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the-kr8tor · 2 days ago

Note

For you Ekko reqs, may I suggest R and Ekko hurt/comfort where Ekko slowly confides with R about what happened at the end of show (like probably a year or 2 of Ekko trying to process everything) and how he sometimes wished he stayed at the alt timeline? 🥲 Just him processing his grief of everything while R comforts him. Mans deserves better

-😅

Ahhhhh writing this made me tear up ngl 🥲 I hope you like it! ❤️❤️❤️

Pairing: Ekko x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.3k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, established relationship, can be read as platonic, cw violence mention, cw injury mention, cw blood and death mention, hurt/comfort.

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ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

“Ekko?” Your call is carried by the cool autumn wind, breeze fluttering your lashes as you stare at his back. You see him shrink in his seat, face hidden on the crook of his elbow. Walking closer, footsteps clanging against the metal balcony where you always find him on the same day it all happened. “You'll catch a cold up here.”

Piltover shines in front of you, warm light flickering off by the windows as people settle in for the night. But the glimmering fire paper still flies above the city, its light fading as it burns out in the breeze. It's the anniversary of that day, the day Piltover and Zaun saw war right on their doorstep.

Your arm aches, a phantom pain ebbing in and out when your mind goes back to that exact day where the sky was covered in searing smoke, and the streets splashed in warm crimson. Thumb brushing along your scar, it's a mark, a reminder of what was lost that day.

After a minute, Ekko sighs, still unmoving on his spot. “I'm not leaving.”

“I'm not trying to make you leave.” You fetch the blanket that was folded and draped over your shoulder. “I have a blanket for you. If you want it.”

He turns his head slowly over to you, mind playing tricks on him as he sees the flash of you bleeding and yelling for him. Eyes bloodshot, skin clammy and marred with blood. As fast as it came, he blinked and it's gone. Vision returning to the present, the present that wouldn't be possible if not for his sacrifice.

“Don't just gawk at me, bossman,” you smile gently at him, the blanket now unfurled in front of you, ready to drape it over his trembling form. “Do you want it or not?”

The corner of his lip curls up in a small smile, his eyes are tired, weighed down by the world. “Come sit down?”

He has never asked you to join him. You always left him alone up here whenever the anniversary comes around, thinking that's what he needed. But you always waited patiently just outside the door, sitting down on the cold steps while you let grief wash over you like the tides. Until it's time to pick yourself up again at the sound of the door opening. His hand helping you up wordlessly, grief holding the two of you in place, mourning together silently. When morning comes, everything seems to go back in place. The sun still shines, the world still breathes. But it lingers, that grief that has etched itself in your bones, sorrow that lives in his chest, weighing him down but never letting it fester and spread.

You two continue to fight, to improve the very place where blood has been spilled. Carry their memories, their names and their voices until the end. Lest their sacrifices would be in vain. Ekko's sacrifice would be in vain. He deserves better, to not bear the heaviness left in his soul.

“Are you just gonna gawk there or will you take a seat?” He uses your own words against you.

“Can't help it,” you say, heart pounding in your chest as you take a seat right next to him. Giving him enough space, but close enough to see his heavy eyes marred by unshed tears. “You look good under the moonlight.” You joke in an attempt to make him smile.

Ekko manages to chuckle softly, letting you drape the fluffy blanket around his shoulders. Your warm fingers grazing along his cool skin, sending goosebumps on his lean arms.

“Do you find my frown charming?”

You smile kindly, knuckles brushing down his goosebumps. “It’s the tear stained cheeks that gets me everytime.”

He scoffs with a small smile, attention turned towards the Piltover sky. The smell of burnt paper and violets linger in the air, frown deepening at his racing thoughts.

“Will you stay?”

With trepidation, you take his hand in yours, giving him enough time to pull away. He doesn't, instead, he weaves his fingers around yours. His grip is weak, but you can feel how much he needed it by how his eyes stare at your joined hands.

“Of course, whatever you need, Ekko.” You'll stay forever if he asks.

He nods, eyes staying downturned. “I wanted to stay at that place.” Letting out a shaky breath, he closes his eyes, trying to remember what they look like in his mind's eye. Faces that he once thought that he'll never see again. Faces that he had to say goodbye to. “But that would be selfish. I couldn't—” you squeeze his hand. “—I couldn't just leave this place and let it burn.”

The last two years have melded together in your head. All those months of waiting for him at the edge of the hideout, never losing hope, not even when they declared him dead. And then the war came, and you two didn't have the time to reunite, until it ended with you laying half dead on the streets of Piltover. Waking up to him holding your hand in a grip, wishing for you to open your eyes. And you did. A year later, he comes to you, angry and furious, wanting to let it all out. You still remember the day he told you exactly what happened when he disappeared for months like it was yesterday.

He recalls it all like it was a dream, a dream that was destined to be forgotten once he awakes. He didn't want to wake up, not when everything he always dreamed of was there. He gripped onto you tightly that day, held onto you until the sun rose. Nothing was left unsaid, his story left a hole in your heart, wishing that you've seen it for yourself. But you're afraid that you wouldn't be strong enough to leave, as strong as him who made a difficult choice to leave.

He has experienced unthinkable loss, a longing you've never felt. You don't have the exact words to comfort him, to soothe his want, so you move closer to him, fixing where the blanket has fallen and wrapping it over his body like a warm cocoon. You could only hope that it's enough, but you know it will never be enough.

Ekko tucks his head on your shoulder, hand finding its way over to your raised scar. His thumb traces along the skin, feeling your warmth and in turn comforting you. He knows the pain you're in too, he witnessed it, all the nights you've hid away only to come back with red eyes and grief etched on your face.

“I couldn't leave you and Zaun behind.” He mumbles against your shoulder.

Your heart wretches out of your chest. “It wouldn't be selfish.” You say, whispering it into the air around you. “I think— I would've done what you wanted to do. I wouldn't be strong enough to leave, but you did.” He leans away, eyes soft and shining under the moonlight as he meets with your eyes. “You're brave, Ekko. You might not want everyone to know what you had to do to save everyone, but I know. And I'm forever grateful for what you did. For what you have sacrificed so we could live. I'll remember it until I can't, even then, I'll try not to forget.” Cupping his jaw, you watch as a tear slides down. You wipe it away gingerly, smiling at him as he leans against your warmth, eyes closing, shoulders slumping with every word you utter. “You did well, Ekko.”

He moves forward, leaning his forehead against your own, affection radiating off him. “Thank you.”

“We'll be okay. We have time.”

“I know.” He has seen it, one day that dream will come true.

With a tender squeeze, his hand takes the other edge of the blanket, pulling and covering you with its warmth right next to him.

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bearwithegg · 5 months ago

Text

Fight Like a Girl || B.Blackwood || Part 2 ||

My thoughts have just been plagued with scenes I can write for this, i honestly intended this to be 2 parts but I ALREADY HAVE IDEAS FOR PART 3 SO FUCK IT WE BALL???

PART 1 HERE

PART 3 HERE

Kieran!Benjicot Blackwood (fancast) x f!Reader

Words: 2.2k

Warnings: Swearing??? Idiots in love but they dont know what that means

Tags <3: @spider-stark

***

War, for all that it brings with it, destruction, pain, suffering on a scale hitherto unknown remained a constant and unchanging conundrum. Were the gods so cruel as to let brother kill brother over trivial squabbles? It was a fascinating thing, to understand, to learn. You, however, decided in this current juncture it felt like a personal punishment aimed to torment and break you down. Realistically, the suffering it caused on a wider scale was insurmountable and that was something you could acknowledge. But in this instance, the way your body aches and screams from constant use makes it feel like a personal sleight.

“Your grip is weak.”

A soft groan of frustration exhales when you sigh, “I cannot hold the sword otherwise.” Dropping the sword by your side, it had been hours without respite and weeks of training for what? You still couldn’t even hold a sword properly and that frustrated you only more.

Benji laughs, softly, circling you with his head tilted to the side. You want to hit him but decide against it. After all, he didn’t need to visit your tent and assist in getting you battle ready — yet he did it either out of some sense of male honour or he secretly enjoyed overseeing your own personal agony.

“Does my ineptitude amuse you, my Lord?” You throw the sword on the ground, it landing with a thud on the canvas flooring. In the throes of frustration, you wipe the sweat from your brow and run a hand through unevenly chopped locks of hair.

“Your petulance, perhaps.” The boyish smile breaking through his hardened demeanor always caught you off guard. A gentle reminder that he was not some battle beaten man, he was young and had his innocence ripped from him; more or less like you. “You may not see it but there is improvement,” he dips down to pick the sword up, holding it out for you to take it again.

Right or not, it didn’t matter in the present. The improvement may have been so miniscule it might as well not have counted, though it was always difficult to see one's progress without the lense of the past. And with a sigh of concession, you snatch the sword from his hand and give him a goading look, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Again,” he instructs firmly, tongue protruding slightly out from between his lips — he was too good at that, switching from his natural charming disposition to a commanding authority in an instance. As if two halves of him were at odds with each other, another part of him lay dormant but the crazed look in his eyes often betrayed his steadfast composure. You weren’t sure if you liked it or feared it.

With a roll of your wrist and standing with a sturdy bearing, you take an offensive stance. His eyes wander all over you, in a completely different scenario it may have been flattering or intrusive, but there is no desire hidden away in the deep brine pools of his eyes. Under his scrutinous gaze you hold firm; at least my wrist doesn’t feel like falling off.

Improvement.

He steps to your side flank, head tilted in thought. The low hum accompanying the loud thoughts you wished he’d say out loud.

When did he get so close? You swallow nervously — he was a practical man, but often opted to show you how to do something by watching him first. Surprisingly gentle to the touch he brings a hand over yours, the one that grips the sword and adjusts your grip. Tilting your wrist slightly and nudging your thumb to a different position.

“Can you feel the difference?” He murmurs, an unexpectedly tender moment that would have floored you entirely had you not spent weeks training at his command. Even now though, you feel composure waning, creaking away like a tree that has had its trunk chopped halfway.

“Feels like… I have more control,” You utter, looking slightly over your shoulder. Oh. He was much closer than you thought.

He nods, softly adjusting your grip to keep the blade upright, though he doesn’t move his hand this time. “Your stance is good and solid. But means little if you have no strength to fortify it…” His other hand is held up so that you can see it and slowly brings it down to your hip. Not once during this small interaction does he break eye contact, it was as though he was giving you the chance to stop him if you wanted to.

You don’t, of course.

A moment of hesitation as he tentatively touches your hip before holding it and rotating you ever so slightly, “what you lack in strength, you have in speed… This stance is better for your momentum.”

“Right,” you whisper, blinking out of the daze you felt yourself fall into by the pull of his gaze. His eyes were so lovely. In moments like this they were bright with a golden hue, as if marked by the Gods. Other times they were dark, dangerous abyssal pits that you could equally get lost in. But not now.

“Good,” he smiles, the same boyish smile that makes you a little nervous and nauseous concurrently. Which was a strange feeling because you weren’t repulsed by him and yet your body reacted all the same. No one had ever elicited such strange reactions within you like he did.

“Try and disarm me.”

“What?” You feel your arm immediately drop as he steps away and unsheathes his own sword. No longer honey touched eyes boring into yours, they were void and wild. He doesn’t give you a chance to process anything before swinging his sword, you have no choice but to stumble back, practically flailing your own sword to stop from getting hurt.

Clang!

The metal blades ricochet off one another and you take the chance to scurry across the bed swiftly before he can attempt another blow, “fuck, fuck — fuck!” You hiss, standing on the other side of the tent, barely a chance to think properly before he’s back onto you like a grounded tempestuous storm.

With wide eyes you jump out of the way, his sword connects with the side table and wood splinters off into pieces. The first casualty — you’d have laughed or joked if you weren’t absolutely fearing for your life in a way. Heart pounding hard as you take a chance to counter, using a leg to disable him by going for his knees but he sees it and contorts his body just in time.

