but eventually the two of you realized you had more in common than originally thought. He was a racer as well, a fact that was hidden to your uncle. 

Things quickly changed into something more. The two of you sneakily meeting up late at night and taking out frustrations on one another. Things didn’t change once you moved in with Momo, not wanting her to know about two teammates being intimate behind closed doors. You contemplated the voicemail, knowing you shouldn’t.

You finished your cigarette, tossing it and making your way back inside. You picked up the phone, dialing a familiar number. 

It rang once, then twice before it was picked up. 

“Hey, you.” Shinso’s husky voice answered the other end, and it sent a warm feeling straight to your core. Your cheeks heated up, and you tried to suppress the grin taking over your face. 

“Hey, you wanna head over?” Your voice seemed strong, even with your crumbling resolve. A chuckle rang out from the other end, and that only sped up your demise. 

“You know, you make me feel like a piece of meat when you get straight to the point like that. Shame on you.” On the other end, you could hear his car start up, almost as if he was waiting for your call.

His comment made you scoff, with a smile.

“You called me first!” You hush yelled, not wanting to alarm your ever watchful roommate. 

“I’m fucking with you, sweetheart. I’m on my way.” You let out a small ‘kay’, and hung up. Putting the phone back on the holder, you walked over to your bed and sunk down on it. Picking up your current read from your bedside table, you read to pass the time.

You could hear his Nissan 180sx from a mile away, but he was always careful to coast in neutral as he pulled up. You peeked out, watching as he silently exited his lavender colored car, tucking his keys away. He ran a strong hand through his half up purple locks, pushing pieces that had escaped out of his eyes. 

Climbing up a vine covered trellis, he landed on your balcony with a thud. His lavender eyes met yours, and a wicked grin crept up his face. 

“Lemme bum a smoke.” He asked, not taking a step into your room yet. Your eyes rolled back, leaning forward and setting your book down. 

“And you say I’m the one that uses you..” Your fingers pulled back the top of your cigarette pack, extending it towards him. He leaned forward, both hands on the balcony railing, and snagged one with his lips. He watched as you flipped open your zippo, and ignited it with a quick flick. You protected the flame from the harsh breeze with a cupped hand. His lazy eyes stayed latched onto your face as he puffed the cigarette to life. Leaning back, he peeled his eyes away from you and onto the city in the distance. 

“We gonna race soon?” Smoked flowed with his words, and you nodded. 

“Give it a couple weeks and I think we’ll be good to go. I need you to take a look into the Miata for me. Momo came up with a couple modules for me, and I think I’m gonna need some things tuned to fit.” He nodded his head, turning in your direction. A moment of silence passed as you tried to wrangle your fleeting thoughts. 

“What’s on your mind? I can hear your intruding thoughts from here.” You shook your head, and looked away. 

“Same old, same old.” You didn’t care to elaborate, him already having heard the tirelessly plaguing thoughts you always had. 

Fingers grasped your chin, turning towards him. His heavy lidded eyes peered down his nose at you, rubbing the pad of his thumb against your bottom lip. He coerced your jaw open, taking a long drag from the cigarette elegantly trapped between his pale fingers. 

Leaning forward, he exhaled smoke into your mouth, the nicotine sending your mind ablaze. His lips followed the smoke, carefully grazing your open lips. 

“Lemme help you forget it then, sweetheart.”

part II

~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: If you got this far, thanks! This was very wordy I know, but there's gonna be more interactions from this point forward. I'm hoping to update every Sunday night!

di-in-al <3

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 70

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 70: The Beast Beneath the Boards

AO3 - Masterlist

As the litter drew to a stop, a final moment of connection passed between Daenera and Helaena. With a gentle pressure on Daenera’s hand, Helaena leaned closer, her voice a soft whisper, “Beware the beast beneath the boards… And beware the one that resides by the heart.”

The silence of the litter was interrupted by the sounds from the outside–a shuffle of feet, a divisive click, and then the door swung wide open, casting a flood of morning light into the previously dim interior. Aemond’s silhouette framed the doorway, his gesture a silent beckoning for them to exit. Daenera returned the pressure of Helaena’s hand in a silent show of solidarity before letting go. Helaena gracefully accepted Aemond’s assistance, gathering her skirts in one hand as she descended from the carriage. 

Upon her descent, Aemond shifted his focus to Daenera, his expression tightening ever so slightly, mirroring the anticipation of a challenge as she deliberately lingered within the confines of the litter, her demeanor defiant. 

With a purposeful extension of his hand, Aemond gesture towed the line between an offer and a command, a test of his patience thinly veiled. 

Daenera held Aemond’s gaze with a defiant scowl, her displeasure manifesting in the slight furrow of her brow and the tight press of her lips. After a moment marked by the silent battle of wills, she released a pointed sigh, an audible surrender to his demand and with a deliberate motion, she gathered the folds of her dress and made her way through the litter, despite her reluctance. 

This time, she takes his hand, allowing him to momentarily assist her down the steps of the litter. Once her feet were on the ground, she withdrew her hand, as if the brief contact was more than she could bear. Her hand prickled with the warmth of his, and she felt her heart twist within her chest. 

Daenera lifted her gaze to the imposing structure of the Dragonpit, perched majestically on the steep slopes of Rhaenys Hill. The terrain surrounding them was rugged, mirroring the craggy cliffs that formed the foundation of the Red Keep. Carved into this stony landscape, a stairway ascended directly toward the Dragonpit. Unlike the grand staircase that stretched from the Dragonpit’s main gates and all the way down to the foot of the hill to streets below–broad, imposing, and designed to accommodate the comings and goings of large crowds–this path was more modest in scale. It was only a fifth the length of its grander counterpart, yet it still presented a lengthy and steep ascent, beginning from a point more than halfway up the hillside. 

This stairway wound its way up from a road that hugged the contours of the hill, a road reserved for their use alone, away from the eyes of the city’s populace. The road itself was a flat, rocky ribbon that snaked through the landscape, culminating in a leveled area at the base of the stairs. This served as a threshold between the road and the climb, a starting point for the final approach to the Dragonpit above. 

At the cliffside, an entrance had been hewn directly from the stone, framed by ornate columns. The entrance led into the cavernous depths of bowls of the Dragonpit, where the dragons were. The long, wide, entrance was dimly lit by the flickering light from sparse braziers, their glow too weak to chase away the shadows that lurked within. The mere sight of it sent a familiar shiver down her spine.

From this depths of the Dragonpit a distinct scent wafted through the air–a combination of smoke and the unmistakable presence of dragons. 

The area around them buzzed with activity as banners snapped in the wind, and horses neighed, their restlessness a mirror to the anticipation of the assembled crowd. The procession had now fully gathered, with notable figures making their appearances from the ornately decorated litters. 

Queen Alicent emerged with the grace befitting her status, accompanied by Aegon, who bore a blank expression as he was flanked by the Kingsguard, their white cloaks fluttering in the wind. And from another wagon, Otto Hightower emerged, followed by the members of the council.

Weariness tinted Daenera’s sigh as she cast a disparaging glance at the daunting staircase before her, her steps reluctantly quickened by Aemond’s guiding hand at the small of her back. 

“Why couldn’t they have extended the road to reach the top?” She lamented, her voice carrying the annoyance of a long-standing grievance. 

The hint of a smile that played on Aemond’s lips did not escape her notice–a silent acknowledgement of the numerous times she had voiced this complaint in their younger years. Back then, their visits to the Dragonpit were marked by this same ritual: A litter ride followed by the inevitable climb.

Daenera had never been shy about expressing her displeasure, questioning the necessity of the arduous ascent each time. Her frustration was not merely about the physical exertion but stemmed from a deeper sense of exclusion. Without a dragon of her own to bond with, she was relegated to the role of an observer, watching from the sidelines as her brother’s and uncle formed connections with their dragons. 

While she had come to terms with the reality of never having a dragon to call her own, Aemond had harbored a bitterness towards this face. His resentment had driven him to search the depths of the Dragonpit on more than one occasion, hopeful of discovering an unclaimed dragon lingering in its shadows. Unlike him, Daenera had never ventured into the deeper recesses of the pit. 

The procession embarked on the strenuous journey upwards, each step taking them closer to the Dragonpit. As they finally reached the summit, their path led them through one of the lesser-known side entrances, a discreet gateway into the ancient edifice. The dimly lit corridors that greeted them were nestled within the outer walls of the structure, snaking around its perimeter in a labyrinthine embrace. Shadows clung to the corners, and the air was thick with anticipation. 

As they stepped into the vast arena, the cacophony of gathered voices enveloped them, merging into a singular, resonant drone. The upper levels was already teeming with spectators; the upper tiers were densely populated, and a steady stream of people continued to fill arena grounds. The expansive dome above transitioned seamlessly from the open blue sky to an ornate ceiling, where gold murals unfurled the stories of Aegon’s Conquest. These grand depictions, ambitious in their scope and detail, seemed to fade into the shadows under the weak illumination that fought valiantly but in vain against the pervasive darkness of the Dragonpit.

The structure’s inherent gloom was punctuated only by the light that managed to seep through the grand doorway, left open to accommodate the influx of spectators. 

In this dimly lit space, Daenera was led to a dias, an elevated platform that rose distinctly from the rena floor, safeguarded by a line of gold cloaks. Positioned at the heart of the Dragonpit, this dias was bathed in light, pouring in from the window above the second door that remained closed. 

Daenera’s expression darkened into a scowl as she took in the sight of the banner that served as the backdrop of the dias, its fabric boasting the emblem of the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The gleaming gold of the dragon contrasted starkly against the banner’s black fabric, a symbol of power and legacy that loomed over the gathering. 

Her scowl deepened as her gaze settled on the throne positioned prominently in front of the banner, elevated slightly upon another dias. This wasn’t just any seat; it was an exquisitely carved wooden throne, its craftsmanship detailed and grand, accentuated by the tall back and the curves that seemed to frame the seat itself. The throne was a piece of history, the very throne Jaehaerys had occupied during the Great Council held at Harrenhal, when the heir to the throne had been named; making Viserys I Targaryen his successor. 

Daenera’s voice was barely a whisper, tinged with outrage as she sneered at Aemond, “This is a fucking mummer’s farce.”

“It may well be,” Aemond hummed, “but it won’t make a difference what you think.”

As the procession made its way onto the dias, they were elevated above the throngs of the commoners who jolsted for a view. The event seemed to have stirred the entire city into a frenzy of anticipation, drawing spectators from all corners of the city to witness what was happening. 

Daenera found herself standing between Helaena, who sought comfort in the small gesture of entwining their fingers, and Aemond, who stood with his hands folded behind his back. 

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” Helaena murmured lowly, clutching Daenera’s hand tightly. “And beware the one that resides by the heart.”

The air was punctuated by shouts of reverence from the crowd, “Gods bless you, Princess Daenera!” one voice ran out above the rest, igniting a chorus of similar accolades. Helaena, too, received her share of adulation, her name called out with affection by the smallfolk. 

Yet, the smiles they offered in return, the warmth did not quite reach their eyes. Their expressions were masks, worn to fulfill the expectations of their roles, even as their minds were perhaps miles away from the grandiosity and the clamor that enveloped them. The moment was a poignant reflection of the duality of their existence–revered and isolated, adored yet distant. 

Within Daenera, a tumult of emotions raged. Her heart beat a frantic rhythm against her ribs, betraying the calm exterior she maintained. A hollow sensation gnawed at her stomach, dread seeming like a voracious beast that ate at her as her gaze swept over the crowd. 

The crowd surged forward, a living entity in itself, its members merging into a sea of indistinguishable faces that resembled a shapeless flow, much like a mudslide in its relentless advance.  

“People of King’s Landing,” Otto Hightower’s voice cleaved through the ambient noise of the gathering, sharp and commanding, arresting the attention of all present. “Today is the saddest of days…”

At his words, Helaena’s hold on Daenera’s hand intensified, her gaze dropping to the ground as a somber expression carved itself deeply into her features. Daenera, feeling the tremor of emotion from Helaena, subtly shifted closer. Their clasped hands became a mutual source of solace, a silent exchange of support amidst the unfolding scene. 

“Our beloved King Viserys the Peaceful is dead,” Otto declared, allowing the gravity of his announcement to permeate the crowd. A pause followed, during which the weight of his words seemed to slowly descend upon the assembly, eliciting a ripple of stunned murmurs. 

“But it is also the most joyous of days, for as his spirit left us,” he continued, his voice rising high above all else. “He whispered his final wish: that his firstborn son, Aegon… should succeed him!”

Her heart pointed fiercely, a symphony of indignation that surged and swelled within Daenera. She pressed her jaw together, the tension manifesting in the tight set of her mouth as she ground her teeth in silent frustration. Drawing in a deep, deliberate breath, she steeled herself against what was to come, and the theft that was being done in broad daylight, before the realm to witness. 

Her gaze darted towards Alicent, laden with a desperate, silent plea for intervention–hoping, in spite of herself, that Alicent might reverse her decision of having her son crowned, that she might alter the course they were on. Yet, as she searched Alicent’s expression for any sign of hesitation, any hint of change, Daenera was met with the stark realization that there would be no such reprieve. The hope that had flickered so briefly in her heart disintegrated, leaving her to confront the truth that this outcome, this path, had been decided upon years ago, and Alicent wouldn’t change it. After all, why should she? She had set it in motion years ago, when she had married Viserys. 

The crowd’s initial stirrings were tinged with shock and confusion, gradually swelling into a louder chorus. Voices merged into an indistinct resonance of uncertainty and bewilderment, echoing the collective sentiments of those gathered as they absorbed the news. 

Yet, as the gravity of Otto Hightower’s announcement settled, these murmurs evolved into a tentative, apprehensive applause. The assembly, caught between the somber acknowledgement of a king’s death, and the announcement of the rise of another, found themselves unsure what to do. Applauding was the only recourse left to them, perhaps more of a reflex of decorum than joy.

