#the last envoy

[kimberly-stocks]

Rewatching Altered carbon season 1 for the third time because Joel Kinnaman 🤤

He said that to get into this shape he only ate kale leaves with his tears as a dressing 😅

[calaisreno]

Rise

621 words / Prompt: Family

Today’s mini-fic is a little bit that didn’t make it into The Last Envoy. After the war, Sherlock returns and visits Mummy. 

1946

Mycroft told me that Mummy was failing a bit, but that was not what I saw when I looked through the garden door and saw her snipping flowers to put in a vase. She looked like the woman I’d last seen four years ago, before I went to Oxford, still tall and straight, graceful and beautiful.

Four years seemed a lifetime. Years filled with separation and waiting, spent in places only war can create. 

“Happy Birthday, Mummy,” I said, smiling. 

She turned then, and I could see that her hair was whiter, her movements slower. She lay down the scissors and put her arms around me, still holding two roses. I felt her hands tremble against my back.

“My boy,” she whispered. “My dearest darling.”

She knew me, but in her mind I was always the son she’d lost, so many years ago. A bright little boy she’d called Sherlock, as well as the man Mycroft had named after that child. 

“How are you?” I could see a brightness in her eyes and was glad that her mind was still active. 

“I’m fine,” she replied, holding me at arm’s length now and examining me with that sharp gaze. “You look surprisingly well. Doctor Watson has been taking good care of you.”

“He has. Switzerland is a very healthy place to live. Up in the mountains, the air is crystal clear. I’m sure I’ll miss it and will need to visit again some day, but for now I’m happy to be back.”

We sat, and Rose brought us tea. 

“Mycroft told me about your experiences. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. It’s heart-breaking that people can do such things.”

I did not speak; a question should not be answered until it is asked.  

“How is John?” she asked.

“He’s fine. He would have come with me, but he had to be at the hospital today.”

“He’s a good man. I’m glad you have him.” 

“I’m very lucky.” 

We sipped our tea in silence. I could hear the bees humming in her flowers. Closing my eyes, I recalled the first time I saw bees travelling between the flowers in Mycroft’s garden. I imagined a day when I could no longer sit in Mummy’s garden, watching the bees and talking to her.  

As if she could hear my thoughts, she smiled and spoke to me. 

“I’m seventy-five years old today, Sherlock. With luck, I may have several more birthdays.”

“I hope so, Mummy.” 

She gave me that familiar look, the one that means she wants to share something personal, words for my ears alone. “You once described to me how the Beta view time as an arrow, always travelling up, leaving the past behind. It’s a good way to look at ageing, which often feels like loss. I’ve decided that as the years pile up, I will rise above them, into the future.”

In my mind I sometimes felt myself looking back as my ship moved up and away from Beta, my home planet, until it sparkled, a tiny point of light in the trackless black universe. I remembered everything about my home, every one of the people who loved me. They were moving quickly into the past, growing smaller as I looked back. I was flying away from them, but still too far away from my destination to see the life I would have on a planet that couldn’t be seen from Beta. In my memories, they were always looking up, watching me leave them.

That is how it would be for this woman who had become my second mother. In my memories, she would always live. 

One day, I would be a Memory too.

I smiled. “We all rise.” 

—

For a bit of context, an excerpt from The Last Envoy, Chapter 2:

1938

“How old are you?” I asked.

She raised her chin, a sign of pride. “I am sixty-seven years old.” She leaned forward and patted my knee. I wasn’t sure what this meant. “You’re a lovely boy, Sherlock. I want to teach you something important.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

“Women don’t like being asked their age,” she said. “I don’t mind because I’m an old woman and you are a lovely young man. You don’t know all of the social nuances, but you’re a quick learner.”

“Why do women not like to be asked their age?” It seemed to me that any human ought to be proud of living so long. 

She sighed. “It’s a bit complicated. Men don’t mind saying their age. You must understand that the role of women in our society is to produce children and raise them. For that, we have to project youth and good heredity, as evidenced by our beauty. A woman hates to think that she is no longer useful, so we continue to foster the illusion that we are still young and beautiful, even when it is a ridiculous fantasy.”

“Why do you think you are not useful?” I asked. “Women are not just breeding machines; they have brains. You had an important job; you’re obviously an intelligent woman who would do a better job running the country than most men.”

She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “I do not disagree. But these are the roles that nature has given us and society requires. Perhaps one day, we will rise above nature and society.” 

@totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes

[ask-cloverfield]

I love Rebirth flirting with the question of how sentient Gamera is throughout the show, but still first thing we see with the old man is an eye full of such fondness at the sight of children.

[hopeforbountifulasks]

hi hope!!! if you don't mind, could you tell us about some of the interesting flora and fauna around your superstructure? maybe a favourite little creature or two of yours hanging around.. aside from envoy i guess, but you could tell us more about them too if you want! anyways i love u have a good day🫶

[HBH: I am still unsure what exactly causes it, if i had to guess i would say it begins in the very womb, but why ? A viral infection ? Trauma caused during development ? Or a hidden gene passed on from generation to generation ?... Makes you think doesn't it.]

[asleepinawell]

me: hmm i need 3 favours from hell asap i wonder if my opportunity deck will condescend to help me out

my opportunity deck:

[dreampearls]

colleis personality functionally being left to the ether because her webtoon iteration is at such fundamental odds with her game iteration that any attempts to temper between the two just range so dramatically

[kirstythejetblackgoldfish]

Saif al-Islam Gaddafi's message to the International Criminal Court following the plans for an arrest warrant for Netanyahu:

'What goes around comes around... Good luck'

[loxosceleslolo]

The Envoy's Long Horn finally dropped for me this playthrough and I am absolutely going to see what the fuss is all about.

[ryteu]

Sestina de Senectute

Some days I think on all who fear to fade

And seal themselves within a shining fane

Made sacrosanct by virtue of their fame,

Though it may merely be a failed and frayed

Old shadow they might fret upon to feign

A self more worthy of a little frame,

As though that little, little frame

Would not itself one day begin to fade!

Indeed, it seems the great, unfailing feign

Of long eternity that never fane,

And Fate, and farcéd age shall become frayed

And rot away for sake of highest fame.

There may some merit be in trusted fame

For most distinguished lives to serve as frame;

Yet, even this by Virtue may be frayed

Until all things proved most unworthy fade

And leave behind and empty name as fane,

While mem’ry now posterity must feign.

A twisted, common thing it is to feign

The lives of those held great upon mere fame!

Where might find Truth in such a faithless fane

A place to now reside and form a frame

That should enhance instead of early fade

The portrait of a person merely frayed?

It seems for me no ill to be so frayed;

And better still by far than I should feign,

For some unbidden fear that soon I’ll fade,

Myself a shadow worth a petty fame.

I should rather like a small, honest frame

Upon some little, wayward forest fane,

Where worthy few might make old earth a fane

Of tired leaves and bedded grasses, frayed

With age. There shall Nature make a new frame

From ash, and bone, and what old Time may feign.

Though such a silent death may gain no fame,

It matters not to me, for all must fade.

Old, frayed blossoms fade;

So, too, must the frame of fame.

None may feign a fane.

[brittle-doughie]

Since we had that story of Y/N Cookie wanting to keep the Ancients from going out and getting themselves killed up against Dark Enchantress Cookie, how about something similar with the Beasts?

>The Beasts get corrupted

>Y/N Cookie, not corrupted, tries to fight them, and fails

>cue them starting to die

>Beasts start panicking, completely overestimating how much Y/N Cookie could take

>Y/N Cookie, in their last moments, wishes they could’ve done more to help the Beasts not get corrupted before finally going

>Witch(es) stumble upon this scene, seeing their greatest cookie having been crumbled, along with whatever other carnage is around

>cue literally everything else

Being sealed away with the guilt of spilling jam from the cookie you all loved the most fresh on your mind? They are NOT gonna be doing so hot in there.