“C’mon!” He shouts, eyes wild and borderline murderous.

Unsure what possibly possessed you other than it felt right. Call it a childish rebuke or not, you instantly straighten your stance and yell back at him, a deep and guttural yell, like one would trying to fend a bear off an attack.

He licks his lips, the grin of a mad man apparent, “there she is.”

This time you swing first, kicking off the back leg gives you a good enough propulsion and wind up with the sword. Cling! He cross blocks, letting your blade slide down his own and the two of you are practically face to face, the slightest smirk pulls at his lips and you match it with a barely audible snarl.

Using your full body weight, you push into him to get distance which only just works.

Another swing from him, narrowly missing your shoulder as you jump aside, his sword clashing with one of the bed posts, it snaps under the force and limply hangs onto the unmarked wood. You take advantage of his over extension, ducking beneath his arms and opting for the best option, shouldering him in the waist and bringing him down to the ground.

Not your finest work, but he tumbles - and you with him - onto the canvas flooring, but at least you had the upper hand and though strength was not in your arsenal just yet, speed was. Pinning him to the ground, you straddle higher than the waist to keep him from bucking you off or swinging his legs around.

Both of you held your blades to each other's throat in a stalemate, chests heaving with heavy breaths.

“A fair play, my lady,” he pants quietly, though the impish grin on his face suggested otherwise. Your eyes travel down to his other hand where he had his dagger pressed softly against the leathers of your tunic, no doubt a lethal puncture in the abdomen if you were in a real fight. He lowers his blades, “you are improving — getting better at trusting your instincts.”

“You went easy on me,” you whine, tossing your blade indignantly. The semi victory loses its glory almost instantly, souring in your mouth. Standing back up seemed to be more effort today than usual, muscles shaking, screaming for a modicum of respite. But war does not rest so neither shall your body.

“If you wish for me to kill you, then you need only ask,” he jests, you knew this — he was holding out for a reason. You hadn’t seen him in battle but can very well imagine without much stretch of the imagination how he has coined the notorious namesake of ‘Bloody Ben Blackwood’. Even more it seemed, he was often harsher, stricter and more brutal when he would lead training with the younger boys.

“Don’t offer such a tempting proposal,” you laugh, tired, exhausted.

He looks at you, seriously for but a moment, “if you desire rest, it is okay to take it.” And the sweet, caring and kind Benji fronted, flecks of gold honey in his eyes as he steps forward and grabs your hand with a touch so kindly it seemed foreign. He need not force you, tugging you to the bedside and sitting you down, “you are not weak for needing rest.”

You chuckle softly, “there is no rest for someone like me, I need to be ready for when we march forward within the tenday.”

“You won’t be much use to us if your legs cannot even carry you. Rest.” He says firmly, pushing gently on your shoulder which didn’t need much for you to collapse onto the bed. “We can resume overmorrow.” He’s seated on the side of your bed now, you open your mouth to contest but he glowers immediately, tilting his head forward and setting his jaw as if to silently say ‘don’t you dare’.

So you don’t dare.

“If I was less encumbered by my exhaustion I’d have hit you for looking at me like that,” you bite, rolling onto your side and instinctively curling in on yourself.

“You certainly would have tried.” He laughs.

“And succeeded, I pinned you already today — I could do it again if I willed myself.”

“Is that so? Perhaps we should get a maester to check those ears of yours, did I not request you disarm me? I don’t recall asking you to pin me.”

“Hmmm,” you hum, narrowing your eyes at him though the barely suppressed smile betrayed your poor attempt to keep a straight face. “I stopped thinking the moment you attacked me like a brute.”

He nods along with your words and though his words are vaguely threatening, his smile indicates a hint of mischievousness, “a Brute am I? You have a crass tongue, My Lady, you’d better keep it in check.”

“Clover.”

“Hm?” His head tilts to the side, like a dog hearing a command.

“Call me Clover… Garrus finds it easier… Less likely to accidentally call attention to my identity.” You run your fingers over the furs of your bed, naturally you omit the little part of the nickname because that seemed sacred to Garrus. Only he can call you that. But Benji had your trust, and you had his, even if it be an unspoken bond that grew stronger the more time elapsed within one anothers company. He at least deserved a little part of you.

There is silence, as he sits on your words, a faint smile ghosting his lips and he nods singularly, “As you wish, Clover.” And the strangest feeling encompasses the tent, it was thick but not suffocating, warm but not a hellfire. His hand moves so deftly, you hadn’t seen it until his fingers barely grazed your temple, pushing back a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

He holds it, a moment, two moments, before his eyes blink rapidly, something reminding him of his place and he flushes red, retracting his hand quickly as though he had touched hot coals. “A-Apologies… forgive me — that was wholly inappropriate. Please do rest, I will see you overmorrow.”

It happened rather quickly, he stands and you sit up as swiftly, “Benji.” You call but he was out quicker than bat out of the hells. Your shoulders slump, a faint pout on your lips as you try to decipher what that could’ve been about. Whatever it had been, you liked it, you liked him but that could mean a plethora of things.

You sigh, falling back into the bed and staring at not particularly anything. Perhaps it would be prudent to speak on the matter with Garrus when he returned.

#house of the dragon #hotd #benjicot blackwood x reader #benjicot blackwood #benjicot x reader #bloody ben blackwood #bloody ben x reader #hotd one shot #house of the dragon one shot

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rileyslibrary · 1 year ago

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How about this: After some especially rough missions, Ghost is on edge, his mental health hanging by a thread. Of course he doesn't admit it and powers through training and everything, but everyone knows he needs help, something to balance him out again.

Even the doctors are on their wits ends with him at this point, so they try a new approach and assign him to some animal assisted therapy. OF COURSE he hates the idea - waste of time and he is fine anyway...

So reader and their animal are invited to base to try and help him. (Or reader is the team mate, and the therapist an additional character - how ever, you know best.) I'll leave to you which animal it will be. ;-)

Ghost & Peppa (the dog)

Anon, hold my purse while I fill this with warnings:

Brief mentions of war

Mentions of physical & emotional trauma

This story is purely fictional and should not be considered an accurate representation of the practices and/or effects of Animal-Assisted Therapy

I did NOT cry while writing this. I’m fine.

——————————————————————

He’s fine. Of course, he is.

Nothing wrong with collecting mutilated bodies after a bomb explosion—It’s part of the job.

What about him getting shot? Ah well, it got him on his shoulder—that doesn’t count. It wasn’t life-threatening, according to him. He was fine.

He had to talk to someone. You all tried to pass the idea to him. Everyone except Gaz, who didn’t want to get involved since he, too, was going through some shit.

Soap told him straight away. “Mate, you need to talk to somebody”.

“I got nothing to say”, was his response.

Price was more subtle. Such a tactful guy, your captain. He tried to bring the subject up by sharing his own therapy experiences.

“Opening up and feeling vulnerable was difficult,” he said, “but I pushed through.”

But all he received was a shrug and a stern “glad it worked out for you. I’m fine.”

And you? You tried to cheer him up, calm him down, make him talk.

Nothing.

For the past two months, he has been training daily, hitting that punchbag and bench pressing like a maniac. He was pushing his physical limits, attempting to lift barbells equal to his weight, and you were looking at a person struggling to lift the weight of his conscience.

But he was fine.

Until Gaz came one day and pitched an idea to the captain: “Animal-assisted therapy” they called it. The doctors assigned it to him, and it helped. So, why not give it a try with Ghost?

The lieutenant hated the idea. Hated it. Why? Because “it was pointless and stupid” to him.

Plus, he was fine.

But Price placed his thumbs under his shoulder straps and told him it was an order. And nobody messed with the captain when he put his thumbs under his shoulder straps.

The therapist arrived the following week with Peppa, the dog.

“Peppa, like the pig?”

That was Ghost’s first question. And upon the therapist’s first nod, the follow-up question came.

“Why the fuck would you name the dog Peppa?”

The therapist explained that Peppa’s first patient was a little girl who struggled with anxiety. She named her Peppa after the cartoon character, and the name stuck.

Days turned into weeks, and although he initially protested against the therapy sessions, he was now willingly participating in them. Almost looking forward to them.

“Can’t come to training today; got a meeting with Peppa.” He would say.

Such compliance? From Ghost? How?

You all reached a conclusion because you needed an explanation that could make sense—Ghost wasn’t engaging with the therapist as much; he was opening up to the dog.

Peppa became his silent confidante.

He was playing with her and scolding her for eating too fast. Sometimes, he would ask her “why she was so sad” or “so devious” and why she was always drooling. In response, Peppa would just whine, wiggle her tail, or tilt her head, and Ghost would interpret her reactions as he pleased.

Although you could all see the improvement in his demeanour, you still worried about his well-being.

But whenever you asked him how he was, his response remained the same.

He was fine.

You tried to shift the focus and ask how the therapy was going instead. Yet, Ghost would still cling to his standard response.

Fine.

And then, the therapist advised to do something else instead.

“Ask him how Peppa is doing.”

And that simple question, about the dog’s well-being, unveiled the hidden side of his emotions. He would open up, and recount how Peppa was feeling a bit down one day, seemed too scared another day, or ate very little. He projected his own feelings and experiences onto the dog. He used her as a vessel to express his inner turmoil, revealing his struggles in a way that felt more comfortable and less vulnerable to him.

After all, it was the dog’s struggles, not his own.

He was fine.

“Do you think Peppa gets a payslip every month?” you joked one day as you looked at Peppa lying next to Ghost. “For having a job and all?”

“Peppa was a stray, you know; she always fought to survive.” he replied, kissing her head, “poor thing.”

“Poor thing,” you repeated, this time looking at him.

He knew he wasn’t fine. You all knew.

But Peppa didn’t pressure him to do or say anything.

She wouldn’t urge him to “talk to somebody” or “try meditation.”

She would insinuate, in her own way, that she was there for him.

Looking at him with her tongue out and a wide smile across her face.

Whining and demanding more pets.

Giving him the ball so they can play fetch.

Reminding him that caring for himself was just as important as those gentle scratches behind her ear.

“We’re in this together, human—you will be fine.”

——————————————————————

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x gn!reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x y/n #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x y/n #ghost cod mw2 #call of duty #modern warfare 2 #cod mwii #ghost call of duty

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writingsfrombeyondthegrave · 3 months ago

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Torn from the future- Chapter 1

Tom Riddle X Fem!Reader

Summary- After tampering with a Time Turner, you find yourself back in 1942. You decide that your best chance of improving the future is by befriending a certain man named Tom Riddle. You've heard of him before, but never in a positive light. Will you be his key to power or salvation?

Warnings for this chapter- Mentions of death and war, Stealing

Time travel has always been controversial in the Wizarding World. The Ministry in particular has taken to keeping any form of Time Travel under wraps as to prevent Wizards from dabbling in the illegal form of magical transportation.

Now with the Second Wizarding War quickly approaching, this dangerous threat was overruled by your desperation to change the past and prevent this whole mess from happening. The sorrows of your friends, the loss, the unnecessary violence and rift between wizards and muggles, even further than it already was.

Hermione had recently been popping in and out of lessons unnoticed and denied knowing what you or your friends had accused her of. You knew she had a Time Turner. If you had that, you could find a way to fix things yourself.

The smart thing to do would be to inform your friends so that they could help you but losing them was something that you couldn't bear. Your only hope was to take the time turner and figure it out alone.

Luckily there was no need to fret about your plan since you shared a dorm room with her. You waited until nightfall when the famous Golden Trio left Gryffindor tower, claiming to be sick yourself to stay behind and search for the it

The thing about your dear friend was that she was a perfectionist, not only in her schoolwork, but especially in her living quarters. If even a single paper was out of place, she would scream at you for days. But at times like this, where the whole group was stressed enough as it was, you could easily get by that little issue... hopefully.