A formation of City Watchmen cleaved through the throng, their march a rhythmic display that drew all eyes. Their cloaks, a cascade of golden hues, flowed behind them, parting the sea of common folk with decisive authority. Woven into this golden procession, the Red Keep’s guards added strokes of crimson, their cloaks melding with the gold.

Orders and shouts pierced through the air, until the Lord Commander of the City Watch halted the procession with a command, “Halt! Turn!”

As the procession came to a standstill, the sharp call of horns sliced through the air, heralding the approach of the new heir apparent. In a synchronized spectacle, the guards and City Watchmen unsheathed their swords, lifting them to craft an archway of shining steel. Through this gleaming path, Aegon advanced, his passage marked by the sequential lowering of swords.

Otto Hightower’s voice cut through the hush that had befallen the assembly, imbuing the moment with grandeur and solemnity. 

“It is your great good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this,” he proclaimed, his voice traveling through the filled space, seeming as final as the fall of each sword. “...A new day for our city, a new day for our realm. A new King… to lead us!”

Daenera observed his approach, her attention fixed on the unmistakable look of surrender that clouded his features, as he glanced up at the dias before falling on the first step. He seemed to think himself a lamb being led to slaughter rather than a man being crowned king. He didn’t even want it–and still they would crown him.

Ascending the steps to the dias, Aegon’s demeanor bore the weight of resignation. Shadows haunted his visage, betraying a night's fitful rest, while the hint of unshed tears shimmered in his gaze as he looked towards his mother, his eyes seeming to burn. 

Alicent tenderly cradled her son’s face in her hands, drawing him closer to press a soft kiss upon his forehead. 

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” Helaena whispered, her gaze steadfastly averted from the scene of her husband’s consecration by the High Septon. Her hold briefly tightened. “And beware the one that resides by the heart.”

“He’s crying,” Daenera remarked, clenching her jaw tightly, her eyes burning with a mix of anger and unshed tears. As Otto Hightower cast a significant glance towards Aegon, the prince appeared to wilt under the intensity of his gaze, his posture yielding as he knelt before them. Traces of tears, now beginning to dry, streaked his face–the appearance of which seemed to mark his own apprehension of being crowned. 

“He doesn’t even want it,” Daenera muttered sharply to Aemond, who was a fixture by her side, seemingly unaffected by her observation. Yet, she could sense her words infiltrating his stoic exterior, unsettling him beneath his armor of indifference. 

The High Septon’s voice resonated through the hushed assembly as he anointed Aegon’s forehead with holy oil, each stroke invoking the gods. 

“May the Warrior give him courage,” he intoned, his movements deliberate as he marked Aegon’s brow. With every invocation to the god, another line adorned the prince’s skin. “May the Smith lend strength to his sword and shield. May the Father defend him in his need…”

Daenera’s eyes clenched shut in an effort to contain the tumult within her. A bitter counter-prayer formed in her mind, her thoughts twisting the High Setpon’s blessings into curses. Let the Warrior expose your cowardice. May the Smith take your strength and forge you shackles. And May the Father judge you and deliver his justice.

“May the Crone lift her shining lamp and light the way to his wisdom,” the High Septon concluded, notability omitting the blessings of the Maiden, the Mother, and the Stranger from his liturgy. 

Yet, in the silence of her heart, Daenera bestowed these omissions with her own silent pleas. May the Crone’s light unveil his misdeeds. May the Maiden shield the innocent girls from his cruelty. May the Mother withhold her compassion and so him no mercy. And may the Stranger usher him swiftly from this world.

As the ceremony proceeded, Ser Criston Cole received the crown from the High Septon, elevating it before the onlookers as though declaring its might in its own right. His voice boomed, “Behold, the Crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations,” a proclamation that carried an inherent reverence as it evoked the image of the Conqueror. 

Daenera opened her eyes, and with a voice laced with a cruel edge, she murmured to Aemond, “It could have been you.”

A fleeting glance from Aemond, brief yet loaded with unspoken tension, confirmed to her that her words had struck a chord, twisting into the fabric of his pride and ambition.

Ser Criston placed the crown upon Aegon’s head, sealing his fate, followed closely by a proclamation that resounded through the assembly, “Let the Seven bear witness, Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne,” echoing off the ancient walls, its reverberating haunting the cavernous space. 

Aegon’s gaze wandered, touching upon Ser Criston Cole, his mother, Helaena, and then Daenera, who stood unyielding, her refusal to bow a silent challenge until Aemond’s insistent tug compelled her compliance. Aemond’s hand lingered on the nape of Daenera’s neck for a moment more, the warmth of his touch searing into her skin, stirring a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. Then, he released his hold, allowing her to rise again. Yet, even in acquiescence, her eyes seared with defiance, unwillingly to fully concede to Aegon’s new authority.

The High Septon’s voice boomed, punctuating the ceremony with a finality that filled the hushed space, “All hail His Grace, Aegon, Second of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and the Protector of the Realm!”

As Aegon turned to face his subjects, Daenera’s gaze swept over the sea of faces that bore witness to his ascension, each pair of eyes reflecting a multitude of emotions. Beside Daenera, Helaena’s grip tightened.

A ripple of murmurs traversed the crowd, as the smallfolk exchanged wary glances, their eyes lifting to the dias with a palpable sense of anxious expectation. They seemed to assess the newly crowned king, who returned their gazes, a mirror of their own apprehension, as if he too was gauging the reception of his subjects. Both the king and his subjects seemed to hold their breath, caught in a moment of mutual uncertainty, each waiting for the other to signal their acceptance or dissent. 

“Aegon the King!” Ser Criston Cole’s voice rang out once more, the underlying threat in his tone unmistakable as the peal of bells began to resonate, signaling the dawn of a new rule.

Tentative applause arose. What started as a hesitant clap from a solitary pair of hands soon burgeoned into a unified cascade of applause, swelling into a resonant ovation as cheers emerged and well wishes were shouted at the king.

In this moment adoration and acclaim, Aegon stepped forward seemingly with a new sense of purpose. With a deliberate and theatrical gesture, he unsheathed Blackfyre, raising it high above his head as he stood as a figure of triumph, absorbing the adulation of the crowd. 

Tears, born of indignation and helplessness, threatened to breach her eyes, and she fought them back with a hard swallow, struggling to maintain her composure as the crowd accepted the new king. 

With a bitter swallow, Daenera had to reconcile with this acceptance. The coronation of Aegon as king was executed with meticulous precision. They had deliberately adorned him with the iconic crown and sword of Aegon the Conqueror, and draped him in symbols of Targaryen might, prominently featuring the three-headed golden dragon across his attire and the surrounding banners. This display was not mere pageantry but a strategic act designed to lend credit to Aegon’s image as the legitimate successor of the Conqueror’s legacy. The orchestration aimed to solidify his claim to the Iron Throne in the public’s heart also served to cast doubt on anyone who meant to oppose him. 

And yet, amid the orchestrated celebration, a dissenting voice cut through the atmosphere, boldly proclaiming, “Long live Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Rightful Queen!” This unexpected declaration momentarily disrupted the ceremony’s carefully curated narrative. 

Otto Hightower and Ser Criston Cole reacted immediately, signaling for guards to locate and silence the bold supporter of Rhaenyra. Gold cloaks cleaved through the masses in search for the owner of the voice, but it was little more than finding a needle in a haystack. 

Despite the overwhelming applause that filled the air for Aegon, scattered shouts of support for Thaenyra intermittently broke through, each one a beacon of resistance against the narrative the Hightowers imposed. For Daenera these isolated yet resilient shouts in support of her mother were not just acts of defiance but rays of hope, suggesting that the fight for the true succession to the throne was far from over. 

Alicent approached her son, whispering words of counsel or encouragement into his ear before gracefully retreating. With a final, sweeping glance at the crowd, whose cheers and applause filled the air, Aegon sheathed Blackfyre. He then took a step back, turning to ascend the step to Jaehaerys’s throne, where he seated himself. 

The crowd’s uproar gradually subsided, attention shifting as Otto Hightower positioned himself with commanding presence. A gleam of triumph sparked in his eyes as he surveyed the assembly, preparing to speak. 

When his voice rang out, it was clear and authoritative, resonating through the hush. “Let it be known across the realm, that the King, Aegon, is the one true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Otto Hightower paused, letting the words settle before continuing. “With his crowning, any who oppose his rule are to be deemed traitors to the realm.”

Daenera gritted her teeth, swallowing the poison that was this farce. If anyone were traitors to the realm it was them. 

“Though others may assert a claim to the throne, it must be recognized that Aegon Targaryen, as the late King Viserys firstborn son and chosen heir, holds the undeniable right to rule.” Otto Hightower’s words boomed out over the crowd, seeming to gain traction as a low murmur erupted. “No one holds more of a claim to the throne than the trueborn son of Viserys Targaryen.”

Otto’s proclamation was delivered with unwavering conviction, designed to extinguish any lingering doubts about the rightful heir to the throne. His words not only sought to undermine Rhaenyra’s claim to rule but also diminish Jace’s standing, by emphasizing Aegon’s legitimacy.

 He may well have just called them bastards, Daenera thought, clenching her jaw tightly as her gaze bore into Otto Hightower with a silent plea for godly intervention – a lightning bolt sent from the sky to strike him from this world or, at the very least, ignite his thinning hair into flames.  

“In our presence today, on this historic day, we have the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, Daenera Velaryon,” Otto Hightower announced, turning the attention towards Daenera. The sudden shift caused her heart to beat faster as countless eyes scrutinized her. Feeling the weight of their gaze, she instinctively straightened her spine and lifted her chin, a gesture of defiance and pride. 

“It brings me great honor to declare the betrothal of King Aegon’s brother, Aemond Targaryen, to Daenera Velaryon!”

In that moment, Daenera wished for the ground beneath them to open and engulf the assembly, to escape the overwhelming pressure and the piercing gaze of the crowd. However, no such escape came. Instead, the announcement was met with a wave of applause and cheers, the crowd extending their joyous congratulations for the future union, while tears threatened to blur her vision. 

As Daenera was subtly nudged forward by Aemond’s hand on the small of her back, they progressed to the forefront of the dias, leaving Helaena’s comforting grasp. A chilling emptiness took over where warmth once resided, and she clenched her hands in the folds of her skirts. She knew the expectation that lay before her: to bend in fealty, to acknowledge Aegon as her King by kissing his ring. Yet, she stood unyielding, her gaze piercing through him with an intensity that matched his smug satisfaction. 

Daenera’s thoughts drifted back to the words exchanged with Helaena, her voice resonating with a foreboding echo in her mind. ‘I fear what happens when he’s got a taste for it… the power…’ 

Now, witnessing the fervor in his gaze, it was clear he had indeed acquired a taste for it – a beast fed by the adulation and undeserved love of his subjects. There was a dangerous glint to his eyes, one that filled her with dread as it trailed over her face, drinking in her defiance. 

Aemond, stepping ahead, paid his respects first, his lips briefly meeting the ring on Aegon’s finger, followed by a respectful bow. His hand then returned to Daenera, creeping up her back to rest authoritatively over her shoulder, compelling her into submission. 

Reluctantly, Daenera lowered herself, her knees bending as she inclined her head, her eyes defiantly locked onto Aegon through her lashes, silently challenging his authority. Aegon seemed to revel in her submission and had her remain in a deep bow for longer than necessary until, finally, he signified she could stand once more. Upon straightening, Aegon’s gesture was clear and commanding, extending his hand for her to kiss his ring. 

The heat of humiliation flushed her cheeks, acutely aware of the multitude of spectators. Among them, a few gazes were so intense, they seemed to burrow under her skin, igniting a fire of indignation within her very soul. 

Daenera clenched her jaw tight, lowering herself in a reluctant gesture to kiss Aegon’s ring. Yet, her lips paused just shy of the cold metal, floating merely a breath away – a subtle act of defiance. 

Aegon leaned in, his voice laced with smug satisfaction. “It suits you being on your knees.”

“This is the only way you’ll ever see me on my knees,” Daenera bit back. 

Straightening up, Daenera felt Aemond’s guiding hand on her back, ushering her back to their designated places. They stepped aside as a line of nobles advanced towards the dias, each one bending a knee in homage to the king and whispering their oaths of fealty.

“Ser Tyland of House Lannister, the Master of Ships and the newly appointed Master of Coin,” Ser Criston Cole’s voice rang out, introducing Ser Tyland Lannister as he stepped forward. Dropping to one knee in a gesture of submission, Tyland not only pledged his personal allegiance but also signified the backing of his powerful house. 

“I, Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships and Master of Coin, hereby pledge House Lannister’s loyalty to the King, Aegon Targaryen,” Tyland proclaimed with solemn fervor. “I pledge my fealty to him and shall defend him against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

Tyland Lannister rose from his kneeling position, the chain signifying his office shimmering upon his shoulders under the gleaming light. With a measured step forward, he leaned into press his lips to the king’s ring in a final act of fealty before gracefully receding. 

Given the haste with which Aegon’s coronation had been arranged, many nobles had not received an invitation in time – or at all, given the secrecy of the ordeal – resulting in a noticeably smaller procession of lords and ladies presenting their homage. 

Daenera silently labeled them traitors, yet she restrained her tongue, internalizing her scorn as the ceremony unfolded. The brevity of the event, not stretched by the presence of lords and ladies who might have flocked to the city for the grand affair that was a coronation under different circumstances, only served to emphasize the Hightowers’ hasty grab for power. 

“Lord Jasper of House Wylde and House Rain, the Master of Laws,” Ser Criston Cole continued. 

Taking Ser Tyland’s place before the king, Lord Jasper knelt, as he too declared his allegiance to Aegon’s reign. “I, Jasper Wylde, Lord of House Wylde and Lord of House Rain, Master of Law, promise to be faithful to the King, Aegon Targaryen. I pledge my fealty to him and shall defend him against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

With a solemn grace, Lord Wylde grasped the King’s hand, his lips briefly pressing against the ring in a gesture of his fealty. Upon standing, he offered a respectful and courteous bow towards both the Queen Mother, the Queen and the Hand of the King, a silent acknowledgement of their roles. Then, with a steady stride, he resumed his place alongside Tyland Lannister. 