The Tale of the Forced Hand (The Five Beasts)

Witch’s Castle witches are pretty neat.

“The story begins when this very Silver Tree was only a small sapling…When the World of Desserts was at its infancy.”

“The Witches baked six Cookies to help them in their creation of the world.”

“..harness the radiance bestowed upon you for the betterment of this world…”

“And the six Cookies imbued with absolute powers walked Earthbread as almighty envoys of the Great Creators.”

“Knowledge, Volition, Compassion, Happiness, Change, and Solidarity.”

“The Dessert World bound by these Five Virtues was nothing short of paradise.”

Gingerbrave and Wizard Cookie chimed in with their responses.

“So those six Cookies were the original owners of the Soul Jam?”

“Huh…Those “Six Virtues” are different from those of the Soul Jams. There’s six of them, yet only five today…”

“The Virtue of Compassion is what held the other Virtues so closely together, cherishing each of them equally as much.”

“Alas, for they and the perfect age were short-lived. Absolute power begets nothing but arrogance. It inevitably corrupts its wielder, bringing them to the most tragic of ends…A fate even the Witches were unable to foresee.”

“One by one, the Five, once regarded as saviors of the Cookie World, gradually turned to Darkness. And thus, the Five Virtues, too, became distorted, twisted…reduced to Deceit, Apathy, Sloth, Destruction, and Silence….”

Strawberry Cookie shuddered in worry at the mere mention of the fallen virtues.

“Deceit, Apathy, Sloth, Destruction, and Silence..that sounds really scary…

“Wait, what about the Virtue of Compassion? They weren’t evil too, were they?”

“The Virtue of Compassion was able to prevail against their descent into Darkness with their Soul Jam, whereas now the Five Beasts, the apostles of evil, began their dark crusade…”

“The Witches asked of Compassion to protect the Cookie World from the Beast Cookies, lending them what strength they could give.”

“Compassion fought bravely against the Beasts, blocking each of their blows and resisting their sickly whispers…But it was only a matter of time before Compassion slowly began to whittle…”

———————————————————————

“Come on, snap out of you all! This isn’t what you guys once were!”

“What’s the big deal, silly willy~ There isn’t anything wrong with dabbling yourself in a little bit of Darkness, you should try it with us!”

“No! This isn’t you! You were all my best friends! Come to your senses! Now!”

“It pains me to see you still cling onto false hope that you’re different than the rest of us, darling~ Can you just let go and become who you really are? For me~?”

“I can’t…I cannot forsake my oath to protect the Cookie World. You all know that! Cookies that want happy lives, don’t you want that?”

“They will all meet the same fate in the end, reduced to nothing…the futility of all this should be clear to you…”

“As if! It isn’t pointless to live life the way you want it to! It’s how you spend it and make the most of it!”

“They will all crumble in the end, so why not give them a little push! You’re starting to really aggravate me now, Y/N Cookie!”

“I won’t let you hurt them and I don’t want to hurt you all any more then I have to! Please, don’t do this…”

“……”

“Your silence says everything I need to hear from you. I tried…but I will put a stop you no matter if I’m reduced to bits!”

———————————————————————

“Woah….What happened to them?”

“The Virtue of Compassion fought for as long as they were able, their dough slowly whittling away with every blow that dealt to them. The Beasts have overestimated just how durable their former friend was…and they perished right in the middle of the circle….”

———————————————————————

“Ok, ya silly goose! You can stand right back up now! You put on a great show, let us give you a round of applause!”

“Darling, we know we haven’t hit you too hard. You can join us and we can all be together once more as Beasts…”

“Hmm…they don’t seem to be responding to us…”

“Hey, Y/N Cookie. Quit being soft and get up already, you’re..starting to worry me a bit here, you know.”

Silent Salt Cookie knelt down and placed their thumb on your wrist…jumping back when they feel nothing…

“Ahaha! Okay! This isn’t funny anymore, you softie! You win! Stand up on your two feet now! I’ll make you if you don’t!”

“D-Darling? P-Please get up. Look, I’m sorry for what I said earlier, I-WE just really wanted you to join us…”

“Burning Spice Cookie, just how hard were your strikes to their dough?

“D-Don’t put any type of blame on me! All of you were just as rough with them as I was!”

“….!”

The Beast Cookies rushed to their fallen friend in the center, clearly distraught on their faces…

“Y/N Cookie, if you don’t stop playing jokes with me right now, I’ll never forgive you!”

“Darling! Wake up! I-I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have hit you so hard! Please wake up! You have to! Don’t leave me alone!”

“It was pointless to try and stop us, Y/N Cookie. Yet…my heart cries and aches, why did you have to resist….please, wake up…”

“God DAMN IT. I-I went too far, I shouldn’t have been so brutal with my swings and now look at you, your dough..damaged and ruined….because of me….”

“….Hmph….”

Silent Salt just lowered their head to look at the ground, feeling nothing but shame and remorse for what they had done…for what they all had done….

“I wish…I could’ve done more for you all…I wished…that I had loved all of you more…to not…end up like this...”

“…..I’m sorry…..”

———————————————————————

“The Witches couldn’t bear to see what fate had befallen their creations, made even more distraught at the loss of their greatest creation among them all…they punished the Beasts by sealing them away deep within this land…”

“And planted the seed of the Silver Tree to ensure their evil power never sees the light of day again. Right where the Virtue of Compassion was laid to rest, so that at least a part of them can live on….From then on, this land where the Beasts were put to sleep, was called Beast Yeast.”

“The Witches then gathered the last vestiges of power bestowed upon the Beasts, untouched by their corruption. They further cleansed, purified it, and in the end…Soul Jam was created. The purest Soul Jam was meant to be earned by Cookies who had proven themselves worthy.”

“All, but Compassion. For their purity simply could not be remade again. The Witch who personally baked Compassion had locked herself away in grief after the loss of her cookie and took the knowledge of the recipe and baking of Compassion with her…”

“So, there can never be another cookie like Compassion?”

“It’s what they say, but all life powder returns to the earth. It isn’t out of the realm of possibility that the Virtue of Compassion may return in some form, someday…”

Everyone’s eyes turned to Y/N Cookie, who was casually eating some food offered to them by the Faeries.

“…..What?”

[yandere-wishes]

Alice in Marvel-land

𐙚Yandere! Deadpool (Wade Wilson) x Reader x Yandere Wolverine (Logan Howlett)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ In some worlds, you were Logan's little darling. In others, you were Wade's starry-eyed lover. But here in the void, there is only one of you and two of them.

⁀➷ GORE, yandere behavior, kidnapping, Deadpool being Deadpool.

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺ IDK, probs the Deadpool and Wolverine soundtrack

Logan feels the world slipping away.

Piece by piece, atom by atom.

In a blink, he's falling down darkness.

An endless rabbit hole.

What was the name of that fairy tale you liked so much?

The one with the girl who gets lost in splendor?

The dust is kicking up, framing the sunset portrait along the horizon.

The envoys are nearly home, this time they've brought someone back. The cage balls chime along the unsteady road. If you squint just far enough you can almost make out vibrant specks of red and yellow.

Strange, the void tends to wash out bright colors. Well, it tends to wash out just about everything.

You scrape your nails along the skeleton's sockets. Leave crescents in the decaying cartilage. "They're almost here" you call out awaiting Cassandra's next move. You watch dolefully as she's transfixed on a portal. The sparky thing unfurled like a fresh wound, strewing salt on persistent lacerations. She watches her brother, or well some variation of her brother. Surrounded by his new family, surrounded by those he loves. He's forgotten her, or maybe never even knew her. You think that the latter would hurt the most.

"Cassandra" Your voice rises in octave, this time getting her attention. "They're here".

"Coming" She sings, voice so chip it almost sounds like unshed tears. You send a final glare at the portal before it collapses on itself.