Going through her belongings proved more difficult than initially intended, considering you never actually witnessed her putting the Time Turner anywhere away in your dorm, at least not while the both of you were present. She was actually quite protective of the thing, which you could understand given the gravity behind it all.

Digging through the trunk at the bottom of her bed, you searched through a dozen sweaters before finding a hidden compartment tucked away in the bottom corner. Surprisingly it seemed that Hermione had opted to leave the thing behind, too afraid of losing it on their unpredictable outing.

Hurriedly tucking the pocket watch into your bag, along with your journal, you got up from the floor of your dorm and made your way out of Gryffindor Tower.

Hours ticked by with you sitting on the ground of the restricted section. Books were scattered open around you in a circle while you chewed absentmindedly on your thumb nail, a nervous habit that you were too focused to pay attention to at the moment.

Thoughts and plans, one after another swirled in your mind continuously. A headache began forming from it, as you continued to reach dead ends. No plans that you came up with seemed to work well enough. Not to mention the fact that you never actually learned how to use the Time Turner before stealing it. You blamed that fact on your stress and desperation. Normally, you would plan out your actions meticulously but not this time.

Finally, it hit you. Harry's parents, Sirius and Remus, Even Regulus. You could save them all and prevent the heartache. It was simple in your mind, you would go back to the 1970's to save as many people as you possibly could. Maybe you could warn them somehow, or at least prepare them ahead of time for what was to come. It was the only way.

It's not as if you were afraid of participating in the war alongside your friends, it was just that you couldn't possibly stand by and watch your friends die beside you in the bloodshed and horror of war.

Pulling out the pocket watch from your bag, you decided to take the Time Turner apart piece by piece and rewire it to take you further back in time. Normal Time Turners would only send you back a maximum of five hours, which wouldn't have worked for anything you had planned.

Consequences by damned, you thought as you opened the Time Turner and began poking around at the mechanisms inside. The diagrams in the book made absolutely no sense. They only contained detailed drawings of the watch, but previously there had been no history of ever tampering with one.

Ticking began to get louder and louder. The books on the shelves rattled violently as if sensing the worst. You raised your eyes from the Time Turner in your hand and your eyes widened slightly, looking around to see what was happening.

Your finger slipped and accidentally grazed a metal coil that was exposed. Blood dripped down and the watch sizzled from the intrusion. A bright flash of light startled you and threw you back into the bookshelf, causing a copy of Dark Witches and Wizards Through History to crash down on your head.

Time shifted, books disappearing from their place on the shelves, dust cleared, and the watch rattled as you tried to clasp it tightly. Instantly the world faded and the last thing your blurry vision saw was the room spinning fast as you collapsed to the floor.

The creaking of footsteps in the library outside the Restricted Section was what woke you up. Your head pounded and you lifted your hand to place it on the top of your head. Sitting up to regain your balance, you rested your back against the bookshelf, albeit much more carefully than before.

There were no books on the ground anymore, it was only you alone. That should've been your first indication that something wasn't right, but your head hurt far too much for you to worry about your current surroundings.

After shoving the pieces of the Time Turner back into your bag, you finally stood up and made your way out of the library, cautiously avoiding the librarian or wandering Prefects. The only thing on your mind was getting back to your dorm and figuring your next course of action.

The hallways were deathly quiet, not a single person in sight. It must've been far later in the night than you had remembered.

You had almost made it to the Gryffindor Tower when you heard a deep voice speak from behind you.

"Where do you think you're going?" He asked, his voice calm and authoritative. You must've gotten stopped by a teacher. Being prepared for a lecture, you raised your hands as you slowly turned around to face him.

"I was-" Your eyes widened as you saw him, words failing you. This boy was around your age, with dark eyes that bore into your soul.

He raised his eyebrow, the tiniest hint of acknowledgment before his expression became emotionless once more. "I know everyone in this school and I have never seen you before. Follow me"

It wasn't a request as he walked ahead, down the hallway. Never once did he look back, clearly expecting you to follow behind blindly. You weren't sure if it was the headache, but you obeyed for the time being.

A/N- Please like/repost/comment and tell me what you think! Constructive criticism is always encouraged and appreciated. If I left out an important trigger warning, please let me know and ill add it.

This Series is inspired by Time Warp, written by @astonishment, but I won't be tagging them in every part since that would probably be annoying. I definitely recommend reading their series! Thank you again for letting me use the idea as the basis for me series.

Misc Credits:

Dark Mark Divider- @firefly-graphics

Diamond Divider- @troublesomesnitch

Header- Me

#x reader #tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #harry potter #harry potter x reader #👻-ghost writing

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crimson-and-clover-1717 · 3 months ago

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I wanna talk thumbs.

They say you can tell a lot about a person from a handshake. You can from a handhold too. The way Ed holds Stede’s hand in 1.9 is tender and beautiful. We can see from the positioning and circumstance that Ed is the one with agency here, and almost certainly initiated the handhold.

However it’s the positioning of Stede’s thumb that bends my mind out of shape. Ed’s whole hand is in natural position. Stede’s thumb should be lying parallel to Ed’s. But Stede has deliberately twisted that thumb up and over Ed’s. Pressing down. There is nothing passive in Stede’s grip here. It’s a symbol of reciprocity, of reassurance. And Ed’s staring right at it. There’s an unspoken promise in that thumb.

We all know what happens next…

Yet they get a do-over in 2.5 as part of their healing process. They kiss for a second time and hold hands for a second time, romantically. The handholding then becomes a thumb-war game. It feels like a tiny callback to the beach handhold in 1.9. It’s a playful power-struggle. A memory. Perhaps an unspoken apology.

It’s fun and it’s beautiful, but no way is Stede’s thumb remaining atop this time. Last time that happened, things did not go to plan. The way Ed cocks his head to the left playfully yet assertively as he ‘wins’ the game reveals a need to feel in control. Stede has already respected Ed’s boundary in this scene and builds Ed’s self-esteem further with this silly little moonlight game. This time things are different.

Sure, it’s improv. But improv doesn’t mean not planned. It just means we have some ideas and we’re going to develop them in the moment. These two guys understand the psychologically of Ed and Stede so well this scene developed organically to its perfect and natural conclusion.

This time, Ed won.

Which means Stede wins too.

#stede bonnet #ed teach #gentlebeard #1.9 #2.5 #justice for thumb #ofmd meta

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letsquestjess · 3 months ago

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One, Two, Throw - Part 2 (Hunter x F!Reader)

Summary: Your knife throwing skills improve, and Hunter wants to show his appreciation.

Word count: 1.2K

Warnings: Smut! 18+! MDNI! Fingering. PiV (unprotected).

Part 1

-- -- -- -- --

Extending your arm, you drew the blade back and hurled it at the wooden board. The rotations were broader and more stable than they were a few weeks ago. Confident. Laden with surety. With a solid thunk, the tip of the knife pierced the side of the bullseye, mere millimetres from your intended target.

Ever since your training session with Hunter, you had embraced the skill and discovered that the required concentration brought a sense of tranquillity and hush. Nothing beyond your own bubble of focus mattered. It was just you, the mark, and the affectionate eye of your love observing you with pride.

Every time you returned to the house after practising, Hunter gushed at how you were improving. While nestled in his arms one night, he had confided his appreciation for your willingness to understanding this aspect of his identity. It brought you both closer, opening a new dimension to your relationship, and through it, Hunter shared more about his life before choosing to remain on Pabu. Sometimes murmured in the darkness, other times conversed over a meal or while tackling the laundry. During those serene moments, he disclosed a deeper part of himself to you, and your affection for him heightened.

From the kitchen window, you could sense his watchful gaze. You didn’t need his enhanced senses to know. Every time you honed your knife throwing skills, he would be there, smiling as you developed and occasionally giving you a thumb up to boost your confidence.

As you fetched the knives embedded in the board, you noted the ache in your limbs. Having been outside for a while, basking in the sun and sharpening your technique, you needed a break. You ducked through the screen-covered door and into the kitchen, setting the blades aside.

Hunter finished washing the last plate and set it in the dish rack. “You’re making good progress,” he commented, as he returned the sponge to the holder on the wall and dried his hands on the neighbouring towel. “I wouldn’t want to be the clanker on the receiving end of those knives.”

His compliment made your cheeks flush with warmth, but the pain in your thighs soon soured your smile. You were conscious of the fact that you should have taken a break earlier, but you were so absorbed in your activity that you wanted to sustain your attention for a little while longer.

“I did tell you to take regular breaks,” Hunter said, approaching at a casual stroll and scooping you up. Supported in his capable arms, he brought you to the worktop and shifted the hem of your loose summer dress, softly kneading your thighs with his thumbs.

The steady pressure worked its magic, and you leaned on your palms to let out a whimpered sigh. His massaging touch climbed a little higher, no patch of skin untouched in his mission to provide you with some relief.

“Feeling better?” he asked, tease lacing his tone.

“Might need a bit more,” you replied, head tipping back and your eyes closing as you wiggled your hips forward for more. Like an avid scholar, he studied every inch of your body, gliding his fingers upward and barely touching the fabric of your underwear.

Your eyes opened, and you lowered your chin to meet his covetous gaze. You recognised that look; since that initial lesson, it had sought you whenever you practised. Even though he had explicitly stated that he would not bring any weapons into the bedroom, given his experiences during the war, he did admire your dedication and attentiveness to the craft.

“Is knife throwing something you find enjoyable?” he questioned, a little uncertain. “I appreciate you taking an interest, but you don’t have to keep it up if you don’t find it fun.”

“I do enjoy it,” you assured him. “Almost as much as I enjoy the way you look at my backside when I’m doing it.”

The tracker’s face lit up with a smirk as he increased the pressure on your core, moving your underwear aside to brush his thumb over your clit. As you leaned closer into his caresses, he showered your neck with gentle kisses and playful bites, waiting until you let out soft moans before sliding his finger inside you.

“Ah,” you sighed, rocking your hips against him as he added another finger, the pressure of his thumb persistent in stimulating your bundle of nerves. “Hunter…”

He hushed your groans, urging you forward to the edge of the worktop with his free hand. Whimpered growls traced along your throat. He wanted you. No, he needed you.

With his face in your hands, you dragged him closer to connect your lips. He held himself back to satisfy you, but all you craved was for him to unleash his hunger and take you however he wished.

Grinding up, you broke from him to unfasten his shirt buttons, mewling softly when he withdrew his fingers to remove his clothing. As he unzipped his pants, you slipped your underwear down to your ankles and discarded them with a kick.

Hunter leaned in for another kiss, stroking his cock before gliding the tip along your sensitive folds. Unable to prolong the anticipation, he eased in. Inch by blissful inch, he filled you, pushing in and giving you time to adjust until he buried himself to the hilt.

Despite the persistent soreness in your thighs, you paid it no mind. Hunter felt incredible inside you, thrusting in and out at a precise speed, and picking up the pace with every reaction you gave him. Every deliberate drag of his length as he drew out to the tip to slide back in brought you closer to the brink of your precipice.

He sucked on his finger and lowered the digit to circle your clit. “Perfect,” he whispered, tone low and captivated by your pleasured whimpers. Your brow furrowed and your lips parted enticingly, tempting him to devour every drop you offered. “So fucking perfect for me.”

The praise went straight between your legs, and gripping his shoulders until your nails pressed crescents into his skin, your climax rose a notch. The impact of his hips meeting your inner thigh merged with your desperate moans.

“That’s it,” Hunter cooed. “You getting close?”

You nodded and swallowed, mouth dry. “So close… so close…”

Hunter tuned in to your desires, synchronising the circles on your clit with his movements. Unable to hold back any longer, you cried out as a blinding white shot through you, your walls tightening around him and propelling him over the edge with you. His release spilled hot and thick, and after a few moments, he stuttered to a stop.

Breaths came quick and fast as you both clambered down from your glow. The kitchen appliances hummed in the quiet.

Hunter kissed your neck before drawing back, his forehead glistening with sweat and his teeth catching his lip as he pulled out. He snatched some paper towels to tidy up the mess and assisted you in getting off the counter. Legs unsteady, you tottered to the doorway.