“Lord Larys Strong of House Strong, the Lord Confessor and Master of Whispers, and the Lord of Harrenhal,” was announced next. The hall watched as Lord Larys Strong approached, his movement marked by the distinct drag of his clubbed foot against the wood flooring of the dias, his cane nowhere in sight. 

Daenera leaned slightly towards Aemond, her curiosity getting the better of her as she whispered, “I wonder what has become of his cane.”

Without turning his gaze from the spectacle, Aemond’s response was terse, though soft, “I broke it.”

Her eyebrows knitted together in surprise, and she turned sharply to look at him, her gaze searching his face for the meaning of it. She found him looking back at her, a slight, self-satisfied tilt to his lips. 

“You broke it…” She echoed, disbelief mingling with a dawning understanding.

“Yes,” Aemond confirmed with a dismissive shrug, his casual demeanor belying the significance of his actions. Though he offered no explicit explanation, the implication was clear in the brief flicker of his gaze over her face–a silent, protective retribution, a gesture meant for her. The retaliation of this unsaid stirred something within her.  

Daenera’s heart raced, a tumultuous flutter within her chest as she forced her gaze away from Aemond, redirecting her attention to the ongoing ceremony. Her cheeks flushed with warmth that betrayed her inner turmoil, her heartbeat a relentless drum echoing within her. A bitter sensation twisted around her heart and she blinked back her tears. 

Lord Larys Strong made a valiant attempt to kneel without any assistance, stubbornly waving off any offers of help. His knee met the wooden floor of the dias with a thud that promised a bruise. 

And with a clear voice, despite the physical effort it took to maintain his dignity, Larys declared, “I Lord Larys Strong of House Strong, Lord Confessor and Master of Whispers, and Lord of Harrenhal, promise to be faithful to the King. I hereby pledge my fealty to him and shall defend him against all enemies, in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

The act of descending to kneel had been far easier than the prospect of rising again. 

Larys moved his leg into position, taking a deep breath before struggling to his feet. Ser Criston Cole stepped in to assist him, helping the Lord Confessor to his feet before he shuffled forward, bending down to kiss the ring of the King before moving over the dias to the rest of the council. 

Following him, a procession of lords and ladies took their turn before the King, each swearing their loyalty to Aegon. Whether they were the head of their house or represented by a proxy–a brother or a son–the pledge of fealty was made, binding them to their new king. 

As the formalities of the pledge of allegiance concluded, the coronation neared its end. Aegon moved once more to the forefront of the dias, his arms thrown wide open, reveling in the adoration showered upon him by the crowd. 

Shortly thereafter, Otto Hightower and Ser Criston Cole led the way, guiding Aegon from the dias. The Queen Mother and the Queen gracefully took their leave. Aemond and Daenera followed, descending the steps of the dias to find solace in the quietude of the empty hall. 

Together, they traversed the winding passageway of the Dragonpit, retracing the path they had taken upon their arrival. The group moved with a sense of purpose, the dimly lit corridor echoing with the soft sounds of their footsteps. And finally, they emerged, stepping out into the brightness of day, the sunlight momentarily blinding. 

Daenera briefly closed her eyes, lifting her face towards the heavens to let the sunlight bathe her skin, seeking a brief respite to soften the stiffness that had settled along her spine. The warmth was a small comfort, a fleeting escape from the weight of the day. As she felt a reassuring hand at the small of her back, her eyelids fluttered open in response to Aemond’s silent cue to join the others in their descent. 

From this position, high upon Rhaenys Hill, the Red Keep seemed to loom in the distance, its formidable towers stretching skyward. Daenera’s heart constricted at the sight, knowing what reaching that destination meant – an imminent return to the confines of the walls and the isolation it brought. 

With careful hands gathering her skirts, Daenera began her cautious descent down the carved steps. 

“You did well,” Aemond’s voice was soft beside her, his presence a steady assurance as they moved down the uneven staircase, his hand likely there to offer support or prevent a misstep.

Daenera bristled at the comment. “I am not a child; don’t patronize me.”

“I wasn’t suggesting–”

“Yet you insinuate that I’m seeking approval for merely keeping my composure,” Daenera countered, her pent-up frustration from the day’s events spilling over. “Believe me, if I wasn’t forced to be there under the threat of my men's lives, I would have disputed this farce and declared you all to be the traitors you’ve made yourself to be.”

Aemond’s sigh, heavy with exasperation, only fueled Daenera’s anger. She sent him a piercing glare, her eyes alight with silent fury, before shifting her gaze. It moved back to the trail before them, settling on the white cloaks of the Kingsguard, swaying with each step they took. Beyond this imposing barrier of gleaming armor and sheathed swords were the newly crowned King. In a fleeting moment, the impulse surged within Daenera to dash forward, to weave through the two sentinels of the Kingsguard and seize Aegon by the neck. She imagined hurling him down the steep steps or over the edge of the hill, to an untimely but deserved demise. The vivid fantasy of retribution momentarily clouded her judgment, a desperate grasp for justice through her own hands. 

Daenera’s breath hitched, a sudden slip on one of the uneven steps causing her heart to leap into her throat. In an instant, Aemond’s presence became her anchor; one hand firmly grasped her arm, while his other swiftly extended across her chest, steadying ehr fall. He halted their progress, his expression marked by a subtle frown, eye intently scanning her face as if searching for something. 

With a silent nod of gratitude, Daenera regained her composure, signaling she was unharmed. They resumed their descent, his hand returning to the small of her back. The light pressure offered a strange sort of comfort. 

“It’s hard to decide which is more appalling,” Daenera muttered lowly, “the act of usurping my mother or the fact you did so to place the crown upon the head of the one who least desired it. If only he had refused it or fled…”

“He did,” Aemond answered, drawing Daenera’s gaze back to him, her expression perplexed as she searched his face. “He didn’t make it very far.”

“He attempted to flee?” 

“I brought him back.”

“You… brought him back…” Daenera repeated, each word dripping with a mixture of incredulity and realization.

Aemond had the opportunity to let his brother vanish into obscurity, a chance to don the crown himself rather than bestow it upon his brother. Yet, forsaking this path and the allure of the power it promised, he had chosen duty over ambition, ensuring his brother’s return. 

“You should have let him go,” Daenera remarked. 

The muscles along Aemond’s jaw tightened, a visible testament to the weight of her assertion as it landed on his shoulders. After a tense pause, he opened his mouth, his voice filled with a firm resolve. “You know why I couldn’t.”

Indeed, Daenera understood the gravity of Aemond’s choice, understood the intricate web of loyalty and duty that bound him–she understood him, and she knew why he had brought him back. The legitimacy of the Hightower’s claim to the throne was intrinsically linked to Aegon’s ascension. It was a claim rooted in the precedence of him as Viserys’ firstborn son, the clear and unchallenged heir by virtue of the cock between his legs. In the eyes of tradition and the law, Aegon’s gender positioned him as the natural successor, his cock’s very existence assuring his right to rule. He was a son and Rhaenyra was a daughter. 

Aegon’s potential disappearance presented a dilemma of succession, a void that threatened to unravel the fabric of their claim. In such an instance, Aemond stood but a shadow behind the prospect of Aegon’s own son, a contingency plan activated only by the absolute absence of the elder brother–assured only if he were definitely dead. And even then, in the face of Aegon’s hypothetical death, questions lingered: Would the crown then pass to Aemond, or would the realm fall into the hands of Aegon’s son, however young. 

In the absence of Aegon, the succession’s focus would inevitably shift towards Rhaenyra, whose claim to the Iron Throne had been solidified years earlier through her father’s explicit and public endorsement. The realm’s nobility would find themselves at a crossroads, forced to choose between Rhaenyra, whose path to the throne was paved by her father’s will, and a young boy who would not wield real power for years to come. This boy, bereft of the ability to govern due to age, would merely serve as a figurehead, leaving the realm under the stewardship of someone like Otto Hightower during a regency. 

Daenera’s understanding of Aemond’s actions did not alleviate the turmoil of her emotions. She grasped the strategic necessity behind his choice–the preservation of his family’s claim to power. Yet, this insight did not mitigate her resentment or the sense of betrayal that gnawed at her.

As Daenera reached the foot of the stairs, her gaze met Aegons, a fleeting smirk twisted the corner of his mouth–a smirk laced with malice and self satisfaction. A foreboding sense of dread settled in her stomach. She harbored no illusions about the man Aegon was destined to become–a tyrant in the making.

“You made a choice, and now we have to suffer the consequences of that.” 

Aemond guided her towards the waiting litter, where guards stood at the ready, holding the reins of the restless horses. The banners fluttered fiercely in the wind, signaling a blend of grandeur and urgency as the horses pawed at the ground, eager to move. As they approached the litter, Helaena ascended the first step, pausing to cast a glance back. 

“Beware the beast…” she uttered, her voice laden with an ominous tone. “It is here.”

With those foreboding words hanging in the air, Helaena disappeared into the sheltered interior of the litter. 

A thunderous roar, bone-chilling in its ferocity, tore through the gathering, seeming to pierce the hearts of all assembled with its sheer power. This sound was followed by a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated through the air, a sound so profound it felt as though it reverberated within the very chest of every onlooker. Every gaze abruptly shifted towards the dark maw of the cavernous entrance to the tunnels beneath Rhaenys Hill, where a stirring shadow and a billowing cloud of dust heralded the emerging terror. 

Daenera felt an unsettling chill run down her spine, the fine hairs at the nape of her neck rising in alarm. She felt an urgent pull on her arm, as Aemond swiftly drew her behind him, positioning himself protectively in front of her. The tense silence that followed was broken by the sound of swords being unsheathed, a clear response to the menacing growl resonating from within the depths of the shadows. 

From the darkness of the cave’s entrance, two deep red eyes pierced the gloom, their glow ominous and foreboding. The beast’s heavy footsteps vibrated through the ground, its massive form barely discernible as it advanced towards the light, shrouded in a cloak of dust and shadow. 

“Protect the King!” Otto Hightower’s command cut through the tension, prompting the Kingsguard to swiftly encircle Aegon and Alicent, who had protectively pushed her son behind her, readying themselves against the looming threat that had stirred from its captivity beneath the Dragonpit. 

Daenera’s heart pounded fiercely within her chest, a tempest of fear and anticipation thundering within her. Her gaze narrowed, seeking to penetrate the darkness to find the source of the fearsome roar that had cloaked the area in dread. From the depths of swirling dust and deep shadow, a figure emerged as if conjured by the chaos itself–Meleys, the Red Queen, with Rhaenys, her formidable rider, on her back.

The striking blood-red figure of Meleys broke through the veil of darkness, her roars echoing, a primal call that resonated with all who heard it. Sunlight danced upon her crimson scales, highlighting the regal horns that crowned her head as she stepped forth from the cave’s maw. With every movement, her claws dug into the earth, kicking up plumes of dust. Meleys stretched her massive form, a snarl revealing her formidable teeth, while her flame-like eyes locked onto the crowd with a fierce, unyielding gaze. 

Rhaenys’ gaze found Daenera amidst the tumult, her expression just as fierce and unyielding as her dragon’s. “Release my granddaughter!”

A spark of hope ignited within Daenera, and she surged forward, only for Aemond’s arm to ensnare her waist, pulling her back against him with a vice-like hold. She struggled against his hold, beating back at him as she demanded her release. 

“Let me go!” Daenera spat, clawing at his arm, attempting and failing to twist free. “Release me!” 

She writhed in his embrace, making another desperate attempt to escape, trying to force her way out. Yet Aemond’s grip only tightened, his voice close to her ear, laced with a sneer yet tinged with desperation, “Stop! Please. Stop fighting!”

There was a raw, broken plea in his use of ‘please,’ a plea that resonated deep within her, tugging at her heartstrings in a way that was almost painful to acknowledge. But the turmoil within her was too overwhelming, her thoughts a whirlwind of recent grievances–the humiliations endured, the imprisonment, the loss of those she loved, and the cruel usurpation of her mother’s rightful claim. All these thoughts clashed violently within her, fueling her struggle against Aemond’s constraining embrace. 

With a menacing growl, Meleys advanced, her formidable teeth exposed in a terrifying snarl. Daenera’s eyes locked onto Alicent then, the creator of her family’s suffering, shielding her son Aegon, the usurper king who robbed her mother of her rightful throne. Her eyes traveled to Otto Hightower, the one who orchestrated it all to satiate his own ambition, and Ser Criston Cole, the man who killed Joyce, alongside Lord Larys Strong, the one who humiliated her and lured her into captivity–and the rest of the council that allowed it all.

And then there was Aemond, his breath whispering across her skin, his arms ensnaring her in a protective yet confining embrace, the man who seemed prepared to do anything to possess her–who would see her as both his wife and his hostage.

In this moment, surrounded by the creators of her misery, Daenera found herself whispering a command born of desperation, “Drakarys.”

The word, barely more than a murmur, was nonetheless caught by those nearest, drawing their shocked and fearful stares towards her. She made another frantic attempt to escape Aemond’s hold, her fingers clawing at him with wild desperation. 

Having to endure and watch the usurpation of her mother’s throne and the theft of her rightful crown had filled Daenera with unbridled fury – akin to a storm raging beneath the calm surface of the sea. The egregious act of being compelled into submission, to degrade herself by bending the knee, bowing her head, and kissing the ring of the usurper as a sign of loyalty, only served to fuel this tempest within her. She was reduced to a mere pawn in their game, a puppet manipulated by strings, dancing to the tune of their desires. Every fiber of her being had screamed in protest, yearning to dispute this charade, to shout out that this was an abomination. She had wanted to expose them for what they truly were: thieves and traitors. 