If you tried hard enough, maybe you could bring yourself to understand her pain. Those pesky notions of desperation for someone to love. But it

doesn't matter now everyone you've ever loved is dead anyway. And unlike Cassandra, you've long since given up on the childish dreams of being rescued by someone who would offer up love so freely.

"Maybe shut up now"

Logan's nerves are frying. Thin strings snapping with every syllable that leaves the red merc's mouth. He's starting to appreciate Stryker in a way he didn't even know he could. The man was a psychotic sadist but at least he knew when to sew someone's mouth shut. Maybe he can convince this Cassadra chick to do the same.

Logan's eyes are almost at 90 degrees of a roll when they stop. He stops, frozen. In the gaping mouth of the rotting skull, something all too familiar stands.

Or rather someone.

Someone he knew.

Someone he loved.

Your name tastes bitter on his tongue. All death and whisky.

Maybe cause it's been so long since the attack. Since he walked off for the night and left his family to die. Cause the last time he saw you, you were a mangled corpse laying in an open grave. Deadweight as he cradled you in his arms.

You walk closer. Face painted in too many shades of confusion.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Damn, he's started quoting that stupid book again.

"How do you know my name" You ask. You look just as beautiful as he remembers. Spine carved straight in pride with perfect lips, perfect eyes. His talons itch to glide across your soft skin, to feel you so intimately once more.

"LOOOGAN did you see what the bald chick just- HEY!!"

It takes too much effort to pull his gaze away. To stare at red and black and be reminded of cruel realities. But Wade has a tendency to be a persistent ache, some unwelcomed anchor to every problem he's ever had.

Only this time when he actually looks at him. Looks at the jittery body that's stilled abruptly. He can't help but be glad that he did. A bitter laugh bubbles in his throat. Maybe Wade's shut up for good this time.

He always knew you were special but this is truly a miracle.

"IT'S YOU!!"

Nope, didn't work. He knew he couldn't be that lucky.

Wade whispers your name, a forgotten prayer. Logan didn't even know the loudmouth knew how to pray. But he seems to almost soften when he sees you. That feral, cheeky killer, looks so so soft when he stares into your doe-eyes. Reaching out zealously to twirl a lock of your hair around his blood-soaked finger.

He can almost feel Wade choking on your essence, heart erratic, like a child finding a lost toy. He's drowning in ecstasy, and Logan is almost tempted to join him. You're here, a breath away. So close it's taking every ounce of self-control not to pull you to his chest and keep you locked between his arms until he finally dies too.

"Penunt look that's my girl!!"

"Your girl!?"

He had taken you for granted as he tends to do with most peaceful things. The realization had occurred a little too late. Right as he had been emptying a round into the target of the week's head.

He lands.

Arms high like an Olympian pleasing the crowd.

He wonders if he can make you cheer for him.

Clap and shout his name as he twirls around the mess he's made.

He wants to feel loved, although he'll never say it out loud. He's only ever been good with words when they're laced with sarcasm and profanity.

And maybe 'I love you' is just about the most obscene thing he can ever say to someone as sweet as you.

Wade plays the white rabbit, fluffy coat stained red from every kill. Tricking poor Alice into following him down cruel rabbit holes. Making you chase him through labyrinths then leaving you at every turn. He leads you to every kill, makes you watch as he dances in slaughter. He can even feel your eyes right now. Starlight slicing him open to quench vulgar interests.  

Alice always follows the rabbit.

He stalks closer, white eyes fixated on your deliciously bewildered expression. Precious thing caught in a warzone. He can almost taste you on his tongue, the sharp tip of a star slivering the inside of his mouth, soft hands painting crescent moons along the back of his neck. He needs to carve his essence across your lips, to pour the after-kill adrenaline into your soul. He needs you.

Only this time...

This time he'd been too distracted. So caught up in claiming you as his victory prize that he didn't notice the grizzled man clinging to life...

And a pistole.

The bullet punctures his shoulder. An afterthought.

But the lead keeps going.

Penetrating the air until it lands bunglingly between your eyes.

You fall into his arms.

Deadweight.

Did the white rabbit ever miss Alice?

Did he ever realize how truly special such a curious girl made him feel?

He doubts it.

Doubts that a stupid rodent would have better emotional stability than him.

He's been given a second chance. A whole plethora of them actually. He's been deemed holy, righteous. And aren't gifts of marvel bestowed upon the truly blessed? What better blessing than the sight of you standing amongst the sand and skulls?

Good to see your affinity for dainty dresses spans across all universes...

He lets the blood trickle down his claws.

What else is there to do but dream of you?

It's the fourth day of his massacre and he's lost count of how many humans he's killed. Maybe cause after the first hundred the faces tend to blur.

He leaves your pleasants in between the rotting carcasses and broken glass. Only taking the torturous parts of you. The things that can hurt him. The sharp edges that he can slit his pulse point on, the vague memory of your glare before you cried. The soft skin of your neck between his jagged teeth.

Enough to keep the hate burning.

He wonders if the creatures of Wonderland wept after Alice left. He wonders if Wonderland lost its wonder.

But now you're standing here.

Alive.

And he wants so badly to remember the sweet taste of your lips. The soft push against his chapped lips as he swallows you whole. Even desperate rabbits can go a little feral. His eyes take in every breath, every scowl.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

Good to see your affinity for dainty dresses spans across all universes...

Aliath skids forward, mystified in lightning and smoke. You feel your bones collapsing under the rugged man's, Logan's, vice grip. You thrash and scream trying to break free but he only barks out orders to his friend before they take off running.

"Your safe, don't worry we got you." There's a comedic cadence to every word Wade says. You can almost fool yourself into enjoying it if the two weren't actively attempting to defy Cassandra, to defy Aliath, to defy deities and absolutes. To ripe you away from the only semblance of opulence you've come to know.

"Let me go, you custome-wearing freaks." His gripe tenses. "Don't struggle so much, we said you're safe, now hold still" Logan's anger ripples through you. It's almost muscle memory to still, to obey.

Did you know him? Know them?

In some past life too out of reach?

The ground shutters to a jagged rhythm. You're flying up, escaping the misty horrors of the ground. Your head pounds with the force, air slapping across your body as you taste the cotton of the clouds between your teeth.

Is this how Alice felt as her head hit the roof?

Wade mutters about the stars and educated wishes. About people who live and matter. Logan slices through his thigh, the mercenary's optimism making his body ring with phantom pains.

No one matters.

And when they start to, they die.

There are cruel absolutes in this world. He's tasted them all. Let them slice his tongue and heart and danced to every tune they've sung. He rips his claws out and digs them into Wade's chest.

Again

And again.  

Wade savors the salty tang of blood inside his mouth.

Licks his teeth and runs his tongue over the gaping holes.

He's sitting in the front seat head rolled back.

High off the blood and adrenaline and the thought of having you so close.

"I take it all back, the Honda odysseys fucks hard"

Bones crack, interrupted mid-heal as Logan turns his head to glare. "Shut up" he rasps and Wade almost, almost, hears approval.

There's a low moan reverberating across the broken car. Late night sleepy mumble that's half 'I love you' and half 'I need you'. Neither one has heard it in such a long time.

"Finally awake sleeping beauty? Kinda surprised you could sleep through all of that" Wade shimmies to the back, only to be greeted by your foot smashing into his face, cracking his nose open, and sending a fresh wave of blood into his mouth. He pins your knee to the seat and wiggles himself between you. caging you with his elbows as he stares down at your pretty face. "Miss me, angel baby?"

"Wrong fairy tale" Logan turns around in his seat, claws out running them across your cheek "Please stop, just let me go" you've never begged before, never fallen so low. But these two things, mutants, mutates, or whatever they are, scare you. Reckless, suicidal, dangerous. You feel so helpless in their presence. Never knowing you're to be kissed or killed.