“Go get yourself into the shower,” he said sweetly as you picked up your tossed underwear. “I’ll clean this up.”

“We can sort it later,” you replied, tugging him towards you by the open waistband of his trousers. “I want to shower with you.”

He disregarded the cleaning without a second thought, flinging the crumpled kitchen roll at the bin and gripping your waist to grind his hips against yours. “Temptress,” he whispered against your lips. “Go on. Upstairs. Now.”

If you would like to be added to the NSFW taglist, feel free to send me a message (18+ only).

@cw80831 @stardusthuntress @spicy-clones

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mysteriouslybluepirate · 1 year ago

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Samba had a baking class! There he revealed some scenes that were cut/rewritten at some point in the process include:

From Samba: Calypso’s birthday was supposed to be LuPete wedding and wee John and Roach were trying to get Ed and Stede to hook up. Roach is the one who would have given Stede the pierced ear. Wee John makes Ed an outfit. Then Stede & Ed actually danced! Samba likes what the episode changed to, and that they didn't force the Ed/Stede relationship earlier. This episode would have been a combination of Parent Trap+Makeovers+Slow Dancing [SLIGHT agreement about being happy they didn't push the relationship (as they move it from being the point of ep 6 to the end of ep 6), I'm just more mad that they made the LuPete wedding a last minute thing. This still would have felt rushed after multiple non-apologies from Ed. A part of me says they wanted the drag bits? But then you're telling me Lucius wouldn't want Wee John in drag at his wedding, which just sounds SO out of character]

[CUT SCENE] The reason Buttons had a rope around his waist for ep 1 was because he kept on trying to run to the sea. They had scenes showing this but it was cut.

[CUT SCENE] S2E1 where Stede's crew were all making wishes for a ship. Black Pete wished that Lucius would be alive on the ship, Olu wished that Jim would be on the ship, and Roach wished for a big kitchen on the ship!

[CUT SCENE] Apparently a LOT of Jim/Olu scenes were cut, including one where Archie and Olu step out of the bedroom in boxers. Confirming 100% that they are all poly, and Jim/Olu was still together together. With a hint of maybe Olu/Archie?

BEHIND-THE-SCENES STUFF

The 'Don’t you want your Sammie' sandwich scene in ep 4 was fully improvised, and that on top of getting hit in the face is why Nathan broke.

Thumb war scene was improv, which is a shame, as to me this was the most romantic moment of the fucking season. It's just so soft, and sweet, and happy.

Stede's jacket from ep5 is cursed irl bc the fire alarm went off w/ no explanation in the first scene with the jacket

David Fane got bit by an eel on the toe while filming the Roach&Fang spa scene

So they really seemed to have had a decent script then changed it, for some reason. It wouldn't have fixed everything, but it does confirm my theory that they mostly cut scenes with the crew/rewrote episodes so the crew wasn't heavily featured.

ALSO: Samba wanted to do an official podcast when the season was releasing but couldn't due to the strikes.

#ofmd s2 #izzy hands #ofmd season 2 #lucius ofmd #pete ofmd #ofmd #edward teach #stede bonnet #israel hands #ofmd critical #ofmd2 #ofmd s2 spoilers

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haveyouseenthisskeleton · 5 months ago

Note

How would your skellies react to an S/O who has a green thumb? It seem like every plant S/O takes care of comes back healthier and better.

Undertale Sans - Well that's a good thing because he's a mass plant murderer. You're balancing each other lol. Every plant someone trusted Sans with ended up dying a horrible death somehow, so you're kinda saving the day by somehow reviving them. He doesn't understand how you're doing this. He swears he tried a ton of things and nothing worked. Ok, maybe most of the time he remembers he had to take care of the plant after two weeks to two months, but still.

Undertale Papyrus - He's good with flowers but he's a bit bored with the classic species. He wants cool-looking flowers and you're here to help. After two months, plants turned into a hyperfixation for Papyrus and you're living in a jungle, congratulations.

Underswap Sans - He thinks plants are boring honestly. It does nothing, it doesn't last long either, and it takes so much energy to take care of for only a few days of nice-looking moments. That's your thing, and it will say your thing. He's not patient enough for this.

Underswap Papyrus - Mr "I'm-allergic-to-everything" is not making the task easy for you lol. You're struggling to find plants and flowers that don't make him sneeze all day long. But it's a little victory every time you find something that he tolerates. Honey loves to help. Well, he loves to be included in everything his S/O is doing, but taking care of plants actually makes his anxiety shut up so he's always happy to help a bit.

Underfell Sans - He's doing his best to help but somehow he makes things worse every time he's helping. Like that time he watered your plants with gasoil and only noticed avec the twentieth flower :') He's not doing it on purpose, he's just terrible with plants.

Underfell Papyrus - You two are fighting on which plants to keep inside the house. Edge actually loves plants too, but he loves plants you hate... And you love plants he hates. He waits for you to leave the house to replace the plants, and you're doing the same. It's an eternal war. Maybe someday you'll find one you can agree on.

Horrortale Sans - He actually learns with you. At first, he doesn't show that much interest, but the more you do, the more you notice him staring behind your back. He's a bit clumsy and forgets half of the things he has to do, but it actually keeps him occupied. It actually helps his memory too since he has to water the plant every day, which is training his memory. He thinks it's a really relaxing activity and he would love to do it more often with you.

Horrortale Papyrus - He doesn't have that much of an interest in plants, but he's curious about what his S/O is doing and he's always happy to help if he can. He gladly appreciates your advice on his vegetables though. He had some difficulties growing them in the beginning but you showed him how to improve his fields and he's delighted with the result!

Swapfell Sans - He doesn't have any interest in the activity, but he likes having plants around. It makes his house look even more expensive and he's a material girl so he's really happy. You pretend like you don't see his black-and-white edge lord photos on social media next to your plants lol.

Swapfell Papyrus - I mean, you can do what you want but... Do you really want to have plants in a secluded area where Rus lives? Your plants are living in fear, never knowing if they're going to see the next day. That guy has no limits and can accidentally set the house on fire at least once a week. He's dangerous to all living things, please reconsider.

Fellswap Gold Sans - Wine surprisingly likes to take care of plants too. It was a true shock the first time you discovered that because that skeleton usually hates more things than he likes some. Of course, he will never say it out loud, or show he likes it. But you can sometimes catch him watering the flowers or cutting some disgracious leaves from your plants. He gives you the "what are you even looking at?" kind of look every time you see him though lol.

Fellswap Gold Papyrus - He saw you cut leaves and he wanted to help! So he cut leaves on all your plants. And by that I mean he cut 75% of each of your plants. When he sees your face, he goes from very proud to kicked puppy in three seconds. Maybe it's best if Coffee stays away from your plants from now on.

#undertale #underswap #underfell #horrortale #swapfell #fellswap gold #sans #papyrus #undertale ask blog #undertale asks #undertale imagines #undertale headcanons

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conacoflakes · 8 months ago

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Conan O’Brien media archive

As a rule of thumb I avoid any movie streaming services or other ways to download that aren't totally virus free, etc. so these links lead to Drive, archive.org, and YouTube or other trusted media sharing sites.

Shows + TV

Conan O'Brien Must Go (2024) | Drive

Conan visits his fans from around the globe and indulges in various countries cultures. His most recent show with only 4 episodes: Norway, Argentina, Thailand, and Ireland. All four episodes can be found at this drive link

Late Night With Conan O'Brien (1993 - 2009) | archive.org @ mountainmikeinoregon

Archived episodes of Late Night sorted by year. Not a complete collection, many episodes are missing (for example the 1993 collection jumps from episodes 1-4 to episode 35) but a great deal of them are here. Easy to access and watch.

The Tonight Show with Conan O'Brien (2009-2010) | archive.org

The show he briefly inherited from Leno which would cause the infamous TV war between them. Conan would leave NBC for TBS after this. All 145 Conan episodes that aired are in here.

Conan Without Borders (2018) | dailymotion

A series of specials that aired on Conan where he travels various countries. The precursor to the 2024 show. Filmed during the height of the Trump administration which is reflected in a lot of the jokes, topics, and other parts of the show. Various clips are also avaliable on YouTube. QnA's are also avaliable on YouTube.

Episode List:

1. Conan in Cuba - 49:18 2. Conan in Armenia - 42:48 3. Qatar - Unable to find 4. Conan Does Korea - 36:23 5. Conan in Berlin - 42:58 6. Conan Without Borders: Made in Mexico- 42:20 7. Israel - Unable to find. Judging from the clips this episode paints Israel in an extremely sympathetic light. Know that I stand with Palestine and that Israel is an Apartheid state. Learn more at decolonizepalestine.org 8. Conan Without Borders: Haiti - 42:04 9. Conan in Italy - 50:13 10. Conan in Japan - 42:03 11. Conan Without Borders: Australia - 42:03 12. Conan Without Borders: Greenland - 42:01 13. Conan Without Borders: Ghana - 43:00

Film

CONAN O'BRIEN CAN'T STOP (2011) - Part 1 / Part 2 | dailymotion

CONAN O'BRIEN CAN'T STOP is a documentary about what Conan and his crew did on tour before TBS. After Jay Leno took back his show, Conan travels to 32 different cities to do improv while attempting to severe all ties with NBC. Fun film with more intimate and candid moments of him and his crew.

CONAN O'BRIEN CAN'T STOP - Commentary by Conan, Andy Richter, Sona Movsesian & More (2011) | archive.org - YouTube

CONAN O'BRIEN CAN'T STOP is a documentary about what Conan and his crew did on tour before TBS. This version of the film has his own commentary over it.

Podcasts & Radio

The Conan and Jordan Show (Podcast) | soundcloud.com | episode 1 | episode 2

Only two episodes have been uploaded. Apparently the site that it’s hosted on (SiriusXM) doesn’t even show all the episodes available.

To be updated as more links are found

#archive #media #conan o'brien #the tonight show with Conan o’brien #late night with Conan o’brien #Conan Without Borders #The Conan and Jordan Show #CONAN O'BRIEN CAN'T STOP #conan o'brien must go

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theramseyloft · 3 months ago

Note

Were pigeons actually abandoned after wartimes or was the idea of keeping pigeons rejected after Thomas Hoving shut talked them in 1966

One lead to the other, and improvements in Radio technology were the actual root.

Pigeons were not abandoned immediately after war times.

For quite a while, they were still the fastest, most reliable way to get information from point a to point b.

In fact, there are still parts of the world where download speeds are still measured against sending a pigeon wearing a back pack with a thumb drive in it, loaded with the same information.

At that point, no amount of shit talk could have made them less useful.

When radio technology finally became both faster and more reliable than sending messages by pigeon, breeding, housing, and feeding messenger birds became an unnecessary expense and the military started phasing them out.

This meant that racers could no longer earn income selling their best stock to bolster the Signal Corps' breeding program.

Civilian Racers still raced, and the public still loved pigeons in general, but common practice when pigeons could not be sold or given away was to simply destroy their lofts so they would have to leave and find somewhere to go.

There have been feral pigeons as long as there have been birds who survived failing to make it back to their lofts after training tosses or races.

But that fairly sudden increase of unsellable pigeons caused a significant boom to feral populations, which brought them into more frequent conflict with the public, who were now seeing more of the mess that these birds make when overcrowded and under fed.

That bastard coining the term "Rats with wings", which linked them to the spread of disease from above, and Woody Allen going to popularize it in film dealt a hammer blow to public perception of pigeons.

And like the flip of a switch, pigeons went from our dearly beloved partners from time out of mind to filthy vermin to be eradicated from public spaces.

The public going from enamored to revolted with pigeons meant that very few new people were getting into racing or showing pigeons.

As breeders aged and passed away, there were no longer family members interested in their birds.

And all aspects of the pigeon hobby drastically shrank.