Caught in a whirlwind of emotion, torn between madness and the culmination of years of torment and degradation, Daenera found herself compelled by forces she couldn’t fully understand. With a renewed sense of defiance, she raised her voice once more, this time with a vigor that surprised even herself. “Drakarys, Meleys!”

Aemond’s grip remained unyielding, his arm like a vice around her waist, his other hand securely holding her wrist to thwart any attacks. Daenera struggles grew more intense, tears brimming her eyes. 

“Drakarys, Rhaenys!” She cried out, her voice breaking with the intensity of her plea. She imported an end to this farce, for fire to consume them all, to cleanse everything in its wrath. Yet, Meleys and Rhaenys did not heed her call. As Daenera fought against the constraints of Aemond’s embrace, she could feel the rapid pounding of his heart against her back, his breath hot on her neck, his lips barely  brushing her ear, drawing her even closer to his hold. He murmured another plea for her to stop, desperate and demanding all the same. 

An arrow whizzed through the air, narrowly missing Rhaenys before burying itself in the earth. Rhaenys’ gaze shifted swiftly towards the line of archers perched high on the hillside, arrows poised for a second volley. Meleys expressed her disdain with a snort, her massive feet stamping the ground in frustration. Her tail lashed out, striking the rocky terrain with a force that served as a clear warning. Yet another arrow cut through the air, this time grazing Meleys’ scales, failing to penetrate the dragon’s armored hide. 

A heavy sense of despair settled over Daenera as Rhaenys locked eyes with her once more. It was a silent exchange, one that confirmed Daenera’s fears; there would be no escape today, and Rhaenys couldn’t linger no longer in this peril. With a resigned nod, Daenera acknowledged the inevitable. 

Meleys advanced with deliberate steps towards the semicircle of Kingsguard surrounding the King and Queen Mother. With a deafening shriek that seemed to vibrate through their very bones, Meleys unleashed a roar so powerful it sent several horses into a panicked frenzy. The echo of the roar caused a few guards to lose their footing, tumbling to the ground with a startled crash as their mounts scattered in terror. 

As Meleys propelled herself skyward with a mighty flap of her wings, a tempest of dust and debris swirled around them. The force of each wingbeat sent gusts that buffeted those below, stinging Daenera’s skin with sand and grit. In a protective gesture, Aemond hunched over her, using his body to shield against the maelstrom. Meleys, now airborne, stretched her wings to the fullest, casting a large shadow over the grounds. With one final, thunderous roar, she ascended higher, her form shrinking against the backdrop of the city as she made her way towards the distant horizon–towards Dragonstone. 

A profound silence enveloped the plateau in the wake of Meleys’ departure, a quiet so intense it rivaled the dragon’s roar in its impact. The air hung heavy with dust, settling slowly as reality began to seep back into the stunned assembly. 

Aemond eased his grip on Daenera but stayed close, his hand lightly resting on the small of her back. Daenera, still grappling with the whirlwind of emotions and the  surreal turn of events, felt her mind clouded, her thoughts a tangled mess. It was in this moment of vulnerability that she felt a stinging slap across her face, a sharp, unexpected pain that broke through her stupor. The force of the blow left a burning trail on her cheek. The tears that had brimmed her eyes seemed to be struck loose, running down her cheeks, as her eyes found Alicent. 

Otto Hightower’s voice, steeped in authority, cut through the tense air. “Alicent, restrain yourself.”

Daenera, her gaze defiant yet wounded, met Alicent’s eyes. The Queen Mother, her face wrought in seething anger, raised her hand for a second strike. Yet, before her hand could descend, Aemond interposed himself, his grasp firm around his mother’s wrist, effectively halting her motion. 

Shielded behind a barrier of soft, supple leather, Daenera’s vision was limited to the broad expanse of his back. The defined curvature of his shoulders and the visible tension in his muscles captured her attention as he intervened, placing himself between his mother’s wrath and her. 

In that fleeting moment, time seemed to suspend, stretching the moment between heartbeats as the realization dawned upon her: he had defied his own mother to shield her. Her heart constricted, skipping a beat in a moment of acute stillness, as her eyes lifted, her fingers unconsciously tightening on the fabric of his doublet as though to center herself. Amidst this pause, a fragile seed of hope emerged within her – a sentiment profound and dangerous, a truth she could not admit to herself. 

“That is sufficient, Mother,” Aemond declared, “You’ve made your point.”

The moment between heartbeats passed, and the world came into view again. Daenera inched out from behind him to see Alicent glaring at her son in outrage, yet beneath it, there was a subtle hint of betrayal woven through her expression, perhaps even a strand of loss. With a sharp twist, she freed her wrist, her movement accompanied with an angry sneer as her eyes landed on Daenera again. “Would you have us all burn?!”

Daenera met Alicent’s gaze, her eyes now cold as the depths of winter, wipping her tears away. “I would.”

“Even yourself?” Alicent pressed, her voice laced with the weight of the morning’s events, the near brush with death still palpable. “Even Helaena?”

Daenera’s response was a silent one, her resolve firm as she met Alicent’s narrowed gaze without flinching. The determination etched in her eyes was a clear declaration of her stance–she was prepared to face the consequences, to embrace the fire if necessary, for the retribution. She was even prepared to face the fires of the seven hells and eternal damnation, knowing that they would join her there while Helaena would find peace in the heavens. It was a sacrifice. 

Alicent turned her eyes upon her father. “Rhaenys will surely bring word to Rhaenyra.”

And Otto, in turn, took command of the situation, turning his discerning eyes upon Ser Criston Cole. “Ensure the King and the Queen are safely seen to the Keep and gather our forces. We do not know how Rhaenyra will respond.”

“I won’t be made to cower in the Keep,” Aegon interjected, fixing the crown on his head, his hand falling to the hilt of Blackfyre. “I shall take Sunfyre to the skies.”

Alicent protested, her concern manifesting in a gentle, yet futile attempt to dissuade her son from such ideas. “You cannot seriously consider pursuing them–your responsibilities as King–”

“That is right,” Aegon firmly interrupted her. “I am King now, am I not? And as a King I mean to show the city and the realm that we, too, have dragons.”

Otto Hightower scrutinized Aegon with a keen, measuring gaze, taking a moment to assess the young king’s determination. Eventually, he nodded in agreement, signaling his endorsement. “Proceed, then. Fly over the city, let our dragons be seen as protectors, and show the people their one true ruler.”

Ser Criston Cole interjected with a note of urgency, “It’s imperative we escort everyone else back to the Keep immediately. With the realm now aware of the late king’s passing and the ensuing shift in the line of succession, we must ensure the city’s safety. The City Watch should be mobilized to maintain order.”

“Moreover, we must identify whomever responsible for the negligence that permitted Rhaenys’s escape,” Otto Hightower said, his voice taking on a sharper edge. His gaze shifted accusatorily towards Alicent, suggesting that he found her culpable.  

Alicent, seeming to feel the weight of her father’s critical eye, exhaled sharply in indignation. She collected the folds of her gown with a swift, dignified motion and ascended into the litter, deliberately distancing herself from the unfolding discourse. And as she moved past Daenera, her gaze locked onto her with a chilling intensity. Her eyes, dark and unforgiving, bore into Daenera, conveying a silent but unmistakable threat of punishment. The fleeting exchange, though wordless, was laden with a promise of consequences for the upheaval that had ensued. 

Daenera, somewhat detached from the core of the discussion, was brushing off her attire, deciding not to engage, though she felt their eyes prickle against her skin. 

“Ensure the princess is securely confined within her chambers. Afterwards, take to the skies with Vhagar. We must be vigilant and ready for any threat,” Otto directed. 

Acknowledging with a curt nod, Aemond accepted the Lord Hand’s command. 

The scene shifted as Otto made his way to the litter, joining the Queen and Queen Mother. They settled into the confined space, preparing for departure.

The scene was a tumultuous blend of urgency and confusion. Guards were everywhere, hastily trying to regain control over the spooked horses, while one of the litters sat crippled, its wheel shattered against a rock in the chaos that erupted when the horses bolted, sending it crashing and leaving the wooden wheel splintered. Amidst the chaos left in the wake of Meleys appearance, some horses had fled in terror. Now a contingent of Gold Cloaks was being dispatched to retrieve them, their cloaks billowing behind them as they set off on foot. The remaining horses, calmer now, were commandeered by the Kingsguard, as the council members took refuge in the second litter, all of them eager to escape the scene and find solace within the study walls of the Red Keep. 

Daenera’s resistance was palpable as she found herself being nudged towards the litter. She spun around to confront him, their eyes locking as she grabbed his arm insistently, biting out, “Do not force me to ride in a litter with your mother!”

Aemond’s jaw clenched visibly, a sign of agitation, before he finally relented. With a heavy sigh, he shut the litter door, sealing his mother inside, and away from Daenera. His actions spoke volumes, acknowledging, albeit grudgingly. He instead guided her towards his horse, the steed stamping the ground impatiently. 

As she attempted to mount, firm hands clasped her waist, offering unsolicited support. Daenera couldn’t help but retort with a sharp, “I don’t need your help.”

Aemond exhaled a short breath, seemingly frustrated, as he secured his own position on the horse, sliding behind her with practiced ease. His arms encircled her, taking control of the reins, as his presence enveloped her in a tangible warmth. Daenera felt the slight brush of his hair against her shoulder, eliciting a prickle of gooseflesh throughout her body. 

“Maintain close ranks!” Ser Criston Cole’s voice cut through the air, his figure advancing before the procession, setting the pace for their return. 

With a nudge, Aemond urged the horse onward, aligning with the measured pace of the procession. A distant, ominous rumble echoed from the depths of the Dragonpit, a lingering whisper of the dragons within. They embarked down the meandering path that circled the hill, gradually making their descent towards the city below.

As they delved deeper into the heart of King’s Landing, the city unfolded around them, a vibrant tapestry of activity and curiosity. The presence of the City Watch ensured a semblance of order, yet the throngs of people couldn’t help but cluster along the streets, craning their necks for a glimpse of the royal procession. Voices rose in a cacophony of sentiment–some cheering for King Aegon, others mourning for the demise of the late King.

In the midst of this clamor, Aemond’s voice found its way to Daenera, a whisper of quiet intensity close to her ear, his presence unyielding as stone. “Have you utterly abandoned reason?”

Daenera clenched her jaw, suppressing a retort, her attention momentarily diverted by a disturbance at the periphery of her vision. A bystander’s voice pierced the air with a bold proclamation, “Hail Queen Rhaenyra!” The words barely had time to echo through the crowd before a Gold Cloak swiftly intervened, silencing the supporter with a decisive threat, grabbing him by the scuff and hurling him to the ground. 

“Are you really so desperate to see us all dead that you’re willing to burn alongside with us?” Aemond asked, his voice bordering on a sneer, laden with disbelief and exasperation. 

Daenera’s retort was just as fierce. “I would gladly face the fire if it meant preventing you and yours from usurping what rightfully belongs to my mother.”

“How admirably noble,” Aemond sneered, the venom in his voice palpable in the bitter edge of his taunt. “Is this the length you would go to to avoid marrying me?”

“This isn’t about the marriage,” Daenera shot back, her voice sharp with anger. Her nails dug into the leather of the saddle, picking at it restlessly. “This is about betrayal, it is about the usurpation–about the years of torment and degradation at the hand of your family. It’s about the insults and the treachery.”

A scoff escaped Aemond, and Daenera could feel him shaking his head in exasperation–undoubtedly unable to see her point and unwilling to try. In that moment, Daenera had embraced the concept of sacrifice, accepting the notion of burning alongside her adversaries as a means to rectify the injustices they had perpetrated. It was her way of preemptively ending the war that loomed on the horizon. There was a certain poetic justice, she thought, in the imagery of them all being consumed by the same flames, united in destruction as they had never been in life. 

“So, is it death you seek?” Aemond asked, his tone mocking yet tinged with an undercurrent of seriousness, as they continued their ride through the bustling streets, surrounded on the life of a city on the brink of change. 

“No.” Daenera shook her head gently, her fingers brushing the corner of her eye as she contended with the onset of a headache that seemed to encircle her skull. A sigh of exhaustion escaped her lips as she instinctively leaned back into Aemond, craving the warmth that his presence offered against the sudden cold that had started to infiltrate her body. Her head reclined, settling comfortably against his shoulder as she gazed upwards, losing herself in the vastness of the azure sky above them. 

“Then perhaps, refrain from pursuing it with such fervor,” Aemond’s voice, less harsh now, whispered close to her ear. In the quiet that followed, Daenera sensed a shift in him; his resentment seemed to dissipate, his posture relaxed as their bodies belted together in a moment of unexpected tranquility. 

And for just a moment, Daenera allowed herself to pretend that everything was as it were before – that she was within the embrace of her lover and not her captor, that death weren’t traversing the halls of the Red Keep, that her mother’s throne were unchallenged, and that she was not drowning in a sea of despair, struggling not to lose herself and her sanity. If she merely shut her eyes, she could sustain this facade a little longer. 

“Where were you?” Daenera’s voice was a soft murmur, her eyelids heavy as she spoke. Exhaustion clung to her as sleep had been elusive in recent days. “That morning – you weren’t there when I woke.”

Their conversation hung suspended in the air, the procession’s slow pace allowing the city’s ambient noises to envelop them–a blend of distant conversations and sporadic outbursts. The sun, now fully ascendant, bathed the day in warmth, exacerbating the city’s inherent odors. Yet, to Daenera, the openness under the sky offered a breath of freedom far removed from the oppressive atmosphere of her recent confines. 

Aemond’s reply came after a moment, his tone matching hers in quietude, laced with underlying weariness. “I couldn’t sleep… I went in search of… something…”

Her curiosity piqued, Daenera opened her eyes to the expanse of the sky above, observing a group of birds as they danced freely across the blue canvas. “I suppose it was good you weren’t there. Had you been present, I don’t know what would have happened.”

“I would have stopped you.” 