"You're as lovely as I remember" The melancholy colors him in a monochrome of sympathy. Here is a man who's gone through every horror and still gets out of bed. Or maybe he has to, maybe he can't quite die and can't quite reach heaven. So he gulps down his immortality with black coffee to at least pretend he's being buried six feet deep. "Even after all this time I still love you" You almost melt in his brown eyes. So lonely, so desperate.

Kill or kiss

You want him to do both. Want to kiss extinction on his lips while being impaled by the claws. Kill or kiss.

Both, both, both.

"You know~" Wade pushes himself up, "I think your dress should be red...and black. To match your favorite man."

"Who the hell said you were the favorite?" Wade leans forward, in a blink he's gripped Logan's wrist and lunged the Wolvarine's claws into your abdomen.

You writhe, the bones and metal feel almost heavenly inside of you. When he retracts the claws you moan out, it's too saccharine to hold back. Everything feels so much lighter, colorful. You feel your essence slipping out, gushing over the back seat.

Red waterfall, so pretty.

Dress stained red.

"Told ya so!"

Wade pulls you roughly by the shoulders and smashes his lips against yours. He's so cute, fickle Cheshire cat, tongue dancing across your mouth, slitting itself on your peaked teeth, and filling your mouth with thick red caterpillar smoke. "What the hell is wrong with you? You really are God's perfect idiot" Logan's anger is tangible, sweet, and bitter like hatter tea at midnight.

"S'okay Logan, it feels nice" Your words slur, slipping gauche from your tongue as you giggle profusely. You feel like Alice cracking open Wonderland's ribs, crawling inside, and smearing the wonder across your face.

"When I used to read fairy tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one" You've heard these words before, Alice's words. she's right. Your fairy tale is painted red with pretty, crazy, princes who think that slicing open a princess is easier than kissing her. You reach out for Logan, desperate for a kiss. "eat me" you mutter, and Logan's face morphs into pure terror "Wade what the hell have you done to her?".

"What? It's better this way trust me"

"I hate you"

Logan bends, meeting you halfway. He kisses you with all the wary of a dead man walking. All teeth and heart and bitter memories left to rot three lifetimes ago. He pushes himself between your bones, trying to carve out his ethos in your body. He'd burn the world so long as he gets to keep you.

You squeeze your thighs around Wade's muscular thighs and hips unlocking a gibby giggle from the man. His mask is half pulled up as he trails sloppy fervorous kisses across your neck and chest. The nostalgia slithering under your skin has you squirming, you've been through this all before. In a past life somewhere where storm monsters and voids don't exist. "Remember how good this feels?" Wade mumbles as his fingers dig into your puncture wounds, drawing slow, desperate moans from your puffy lips. You don't dare answer you don't know what would be worst admitting to liking the loudmouth ministrations or admitting there were other versions of you out there, other happy versions.

"Oh for hell's sake," Logan reclines the front seat and shuffles closer. Pulling down the back of your dress. His kisses are bite marks in disguise rabid and feral, the two things the man will never escape. His name rolls across your tongue, you let it slip in an airy moan. "No fair " Wade complains "I want you to say my name too." He pulls out his baby knife and etches the skin of your thighs. Scribbling doodles of stars and half hearts and the little symbol he wears on his belt. "W-wade" you gasp never knowing whether to scream in pain or giggle in bliss.

Logan laughs into your neck. You didn't even know he was capable of such a gentle thing. You bite his lip playfully. Dragging your fingers across his muscular arms. Your thumb pushes into the space between his knuckles asking for the claws. For the most macabre parts of him. You glide your tongue across the parish where flesh meets metal. Kissing the metal and bones and lapping at the blood. Watch curiously as he draws out a long airy sigh. "Good girl" he mumbles voice marred with ecstasy and you almost see the ghost of a smile smear across his pretty lips.

Wade's thumb gently rubs against your hips. Softly usering you into peace, tranquility. Your eyes get heavy, the car gets blurry. The grotesque realignment of their bones steering you into a deep, content sleep.

"Hey Peanut, you think Alice in Wonderland here would mind if we keep going? "  

"Shut it, moron "

"Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if only I knew how to begin.”

🎀Bonus

Deadpool: "Do you think the author's going to write about us again? Or is she planning to finally write that Dune fic she keeps talking about?

Wolverine: "I have no fucking idea what the hell you're even talking about.

🪐@yandere-romanticaa @bad4amficideas @sugarplumz100 @oscarissac2099 @facelessfionna @siphite @tocotuesday69 @linoleunm @mei-simp @shamelessdarkprince @gabriqllas @lovely-liliacs @shiroi-asashin17 @failinguniversity

[calaisreno]

The Last Envoy

Celebrating one year ❤️

My deepest thanks to all who have read and loved this story. It's an odd one, and before posting I had some doubts. Thank you, dear readers, for your comment and encouragement. Three years in the making, and you all helped me bring it into the world.

Special thanks to @totallysilvergirl and @keirgreeneyes 💕

[toms-cherry-trees]

Cracked || Jacaerys Velaryon x Twin!Wife! Reader

Summary: No one ever said duty would hurt like this

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: Twincest targcest (Velaryoncest?), angst, spoilers if you haven't watched S2E2, for anti hating purposes is not explicitly stated but all characters are above 18.

Author's note: Won't you look at me, 7 months since my last HOTD fic! That scene with Jace tearing up definitely did something to me. My very first time writing for Jace, hopefully won't be the last!

Also a massive massive thank you and all my devotion to @moris-auri for beta reading this!

No one welcomes him when he lands in the Dragonmont. 

The flapping of Vermax's leathery wings is amplified, booming throughout the massive cavern, swirls of steam rising from the cracks on the dark stone. The only ones to witness his arrival are the dragon keepers, but even they are distracted, their focus on the exhausted dragon and not his equally drained rider. When they stride past him, they don’t acknowledge him at all, almost as if he doesn’t exist. Jace wonders if he is a ghost, because only in death could someone feel the agony that seeps from his bones and still be standing. 

He feels like a foreigner in this place. 

Even though he has lived on Dragonstone half his life, he feels like a foreigner. The fortress is not theirs. He doubts it never truly has been. They are just keepers of these ancient walls and the history they carry within. Dragonstone is a relic that will stand on that island for a thousand years to come, as welcoming as a gush of Northern wind on bare skin. The only warmth comes from its very core, from those who habit it and who've made the great fortress a home. 

But the home he left weeks prior is not the one he now returns to. The warmth has been snuffed and the hearth has been shattered. 

He walks with his head held high and his back straight, gaze always ahead and chin lifted in a gesture of near arrogance. He walks like an heir, because he is. He is now his mother’s heir and he must play his part, even if all he wants to do is lay his head on her lap and weep like a boy of ten. 

A moon ago he was just Jacaerys Velaryon. He was a son, a firstborn son, but with no more responsibility than studying and learning, mastering skills that would serve him purpose in 30 or 40 years. His greatest concerns were training Vermax properly, what desserts would be served after supper, and how to avoid falling into another of his siblings’ silly pranks. He had been betrothed long ago, but marriage itself was something distant, something that could wait out a few more years.

He was a brother of five with another sibling on the way; a sister. While most in the castle pined for a son, another boy, he secretly supported his mother’s longing for a little girl.

And now he is Jacaerys, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to his mother’s throne and crown. He is more Targaryen than Velaryon now. He is an envoy, a messenger, a warrior if needed be. He is a strategist and a politician. He is an asset and a threat; someone who has forged great alliances, but also has found strong enemies, their weapons aimed directly at the target behind his head, target painted there by his grandsire many a year before his birth. A wedding , hastily arranged, to strengthen their cause and their line of inheritance. 

He is a brother to just four now, and the crib has been left empty. 

Cregan Stark had been the one to break the news to him. Standing on a cramped lookout on the edge of the world, nothing but whiteness as far as the eye reached, Lord Stark had said that the Wall did more than keep savages and ice at bay. It held back death.

But death came nonetheless.