What remains today is a tiny fraction, but with relatively new interest in them purely for companionship, perhaps pigeons can finally enjoy the kind of life a dearly loved dog or cat can expect and the general public will see them with more of the fondness we have had for them from time out of mind.

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entertext · 9 months ago

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HGSN 25-3

Chapter (Japanese)

(Please hit the green thumbs up at the end of the chapter on the Japanese site to show the mangaka support)

Rough translation by me

Rie: I...don't know if that will happen

Rie: But, it might improve things a bit...using a wrong sized lid is better than not having a cover at all.

(sfx: tick tock tick tock)

Rie: However, it's not a solution to the fundamental issue...

Rie: And, it's not like there couldn't be other...

Hikaru: I'm totally fine

Hikaru: I'm a monster after all, so something like this is... ...

Hikaru: ....*sniff*... ...

Hikaru: ...I hate this...*sniff*...why...

Hikaru: Uu...I don't wanna be alone

Hikaru: ...*sniff* ...why...

Hikaru: Uu...Uuu...Yoshiki...

Hikaru: Uu...

(sfx: rain)

(sfx: page flip...)

Yoshiki: Anything's fine, I just need something that could be a hint...This one doesn't seem like it'll be useful

(book: Regional Folktales)

Yoshiki: So if I summarize where we've ended up...

(sfx: pencil click)

(txt:

"Unuki-san" worship begins

↓

Becomes "Nounuki-sama"='Hikaru' worship

* Local religion originating from difficulty living

* God that grants wishes if heads are offered

* The offered head disappears, a replacement is made and memorialized in the "Hall"

* In order to separate and bury the sacrifice's body parts as far apart as possible, the village was split

↓

"Mass Death" Incident (1749)

* Brought about by the Indou family's ancestor

* Excessive wish→Wife's resurrection

* Afterwards the village became peaceful

* From then on, there is a custom where the Indou men use "Hichi-san" in a ritual on the mountain

)

Yoshiki: The sin of the Indou family was...that he sacrificed the villagers outside of the family to resurrect his wife

Yoshiki: As a result, the mass deaths occured.

Yoshiki: The truth of the mass deaths wasn't death by famine but bizarre deaths...

Yoshiki: With that, the villagers must have thought that Nounuki-sama had become a tatarigami

(Hikaru: Is being dead and being alive that different?)

Yoshiki: ...

Yoshiki: The reason the village stablized afterwards is probably because the amount of impurities decreased, right?...

Yoshiki: But, it's strange

Yoshiki: While Nounuki-sama = 'Hikaru' is on the mountain, the impurities should gather on the mountain and the village should be fine. What was happening before the mass deaths?

Yoshiki: And another question is the part where

Yoshiki: up until the mass deaths, "even if you offered a head, nothing actually happened"

Yoshiki: Why was it only at the time of the mass deaths that a wish got granted?

(sfx: office chair squeaks)

Yoshiki: *sighs*

Yoshiki: In the first place, we don't know why there's so many impurities in this area...

Yoshiki: If we don't know that, then in the end...

Hikaru: Yoshiki

Hikaru: I'll go back to the mountain haha

Yoshiki: Anything but that. No way.

(sfx: fwh-fwhump)

(book: Rafanelli Art Collection)

Yoshiki: An artbook ...

(sfx: flip...)

Emanuele Rafanelli

Renaissance painter

Died 1520

Yoshiki: Beautiful art...

(title: Girl With Veil)

Yoshiki: And here's the pages with rough sketches?

(sfx: flip...)

Yoshiki: ...hm?

Yoshiki: This is...

Hikaru: ...*sniff*...

Hikaru: ........

Rie: 'Hikaru'-kun...

Rie: (I'm sure it hasn't even been a year since he came into this world)

Rie: (For a child like that, this is just too cruel...Just for a little while, maybe we could let things be...)

"That softness will invite greater misfortune..."

Rie: (I can't make him disappear, but...)

P10

Rie: (With 'Hikaru' as he is right now)

Rie: (I might be able to tear him from that body)

Rie: (If the alternative is making him suffer, then for Yoshiki's sake as well)

Rie: (It's better that I take full responsibility)

Rie: (and deal with 'Hikaru'-kun...)

Next chapter: in 3 weeks

Twitter Extra (link):

If he'd been a glutton

Hikaru: I don't wanna be alone...

The other legible book titles on Dad's bookshelf:

* History of War

* How to Interact with Children~Recommendations for the Rebellious Age~

* Ecosystems of the Countryside

* How to Write Mystery

* How to Write Suspense

#hikaru ga shinda natsu #the summer hikaru died #hgsn spoilers

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itsokbbygrl · 5 months ago

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WIP Wednesday

omg she’s posting something???? YEAH BITCH I AM. Listen, idk if this will go anywhere or not but I had a few people tag me over the last few weeks so I figured I’d cook something up. This man has given me insane brainrot this week, so here you go! Marcus Acacius, you’ve earned a place in the Google docs officially. Ty for tagging me @sawymredfox @vivian-pascal @luxurychristmaspudding

The warm tones of firelight flicker against the stone walls of your bed chamber. Cicadas’ song bleats incessantly through your windows from the streets below. The soft scuffle of his worn boots against the floor began to grate against your ears as he paced. You would look for the path he carved come morning, surely etched into permanence by now, preserve it, name it for him.

“I am bound by honor to serve Rome, but I cannot in good conscience desert her people. This endless war…its devastation. These men, these boys, sent to slaughter under the impression that their bravery, their sacrifice, will bring improvement to their country, bring it riches, see it thrive, and yet upon their return see nothing but ruin. The citizens are starving in the streets, carissima, while we sit in our high towers, bathed in milk and honey, perfumed with oils. We are fed lavish meals, sleep on silk. I will not be the face of Geta’s wrath, his greed, any longer. It cannot go on like this or there will no longer be a Rome to serve.”

His face had turned red at its highest points, evidence of his belief in his words, the truth of his feelings. You rose from your place on the edge of your bed, holding his gaze as your strode carefully towards the towering beast of him, your General, still donning the beautiful formal armor he was gifted by the Emperor, laurels of gold laid atop his lush crown of curls, the increasing prominence of streaking silver betraying his age. His eyes follow you, never breaking from your own. You cup a soft palm against his heated cheek, brushing your thumb over its apple, feeling the pressure increase as he leans into the touch, coarse hairs of his beard tickling your skin. “Meum cor, it is not for you to save this world alone. This is too great a burden to bear by one man, as strong and stubborn as he may be,” you gently tease him. “This is a game of wits, one played behind the curtain of society. My father once taught me to play such a game, you must always be thinking two steps ahead of your opponent, considering all outcomes at all times, finding their weakness and luring them to their demise.” Your eyes alight, reflecting the fire that surrounds you. “Marcus, Rome will not be won by he who is the most brave, but by he who is the most cunning.”

npt: @swiftispunk @javierpena-inatacvest @sugarcoated-lame @studioghibelli @mrsmando @beardedjoel @chronically-ghosted

#wip wednesday #maybe man idk #tag game #if you look closely I made a joke about Roman roads #flipping canon on its head because I said so #I did way more googling for this tidbit than was probably necessary!!!!!!!#welcome to why I never finish fics lmao #reader is going to be an ancient baddie tho if I do finish it that’s for sure #should really make a tag for ‘LJ is an insane perfectionist’#marcus acacius #marcus acacius x reader #gladiator ii #gladiator ii fic #LJ writes

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nixiefics · 5 months ago

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Fire and Runes - Chapter One

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x OC (Reilla)

Tropes: Arranged Marriage

Warnings: Targaryen typical incest, smut, canon typical violence and death, swearing, drinking

The clang of steel against steel echoed through the courtyard of Runestone as Reilla sparred with Ser Arlan Granes, the master-at-arms. Sweat glistened on her brow as she parried his strike, her movements swift and precise. Ser Arlan, a seasoned knight with greying hair and a weathered face, was relentless in his training, pushing Reilla to her limits.

"Good, Reilla," Ser Arlan praised as she deftly sidestepped his thrust. "Your form has improved greatly. Not keen for another tumble in the mud?"

"Not again soon, Ser," Reilla nodded, her focus unwavering as she countered with a series of quick strikes.

As they continued their sparring session, Gerold Royce approached, his stern visage softened by a hint of pride as he watched his niece. He waited until the bout concluded, and Reilla had disarmed Ser Arlan with a final, decisive blow.

"Well done, Reilla," Gerold said, his voice carrying a note of approval. "Your mother would be proud."

Reilla smiled, breathing heavily as she lowered her practice sword. "Thank you, Uncle Gerold."

Ser Arlan bowed to her and took her training sword with a proud grin. He wandered off towards the armoury with a light whistle, still as lithe and nimble as any young knight.

Gerold cleared his throat, his expression turning more serious. "We need to talk. The political climate is shifting rapidly, and there are matters we must discuss."

Reilla followed Gerold to a shaded alcove overlooking the courtyard where her Aunt Alyssa sat with a furrowed brow. Reilla wiped her own with a cloth, her curiosity piqued by her uncle's grave tone.

"What news do you have, Uncle?" Reilla asked, her violet eyes studying his face.

"The realm is on the brink of war," Gerold said, his voice heavy with concern. "King Viserys is dead. The factions are gathering their forces, and it is only a matter of time before the bloodshed begins."

Reilla's heart sank at the thought of the impending conflict. She had heard tales of the devastation wrought by dragons, and the prospect of a civil war between her own kin filled her with dread. Yet, there was also a sense of duty and loyalty that stirred within her.

"What of the betrothal?" Reilla asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. "Does it still stand?"

Reilla had always known that her future was tied to Aegon Targaryen. The betrothal had been arranged by King Viserys as a means of securing her safety and ensuring her loyalty to the crown. Reilla always felt a mixture of apprehension and curiosity when she thought of her betrothal. She wondered what kind of man Aegon had become, and whether he shared the same sense of duty and honour that she held dear. The thought of marrying a stranger was daunting, yet she knew it was her duty to uphold the alliance.

Gerold exchanged a glance with Alyssa who nodded solemnly, her expression one of resolve. Alyssa was a great political strategist and Reilla admired her strength of character for it - and hoped that she might one day be just as good at politics. "Queen Alicent and the Hand plan to crown Aegon immediately," Alyssa said. "Your betrothal to Aegon remains intact, and so your presence in King's Landing is crucial."

"What of Rhaenyra's claim?" Reilla fidgeted with the ring around her thumb, a note of uncertainty creeping into her voice. "She will not take lightly to her birthright being taken by her younger brother."

"Queen Alicent has a declaration from King Viserys, signed on his deathbed, proclaiming Aegon the heir." Alyssa said quietly, blue eyes piercing. "Rhaenyra will still fight it, but Aegon has a valid claim now. He is male."

Reilla frowned down at her feet. It was unfair that all of Westeros were vying for a male heir over Rhaenyra - Reilla herself had been running Runestone successfully for several years now and so, she thought, was no less qualified than Ser Gerold to do it. "What should I expect?"

Gerold placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "King's Landing is a different world from the Vale. It is a city of danger but also one of opportunity. You must be cautious, but also assertive. Remember who you are, and do not let anyone undermine you."

Alyssa stepped forward, taking Reilla’s hands in her own. "You must be vigilant, my dear. The court is filled with deception. Trust few, and always keep your wits about you."

"I will, Aunt Alyssa," Reilla promised, feeling a swell of gratitude for the woman who had been a mother to her. "I will make my House proud."

The arrival of a delegation from King's Landing marked a turning point in Reilla's life. The letter, sealed with a gold sigil of House Targaryen, was delivered to her by a stern-faced messenger. Reilla broke the seal with trembling hands, her eyes scanning the elegant script.

Princess Reilla,

It is with great anticipation that I extend an invitation to you to join us at the Red Keep. The realm is in need of unity, and your presence is requested as we navigate these turbulent times. Your betrothal to Aegon Targaryen remains a cornerstone of our alliance, and we look forward to welcoming you to King's Landing.