A subtle grin touched her lips, a playful spark finding its way into her eyes. “Fenrick would have been forced to hold you back, binding you to the bed, perhaps even rendering you unconscious–he would have enjoyed that.”

“I would have overpowered him,” Aemond retorted with confidence, a current of amusement in his tone.  

Her grin widened. “Attempt as you might, but with you bare and unarmed, I doubt your cock would serve as an effective weapon.”

A soft hum escaped Aemond, not quite conceding but not arguing either. Daenera sensed a light amusement in him, a gentle lift at the corners of his mouth betraying his usually impassive demeanor. He shifted the reins to one hand, skillfully guiding the horse with gentle nudges, while his other hand found a place on her abdomen–the touch warm and comforting.

“Did you find it? The thing you went looking for?” Daenera’s voice softened, curiosity weaving through her tone. 

A shadow draped over them then, accompanied with a thunderous roar. Sunfyre soared above, his scales a spectacle of shimmering gold under the light, wings unfurling like sails of silk, the soft color of rose petals. Despite his beauty, the dragon remained just that, a dragon–with sharp teeth and claws, and a breath of fire. 

“In the end, yes,” Aemond murmured back, his voice a deep, stirring hum that sent a shiver through her. Her eyes closed again.

In this momentary escape, Daenera allowed herself to pretend that everything was as it once was – a world familiar and untainted. She could delude herself into believing that the rapid beat of her heart wasn’t for a man she was supposed to despise, for someone she wished she could loathe as effortlessly as she once had. She could imagine that he wasn’t one of the makers of her suffering, that his hands weren’t stained with the blood of those she held dear, that he wasn’t holding a dagger to her, ready to inflict wounds as easily as Ser Criston’s blade had upon Joyce. 

She could indulge in this illusion. She could wrap herself in this fabricated comfort. She could just… 

And then the return to the Red Keep brought her back to the grim reality, where Lord Caswell still remained, a lifeless figure suspended in the air.

Did I change a whole lot? Yeah and let me tell you why! While Rhaenys bursting through the floor was visually satisfying and a like 'go girl' moment, it didn't make sense narratively or for her character. She basically committed an act of terrorism killing dozens of people and it would be seen as an act of instigating the war. I don't know why she thought she'd get away with it, fly off to DS to warn Rhaenyra and then back to Driftmark as though the Greens wouldn't have taken it as her declaring for Rhaenyra. Even if she didn't declare for Rhaenyra, she killed a bunch of people and Greens would have no choice but to apprehend her, because… murder, terrorism. So, I changed it. This way she didn't kill anyone and she can fly to DS warn Rhaenyra and then go off if that's what she want--we know what happens. But here you can say; But Zeciex, Daenera could have gone with her! Do you really think Aemond would have let her go? Rhaenys was on borrowed time and as she says 'she won't be the one to start this war'-- she wouldn't kill the Greens and an anointed king, that too would be a death sentence. One that Daenera was willing to pay. Yes, for a moment, with all she's been through the last few days, she may have lost it a bit. She was willing to sacrifice herself to see an end to it all--to the usurpation and threats, to set things right. Does she want to die? No. But let her be dramatic, she's got a lot going on. Also, Aemond is doing what he can too, within the confines of his duty. Don't blame him too much for forcing her to kneel to Aegon, it's as much an act of duty as it is him ensuring that by behind the knee she doesn't risk herself even more. And Ya'll are lucky I decided to end this on a high note and not include the next scene; which will be next chapter; Daenera visits the tower of the hand and has a conversation with Otto that is…. suffocating. Oh, and she also have a talk with Larys. It will be a very dialogue heavy chapter with little action happening, and it will be the final chapter for a while as we travel to Dragonstone to see what's happening there.

[skyfallscotland]

*giggles hysterically*

Did I write the things I should have been writing today? No. Did I start something new I absolutely should not have started? Yes, of course.

To be honest, I blame all of you. Far too many of you were enthusiastic about the possibility of Remi bonding both Lía and Sgaeyl, in a world where Xaden went into the infantry. ⚔️🌟

“What is he doing?” I murmur to myself, gripping the scales of Lía’s pommel tight. 

“Pay attention!” Sgaeyl snaps and I whip my head to the side. She’s glaring at me in that ornery way of hers, golden eyes narrowed as she breathes out a steady stream of fire at a Wyvern descending from the clouds above us. Lía rolls, jerking us out of the way as Sgaeyl flips around, aiming her talons at the larger beast’s underbelly. 

“I’m paying attention…” I bite my lip, chastised. 

“No you weren’t.” Lía grumbles. I hate it when the two of them gang up on me. It is usually when I’m endangering my own life, but that’s neither here nor there. Almost against my will, my eyes flick back down toward the ground, checking on the infantry officer’s position. 

He’s been down there for most of this battle, helping evacuate civilians from the township into the old mining tunnels. It’s not the perfect place to run to, given they could collapse under the weight of the mountain, but it’s not like they’re making it up the hill out in the open so… 

Originally, a few of the man’s unit were on the ground with him, helping out, but now only he remains—the captain. My attention is drawn back to the fight in front of me as Lía grasps the wyvern’s neck in her jaws, clamping down as Sgaeyl lashes out again with her talons. The carcass plummets to the ground, landing with a heavy thud. 

“Remi! If we take down the venin riders, the wyvern go down with them!”  Violet calls across our mental link and a sharp smile pulls at my lips. 

“Thanks, sis!” I flip the dagger in my hand I’d been given by my squad leader, Garrick, before we joined this fight. 

“So, where’s the closest?” I ask, wondering if I should unbuckle my legs from my saddle. 

“Don’t you dare.” Lía responds to my thoughts.

Almost simultaneously Sgaeyl swoops downward and says, “below.” My eyes widen and I lean to the side, following her trajectory with my eyes. The female with the staff is standing dead centre in the middle of the field, robes billowing. She slams her staff into the ground and I watch, morbidly fascinated as the ground quickly starts decaying, grass dying in a perfect circle around her. It extends outward like a wave and when it shows no signs of slowing down, my fascination turns to fear. 

“Sgaeyl!” I call out frantically, my head whipping around. My gaze lands on the infantry captain a short distance away where he stands, wide eyes locked on the venin as he helps a woman in brown riding leathers to her feet. A gryphon flier. “Get them, please!” I beg, my heart pounding as I lean forward on Lía’s back, preparing to throw. I can’t watch as my bonded complies, navy scales shining in the sun as she launches herself sideways.

We’re almost directly on top of the venin when Lía turns, providing me with just the right angle to throw my dagger and have it embedding in the venin’s heart. I pull on it with lesser magic, making sure to drive it all the way through and out the other side as Lía and I soar over, before it comes sailing back into my hand. 

The second I verify she’s not getting back up, my eyes are searching, looking frantically for Sgaeyl. I relax a little when I see her form in full flight, headed for the hillside, two decidedly human forms grasped in her claws. I sag back into the seat, relieved. Fuck, that was close. 

Before I have a chance to even think, the sky is erupting, lightning flashing down from a clear, blue sky and then the last of the wyvern are falling, their carcasses shaking the earth below as they rain down. “Good job, sis.” I murmur. 

Something almost cosmic draws my eyes back to the hillside, like there’s a magnetic force dictating my attention belongs there and I frown. Lía moves without me even having to ask. In only seconds she’s perched on the hillside next to Sgaeyl who seems to be in a standoff with an irritated looking gryphon. 

“Are you causing trouble with our temporary allies?” I smirk.

“Oh please, you’d be just as annoyed if you had to deal with it.” It. Like she can’t tell if it’s male or female—or simply doesn’t care because they’re worth less than dirt to her. Amari. I can feel Lía’s judgement radiate down the bond, but it isn’t aimed at her friend, it’s aimed at me. 

“Don’t pretend you aren’t exactly like her.” She gripes and a grin pulls at my lips. She’s right. I am. I pull my legs free, sliding down Lía’s foreleg. The gryphon makes an aborted step forward, but any illusions its under as to who’s in control here are shattered instantly the minute Sgaeyl snaps her teeth in its face. She’s incredibly protective…when she feels like it. 

My eyes run over the infantry captain’s form—I’m finally able to take him in up close and…wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful example of the male specimen in my life. Holy gods. 

He’s wearing the standard dark-blue uniform of the infantry, though I can see some armour peeking out from beneath it that isn’t standard issue. That’s not too out of place though, the more wealthy infantry officers all invest in armour the minute they graduate, if not before. It complements the twin swords peeking over his shoulders, doing nothing to dissuade me of his experience in battle.

He’s tall, tall enough that I’d almost fit beneath his chin…not that I’m thinking about it or anything…and his tawny skin looks radiant in the sunlight. His windblown hair is also decidedly not regulation and in an effort to keep myself from staring at his well-muscled form, I meet his eyes. Beautiful gold-flecked onyx eyes. That does not help. 

“You are so pathetic.” Sgaeyl says and I know without having to turn that the slapping sound that follows is Lía’s tail making contact with her side. I can always rely on her to have my back when it comes to feelings and I am…feeling things. 

“Wh—”

“We don’t need your help.” The flier to his right snaps and for as long as I live, I’ll blame the adrenaline of battle for what happens next. I punch her in the face. 

“Remi!” Lía chides immediately, lodging her teeth in the back of my leathers, dragging me forcibly away from the very upset looking gryphon. 

“If it weren’t for us, you’d be dead.” I seethe. “And I mean that both specifically and in general.” As if their puny little birds could have taken down a single wyvern—what a joke. She stumbles back, holding a hand to her face and the look she levels on me, well…it’s a good thing looks can’t kill. Sgaeyl chuffs out a laugh.

She opens her mouth, no doubt to say something scathing, but the infantry captain shoots her a fierce glare that stops her in her tracks, which is…strange, because they definitely shouldn’t know each other. 

“Thank you. For your assistance.” He offers Sgaeyl a respectful nod, not making eye contact, before his gaze settles on me. “Remi Sorrengail.” He smirks. “I was wondering when I’d get the chance to meet you.” 

I am not ashamed to admit that smirk does something to me. My lips part in surprise. “You…” I suppose there’s not much to say—of course he knows who I am. Everyone in Navarre probably knows by now about the Sorrengail twins and how they both bonded two dragons. “Who are you?” I ask instead, my brow furrowing. 

He steps closer, a small smile playing on his lips, like I should already know the answer. “Xaden Riorson.” He murmurs.

“Oh.” It leaves my mouth unbidden. “That…makes sense.” Only a duke’s son could get away with flouting the infantry dress code and whatever orders they’d been given to retreat, to avoid the oncoming fight entirely. 

“Does it?” He arches a single, perfect brow.

“No.” I reply, deadpan, my eyes darting over to the gryphon flier he clearly knows well. Too well for the Duke of Aretia’s son. Lía snorts, nudging my back with her nose. 

“We need to go.” Sgaeyl says, her voice tight. “Your presence is required.” Someone needs mending, is what she means. 

“Ok.” I sigh reluctantly, glancing over my shoulder at her briefly. I turn back to Xaden Riorson, letting my eyes trail over his face one last time. There’s a diagonal cut bisecting his left eyebrow, blood dripping down his cheek and I step closer into his space, rising up on my toes. Silently, I reach out to cup his jaw, smoothing my thumb over the wound gently. He doesn’t flinch at the sting, heated eyes raking over my features as I mend it carefully, leaving only a silver scar behind. 

I drop back down onto my feet, holding his gaze as I back away slowly, ignoring the way the tips of my fingers tingle. I turn, intending to scale Lía’s foreleg gracefully, but I pause, unable to resist taking one final look over my shoulder. Gods, he’s gorgeous. My lips quirk up. “You’d look better in black, Captain.”

[nevess]

[ i love thee with a love that shall not die, till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old. ] - William Shakespeare

🌱… description: You and Anakin are stargazing and he can’t stop looking at your beautiful face.

🍵 … warnings: none, more Anakin fluff :p

🧳 … character/s: Anakin Skywalker x Reader

☕️ … word count: 760 words ; | date: October 3rd, 2023

🗞️ back to the main menu

a/n: still just making anakin x reader fluff cuz tumblr needs it. :) Hope you enjoy it! <3 Disclaimer!!! i didn’t read it after finishing, so i apologize for any typos :p In other news, im looking for beta readerssss here's the post!

The moon hung low on the horizon, casting a silvery glow across the quiet hilltop. Anakin Skywalker and you had returned from your respective missions, weary from the battles and conflicts that seemed to define the Clone Wars. Tonight, you both sought solace in the serenity of the night sky.

Laying on a blanket beneath a tapestry of stars, you gazed up at the twinkling constellations, captivated by the beauty of the cosmos. The galaxy seemed vast and endless, a stark contrast to the turmoil you faced on a daily basis.

Anakin's eyes, however, weren't on the stars above; they were fixed on you. He watched you in awe, his heart swelling with a deep, unspoken love. Your profile was illuminated by the soft moonlight, casting a gentle glow on your features, and in that moment, you were the most beautiful thing in the universe to him.

Lost in his thoughts, he finally broke the silence, his voice soft and filled with admiration. "You know, Y/N, I've seen countless stars in my lifetime, but none shine as brightly as you do."

You turned your head to meet his gaze, your eyes locking with his intense blue ones. His words caught you off guard, and a gentle blush colored your cheeks. "Anakin," you replied, your voice tender, "you have a way of making every moment feel extraordinary."

He reached out and gently traced a finger along your cheek, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "I can't help it," he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours. "You're the most incredible thing I've ever known."

Your heart swelled with emotion at his words, and you couldn't help but smile. Anakin's charm and intensity had always drawn you in, and tonight, beneath the starlit canvas of the galaxy, you felt a deep connection that transcended words.

As the night wore on, the two of you shared stories of your missions and the challenges you faced, finding solace in each other's understanding and support. Anakin's laughter echoed through the quiet hillside as he recounted a particularly amusing encounter with a droid army, and you couldn't help but join in.