Jacaerys had managed to maintain his stance as a man and a Prince, receiving the news with unyielding stoicism, even when his knees felt weak and his body chilled, like ice had spread down his spine. But this ice was nothing like the one surrounding him, there on the edge of the North. This one burned, burned like dragonfire while stabbing him with a thousand knives, leaving him to bleed out while not allowing him to die. It stole the air from his lungs and the blood from his veins, and filled him with snow. His lungs couldn’t breathe, his heart couldn’t beat yet somehow he didn’t drop dead right there where he stood.

He recalls little of what occurred after, nothing more than brief, precise memories. Receiving Cregan’s condolences, and feeling the firm squeeze of the older man’s hand on his shoulder. Northerners parting silently to make way for him in the courtyard, where a restless Vermax awaited, his screeches rattling the windows of the nearby towers. Someone handing him a parcel, hastily wrapped, containing a sleek wolf pelt as a present for their Queen. The thunderstorm he traversed in the Riverlands, and the toll it took on Vermax to fly through it. 

The painful tightening on his throat as he wondered if he had encountered a similar one, not far from home.

Servants and courtiers make way for him, as he approaches his mother’s chambers. They bow and curtsy, and offer words of courtesy, lamenting the loss of the young Prince. Some stare out of the corner of their eye as he passes, waiting to see if the new Prince of Dragonstone will crumble like sand before their very eyes. But he never betrays himself; not a tear brimming in his eyes, not a wobble of his lips. The occasional flaring of his nostrils is the single telltale of the sorrow that simmers just beneath his skin. 

He hesitates briefly, pausing at the end of the vast hallway where the royal apartments are. Up the winding staircase, past the single set of double doors to the left, his mother awaits. No, not his mother, the Queen. She stopped being his mother the day the crown was placed atop her head, and the court of Dragonstone bent the knee before her. Grief and loss shaped her, morphing her into the leader and ruler she had been born to be. Jace can only admire her, and hope that he will be able to embrace his new role as effortlessly as she has done hers.

The double doors are pushed open by Ser Erryk. The Queen sits alone, gaze downcast and thoughts troubled, that much Jace can tell by the nervous fidgeting of her hands, twisting her rings almost compulsively. When her eyes rise to meet his, Jacerys sees in them a mirror of himself, the same exhaustion, the effort to push back and bury the wrenching misery, the bleeding wound left behind by their loss.

They are alone, just the two of them in that silent alcove. Jace could break down, weep like he hasn’t done in years and lay his head across her lap; let her slender, motherly fingers card through his hair as she assures him that all will be well in the end. But he can’t, he can’t because she’s more Queen than mother now and she’s grieving too, grieving deeper than he is and if she can keep it together then so can he, because he is her heir and he has to make her proud and be a man worthy of respect. 

The Prince doesn’t cry; the heir doesn’t cry. 

A man remains immovable and imperturbable.

He straightens his back, head held high and hands laced before him as he recounts his triumphs, the Houses he convinced to pledge for them and what each one has offered and asked them in return. This moment should have been his shining glory, with himself striding through the castle with pride and confidence, ready to announce to the council how he had secured the allegiance of the Vale and the North for their cause. He would bask in his wife’s admiration, drink the praises from her lips and show her he was ready to one day be a great King, with a great Queen by his side. 

Instead it is just them two, hidden behind doors, picking up the pieces falling from their carefully built masks before they completely fall apart. He brings good news, great news, but they matter little and now taste like ash in his mouth, burning and bitter. His victories mean nothing to him because his little brother is dead, gone 60 years before his time, and they don’t even have a body to burn and Jacaerys feels it should have been him, because he is the eldest and he should have protected him better. He should have faced their rageful uncle and died instead, but he didn’t and now he stands there, moving and doing because if he stays still the grief will swallow him whole and bury him in a pit of sand.

And then his voice breaks, the facade cracks and they both stop pretending, because pretending hurts, like gripping a white hot rod with both hands and refusing to let go even if it’s hurting you.

Her embrace is warm; her arms feel like home. With his head tucked under her chin, his cheek pressed against her chest, he feels young again. He feels the sobs racking her body, the tears dampening her face and his hair, her fingers digging on the fabric of his cloak. They sway slightly, rocking from side to side like when he was a babe of just a few days old, fussy and restless, keeping the whole holdfast awake at night because he refused to settle anywhere but on his mother’s arms. 

But now Jace suspects the motion is meant for her more than for him, to transport her to days past when she held her babes in her arms and they were safe under her wing and no one could harm them because she would sooner tear the world to pieces. Discreetly the places shift, now it's her forehead against his shoulder and his arms holding her steady. Jace feels the tears stinging his eyes and the lump blocking his throat, but he cannot break down because his mother is broken and someone must stand strong and whole and it has to be him. 

Soon, too soon,  his mother has dismissed him, sending him to his chambers to bathe and rest because they will have the funeral at sunset and they must not show weakness before the court. The cracks must be patched and hidden, no matter how deep they run. Not a single piece can fall out of place.

He drags his feet now; the weight on top of him has grown heavy. His posture slackens, his shoulders slump, the pretence is harder to hold. Sunset feels like a death sentence, because a funeral makes it real. It makes it true. Burning what they have because there is not even a body left behind to burn. That way he can no longer pretend that is not happening, that is all just a tale. And then, he will crack. No willpower will keep him whole because his brother, his little brother is dead and he has to face a future where Lucerys will not be a part of it.

He pushes his chamber door open with one shoulder, his mind blank of any thought; the encounter with his mother affected him deeper than he had anticipated, because even she is cracking and now is just him holding it together because he has to. 

And then he sees her. 

His wife sits before the hearth, so ethereal with the glow of the fire illuminating her face. Her head turns as soon as the door opens, and he immediately notices the red around her swollen eyes. At first he thinks she’s mourning, but she’s had her time to mourn and Jace knows she’s crying for him, crying because she feels the agony straining to break through his flesh. Just like they have felt each other’s every emotion for as long as they have lived, have anticipated each other’s words and read their thoughts. Connected by a bond that runs deeper than marriage, because they are of the same blood, come into the world together.

The last time he saw her before his departure, they had an ugly fight. Jacaerys had convinced their mother to keep her at Dragonstone rather than allow her to fly as an envoy, claiming they could not leave the fortress unguarded and with the larger dragons going in and out on their missions, they had to pile up their remaining strength. The Queen had agreed, and her word was final. 

She could not argue with Her Grace, but she certainly made Jacaerys know how she felt about what she perceived as a betrayal and lack of trust in herself and her abilities. Jace pleaded with her to see reason, to see things from his perspective. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in her, he would never dare to doubt her strength. But he didn’t trust the men she would encounter on her journey, nor did he want her to risk taking a long flight on her dragon and run into danger. She, always the hot headed one, had called him every name under the sun and refused to see him off, choosing instead to sulk in her chamber. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, to leave on bad terms with her, but he trusted they would talk it out upon his arrival. That all would be well and their problems would be solved.

He stands silently before her, and for the first time he feels small. So small and diminished, unwilling to look her in the eyes. His gaze is fixed on the floor because the tears are winning the battle and if they do he will crack open like a dragon egg, but no great beast will emerge, only his insecurities and his failures.

His lower lip wobbles, and he bites it so hard he leaves the imprint of his teeth. His nails dig deep in his palms in his attempt to steady their accusatory trembling. He breathes in and out, slow and steady, his eyes squeezed shut as he feels himself losing control. He cannot allow himself to lose it, not in front of her of all people, not when he is supposed to be her pride, not her embarrassment.

He hears the sharp drag of the chair as she stands, the thud of the heavy tome she had been reading being thrown rather carelessly over a table. Her steps are slow and calculated as she moves across the stone, approaching him cautiously like he is some wild beast ready to lash out. Like he is some fragile thing, so fragile that a gush of wind could break him apart.