Regards,

Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower

The days leading up to her departure were a whirlwind of preparations. Reilla's chambers were filled with the constant hum of activity as seamstresses, maids, and couriers bustled in and out, ensuring that every detail of her journey and her new life in King's Landing was meticulously arranged.

New gowns were a necessity, as her usual riding habits were deemed inappropriate for life at court and for her role as a future queen. Reilla stood still as seamstresses measured her, their hands deftly working to create dresses that would befit her new status. The fabrics were rich and luxurious, in colors of deep emerald, royal blue, and regal gold. The gowns, however, felt restrictive in a way her usual riding pants and tunic never did. Each dress was heavy with layers of silk and brocade, the bodices cinched tight, making her feel as though she were being squeezed into a form that was not her own.

"I can't breathe in these," Reilla muttered under her breath as she tried on yet another gown, this one a deep green with intricate silver embroidery. "How do they expect me to fight or ride if I can't even move properly?"

Alyssa, ever the practical aunt, smiled gently at her. "You will learn, my dear. It’s all part of the role you are stepping into. But remember, your strength lies not just in your ability to ride or fight, but in your presence and your wisdom. These gowns are merely symbols of the power you wield."

Reilla sighed but nodded, understanding the truth in her aunt's words. She stood before the mirror, trying to see herself as others would see her - regal, composed, every bit a queen.

Choosing her wedding cloak proved to be another significant task. According to tradition, Aegon would remove her cloak during the ceremony and replace it with his own house cloak, symbolizing her transition from her family's protection to his. Reilla wanted this gesture to carry a deeper meaning. She spent hours in the family vault, searching through the cloaks of her ancestors, each one telling a story of strength, honour, and legacy.

Finally, she found the cloak her mother had worn at her own wedding. It was a beautiful piece, made of rich bronze fabric adorned with black gemstones, representing their house banner - black iron studs on bronze, bordered with runes. Holding it in her hands, Reilla felt a surge of emotion. This cloak represented her mother's strength and legacy, a reminder that she was her mother's daughter, bound by blood and heritage, and no one else's - not even Daemon's.

"This is the one," she said firmly, her voice steady as she looked at Alyssa, who had accompanied her. "I will wear my mother's cloak. It will be a statement that I am a Royce first and foremost."

Alyssa nodded approvingly. "It’s a fine choice, Reilla. Your mother would be proud."

On the morning of her departure, Reilla stood before the gates of Runestone, her horse saddled and ready. The early morning light cast a golden glow over the stone walls, and the air was filled with a sense of both anticipation and sorrow. Gerold and Alyssa were there to see her off, their faces lined with worry and hope.

Gerold stepped forward, his usually stern face softened by the emotion of the moment. "Be safe, Reilla," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "Remember your training and your heritage. You are a Royce first and foremost."

Reilla embraced her uncle, feeling the strength and warmth of his arms around her. "I will, Uncle," she promised, her voice steady. "I will make you proud."

Alyssa hugged her tightly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You are destined for greatness, my dear. Trust in yourself and in the legacy of your mother. The Vale will always be your home, and we will always be here for you."

Reilla nodded, feeling the weight of their words settle over her like a mantle. She mounted her horse, her gaze fixed on the horizon. As she rode away from the Vale, the wind whipping through her hair, she felt a sense of determination and purpose. She was heading towards an uncertain future, but she would face it with the strength and courage of her ancestors.

Each day on the journey from Runestone to King's Landing brought new landscapes and challenges, and as they traversed through the rugged terrain of the Vale, Reilla found herself reflecting on the weight of her responsibilities and the uncertainties that lay ahead.

They rode through towering mountains that seemed to touch the sky, the air crisp and invigorating. Reilla often found solace in the natural beauty around her, the sweeping vistas and cascading waterfalls a stark contrast to the looming shadow of war that darkened her thoughts.

Ser Arlan, ever watchful at her side, maintained a steady presence. He was more than her protector; he was a mentor, offering guidance and wisdom during their long days on the road. They discussed strategy, the political climate in King's Landing, and the delicate balance of power among the noble houses.

One morning, as they camped in the foothills of the Riverlands, Reilla decided to join a hunt with her guards. It was a chance to enjoy her skill with a bow and arrow, a skill she had honed since childhood under the tutelage of House Royce's finest archers.

The woods were alive with the sounds of rustling leaves and distant birdsong as Reilla tracked a massive buck. She moved with silent grace, her steps sure and deliberate. Ser Arlan watched from a distance, a faint smile on his weathered face, as Reilla lined up her shot.

The arrow flew true, striking the buck cleanly and bringing it down with a single shot. Reilla approached the fallen stag with a mix of pride and satisfaction. She instructed her guards to prepare the stag's head and rack for transport, a grin tugging at her lips. "This," she declared with mock seriousness, "shall be my wedding gift to Prince Aegon. A token of my prowess with a bow."

Her guards chuckled at her jest, but Reilla's thoughts turned sombre as they resumed their journey towards King's Landing. She wondered what Aegon would think of her, a girl from the Vale raised in the shadow of mountains, with a heart torn between duty and desire for a peaceful realm.

The looming war weighed heavily on her mind. She knew that her betrothal to Aegon was not just a union of hearts but a strategic alliance forged in the fires of political necessity. As they neared the capital, Reilla couldn't help but think of Daemon Targaryen.

She harboured no illusions about him - his ambitions, his ruthlessness, and his calculated manoeuvres to secure power. His absence in her life had left a void filled with questions and resentment. Yet, despite her feelings towards Daemon, Reilla knew that her destiny was entwined with House Targaryen. The alliance between their houses was meant to bring stability to a fractured realm, to unite the warring factions under a single banner.

As they finally approached the gates of the capital city, the sight of the Red Keep rising against the skyline filled Reilla with a mixture of awe and apprehension. The great castle seemed to loom over her, its towering walls a stark reminder of the power that resided within.

The guards at the gate recognized the sigil of House Royce, their armour gleaming in the sunlight as they ushered Reilla and her retinue through the bustling courtyard. The sounds of the city enveloped them - the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, the calls of merchants hawking their wares, and the distant murmur of the people going about their daily lives.

Reilla dismounted gracefully, her riding habit dusted with the road's grime. She took a moment to straighten her attire, adjusting the cloak adorned with the Royce colours before stepping forward to follow the guards into the Great Hall.

Inside, the atmosphere was both grand and solemn. The Great Hall of the Red Keep was adorned with green banners bearing the sigil of House Targaryen in gold, their colours shimmering in the light streaming through stained glass windows. At the far end of the hall, Queen Alicent Hightower awaited her, flanked by her advisors and courtiers.

"Welcome to King's Landing, Princess Reilla," Alicent's voice carried across the hall with warmth and authority. "We have awaited your arrival with great anticipation."

Reilla curtsied gracefully before the queen, her violet eyes meeting Alicent's with respect. "Thank you, Your Grace," she replied, her voice steady despite the flurry of emotions within her. "It is an honour to be here."

Alicent's gaze lingered on Reilla for a moment, assessing the young woman who would soon join their court. "You have travelled far," the queen remarked, her tone measured. "I trust your journey was not too taxing?"

Reilla inclined her head slightly. "It was a challenging journey, Your Grace, but one I undertook with determination. I am grateful for the hospitality extended to me and my retinue."

Alicent nodded approvingly. "Your presence here marks a new chapter in the history of our realm."

As their conversation concluded, Reilla's attention shifted to the figure standing beside Queen Alicent - an young man whose presence exuded a sense of quiet intensity. Prince Aegon Targaryen stood tall and composed, his silver-blonde hair catching the light as he regarded her with a calculating gaze.

Aegon stepped forward with a faint smile playing on his lips, his violet eyes assessing Reilla with a keen intensity. "Princess Reilla," he greeted her, his voice smooth and assured. "It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

Reilla met his gaze squarely, her own expression composed yet perceptive. She took his hand in a firm grip, noting the strength and confidence in his demeanour, but also sensing an underlying vulnerability. "The pleasure is mine, Prince Aegon," she replied, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions swirling within her.

Aegon's violet eyes studied her intently, as if searching for something beneath the surface. His usual facade of confidence wavered, revealing a hint of inner turmoil. "I have heard much about you," he admitted softly, his tone thoughtful. "Your skills and your unwavering loyalty to your house."

Reilla inclined her head slightly, her violet eyes meeting his with understanding. "And I have heard tales of you as well, Prince Aegon," she replied diplomatically, sensing the weight of his unspoken burdens. "It is an honour to stand before you."

Aegon's lips twitched slightly, a wry hint of amusement playing across his features. "Let us dispense with formalities, shall we?" he suggested, a flicker of vulnerability visible in his eyes. "We are to be wed, after all. It would be prudent to become acquainted."

Reilla's lips quirked in response, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She appreciated his candour and the subtle admission of their shared uncertainty. "Indeed," she agreed warmly, feeling a measure of relief at his easy manner. "It seems we have much to discuss."

As they settled into the quiet of Reilla's chambers within the Red Keep, Ser Criston Cole stood vigilantly by the door, his presence a reminder of the propriety expected of their meeting. Aegon poured himself a goblet of wine but hesitated before taking a sip, acutely aware of Ser Criston's watchful gaze.

Reilla, seated across from Aegon, observed his hesitation with a gentle smile. "What weighs heaviest on your mind, Prince Aegon?"

"Straight into the thick of it, then?" He chuckled and sat down, sighing as he pondered the question. Aegon glanced towards Ser Criston briefly before meeting Reilla's gaze, a flicker of vulnerability in his violet eyes. "Rhaenyra, my sister," he admitted, his voice tinged with bitterness. "She was always the favoured one - the true heir, groomed from birth to wear the crown. I've spent my life in her shadow, second place in everyone's eyes."

Reilla nodded empathetically, understanding the weight of familial expectations all too well. "And your mother?" she inquired with curiosity.

"Queen Alicent," Aegon said her name with a mixture of reverence and resentment. "She sees me as a pawn in her game for power, a means to secure the throne she believes rightfully belongs to our line. I've never felt like I belonged to her."

Their conversation unfolded with an undercurrent of restraint, Ser Criston's silent vigil a constant reminder of their roles and the propriety of their meeting. Reilla, by rights a princess of the realm, shared her own apprehensions about leaving the familiar confines of the Vale, where her training and sense of purpose had been forged.

"Duty can be a heavy burden," she admitted, her voice steady with resolve. "Especially when it demands sacrifices we may not be prepared to make."

Aegon nodded solemnly, his features softened by Reilla's understanding. "I've never desired the crown," he confessed quietly. "It's a weight I fear I may not bear - never groomed to rule, always feeling inadequate."

Reilla regarded him with empathy, her gaze momentarily meeting Ser Criston's before returning to Aegon. "Yet here we stand," she said, gently taking his hand, "bound by duty and fate, navigating uncertain waters together."

Their conversation deepened into shared hopes and aspirations. Aegon spoke of a longing for peace and stability, far removed from the turmoil of court intrigue and familial expectations.

"I want a realm where people can live without fear," he admitted, his voice earnest. "Where the burdens of power don't overshadow the need for compassion and justice."

Reilla's eyes softened with understanding. "And I want to honour the legacy of my bloodlines," she confided, her voice tinged with quiet determination. "To bring strength through unity, and to forge alliances that endure beyond the whims of politics."

As the evening wore on their shared vulnerability became a bridge, connecting their hearts and minds in ways that mere duty could never achieve. When the hour grew late, Aegon escorted Reilla to her chambers' door, Ser Criston following respectfully behind. The weight of their conversation lingered in the air like a promise of understanding and support.

"Goodnight, Princess Reilla," Aegon said softly, his gaze holding hers with newfound sincerity.

"Goodnight, Prince Aegon," Reilla replied, a gentle smile curving her lips. In that moment, she felt a glimmer of hope for their future - a future built not just on duty, but on mutual respect and the shared journey they had begun together.