The moments of levity were precious, a reminder that despite the weight of their responsibilities as Jedi and soldiers, you were still able to find joy in each other's company. Under the vast expanse of the night sky, it felt like the galaxy had granted you a brief respite from its turmoil.

As the hours passed, Anakin's gaze never wavered from you. He admired the way your eyes lit up with enthusiasm when you spoke about your passion for diplomacy and negotiation, and how your determination shone through when discussing your duties as a Jedi. To him, you were a beacon of hope and inspiration, a force of nature he couldn't resist and wasn’t going to.

At some point, you both lay down, side by side, your fingers intertwined as you continued to stargaze. The conversation gave way to comfortable silence, a shared appreciation for the quietude of the night.

Anakin broke the silence once more, his voice a soft whisper. "Y/N, I know we face so much uncertainty and danger every day, but the terrible agony im in when you are not near goes away as soon as my eyes see you. In the horrors of what we may or may not do in batter… when i’m with you anything is possible. I love you."

You turned to him, your eyes locking onto his, and the world seemed to fade away. You were mesmerized for his way with words, and how he would always know how to make you feel loved and appreciated. "Anakin," you replied as you look at him with all the love in the world, your voice filled with sincerity, "I love you too, more than words can express." You smiled as your thoughts gathered around one very specific… You can’t believe you are so lucky as to have him as a partner.

In that moment, beneath the starry tapestry of the universe, your love felt like a force of its own, unyielding and eternal. Together, you found strength, love, and hope under the stars, and for as long as you gazed upon them, you knew that no matter the challenges ahead, you would face them together.

© Nevess 2023. My original posts are not allowed to be edited, translated and/or re-uploaded on another account or platform without my permission, nevertheless, re-blogs are accepted and very appreciated.

[myhauntedsalem]

Dingess Tunnel

Hidden deep within the coal filled Appalachian Mountains of Southern West Virginia rests a forgotten land that is older than time itself. Its valleys are deep, its waters polluted and its terrain is as rough as the rugged men and women who have occupied these centuries old plats for thousands of years.

The region is known as “Bloody Mingo” and for decades the area has been regarded as one of the most murderous areas in all of American history.

The haunted mountains of this territory have been the stage of blood baths too numerous to number, including those of the famed Hatfield’s and McCoy’s, Matewan Massacre and the Battle of Blair Mountain. Even the county’s sheriff was murdered this past spring, while eating lunch in his vehicle.

Tucked away in a dark corner of this remote area is an even greater anomaly – a town, whose primary entrance is a deserted one lane train tunnel nearly 4/5 of a mile long.

The story of this town’s unique entrance dates back nearly a century and a half ago, back to an era when coal mining in West Virginia was first becoming profitable.

For generations, the people of what is now Mingo County, West Virginia, had lived quiet and peaceable lives, enjoying the fruits of the land, living secluded within the tall and unforgiving mountains surrounding them.

All of this changed, however, with the industrial revolution, as the demand for coal soared to record highs.

Soon outside capital began flowing into “Bloody Mingo” and within a decade railroads had linked the previously isolated communities of southern West Virginia to the outside world.

The most notorious of these new railways was Norfolk & Western’s line between Lenore and Wayne County – a railroad that split through the hazardous and lawless region known as “Twelve Pole Creek.”

At the heart of Twelve Pole Creek, railroad workers forged a 3,300 foot long railroad tunnel just south of the community of Dingess.

As new mines began to open, destitute families poured into Mingo County in search of labor in the coal mines. Among the population of workers were large numbers of both African-Americans and Chinese emigrants.

Despising outsiders, and particularly the thought of dark skinned people moving into what had long been viewed as a region exclusively all their own, residents of Dingess, West Virginia, are said to have hid along the hillsides just outside of the tunnel’s entrance, shooting any dark skinned travelers riding aboard the train.

Though no official numbers were ever kept, it has been estimated that hundreds of black and Chinese workers were killed at the entrance and exits of this tunnel.

Norfolk & Western soon afterward abandonment the Twelve Pole line. Within months two forces of workmen began removing the tracks, ties, and accessory facilities.

[rpgsandbox]

Obojima is a 250+ page campaign setting inspired by the wondrous worlds featured in Studio Ghibli films and the beloved Legend of Zelda game series. Guide your players through breathtaking locations, encounter strange spirits, discover rare oddities, and battle wild and wondrous creatures. Create your own unforgettable narrative in this familiar world with an all-new collection of curious items, magical spells, and numerous player options.

A world built for exploration and adventure. Lose yourself alongside your players as you travel the breathtaking island of Obojima, a curious place with a mysterious past. Obojima is a prime location for many adventurers' stories.

In Obojima: Tales From The Tall Grass, you'll find pages and pages of rich lore, detailed maps, pre-generated characters, strange factions, unique locations, and more.  All of which is accompanied by breathtaking art to pull you deeper into the world. 

On the Island of Obojima, potion crafting is a useful skill that most adventures learn, but few master. LUCKILY, Potion Brewing has never been easier!

Hunt for any of the 100 + ingredients spread across the island and combine them to create custom potion recipes. With over 180 potions to brew, you'll be a seasoned adventure before you've crafted them all. That being said, you must be careful; some of these fabled ingredients are hard to obtain! Many experienced Brewmasters have lost themselves or worse in search of a rare ingredient.

Foul magic has begun to spread across Obojima's Eastern coastline!

The sea has turned black: the waters have begun to poison the sea life and corrupt the land. Rumors have spread amongst the spirits, but few claim to understand what's taking place on this strange island. What we can say for sure is this corruption has bestowed unlikely creatures with dangerous abilities. It has even affected some adventurers. 

Will you explore the coast and delve below the water's surface to uncover the cause of this dark affliction?

Play as an eclectic College of Masks bard and craft versatile theater masks to help you in any situation. Breathe life into paper constructs and control the battlefield as an Origami Mage. Harness the potent magic that has slowly begun to infect Obojima as the Corrupted Ranger.

Fully immerse yourself and your players in the world by using any of the new subclasses, spells, backgrounds, feats, weapon types, or player races. 

The numerous options will have you struggling to decide what to play.

Create unforgettable encounters using any of the 60+ new monsters only found on the island of Obojima. See if your players can catch the elusive and playful Sheep Dragon on one of the islands' rolling hillsides, or stay hidden as the dangerous and cruel Urugama haunts the roads between villages. Reveal these creatures' strange quirks or powerful abilities and watch as your players scream and shout in delight or shock!

Kickstarter campaign ends: Thu, August 31 2023 5:00 PM BST

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[edosianorchids901]

Fortitude

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "pinprick"

Cw: blood, injury, offscreen violence, nonsexual nudity

“Oh my,” Aziraphale said, breathless as he and Crawley stumbled to a halt. “Well. I wasn’t quite planning to get caught up in all that.”

Crawley gave him an unimpressed look. “You shouldn’t have been in the middle of a war zone trying to pick figs.”

“Well, how was I to know it was a war zone?” Aziraphale protested.

“Maybe because it’s been more or less a war zone for the past decade?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say that he could hardly be expected to remember every war going on in the whole world. Then he paused, frowning at the trickle of red running down Crawley’s left arm.

“Are you hurt?” Aziraphale reached for Crawley’s black himation. Crawley hissed and tugged the cloak out of his hand. “Really, Crawley. After you came to my rescue so dramatically—”

“Don’t say that.” Scowling, Crawley tugged the himation tighter about himself and set off resolutely towards a farmhouse downhill. “I didn’t rescue you. Demons don’t rescue angels.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Crawley had absolutely rescued him, dashing right into the fray to knock Aziraphale out of the way of a spear. “If you say so. But please, if you’re hurt, allow me to help.”

Resolute, Crawley kept marching down the hillside. Blood dripped to the rocky ground. “Wot, this? It barely counts as being hurt. It’s just a pinprick.”

“But you are hurt?”

“It’s a pinprick.” Crawley paused and looked around. The blood dripping from his arm and himation puddled beside his right foot. “Right. So. For my money, we should hide out in that farmhouse until we’re… until… the battle…”

Face ashen, Crawley fell over.

“Crawley!” Aziraphale lunged, grabbing wildly. Crawley crashed into his chest, limp. “Crawley, are you okay? Crawley!”

“Nnngh.” Crawley just hung in Aziraphale’s arms. “Weird. I got… dizzy.”

His voice was faint, dazed. He still hadn’t tried to straighten up.

Aziraphale looked down, and gasped. Blood stained his own clothes now, spreading quickly. “Oh, you absolute idiot! Pinprick indeed. I shan’t be surprised if an entire sword was driven through your shoulder.”

“S’ not sword,” Crawley mumbled. “S’ spear.”

“Oh, because that’s so much better.” Trembling, Aziraphale scooped Crawley up and carried him towards the farmhouse.

He ignored the heavily laden fig trees, heading straight inside. Crawley had somehow gone even more limp in his arms.

“Hello?” Aziraphale called, craning his neck to look around. “Is anyone here? I-I promise, I mean no harm. I just need somewhere to tend to my frien— to this fellow I don’t know!”

“Really?” Crawley managed to sound irritated even though his voice was barely audible. “After I… rescued you n’ everything?”

“You’re the one who said I didn’t rescue you.” There didn’t seem to be any people inside—perhaps they’d fled the war zone. Aziraphale carried Crawley to bed and laid him down on a sheepskin. “Here, now let me see. And I shan’t have any silly resistance, now.”

Crawley gasped in pain when Aziraphale peeled the blood soaked fabric away. “Oh, Satan…”

“Just a pinprick,” Aziraphale muttered. “This so-called pinprick has pierced all the way through your shoulder. I can’t even imagine how painful it must be.”

“Really painful.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

Crawley gave a baleful glare, but didn’t answer.

��I’m afraid this is going to hurt rather a lot. You know how it is, holy power and all.” Aziraphale drew a deep breath, then pressed his hand to the wound. Crawley moaned. “Here we are, just a moment now.”

He channeled a miracle into the injury. Crawley howled in pain, thrashing, and Aziraphale held him down. Sweat broke out across Crawley’s ashen skin, seeped through his grey chiton in dark patches.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispered, blinking away tears. His hands trembled, and he couldn’t even find it in his heart to make a sarcastic comment about Crawley downplaying the wound so much. “I suppose it’s not wonder you didn’t want to tell me you were hurt. I wish my healing didn’t hurt you, too.”

It was better than Crawley discorporating, at least, and he tried to keep that in mind. He got some water, eased Crawley the rest of the way out of his clothing, and gently bathed away the blood.

He couldn’t get all of it. Not without turning Crawley over. The poor old dear had gone quite silent and still, and the thought of disturbing him was unbearable.

Finally, though, golden eyes flicked open again. Crawley looked for him, dazed, and quirked a faint smile. “Hi. Sorry. Fainted a little.”

“Yes, I’m afraid you did.” Aziraphale miracled the blood off his own himation, and spread it across Crawley. “I’m sorry the healing was so painful.”

“Nnnh.” Crawley just laid there, but his smile widened as Aziraphale took his hand and held it gently. “S’ not why I didn’t tell you. About the spear thing.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Well, not wanting me to douse you in holy energy does seem a valid reason.”

“I mean, yeah. But.” Crawley ground his teeth, then hissed. “Look, I don’t wanna say this, but you’ll feel guilty if I don’t. I held off because if I’d told you back then, you woulda…”

He cut off. But now, Aziraphale understood. If Crawley had admitted to the injuries, Aziraphale would have insisted on stopping to tend to them. And Crawley had wanted him to be safe.

Smiling, Aziraphale nodded and squeezed his hand. He wouldn’t force Crawley to talk about it, wouldn’t rub it in his face, although he had every intention of bringing up the “pinprick” again later once Crawley felt up to being teased.

But the knowledge that Crawley had risked himself not just once but twice to keep Aziraphale safe… that knowledge, Aziraphale hugged close to himself as he held Crawley’s  hand and settled in to watch over him as he recovered.

[carnirat]

So you know John Smith's "Journal of Impossible Things" from Human Nature/The Family of Blood?

Years ago, I got a small copy of it at a nerd store and it's got every page from the journal in it. I'm sure these all exist out there already but here's some of my favorite pages and what text I can make out for those who haven't seen some of these

There's lots of repeating text and jibber jabber, I assume to fill space, so I won't write down stuff twice or the random stuff he tends to write over and over

I find myself wanting to draw a perfect rose, over and over although I cannot find a rose anywhere!

In my dream, I keep asking a girl where to find one, and she is dressed in the most extraordinary immodest way.

She will not answer me, and she keeps walking away.

I remember this girl I have drawn her although(?) I know her well in my dream

(The rest is stuff from the previous page and more jibber jabber)

I am a father in my dreams, I am certain, and a grandfather. A great sadness at these thoughts. As if they had not just died, all my (I can't tell), but had departed in a way somehow more final than death.

I am the last for some reason I am terribly afraid that my watch is broken.

I can't remember what they look like (idk) see shadows (idk)

The skies are a burnt orange. And the leaves on the trees are silver.

I know a man who lives on a hillside there. And the city has towers! And I dance(?) in my robes, and my collar I can never get it right. I am so ill suited for it and yet they tell me I am in charge! Ha ha ha!

(Repeating)

(A page about Capt. Jack Harkness)

I am traveling with a man in the military, only he isn't what he seems, and so I leave him behind after a battle, and he is stranded in no man's land, so alone and so far away from home.

(More repeating)

(Page about Martha, next page is immediately next to this)

She wants someone close to me someone I think I know in the waking world. And she is a doctor. She wants to heal me. Why is being a Dr so important? To her and to me. I wish she could turn around so I can see who she really is.

(More repeating)

The girl with the strange spikey hair is trying to take someone away from me

She dresses strange different

Her features are unclear

I don't know what she looks like

Black hair

(Lessgo badwolf rose)

A woman with the universe(?) poured into her and she becomes a lady!

Such grace!

She judges the living and the dead.