Her hands are soft and warm as they cradle his face, gently coaxing him to look up, to meet her eyes. But he can’t, he fears he will see disappointment in them, he will see accusation, he will see her blame him for Luke’s death, for forcing her to remain back when it was their little brother who needed his protection the most. 

For failing the family.

He succumbs in the end, brown eyes gingerly rising to meet her own, bracing himself for the worst. But he sees nothing of what he expected. He sees no anger, no resentment, no pity. Just worry and tenderness, and a desolation that matches his own.

The first tears he has been holding back since Winterfell finally escape the barrier of his willpower and roll down his cheeks. He attempts to blink them away but they cannot be stopped, nor does he have the strength to stop them no more. His wife brushes some away with her thumbs, and smoothes back his hair in a tender gesture

“Jace.”

That little world, the call of his own name coming from her lips is all that it needs for the dam inside him to burst. The violent sobs rack his body, tears blurring his vision and he chokes on them, while also feeling like he’s breathing for the first time since that raven arrived at the Wall. He tries to hide his face but she won’t let him, and tears shine in her eyes too and that only makes the crying worse, because his wife is suffering and he cannot console her because he’s also suffering.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

His legs weaken and his stance falters. The same apology falls from his mouth, the small words tumbling over each other and getting lost in the incessant weeping. His knees falter and he drops down; his forehead rests against her body and his hands are on her hips, fearing he will lose her if he lets go. He sobs onto her dress, not caring anymore about being the perfect Prince and heir, about being the man everyone will respect and be proud of.

His wife drops to her knees too and holds him close, allowing his head to lay against her shoulder. The scent of her body fills his nostrils, aroma of camellias and toasted sugar. It smells of happy memories and easier days, and it evokes a sense of safety in him, of tenderness, of the happiest days of his short life. His cry doesn’t stop, but it is not only for Lucerys now. It is for his mother, for his younger brothers, for himself and for all the losses to come. He cries for his twin, his wife, for now the fear of harm coming her way has increased tenfold, and the mere idea of her being cruelly ripped from his side tears a gash on his heart.

He cries until he’s sure there are no tears left to cry. Until the weight has been lifted from his chest and he is sure he can breathe again. They remain there for what feels like mere seconds and a lifetime at the same time, locked in each other’s embrace. Her fingers card through his hair and her lips press tender kisses to his temple; his arms wrapped around her, hands pressed against her back to keep her close, as close as he can to his own heart. He would gladly stay there forever, spend the rest of his days encased in her warmth and basking in her love. But the moment is broken all too soon when a servant knocks on the door to let them know that courtiers are already gathering in the outskirts of the castle for the funeral.

Jace lets himself be guided by the hand like an obedient child to sit before her vanity. She moves around him silently; unneeded words would only break the feeble spell of calmness surrounding them.

She takes care of everything for him. Wipes his face clean with a damp cloth, presses a cool spoon to his eyes so they will not appear swollen and bloodshot. He changes into a fresh tunic, and allows her to comb his hair and powder his face to disguise the redness of his cheeks and nose. 

They stand together before the ornate mirror, both of them dressed in matching red and black. She helps him pin the cloak onto his tunic, fastening it to his right shoulder with a silver dragon brooch. Jace holds her gaze in their reflection, hoping to convey with gestures the emotions words fail to do. She understands; she always does.

He is rewarded with a kiss on the cheek, and while it does not manage to coax a smile out of him, it fills his veins with a pleasant tickling warmth, the same he felt after their first kiss and the one he hopes to feel until his last breath. 

Her fingers run up his arms gently, tracing the embroiders and trimmings of the doublet. They come to rest on his shoulders and gently push them back, straightening his posture and puffing out his chest. The right index continues the ascent, tracing the curve of the neck and the still sharpening line of the jawline before settling under his chin, pushing upwards ever so slightly to lift his head. Urging him to hold himself with pride. To unapologetically show the world that he is cracked, but not broken.

She comes to stand before him at last, smoothing down nonexistent creases from his clothes until nothing but pure perfection remains. They hold each others’ gaze for a few moments, before she reaches up to steal from him a gentle kiss.  

“All ready, My Prince.” 

This time, he smiles.

[lady-phasma]

Diplomatic relations

Feyd x gn!reader

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI! NSFW, spit as lube (I guess, kinda), penetration, honestly a little tame compared to my usual stuff.

The poll came in at 57% soft!Feyd so here we go. This is probably as soft as I can make him.

Summary: No physical description of reader. Feyd is on a diplomatic tour of an unnamed planet (not Caladan) under Harkonnen rule. You catch his eye, smuttiness ensues. Plot if you squint. 4k words

You looked away almost as soon as his eyes met yours. You didn’t want to be caught staring at the na-Baron. Feyd-Rautha’s presence on your planet had cause quite the uproar. Though many of the houses were pawns for the Harkonnen, some still remained who defied the colonizers. Your house couldn’t openly oppose the Harkonnen, but you knew that they were not respected. They were feared. They were fearsome after all. The na-Baron’s delegation had been sent to keep the peace, to quell uprisings, to provide confidence to the planet. You supposed it worked for some.

However, you wondered if the na-Baron was enthusiastic about his diplomatic responsibilities. He looked bored and distracted. You hadn’t thought it would be possible for him to notice one person out of the hundreds who crowded the city streets to show allegiance. But someone had caught his eye. He straightened a bit, turning his head slightly to look at you as the procession moved on. You swallowed hard and looked away again.

Your thoughts whirled and spun the rest of the day. That night, you would be in the same room as the na-Baron, possibly as close as the next table. Your house had the “honor” of hosting him on his first night in the city. You were preoccupied as you went about your errands, looked over the financial ledgers, dressed for the dinner. The hours seemed to pass excruciatingly slowly, dragging on for days.

As you walked into the main hall that evening your eyes searched for the na-Baron. You didn’t even realize you were doing it until a servant spoke to you and you hadn’t heard them. You nodded, unsure to what you were agreeing, and walked through the groups of people mingling and conversing.

You found your seat at the secondary table. The head table was reserved for the Duke and his guests. You continued to scan the room, lost in thought, unable to put your finger on why you were intrigued by the na-Baron. You barely heard the sounds around you, the chattering was a dull noise. You felt a chair pull out next to you but didn’t register who the occupant was until it was too late.

Feyd’s fingers stroked the utensils on the place setting, lightly aligning any that were askew. You looked up from his pale hands to his face. You were startled to see that he was staring at you. The Harkonnen skin and hairlessness were disarming amidst the bright colors of the hall.

“You must be old enough to know that it is rude to stare,” Feyd smirked as he spoke. “Surely you have seen a Harkonnen envoy before?”

“I- I-“ you stumbled over your tongue, then swallowed. “Yes, my Lord na-baron, I have seen such an envoy before.”

“And?” Feyd stretched the word out.

“Yes, I came of age last year and I know my manners,” you replied. You straightened your shoulders, squared them, and turned to face him more fully. “Did you need assistance to find your seat?”

Feyd laughed. His black teeth caught the light and you stopped a gasp before it could leave your mouth. They were almost horrible to look at, but the lips that surrounded them dulled that impression, somewhat.

The laugh was mocking but amused. He understood your tone as well as your impertinence. His blue eyes on you sent a chill down your spine. Almost as quickly as the laugh had appeared, it was gone. The grin that replaced it was somehow worse.

“No,” he spoke so lowly that it sounded as if the words rumbled from his chest. “No, I believe I already found my seat.”

There was no one on the planet who could make him move and the Duke was too subservient to object. Resigned, you turned back to the table and sipped your wine. All of your emotions mixed together: anger at his presumption, mild fear of his capabilities, and, strangest of all, curiosity. This man was intriguing and intensely attractive in a completely mad way.

Your food was unremarkable and you barely noticed if you had eaten any or not when they carried the plates away. Your dinner companion barely spoke at all. His interactions with the nobility were perfunctory and diplomatic. There was constantly an air of boredom about him. As imperious as he seemed, you didn’t think that this detachment was intentional. He understood his role here, his duty, but his thoughts were constantly elsewhere.