As she settled into her chambers, the sounds of King's Landing fading into the background, Reilla reflected on the day's events. She had arrived as a paragon of House Royce, but she knew that her future now lay intertwined with House Targaryen. With Aegon by her side, she felt a renewed sense of purpose - a determination to navigate the treacherous waters of courtly intrigue and war with grace and strength.

The betrothal that had once seemed a distant obligation had now become a reality, and Reilla was ready to face it head-on. With the spirit of her mother guiding her, she closed her eyes, her thoughts drifting to the challenges and triumphs that lay ahead.

In the heart of King's Landing, amidst the echoes of a realm in turmoil, Reilla Royce prepared herself for the role she was destined to play - a role that would shape the fate of Westeros in the turbulent days to come.

As the days in King's Landing passed swiftly, Reilla found herself navigating the intricate web of court politics and preparations with a mixture of apprehension and determination. The Red Keep buzzed with activity, each corridor and chamber echoing with the footsteps of servants and nobles alike, all preparing for Aegon's coronation and the impending wedding.

Queen Alicent's guidance was a steady presence in Reilla's life during this tumultuous time. One evening, they strolled through the serene gardens of the Red Keep, the air fragrant with the scent of blooming roses and the distant sound of courtiers' voices.

"You must be vigilant," Alicent counselled, her tone serious yet warm as she glanced at Reilla. "The realm is divided, my dear. There are factions that would see us weakened, and your presence here is a symbol of unity and strength."

Reilla nodded thoughtfully, her gaze sweeping over the meticulously manicured hedges. "I will do my utmost, Your Grace," she replied earnestly. "Unity is our greatest asset in these troubled times."

As they continued their stroll, Reilla found herself increasingly drawn into the heart of court life. She attended meetings where strategies were discussed, listened to the concerns of advisors and lords, and observed the delicate dance of alliances and rivalries that shaped the future of the realm.

Amidst these preparations, Reilla and Aegon's interactions deepened. Initially reserved, Aegon gradually opened up to her, sharing his anxieties about his impending role and the weight of expectation upon him.

One evening, in the quiet of Reilla's chambers, Aegon confessed softly, "I never asked for this, Reilla. The crown feels like a noose around my neck, tightening with each passing day."

Reilla, sitting across from him, reached out to touch his hand, offering silent support. "You are not alone in this burden, Aegon," she reassured him gently. "Together, we will navigate these troubled waters."

Their bond grew stronger with each passing day, founded on mutual understanding and a shared sense of duty. They discussed the challenges ahead, strategized on how to unify the realm, and found solace in each other's company amidst the chaos of courtly life.

However, as plans for the coronation took shape, a tense discussion arose during a special council meeting in the Small Council chamber. Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, proposed that Aegon's coronation should take place in the Dragonpit - a symbolic gesture to reaffirm Targaryen supremacy and strength.

Reilla listened intently, but a gnawing worry grew within her. When the opportunity arose, she voiced her concern respectfully yet firmly, "My lords, I fear the Dragonpit may not be the safest choice given the current tensions. It is an open venue, vulnerable to potential threats."

Otto Hightower, a stern figure with a reputation for pragmatism, frowned slightly. "Princess Reilla, the Dragonpit has hosted many royal ceremonies without incident. It is a historic site, a symbol of his Targaryen lineage."

Reilla met his gaze evenly, her violet eyes betraying her concern. "I understand its significance, my lord Hand. However, in these uncertain times, perhaps the Great Hall of the Red Keep would be a more secure option. It can be fortified easily, ensuring the safety of all attendees."

The council chamber fell silent as the advisors exchanged glances. Finally, Aegon spoke up, his voice carrying a note of consideration, "Reilla makes a valid point, Lord Hightower. Safety must be our foremost concern."

After a moment of deliberation, Otto Hightower nodded reluctantly. "Very well. The Hall it shall be. Preparations to include the smallfolk will have to be changed but it will be done."

"We would hold a viewing," Reilla said, swallowing thickly. "After Prince Aegon is officially crowned before the court, we could present him to the smallfolk in front of the Great Sept of Baelor - it would allow him to be seen while also allowing him to be protected - the Sept can also be fortified in case of… unrest."

Aegon clapped his hands and grinned at Otto. "Brilliant, this little wife of mine. Have it arranged, Lord Hand."

Otto bowed his head and shared a look with Queen Alicent, who had been watching Reilla with some measure of scepticism and awe. "Yes, your Grace."

With the matter settled, Reilla felt a surge of relief mingled with determination. She was beginning to find her voice in the intricate dance of court politics, asserting herself not only as Aegon's future bride but as a voice of reason and foresight in shaping the realm's future.

As they left the council chamber, Aegon clasped Reilla's hand gratefully. "Thank you," he murmured softly, his eyes reflecting a mixture of gratitude and admiration. "For understanding for making it a smaller ceremony."

Reilla smiled warmly, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "We are in this together, Aegon," she replied with conviction. "As partners, facing the challenges ahead as one. I would see you protected at all costs."

Their journey towards the coronation and wedding continued, each step bringing them closer not only to the culmination of their union but to a future where their shared vision of unity and stability might take root amidst the complexities of the Iron Throne.

However, amidst the preparations and political manoeuvres, Reilla sought a private audience with Alicent one evening in the Queen's solar. The room was bathed in the warm glow of candles, casting flickering shadows on the ornate tapestries that adorned the walls.

Reilla sipped at a vintage of Arbor red that Aegon had introduced her to, brows furrowed in though. "Why did King Viserys not declare openly before he passed? If he meant to strengthen Aegon's claim, why not make it more public?"

Alicent's expression softened slightly. "Viserys was a complex man, torn between familial duty and political manoeuvring. I believe he came to realize Aegon's potential too late. He had been muttering for several nights that he had a dream of Aegon on the throne - the prince that was promised. I believe he had time to reflect with the Gods on his children and realised that Aegon had been the heir he had been longing for all along."

The older woman opened a delicate box and presented a letter to Reilla bearing the King's seal. It was a declaration of Viserys' wish to declare Aegon as the rightful heir of the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms - signed by three witnesses and the king himself (though shakily).

Reilla handed the letter back and bit her lip. "Rhaenyra will claim it a forgery. She will fight for the throne - all the lords bowed to her, once."

"I understand that. I have been trying for years to reconcile Rhaenyra to the fact that her father might change his mind but she recused herself and is now isolated on Dragonstone with Daemon, who is no doubt dripping poison into her ear." Alicent replied gravely, "You must stand by Aegon, Reilla. Protect him, guide him, as his queen."

As Reilla absorbed the weight of Alicent's revelation, she nodded slowly, a sense of duty and determination settling upon her shoulders. "I will do whatever is necessary for Aegon and for the realm." Even if it just meant spiting Daemon Targaryen.

Alicent's gaze softened with approval. "You possess a strength and resilience that will serve you well, Reilla. The realm is fortunate to have you by Aegon's side."

Watching Alicent's composed demeanour, Reilla felt a surge of resolve. She had stepped into a role far greater than she had imagined, but with Aegon and Alicent's guidance, she would navigate the challenges ahead with courage and grace.

Later that evening, as Reilla looked out over the moonlit city from her chamber window, she reflected on the path that lay before them. Aegon's coronation would mark the beginning of a new era - one fraught with uncertainty yet filled with the promise of unity and renewal. And as she thought of Aegon, of the burdens he would soon bear, Reilla reaffirmed her commitment to him and to their shared destiny, whatever it might bring.

The days leading up to the coronation were filled with tension and anticipation. In an effort to find some peace amidst the chaos, Reilla and Princess Helaena Targaryen decided to escape the confines of the Red Keep for a beachside picnic. The salty breeze and the rhythmic crashing of the waves offered a refreshing contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the court.

They settled on a soft blanket, a spread of delicacies laid out before them. The sea stretched out endlessly, its vast expanse mirroring the uncertainty of their futures. Helaena, with her gentle demeanour and keen interest in nature, greeted Reilla with a warm smile that reflected her genuine curiosity about the world around her.

"Cousin Reilla," Helaena said warmly, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I've heard much about your bravery and grace."

Reilla returned her smile, touched by Helaena's kind words. "Thank you, Princess Helaena. The pleasure is mine," she replied graciously, taking in the serene atmosphere of the beach.

Helaena's eyes sparkled with genuine interest as she glanced at the shoreline, where seabirds dipped and soared. "Isn't it marvellous?" she remarked softly, gesturing to the sea. "The way nature weaves its own stories."

Reilla nodded, drawn into Helaena's appreciation for the natural world. "Indeed, it is," she agreed warmly. "Each wave, each bird, has its own tale to tell, if we take the time to listen."

They continued their conversation, Helaena sharing anecdotes about her explorations along the beach and her fondness for observing the behaviors of sea creatures and birds. Reilla found herself enjoying Helaena's gentle spirit and insightful observations, which offered a refreshing contrast to the intense political discussions that often dominated court life.

"I must admit, Helaena," Reilla said with a smile, "your perspective on life is quite refreshing. It's easy to get caught up in the complexities of court."

Helaena nodded thoughtfully, a small smile playing on her lips. "I find solace in nature," she confessed softly. "It reminds me that there's a beauty in simplicity, a rhythm that grounds us amidst the chaos."

Their conversation drifted from topic to topic, weaving through tales of court intrigue and Helaena's musings on the future of the realm. Reilla appreciated Helaena's thoughtful insights and genuine curiosity, finding in her a kindred spirit who valued both inner reflection and outward exploration.

As they sat on the blanket, their conversation naturally turned to Aegon, who was soon to be crowned king. Helaena paused, her gaze thoughtful as she spoke.

"You know, Aegon has always been burdened by the weight of expectations," Helaena mused softly, plucking a shell from the sand and turning it over in her hands. "Mother and grandfather, they see him as an instrument in their bid for power. But you, Reilla, you could be different for him."

Reilla regarded Helaena with interest, sensing a depth to her words. "How so?" she inquired gently, curious about the princess's unique insight.

"You understand him in ways that others may not," Helaena explained, her voice carrying a note of sincerity. "You see beyond the crown and the politics. You see the person—the doubts, the fears, the dreams he holds close. That's a gift, Reilla."

Reilla considered Helaena's words, struck by their honesty. "I want to support Aegon," she admitted earnestly. "To help him find his own path, not just the one others expect of him."

Helaena nodded in understanding. "You can guide him, Reilla," she said gently. "Together, you can shape the future of the realm in ways that defy expectations. Aegon needs someone who believes in him, who sees his potential for greatness."

Their conversation continued, weaving through Helaena's observations on Aegon's inner struggles and the role Reilla could play in his journey as king. Reilla listened intently, grateful for Helaena's unique perspective and genuine concern for her brother.

"As you prepare for the coronation and the wedding," Helaena concluded thoughtfully, "remember this: Aegon may doubt himself, but with you by his side, he can find the strength to rise above those doubts."

Reilla smiled gratefully at Helaena, touched by her insight and encouragement. "Thank you, Helaena," she said sincerely. "Your words have given me much to think about."

Watching Helaena disappear into the distance, where the sand met the waves, Reilla felt a sense of gratitude for the unexpected friendship they had forged. In Helaena, she found not only a companion in the quiet moments of reflection but also a reminder of the beauty and serenity that could be found amidst the challenges of courtly life.

As the sun dipped low over King's Landing, its rays casting a warm, golden hue across the city, Reilla stood on the balcony of her chambers, her thoughts swirling with anticipation and apprehension. The bustling streets below echoed with the sounds of preparation, a stark contrast to the serenity of her quiet moment alone.

The realm was on edge, teetering on the brink of conflict, yet amidst the turmoil, there was a glimmer of hope—hope that she and Aegon could forge a path to peace and stability. She gazed out at the distant horizon, where the last vestiges of daylight painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, contemplating the weight of responsibility that lay ahead.