Everything changes as she (idk)

She judges(possibly) everything and everyone that she meets

She judges all that come in her path all and more.

She has gold eyes the universe is inside her

Powerful

Gold eyes

I have seen the opposite of a star. A darkness rather than a light on the void

There is a world that lives there, terribly close to disaster. It feels most like a vision, a prophesy. Like something out of astrology, that the placing of these stars is important.

(Jibber jabber)

And further into the nightmare, there was a pit. And there was a voice from the pit. And it wrote itself onto mens faces. It sought an escape into the world of men.

It was the beast, I am sure. The thing inside is all that we must not let out.

A broken clock or a broken mirror will let it out.

(Can't make out the last bit)

-

Hit the photo limit but I'm not done! I'm reblogging with the rest, here's the link to that)

[monstersdownthepath]

Monster Spotlight: Jotund Troll

CR 15

Chaotic Evil Huge Humanoid

Bestiary 3, pg. 272

The largest and most powerful of trollkind by far, the Jotund Trolls are also among the most savage and demanding. While other trolls may band together to form societies--simple as they are--the Jotund have no time or patience to settle down in one place and no desire for the company of other trolls aside from the very occasional moments they're driven to mate. The closest thing to 'society' a Jotund may take part in is bullying other Giants (especially Ogres) into subservience and leading them into destructive warbands which terrorize entire countrysides until brave heroes arise to stop them, eschewing teaming up with other trolls to assure that they don't have to compete with any stomach more ravenous than their own.

Despite their solitary nature, Jotund Trolls aren't exactly starved for company. They are, after all, societies unto themselves; every one of the nine heads on a Jotund Troll has a brain and a personality of its own, and most heroic parties hunting one down have located their quarry simply because of the loud arguments and debates each head gets into with the other about... well, just about everything, from who controls which limb to who gets what bite of which food. Notably, adult Jotund Trolls always have nine heads, no more and no less. Whether this is some magical quirk of their biology or because there's no room for another head is left ambiguous, as is their true origins; they may be chosen offspring of the Trollfather (or his most hated children, seeing as how he's 'cursed' them to always be around more trolls), but the Giants of Jotungard are claimed to have created them as a means to test their warrior mettle, though if this is true, their experiment has obviously gone terribly awry! Now the Jotund wander freezing hillsides and cold marshlands, gorging on every living thing their eighteen eyes catches on.

With a metabolism so extreme that they essentially have to eat a ton (as in the unit of measurement, not a hyperbolic intensifier) of meat every day just to keep from starving, a single Jotund Troll is a walking extinction event that can quickly depopulate huge stretches of land, with enough individual strength to let them compete for territory with just about anything but dragons... and even then, only specific kinds of dragons, as their rampant Regeneration 10 is only shut down by Fire and Acid damage. There's little that will keep a Jotund from its meal, even if it must contend with creatures with far more magical power and finesse than them. They don't need finesse.

The Jotund is a simple beast, like most trolls. It wields entire uprooted trees as clubs sized for a Huge creature, swinging upwards to three times for 2d6+10 damage each, or 4d6+10 once a round with Vital Strike, and the bonuses they get to attack rolls from their tremendous size means they can freely use Power Attack to take a meager -4 penalty to their rolls to get +8 to damage. If it gets the opportunity to make a Full-Attack, it can also use its empty claw for 1d8+5 damage and lean down to bite once for 2d6+5... but the claw and bite are more dangerous than they look, as both Grab any creature they hit, and the Jotund has Fast Swallow to instantly shovel a grabbed victim directly into its shared stomach, where such unfortunates take 4d6+15 damage a round until they die or escape.

In a pitched battle where the party has finally gotten into position, a Jotund can force the frontliners into a lose-lose; they have Awesome Blow to take a standard action knocking a single enemy 10ft backwards, and while that doesn't SOUND impressive, these titanspawn have a 15ft space AND 15ft reach, so if one it swats you away if you're adjacent to it, being knocked 10ft back still means you're in its threat radius, but it is no longer in yours. What's worse is that you also fall prone, forcing you to waste time and actions standing back up... which means the troll can AoO you with its club or bite, potentially grappling you, and if you can't get free by the time its turn rolls around, it can Fast Swallow you straight out of the fight for another round or two while it mauls the rest of the party. Not a bad use of a standard action!

Though Jotund Trolls don't have Rend like their smaller cousins, they don't truly need it. A successful bite attack threatens to remove a fighter from combat, but thankfully they can only make one bite attack a round! ... right? Wrong! Their nine heads give them many bonuses, like All-Around Vision and Multiple Minds, but the one we're focusing on right now is All-Seeing Attacks, allowing the Jotund to make nine Attacks of Opportunity each round, making its space and reach even more of a painful mire to wade through. It's unlikely to ever NEED all nine attacks, but it certainly makes snacking on crowds of fleeing citizens and animals hilariously easy. Yes, hitting creatures with its club is good and all, but snatching up and Grabbing a bunch of people with its bite attacks is the REAL threat, because come its turn, Fast Swallow means it can immediately try to eat ALL OF THEM.

Those nine heads also give the Jotund some invaluable defenses, as previously mentioned; All-Around Vision means it's nearly impossible to sneak up on the troll and flat out impossible to flank it, cutting down on the danger it faces from Sneak Attacks and coordinated parties alike... but it also has Multiple Minds, giving it the power to shunt mental attacks on to a head that's not really doing much. This renders the Jotund immune to confusion and insanity, grants it a +4 to Will saves versus all mind-affecting effects (for a total of +17), AND it rolls ALL Will saves (not just versus mind-affecting effects) twice and takes the better result. The normally-reliable 'ensorcel/debuff the stupid brute monster' has a very, very low chance of actually working against the Jotund, which may catch a Hex-spamming Witch, hopeful Mesmerist, or Enchanter Wizard fatally off-guard.

Though the Jotund is immune to confusion itself, it can dole it out with a Cacophonous Roar, an earsplitting sound it can unleash as a standard action every 1d4 rounds. Anything caught in the area has to make a DC 20 Will save or be rendered confused for 1d4 rounds as well, leaving victims fumbling with their equipment, their words, or even their attack actions as the monstrous troll closes in to beat them into a paste, each head clamoring for the choicest bits. The potential whimsy of the troll's heads loudly arguing with each other over who gets to eat what parts and in which order is, perhaps, needed during an encounter with one of these horrors, and is something I wholeheartedly encourage using. Talking is a free action, and they've got nine heads to do it from!

You can read more about them here.

[orqheuss]

Journeys end in lovers meeting

(Alastor/GN!Reader ANGST) - can be read as romantic or queerplatonic

Summary:

Somewhere inside of him, buried deep down under layers and layers of pride and ego, Alastor knew that today he was going to die. *** The battle was over and the residents of the Hazbin Hotel had won. What would have happened, though, if Alastor wasn’t able to heal himself? What would have happened if you were also on the verge of dying?

Word count: 4.7k

Tags: Major character death, blood, implied/referenced murder, implied/referenced suicide, implied/referenced torture, serial killers, murder partners, perma death, love confessions, grief and mourning, cannibalism, hallucinations, canon divergence, existentialism, bittersweet ending

Somewhere inside of him, buried deep down under layers and layers of pride and ego, Alastor knew that today he was going to die. 

The angelic army had come and gone long ago; all that remained was a barren wasteland of debris and the hollow shells of people and buildings alike. The infernal red sun of Hell had only just begun to breach over the horizon, the sky above still an iridescent purple as the last remaining dregs of night bid the world below goodbye. Sinners were just beginning to make their way out of their homes, windows barricaded last night with anything that they could find on the street now flaking debris and doors creaking open against the startling quiet of the world around them. It was only a matter of time before the inhabitants of the Hazbin Hotel began their search through the rubble, a desperate cry of their missing comrades dangling from their thick, grief ridden tongues as they called out name after name. Children from Cannibal Town huddled against the shaking forms of their parents, sobbing over the loss of their best friends— family— only to be satiated by the new and exciting taste of angel flesh. 

It was only fitting that those who kept to themselves the most, those who worried solely for their brethren and gave not an ounce of thought to those outside of their safe town walls, would fall on those spears of angelic steel the most. The world was cruel that way; no matter how hard you fought for what you believed in, no matter how brave or strong you were in the face of danger, we were all but sheep under the butcher's knife of petty anger and revenge. Altruism often ended in acquiescence, no matter how just the cause. To go bravely into a frightening death— what a terrible oxymoron.  

Yes, it would only be mere moments before the world would wake anew in their comfortable, scarlet universe. For now, though, silence blanketed the tired world below the lonely Hazbin hillside. Just silence, and that lovely, dark purple sky above. 

“I figured I would find you here.” 

A voice came from the dark doorway of the decrepit radio tower, the familiar timbre wrapping its way around the man huddled in the corner like a thick, warm blanket. Alastor knew when he crawled through the ruins of his most sacred hiding place that he wouldn’t be alone for long. Well, a part of him knew. Another part hoped desperately. Even the most terrifying demon overlord in Hell was scared of dying alone. It just happened to be the most pleasant surprise that the person to find him was the one he was wishing for. 

Before his deal with Lilith— before the Hazbin Hotel— Alastor preferred to lick his wounds, things he got more than he would care to admit, in solitude. Others seeing him wounded meant that he was being seen as weak. The denizens of Hell would not hesitate for a moment before using his pathetic pain to their advantage. He had to remain strong in the face of adversity, even if the enemy in question was himself. Injuries hurt his ego more than anything else. He was supposed to be invincible. He did his terrible deeds on earth— continued them down to Hell— and because of that, he was supposed to be one of the strongest in existence. He was supposed to be godly in this world of sin. How a simple man could best him, even the first man, grated on him like nothing before. 

In his self hatred, the emotion dyed the color of pure anger to anyone that didn’t have the decoder to his cryptic mannerisms, he finally surrendered to the frightening ordeal of dying— being known by the people he viewed himself so high above as a saving grace in this pit of sorrow. How disgusting, he thought. Alastor Hartfelt, hero of the Hazbin Hotel, dying in place of those he begrudgingly cared about. His mother would be proud, at least. If anyone else entered his little radio tower, now crumbled at the bottom of the ravine separating the tall hill it once rested on and the bustling streets of the Pride district, he would have used the last bit of strength he had left to rip their body to shreds. To hell with whomever it was— King or Princess of hell included. 

You, though. You, he was okay with seeing him like this— staying with him in his last moments. He wished he had someone like you when he was alive.

You pushed the broken hatch of his tower to the side as you shimmied through the tiny hole, careful to avoid the rusted hinges that made that god awful squeak. You told him to fix it so many times before the extermination— bit too late for that now. You yourself felt rusted down to the inside, a slice of your own adorning the flesh of your hip up to just under your ribcage, deep and dreadful to look at, let alone feel. It oozed blood between your fingers, staining your once pristine skin the color of true, unfettered carnage. You felt like if you moved your hand in the slightest your organs would tumble to the ground at your feet. 

Alastor’s eyes widened at the state you were in, not once considering that you could be searching for him for the same reason he was hoping for you to appear. It would be fitting that the one time he truly felt that he cared for someone, they would also be torn from the world not long after himself. A part of him was silently pleased with this unforeseen circumstance; to die by the side of the one you loved was one of the world's rarest gifts. It was common to live alone, but so, so rare to die in company. 

The red haired demon prided himself on knowing things, and he knew that you were dying too. He didn’t need you to tell him; he knew it the moment your eyes met his across the wooden floor of his lonely tower, and his heart crushed itself to smithereens in his barely breathing chest.  

Ever since you had greeted him that first day of visiting the hotel, he knew that there was something familiar about you, like traveling to a small city across the world and finding the same style of architecture as your hometown waiting to say hello. Not only were you an overlord yourself, you were one of the few that didn’t make him want to commit numerous atrocities for the mere fact that you existed in his space. He was the Radio Demon, the most feared voice in all of Hell, the king of the airways. You were the Portrait Demon, equally feared, but for vastly different reasons. He painted pictures with his voice, you did so with your hands and canvas. From your marvelous art came horrors unknown to even the sickest of minds. With one stroke of your brush across the Hadean sky, you could level entire domains like they were nothing but a grain of sand in a vast ocean. From your pencil lept creatures only spoken of in hushed whispers, lest they come alive and gobble up the ones speaking ill of their owner like a Sunday roast. Under your powerful fingers came a form of evil, a form of domination, that Alastor could only find in his wildest dreams. He knew that he should have felt threatened by you— should have gotten rid of you as soon as he had the chance that first night sleeping under the same roof. But, no matter the looks he threw at you across the table at breakfast, or the subtle tenseness he held in his shoulders whenever you shared a space during one of Charlie’s ridiculous trust building exercises, you were nothing to him but kind. 

It disgusted him at first. You were supposed to be deranged— someone who laughed maniacally in the face of danger. Here you were trying to engage him in conversation, topics ranging from his favorite color to what he did in his free time— how annoyingly human of you. It was only when you realized his love for jazz that you really were able to ensnare him in your trap; because that’s what it was, a trap that snagged on the lapels of his coat and refused to let go. All it took was a question posed about his favorite artists and the subtle probing about what his life was like as a radio host in the 1920s, and, as Mimzy said, he was a kitten in your hands. It was so simple with you. You made things simple. 

He taught you the beauty of music, and you taught him that it was okay to show a little humanity once in a while. 

When you finally told him about who you were before you died, that foolish warmth of connection gnawing at the cage of his ribs, something he had never felt before and had needed Rosie to help decode, nearly made him drop to his knees on the spot and pledge his afterlife to your beautiful slaughter. 

You came from the 17th century. Baroque art took the communities of Italy by storm, and you, a small thing in the center of this encompassing universe, had the entire world wrapped around your little, talented fingers with each stroke of your oils against the framed linens. Each person you found sitting in your portrait chair would go missing not long after your art was revealed to the masses. A terrible tragedy, people would tell you. You were the last face they saw, and their stoic, oil on canvas eyes were the last thing the population knew of them. Numerous bodies lay under your name in history, their terrible, permanent smiles stretched across their bloody face from the edge of your knife and their throats slit in just the same manner, your paintings always hanging on the mantle just beyond their final resting place. 