Only once during dinner did you interact with Feyd. Purely by accident, you turned to him to ask a very discourteous question. You caught yourself but he saw your face and wouldn’t let you go. Like an animal in a trap.

“How may I be of service?” His grin was infuriating. Without context, anyone looking on would think he was being as pleasant as was possible for him.

“It was nothing,” you tried not to spit the words at him, irrationally angry at that grin.

“No, please,” he leaned forward onto his elbows, grin falling just a bit as he dropped his voice. “Go ahead. I won’t command you, but I could.”

Your eyes widened at this, this threat. Was it a threat or a jest? You couldn’t read that infernal mouth. You made your face a mask, attempting to conceal any emotion.

“You could…” you began. “However, that shouldn’t be necessary.” Your chest began to tighten as you spoke. The feeling in your stomach wasn’t new but you hadn’t felt this in a long time. You felt like, no, it wasn’t possible… You felt as if you were flirting with him, and he with you.

“I was going to ask, Lord na-Baron, what is it you would rather be doing that sitting here? It’s a rather improper question, so I bit my tongue.” The truth seemed like the only way out of this trap.

You did not expect his smile to fall completely. Only for the briefest of moments he let his surprise show. He recovered and quipped back at you.

“Quite improper, but my answer would be much more so.” He grinned and leaned back in his chair, feeling he had won this round. A blush ran up your face, evidence of his victory.

After the Duke and his retinue offered the required pleasantries and excused themselves, the guests rose and began to leave the main hall. You stood before Feyd and succeeded in not looking at him as you began to walk away.

As you turned down the passageway, headed to your quarters, you heard heavy footfalls behind you. You glanced over your shoulder and the tightness in your stomach redoubled. There were only a few of the household staff remaining in the halls. You were nearly alone with the na-Baron. Your mind offered, unbidden, the word exhilarating.

His strides were long enough that he caught up with you in little time. His height was impressive after having been sitting next to him. Not much taller than yourself but tall enough to command attention.

“Were you tired of my company?” One corner of his lip curled in a smirk. “Or were you nervous I might answer your impertinent question?”

You stopped walking at this. He turned and looked at you, studying you.

“No, my Lord na-Baron,” you replied levelly. “I could not tell which you enjoyed more: my company or mocking me.”

His smile faltered then grew. You assumed no one ever told him the truth. You knew you could become afraid of him, perhaps should be, but you weren’t yet. Two chattering guests walked past and you moved to the edge of the hallway to let them pass.

Feyd stepped past you and leaned against the wall, his long coat belying the muscular figure underneath. Your breathing became shallow. His proximity to you was informal. It was unnerving. You couldn’t know what he was thinking and his smile was always simultaneously pleasant and malicious.

“Your confusion shows on your face,” he whispered. “What are you trying to discern?”

“Well, um, you, Lord na-Baron,” you dropped your gaze from his. “I do not yet know if I can trust you.”

Feyd dipped his head to meet your eyes and force you to look at him. He was barely smiling at all. His brows furrowed earnestly.

“You can trust me. I am only ever what I seem. I am an open book to any who care to read closely,” he whispered, mere inches from your face. He straightened and your eyes followed his. “Those who see that, don’t often call me ‘na-Baron’ every time they speak. Though I understand the risk one takes with using my name. I am quite…. impulsive.” And that smile again. This time with a touch of fondness in his eyes that suggested he was recalling a pleasant memory. Though you couldn’t imagine that murdering someone for using your given name would be pleasant. From what you knew of Feyd, he probably had done just such a thing.

“How might those who ‘read closely’ decipher your enigmatic smile?” Finding your voice, you spoke directly at him. This made him grin even more, showing his black teeth.

“Perhaps that may always be a game of guessing,” he quipped back. He took a step away from you and waited for you to follow. Your heart was almost pounding in your chest. You walked beside him, but allowing yourself to have some distance to think by staying one step behind. You tried not to stare at the slope of his head down to his neck, his hands, the only visible parts of his body. But they seemed to glow against the black cloth of his coat.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. The silence was tense but not uncomfortable. You weren’t sure you could guess anything about him. Your first appraisal of him may have been entirely incorrect, or mostly.

The main house sprawled, much like a palace though more understated. You knew the halls and passages by heart, but you weren’t guiding Feyd. You followed him without thinking. Your instinct told you to gather yourself and head directly to your chambers without a backward glance. Your curiosity was stronger than your instinct. Curious about him, yes, but also curious as to why he was so interested in you.

Feyd didn’t stop as he opened the door and entered his room. You paused, waiting for an invitation. He held the door and looked at you, no expression on his face. Your choice he seemed to suggest. He didn’t hold out his hand in a welcoming gesture either. You took one more breath to make your decision.

His room was probably a drastic change for him from his home on Giedi Prime. He had been given a guest room fitting of his station. The sumptuous fabrics and ornate furniture were more grand than those in your own quarters. You paused near the middle of the room. If he sat you would join him. He didn’t.

He stepped in front of you, looking, not speaking, and you felt that damnable blush rise to your cheeks again.

“If I may,” he began. “I’ll answer your question.”

You tried to nod but couldn’t. Your mouth was as dry as Arrakis.

“No, I did not want to be trapped at that farce, the quiet tension so palpable one could cut it with a knife. I was thinking of all the things I had in mind for you.” He took a small step forward and tilted your face up to his, fingers guiding your chin. His eyes were fierce and you saw no mocking in his slight smile now.

“Then you were correct, your answer would have been quite improper,” you managed to reply, mustering the last of your propriety.

“Yes,” he drawled. “Yes, then it would have been improper, but we’re alone now.” He swept his hand, indicating the empty room but he didn’t look away from you. He didn’t wait for your to respond. “You aren’t deferential to me like the others in your house. You are… intriguing. As I sat next to you, I decided I wanted you and I get what I want. Always.”

Your body tensed as he leaned forward and kissed you. At first you were rigid, unsure of what you truly wanted, but as one of his hands found the back of your neck you realized you had actually wanted this all along. Still wary of him, you kissed him back but did not move to touch him. His other hand slid to your waist and gripped you firmly, fingers digging into your flesh through your clothing. You exhaled and softened in his arms. You felt his smile against your lips. You assumed it was a triumphant grin but set your pride aside and opened your mouth to him.

Feyd’s tongue slipped into your mouth. His hand gripped the back of your neck harder. You placed your hands on his chest, tentatively, testing this new closeness. He slid his hand from your side to your back and pulled you in closer. You didn’t want the kiss to end but he pulled away and looked at you.

“Was that so bad?” he ask, finally without a grin.

You could only shake your head as your heart thumped in your chest. You moved your hands upward, slowly, to his neck. Using both your hands, you pulled him back down to your mouth. A small groan left his mouth and he pressed his body against yours. You licked his black teeth, growing braver. You still felt hesitant, nervous, even a little frightened. You had experience, you weren’t shy, but those were with people from your home planet. He was a Harkonnen. Completely hairless, scarily pale, and notoriously cruel. Something about the combination of those thoughts made you press against him in return.

His lips left your mouth and he drug them along your jaw, down your neck, the graze of teeth making you shiver. You let your hands rest on his shoulders, resisting the need to move your hips against him. Patience, you thought.

Without warning, Feyd let you go. Suddenly, his arms were gone. Then he spun you around so your back pressed into his chest. He wasn’t going to be patient. He clamped one hand on your throat and rested the other on the lowest part of your stomach. His lips grazed your ear and his breath was hot as he spoke.

“Are you going to give me what I want?”

“Yes,” you replied though you weren’t sure the sound was audible.

“Say my name.”

“Yes, Feyd,” you swallowed, feeling his hand move on your throat as you did. “Anything you want.”