In the distance, the rhythmic beat of drums and the blare of horns signalled the arrival of noble houses, their banners fluttering proudly in the evening breeze. The coronation loomed large on the morrow, a solemn occasion that would mark Aegon's ascension to the Iron Throne and their union as king and queen.

Lost in her thoughts, Reilla was startled when she sensed Aegon's presence behind her. She turned to find him standing quietly at the entrance to her balcony, his expression a mixture of weariness and uncertainty. Without a word, he crossed the threshold to join her, his eyes scanning the cityscape below.

"Aegon," she murmured softly, reaching out to gently touch his arm. "Are you alright?"

He met her gaze, his shoulders tense with the weight of impending responsibility. "I couldn't sleep," he confessed quietly, his voice tinged with exhaustion. "There's so much resting on tomorrow."

Reilla nodded in understanding, her heart aching for the burden he carried. "Come," she said gently, guiding him back into the warmth of her chambers. "Sit with me."

She led him to the deep sofa in her sitting room, guiding him to lay his head in her lap. Aegon hesitated for a moment, as if unsure of allowing himself this vulnerability, but he finally acquiesced, resting against her with a sigh. Reilla smoothed his tousled hair with a gentle touch, her fingers tracing soothing circles on his brow.

For a while, they sat in companionable silence, the only sound the soft murmur of the city below and the steady rhythm of their breathing. Reilla began to hum a soft, comforting melody, a lullaby Alyssa had sung to her in times of uncertainty. The familiar notes filled the room, wrapping Aegon in a blanket of reassurance.

As the tension gradually melted from his frame, Aegon's grip on Reilla's dress loosened, his breathing growing slow and even. His face, usually etched with worry, softened in repose. Reilla continued to stroke his hair tenderly, her heart swelling with a deep affection for the man who would soon be her husband and king.

In the quiet of that intimate moment, with the weight of their shared destiny pressing upon them, Reilla found solace in the simple act of offering comfort. She knew that tomorrow would bring challenges they could scarcely imagine, but in this fleeting respite, she held onto the belief that their bond would be their strength.

As Aegon drifted into a peaceful slumber, Reilla sat with him, her gaze fixed on his serene expression. She whispered words of encouragement into the night, promising to stand by his side through whatever trials awaited them. In that quiet sanctuary, amidst the swirl of uncertainty outside, they found a brief respite—a moment of peace that fortified them both for the trials ahead.

#fanfiction #fanfic #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #hotd x oc #aegon ii targaryen #aegon fanfic #aegon fluff #aegon smut #aegon x oc #house targaryen #tom glynn carney #aegon ii targaryen x oc #hotd aegon #oc: reilla

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praetorqueenreyna · 11 months ago

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My last ACOTAR gift exchange fic is for @copypastus, my favorite degenerate villain lover! She started the Hytam revolution, so it's only fair of me to continue my Hytam fic for her.

Click here to read on AO3 or continue reading below:

The king of Hybern picked his way through the remains of Rosehall. The once proud manor was now dilapidated and overgrown with weeds. The front doors had been ripped off their hinges, and part of the ceiling in the foyer had caved in and allowed debris from the outside to invade and pile up on the floor. He made his way unerringly to the throne room. An enormous beast lay prone in front of the dais. Its wolf-like jaw rested on its paws, green eyes staring vacantly at the wall. One of the antlers that adorned its head had snapped off.

“Look what they’ve done to you,” he murmured. The beast didn’t move. “You fought me, every step of the way, out of some misplaced sense of honor. And what do you have to show for it?”

Slowly, painfully, the beast raised its head to look at him. The king fought back a smile. The situation was delicate, and the High Lord was still powerful. He continued speaking, his voice a soothing melody. “They’ve all betrayed you, haven’t they? For hundreds of years, they’ve used your loyalty against you and then left. The Lord of Night slaughtered your family and then waged war on your land. That human woman lied to you in order to destabilize your rule and steal your secrets. Even your faithful emissary has left you.”

The beast's eyes blazed at the mention of the Autumn Court brat. A matching surge of fury swelled in the king’s breast, and he fought it down. This was no time for petty emotions like jealousy. He was so close to success.

“Don’t you tire of these outdated notions of good and evil?” the king crooned. “Nobody else in this wretched kingdom adheres to them. You’ve fought for them long enough. Isn’t it time to fight for yourself? To seek vengeance against those who have deceived you?”

The king held his breath. This was the vital moment, where he found out if he had gone too far and ruined his entire plan before it had even begun. The beast unfolded its legs and rose to its feet. It approached the king, its mouth full of sharp teeth perfectly level with his throat. The metallic tang of magic filled the air, and the beasts form puddled and shifted into a bowed blonde man dressed in rags. The High Lord of Spring turned his gaunt face up to the king.

“Yes,” he said, voice hoarse from disuse. “Tell me how.”

Finally, the king allowed himself to grin. He tenderly cupped Tamlin’s cheek in his hand, thumb brushing against the perfect golden skin. “I already have.”

These things take time, Cesare reminded himself. Impatience was the enemy. He could wait. He had waited for five centuries for his chance to conquer Prythian once again. Still, he grew exasperated with Tamlin. The Spring lord vacillated between his desire for revenge and his stubbornly persistent sense of morality. Cesare coaxed Tamlin out of his depression, as one would cajole an injured animal into a trap. Tamlin stopped shifting into a beast to punish himself. He cleaned himself up and changed his clothes. Slowly, the manor around him began to repair itself, matching the lord’s improving mood.

It wasn’t enough. The king of Hybern didn’t want Tamlin content. He wanted Tamlin to fight. He reminded Tamlin of the wrongs committed against him, how those he had carefully cultivated relationships with turned their backs on him. Unfortunately, Tamlin was far more inclined towards self-flagellation than righteous anger. He blamed himself, over and over again, for his current state of being. Cesare began to despair that Tamlin would never rouse himself enough to participate in his plan. That Tamlin would never be his.

Then they found the assassin.

Cesare had carefully negotiated allowing a bare bones contingent of his soldiers into Spring. They wouldn’t attack or harm anybody, they were simply there to protect Tamlin’s unguarded borders. One of them sprinted into the manor, panting. They had apprehended an intruder, he explained, several miles from the border. If the Hybern soldiers hadn’t been patrolling, he would have made it to Rosehall completely unnoticed. At Cesare’s command, they brought their captive to the throne room, which still lay in ruins. Tamlin sat at the pile of rubble that used to be his throne. Cesare stood to his right, slightly in front of him.

The intruder was a pixie dressed in plain black clothing. He had midnight blue skin and pitch black eyes that glistened like wet tar. His fingers were long and narrow, tipped with wickedly sharp claws. His transparent veiny wings were hidden away under a beetle-like carapace. Cesare recognized the type immediately. These lesser fae crawled through the underground tunnels of the Night Court, infesting and reproducing like cockroaches. One on its own wasn’t particularly dangerous, but when they swarmed they could easily overwhelm much more powerful fae.

“We found this on him.” one of Cesare’s soldiers tossed a small vial through the air. Cesare caught it and opened it, his upper lip curling at the distinctive scent. It was hydrophid, a toxin about a thousand times more powerful than faebane. Even the fumes from the miniscule amount in the vial were enough to make Cesare lightheaded, and he quickly capped the container. He passed it to Tamlin, who also sniffed the vial’s contents. His brow furrowed; he knew as well as Cesare did that hydrophid came from a reptile that only inhabited the mountains of the Night Court.

“What’s your name, pixie?” a gentle voice behind Cesare caught him by surprise. Tamlin was leaning forward, staring intently at the pixie.

“Nehp,” he answered sullenly. “No use asking me nothing. I’m not gonna talk.”

“I think you will.” Tamlin rose from his seat until he stood in front of Nehp. A few weeks of taking care of himself had made a marked difference. No longer did his joints creak from disuse, no longer did he sway from malnutrition. He was strong and muscular, moving with the feral grace of a leopard. Cesare couldn’t take his eyes off him. He watched, discreetly signaling for his soldiers not to interfere.

“Who sent you?” Tamlin towered over Nehp, an implicit threat in his tone. The pixie gulped but didn’t answer. Tamlin cocked his head to one side and waited. Without warning, Nehp began to scream.

Cesare started, instinctively rising to his feet. Tamlin hadn’t touched the pixie, hadn’t so much as moved. But Nehp was shrieking as if he had been caught on fire. He lifted up his hands, and for a second it appeared that he was now wearing a pair of red gloves. Cesare’s vision focused and he realized that the skin on Nehp’s hands had peeled back, revealing muscle and tendons and bone. The screams changed pitch as Nehp’s head began to bubble with grotesque boils. Each boil exploded outward to reveal a bloodshot eye. All of a sudden Nehp gagged. A brief glimpse through his open mouth revealed that an eyeball had grown on the tip of his tongue.

“I can do this all day,” Tamlin said coldly. He was doing this, Cesare finally realized. He had known about the High Lord’s shapeshifting ability, and that he was able to change other beings with it. Up until now, the skill had been so underutilized that Cesare had forgotten about it. He hadn’t understood the full potential of the power that Tamlin contained. He wondered if Tamlin refrained from using his power because he feared what he could truly accomplish with it. There wasn’t a drop of sweat on Tamlin, no indication that he was exerting himself as he contorted the pixie’s form.

“I’ll talk,” Nehp choked out. “Please…stop.”

In a flash, he reverted back to normal. He collapsed on the ground, tears streaming down his face from his two remaining eyes. Coughing, he glared hatefully at Tamlin.

“Who sent you to kill me?”

“The Shadowsinger.” The pixie didn’t even try to deny what his goal had been. “On the Night Lord’s orders.”

Something in Tamlin cracked. In front of Cesare’s eyes he wilted, shoulders drooping and head hung low. He walked out of the throne room past Nehp, who cringed away from the High Lord. With a flick of his hand, Cesare indicated to his soldiers that they could take care of the pixie once and for all. One of them pulled out his sword and ran Nehp through. He died without another sound.

Cesare found Tamlin standing on the manor’s front steps. Tamlin was staring across his land with unseeing eyes.

“I haven’t done anything.” Tamlin’s voice was hoarse, as if he had been shouting. “I’ve stayed here, even when they disrespect my borders and have secret meetings on my land. I risked my life in your camp and exposed myself to save them. I even brought him back to life.” Cesare was silent, letting the full weight of the Night Court’s crimes against Tamlin sink in. Although his primary interest in the Spring Lord was power, even he was insulted on Tamlin’s behalf. The Lords of Prythian had taken advantage of Tamlin’s kindness long enough. They didn’t deserve it.

“He tried to kill me.” Tamlin spoke the words softly, as if he couldn’t quite believe them.

“He underestimated you.” Cesare stepped up beside Tamlin. “You’ve let them walk all over you. Let them believe you are weak.”

“I am weak.”

“No.” Cesare roughly grabbed Tamlin’s chin in his hand, forcing the other male to look at him. “You’ve only made yourself think you’re weak. You’ve held yourself back out of some archaic sense of morality. What I saw of you today was incredible. You hold more power in your little finger than the rest of the High Lord’s have in their whole bodies. Including Rhysand. That’s why he needs to get rid of you. He knows how much you threaten him.” Cesare practically burned with desire, both for Tamlin himself and the potential he represented.

“That wasn’t me.”

“It can be.” He pulled Tamlin in for a rough kiss. He expected the High Lord to struggle and pull away; instead, clawed hands wrapped around his neck, slicing through the collar of his tunic. Cesare didn’t care. The pure strength radiating off of Tamlin, the cruelty he had shown, made him dizzy with lust. Tamlin could reach into his chest and rip out his heart, and the king of Hybern would thank him.

“We’re going to kill them all,” Cesare murmured when he had to pull back for a breath.

Tamlin smiled against his lips. “Good.”

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #hytam #tamlin/king of hybern #tamlin #king of hybern #HERE U GO COPY #MORE HYTAM FOR U #THIS TIME THEY KITH

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