“A smile?” He had asked you, cutting you off during the long winded rant you started down after a few too many hot toddies, that permanent smile of his elated at your tale of butchery. 

You met his grin with one of your own, leaning conspiratorially into his space and reaching a finger up to tap him on the nose. 

“People always look so much better when they smile,” you mused. “If they wanted to be so miserable in life, and in their portrait, then they could be permanently happy in death.” 

It would be a lie to say that Alastor didn’t get some sort of sick joy hearing you say those words to him, your breath fanning across the apples of his cheeks and eyes pleasantly warm in the light of his fireplace. 

Anyways, who would suspect you, a simple painter, of committing such heinous deeds? It was like convicting a chef of murder for cooking the last thing a person ate before they had a heart attack. 

Of course, no one knew that you were the one behind the deaths. Not until your untimely ending, that is. 

Suicide got you in the end, your soul determined to end things on your own terms before the influenza wracking through your body took you like the sea in a storm. The Polizia Municipale found you in your home, walls high and curtains drawn against the stained glass that decorated your windows so the world would not see your sorry state before it was time. You slit your own throat in your parlor, a self portrait hanging delicately upon the lead painted walls of your home just beyond your slumped, bloody form. Wrenching open the cloth hanging around your space created the most lovely, otherworldly, supernova of colors to stream around the room— your final painting for the world to see against your dead, pale skin. 

No one could ever say you weren’t one for dramatics. 

But, hey, so was he. 

The image of you then was quite similar to the one Alastor saw of you now. There you stood in all your glory, hair windswept from your battle with the angels and old fashioned clothing stained and torn. His eyes trailed to the blood pooling at your feet, feeling your own eyes take in the slash across his chest that was creating a small puddle where he sat. Wordlessly, he shifted his weight to the side, sliding to make room for you next to him on the floor and fighting the grimace that threatened to breach his carefully crafted calm demeanor. Why he continued to deny himself the reprieve of sharing his actual feelings, he would never know. Perhaps his last shred of dignity wouldn’t allow it, even when faced with one of the people he trusted most in the world. 

You breathed a laugh at his stubborn nature, stumbling your way across the small space before unceremoniously dumping yourself to his right, shoulder pressing into shoulder. With a wave of your hand, you summoned a bottle of scotch from the ether and placed it on the ground between your nearly touching legs. You frowned slightly at the sight, confusion twitching your eyebrows downwards. Alastor fought to not laugh at the childish dismay on your face. 

“I was going for bourbon,” you whined, thumping your back against the soundboard you were resting on. 

The red head chuckled, wincing at the sting against his abdomen. “You know that I’m more partial to whiskey, my dear.” 

You hummed, plucking the bottle from the floor, uncapping the cork stopper, and taking a long swig from the neck, not bothering to look at him before handing it off into his waiting claws. 

“Guess we’re both disappointed, then.” 

Silence filled the room again as he took a long sip from the bottle, the energy comforting but bittersweet— many things left unsaid that were dangling from the tips of your tongues. You looked over at the handsome deer and found him staring off into space, lost in his own world as you both grew closer to your demise. His eyes were bleak, lacking that jovial energy that they usually held when you were in his presence. 

You weren’t blind to his obvious favoritism towards you— everyone knew it. The feeling was mutual, of course. Neither of you had entered romantic relationships when you were alive, and you seldom thought about such trivial things in the afterlife. There was too much to do! Souls to make deals with, territories to take over; it was busy work, being an overlord. That being said, there was definitely something akin to what you would assume was attraction unfurling itself in your stomach whenever you looked at Alastor. He made you feel warm— safe— something that many told you was a very, very stupid thing to equate to the demon. His eyes in particular were your favorite. Red against red, but still holding so much color that you couldn’t help but chart them like stars in the sky. When he was happy— truly happy, not just that strange fake joy he slapped on his face whenever he was in public— they were a beautiful ruby red, like the poppies in your garden when you were alive, and held all the comfort you could possibly crave. When he was relaxed, they looked like tiny pools of lava in a dormant volcano— dangerous, deadly, but strangely lovely, like standing in the eye of a storm— a mix of maroon, incarnadine, and sanguine. When he was angry, verging on giving into his murderous intent, they were black as pitch— his pupil a startling carmine like a low burning balefire against the night sky, itching to grow more and more until it could devour entire forests. 

He had his own magnetism that you couldn’t help being pulled into, from the first day you met until your dying day. He was your planet and you were his moon, forever tethered to him in his gravitational pull, but content all the same. 

“I should have stayed with you.” 

His voice cut through the noise of your mind, startling you back into the present. Your eyes focused back on his and all you could see swirling in those bloody depths was regret. You raised your hand to his face, gently stroking his cheek with your thumb, trying with every bit of energy left in you to wipe away the sadness that didn’t belong on his face. He leaned minutely into your touch, that ever present smile of his more sorrowful than you had ever seen it. 

“What do you mean, darling?” 

He raised his own hand to yours, pressing it harder into his skin and moving his thumb in a similar motion to the one you were doing. There was no way to describe his voice other than grieving. 

“I should have stayed with you, up there on the roof. I should have continued to fight Adam beside you like I was meant to. Instead I ran like a coward and left you to clean up my mess.” 

Attempting to lighten the mood, you cracked a small smirk, lifting up the corner of your mouth on one side. “Oh, little love, were you worried about me?” 

You could tell he wanted to frown at you making light of the situation. Curse those blasted stitches of his. 

“Yes,” he said, leaving absolutely no room to argue. You had never seen him this serious about something before. 

Your smile dropped slowly, the intensity of his stare burning into you like putting your hand over an open flame. The witty remark you had prepared for what you had assumed would be a joking retort from him died on your tongue. 

At some point you had moved closer to each other, legs now intertwined against the floor and hips flush. Your eyes filled with a sadness only rivaled by his own as you rested your temple against his. 

“I was worried about you too, Allie.” 

He sighed, a deep and heavy thing that was filled with relief, before nodding again and squeezing your hand. You exhaled a long shaky breath against his skin and his eyes fell shut. 

It was no secret that while the both of you excelled in many things, the one thing you lacked was the ability to express emotions in a cohesive way. You very rarely spoke about how you felt, be that about yourself or the other. In some ways, you both just knew what was going on in your partner's head. Words didn’t need to be spoken out loud to be heard. Trees did not need to tell the soil nourishing its roots that they cherished it. The kind sentiments you shared— the feelings of connection and comfort you held dear— were impossible to speak into existence. No words could hold a candle to the sheer solace that you gave each other in all your moments, both light, dark, and all things in between. 

With all that known intimately, you couldn’t help but feel like his sigh sounded tremendously like an I love you. 

Your lonely hand raised from your side, cradling his other cheek with a gentleness that Alastor hadn’t felt in some time. In that moment, with the slick feeling of blood transferring from your palm to his skin, he couldn’t bring himself to care about the mess. Tears burned behind his eyes but refused to fall— they hadn’t since his dear mother died all those years ago. He wanted to cry for you, though. He wanted to show his appreciation for everything you’ve done for him— show that he felt your love deep within him and prove that he felt the same. He wanted to cry for himself, too— sob over how little he had accomplished in both life and death, his list of desires now doomed to be forgotten like his legacy. Mourn over the life he could have lived in the dingy little hotel he was slowly learning to call a home. Wail over the fact he would never hold you in his arms again. Alas, they just wouldn’t come. The taste of metal began to fill his mouth, and he sighed a shaky exhale against your cheek, carefully moving your face away from his and tucking it in the spot where his neck met his shoulder. Your conjoined hands fell to your lap, fingers curling together like an intricate knot made entirely out of devotion and longing. 

“Enough seriousness, mon coeur, let us rest now,” he murmured, resting his full weight against the wood behind him. “Rest with me.” 

You got comfortable in the small space, nestling your head deeper into his skin and inhaling his comforting smell— mahogany, moss, and the heady scent of copper pennies. 

“Alright,” you said softly. 

I love you too. 

Alastor groaned low in his throat, his other hand finally releasing the harsh press he held against the slice on his chest and falling to his side. He leaned his cheek against your hair, smelling your own mix of heavenly perfume and a certain musk that was specific to only you. For once, he let himself relax, body curling around yours in a careful hug. There was no strength left in his feeble body, all of it sapped away as the minutes passed without medical attention. He exhaled a laugh against your head through his nose, feeling the hairs tickle against his cheek as he realized the truth of his full situation. Alastor, the Radio Demon, an altruist that died for his friends. 

You hummed at the feeling of his silent laugh, wordlessly questioning what suddenly tickled him so. 

“I suppose this means I’m free from my deal,” he said, amusement licking at the corners of his tired voice. 

You truly laughed for the first time then, enjoying the last bit of normalcy in your dying world. Leave it to your silly radio host to make a joke about his own demise. 

The deer demon’s eyes softened exponentially at the sound of your joy. How he would miss your laugh. 

“What was that Italian saying you said to me once? The one about eyes.” 

Alastor’s voice cracked, transatlantic accent finally dropping and his thick, creole drawl taking center stage. You closed your eyes then, realizing just how close the end was with that simple sound. Tears dripped from your eyelashes and wet the fabric of his shirt. 

“Occhio non vede, cuore non duole,” you whispered. “What the eyes do not see, the heart does not hurt.” 

He hummed, sinking into your smooth accent like a warm bath after a long day. “I’ve seen a lot of death in my life,” he croaked. “I think I’ll close my eyes for mine, if that’s alright.” 

You nodded, exhaustion creeping its way through your bones as you cried softly. 

He spoke again, voice like sleep to the freezing. 

“There is—” His sentence stuttered against the pain under his ribs. “There is a French saying that fits this situation, I think. L’appel du vide. The call of the void.” 

He swallowed thickly. “The void is calling me, mon petit monstre. I can’t hold off answering much longer.” 

He traded the hand clasped in yours for his left, wrapping his right arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer to his body. You clung to him with the remaining strength you had, wrapping your free arm around his waist and pressing your form into his like if you moved close enough you would become one person. 

After that it was silent again, the only sounds being your hollow breathing and the occasional hiss from aggravating your fatal wounds. The seconds stretched on like sand delicately trickling through an hourglass. The time for speaking was over; words left unsaid swirled through your minds, each one harder and harder to breach the dry, cracking skin of your lips and enter the world born anew. Gestures became your voice.

I’ll miss you could be found in the way your eyelashes tickled the skin of Alastor’s neck.

It’ll be okay whispered against your skin when he ran his thumb over your knuckles.

You did the best that you could hummed against his bloody cheek where you kissed it.

I’m so proud of you warmed your skin as he returned the affection, pressing kisses against each tear that fell from your eyes before leaving one last piece of his love in the kiss of his lips against your forehead. 

A final thank you breathed into the air around you. For what you were thanking him for, you weren’t sure. But, it felt right to say it then. 

You felt his last breath before you heard it, the trembling, useless air heaving against his collapsing lungs and out through his mouth before his chest fell still. The once comforting silence now felt stifling— constricting. You couldn’t bring yourself to sob out loud, your hiccupped cries echoing off the metal roof above as you tasted the blood on your teeth. You cradled Alastor’s hand, still clasped in yours, to your chest, pressing tiny kisses against his cooling skin until you didn’t have the strength to do anything other than breathe. 

Your time was coming soon, you could feel it in the way your bones felt like stone slabs under your skin. Each breath felt more and more painful than the last. Eyes still closed, you could feel the rays of the sun start to wake up over the horizon on your face. Even that felt cold to you know— everything was cold. The anguish you once felt extinguished itself under your fatigue, a slight pain still pressing against your ribs and wanting to burst forth, but easy enough to ignore as you waited for the icy touch of death to brush against your cheeks, taking your hand and leading you into whatever came after this. Was there even anything after your second death? Only time would tell, and today it decided to be a cruel mistress. 

Memories played behind your tired eyes like a moving picture show, each one bringing you more comfort in your final moments. First was a night you spent at the bar with Angel, Niffty, and Husker, drinks flowing like water after a drought and laughter spilling just the same. You remembered Angel telling tales about things he had seen Valentino do when he thought others weren’t looking— things like picking his nose or tripping over thin air. Then, there you were with Vaggie and Charlie, the three of you curled together on the couch as you recounted drama from when you were alive. Husbands cheating with their mistresses, none the wiser that their wives were aware of this fact and had contacted you about doing something about it. Next was Sir Pentious, lamenting about his “stupid egg boys” to you as you mindlessly drew in your sketchbook, laughing heartily at his ridiculous stories of battles lost because of their mindless puttering about. Finally there was Alastor, content in his personal bayou as you both dipped your feet in the muggy water. His memory was silent, just the both of you basking in the comfort of each other’s company and the sweet sounds of nature at night. In those memories, everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt anymore. 

A new one began to take shape, then, something you didn’t remember happening but feeling vaguely familiar. The room was dimmed around you, your body tucked into a large comfortable bed. Feather-down pillows hugged your head gently and red silk sheets covered you from neck to toe. A figure made its way out of the dark, steps light and sounding like hooves against carpet. The deep red of its clothes and hair looked almost pink in the hazy light, the green of something alive and lovely casting a pretty hue across its blurry grey face. Red and green and pink and grey and familiar. It reached a hand out to you, smoothing your hair from your face and caressing your cheek with its claws, careful to not mar your skin. It pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, pulling away after to look you in your sleepy eyes. 

“It’s time to sleep now, little painter,” it said softly. “I’ll see you soon.” 

Nodding your head, exhaustion oozing from your body and filling everything around you with the feeling of love and belonging, you gently closed your eyes and let the sweet whisper of unconsciousness take you into its waiting arms and waltz you into a world of darkness. 

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