He chuckled at this, the sound vibrating into you from his chest. His grip on your throat wasn’t tight but it held you in place as he slid his hand farther down your stomach. You didn’t let yourself moan as his hand grazed your thigh but you involuntarily moved your hips. You didn’t want him to take his time. Your need was getting the better of you. This seemed to be happening so fast, yet it had truly begun at dinner. Your desire had been growing with every step toward this room.

Feyd kissed just behind your ear, down your neck, as his hand dipped between your thighs. You knew he could feel your arousal even through your clothing. You wanted to push against his hand and gain more friction. He continued to tease, up and down, but then his hand slipped under your clothing. His touch on your bare skin elicited a groan from you. He released your throat and used both hands to free you from the garments.

You were momentarily embarrassed at your sudden nakedness but that was pushed out of your thoughts when he put his mouth on your shoulder blades, kissing each in turn. You began to turn to face him but he stilled you with his hands. You looked over your shoulder as he tossed his coat onto a chair and pulled his shirt over his head. He was actually magnificent you realized. He was hailed as a great fighter but you understood now it was more than skill, it was also strength. You watched him take his place behind you again then turned to face front once more.

You realized Feyd wasn’t just clever, he was always a step ahead of everyone. When you had entered the room you had been so anxious that you only took a cursory glance around the space. However, he had maneuvered you to stand in front of the bed. Now that you saw it, your breath caught in your throat. He was kissing your spine, your ribs, letting his hands explore everywhere but where you needed him. You took a deep breath and instead of the exhale you expected you moaned. He kissed his way up your back and you could hear the smile in his voice.

“I take it you are no longer confused by me?”

“Quite the opposite,” you replied. You moved your hands behind you, finding his hips, and pulled him to you, back to chest again. It was infuriating that he still had his pants on. You slipped your fingertips under the waistband. Even half-clothed his erection was obvious against your backside.

Feyd gently pressed your arms to your sides and you felt immediate disappointment. But then he began to unfasten his pants. The heat from your body flooded to your core. The need, the ache, that had been growing there was now fully aflame. You felt one of his hands rest gently on your hip when he came back to you. Seeming to keep a bit of space between, you he guided your forward until you were only inches from the bed. His hand slid up your side, to your chest encircling you. You sighed again. His mouth explored and made its way back to your ear.

“Lick,” he commanded, holding his other hand in front of your face. It took a moment for you to understand and another moment for you to summon the courage to follow the command. He made you feel things you didn’t know existed. In a spilt second he made you feel like you were doing something wonderful yet illicit. It thrilled you and, as soon as your brain sent the signal, you lapped at his palm. He made a sound like a chuckle, but deeper. You pleased him.

You couldn’t see but you heard Feyd stroke his cock with his recently wetted hand. You whined. Not a moan but an actual, involuntary whine. The waiting was excruciating even if you couldn’t predict his actions, whatever was to come would surely feel amazing.

Feyd’s hand moved from your chest around to your back, rested gently between your shoulder blades, and began to press you forward. With your heart racing you leaned forward, placing your hands on the bed.

“Such a good pet,” he growled. You would have blushed if there had been any blood left in your body. It was currently all pooled in your core, throbbing with that need for him. He slid his hand down your back and gripped your hip. After what seemed like an eternity, you felt his cock between your thighs. You couldn’t control yourself and you pushed back a bit, trying to feel more of him. He gently held you in place. He moved so slowly, teasing you with his length. When he had the angle he wanted he put his hand on your other hip and pressed against you.

It was so slow. Every movement was wonderful torture. You tried not to push against him, so you pressed your face against the bed and groaned. He pulled back and began pressing into you again. You realized he hadn’t yet given you his full length and you gasped as he bottomed out. Over your breathing you heard the most delicious sound come from him. It was a groan, perhaps a word, but certainly a sound of extreme pleasure. Now, you did push back into him.

You looked over your shoulder as you ground your hips slightly and his eyes were open, watching your ass. His eyes were heavy-lidded and his mouth was slightly open. You had never seen anything so beautiful, so unique, in your life. Before you could appreciate him any longer he pulled back, started a new stroke, and caught your eye. He winked at you, cocky yet comforting.

You couldn’t take it, you buried your face in the bed clothes, overcome with desire. This man was your undoing. Just as that thought flickered in your mind Feyd increased his pace. With steady movement he brought forth a litany of noises from you. As he sped up you moaned and pushed back onto him. His low, rumbling groans were intoxicating.

Feyd’s hands roamed up from your hips, over your back, around to your stomach, ceaselessly exploring you. When he leaned forward, pressing his stomach along your back you reached behind you and grasped his arm. Pulling him down on you by his forearm, then traveling up to his bicep. Your fingers dug into his muscle His rested his forehead against your shoulder.

You felt the pressure building in your core from the consistent rhythm. You were lightheaded, dizzy with the feeling of Feyd’s weight on top of you, his scent, his sounds. Then a brightness shot through the fog as he reached around you and stroked the center of your heat. You made an undignified sound.

“Please, yes, there,” you groaned, unable to decide if you wanted to press forward into his hand or back to meet his hips. “Please, Feyd, don’t stop.”

“Of course not,” he replied as he kissed your shoulder and stoked the heat in your belly. He growled against you as he sped up. Pounding into you, his hand between your legs, his body pressed against yours, Feyd dominated all of your senses. You had no thoughts. Only the growing pressure inside you.

“Wait for me,” he said quietly but firmly. You could barely nod, much less speak to answer him, as all your concentration was focused on holding back the cresting wave.

Feyd’s strokes were deep but quick. He grazed his teeth over your skin. His unoccupied hand dug into your hip so he could fuck you that much harder. Then you felt it. The stutter of his hips. His hand between your thighs sped up. A flood of heat ran over your entire body. At the same time, your core seemed to explode. His grunting made you cum that much harder.

He let out a final, deep moan, mingled with your name, and spilled his black seed inside you. You inhaled shakily, smiling to yourself. The lightheadedness was back and you felt emptied, completely hollowed out. You stayed still as he caught his breath. You tried to relax as he pulled out, but were unable to stifle a small gasp. You were ruined but never wanted this to end.

Feyd gently stroked your back and then began to guide you up, almost lifting you from the bed. When you were standing in front of him he kissed you on the forehead, then the lips. With his hand on the small of you back he led you to the side of the bed. He didn’t instruct you to lay down, you didn’t have a choice. There was no way you could remain standing on your shaking legs any longer. He covered you with the blanket then stepped away for a moment. Unable to keep your eyes open you listened for him.

He soon walked to the other side of the bed and slipped into it, pulling you against him. He tucked you as close to him as possible. He kissed your neck. Then nuzzled his face against you before resting his head close enough so you could feel his breath on the back of your neck.

“I always get what I want,” he whispered. Your lips curved into a gentle, satisfied smile.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Reporting from multiple outlets suggests that Trump and his Middle East envoy, Steve Witkoff, played a decisive role in forcing Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s hand. In a January 7 press conference from Mar-a-Lago, Trump warned that “all hell will break out” if a hostage deal wasn’t reached before his inauguration. “It wasn’t a warning to Hamas. It was a warning to Netanyahu,” Steve Bannon told Politico, which also quoted former Israeli prime minister Ehud Olmert as saying Netanyahu agreed to the deal “because he’s afraid of Trump.” “The prime minister was dragged into this deal against his will and was unable to resist. He understood the consequences of disappointing Trump even before he reached the White House,” a Netanyahu associate told Al-Monitor, which also cited a former top Israeli official who said, “Netanyahu knows that with Trump he will not be able to wipe the floor as he did with Democratic presidents—like Clinton, Obama and Biden.” Witkoff reportedly told the Israeli prime minister to his face: “Don’t fuck this up.” And Netanyahu has already paid a political price: this past weekend, Israel’s settler-extremist national security minister Itamar Ben-Gvir resigned from Netanyahu’s shaky far-right governing coalition over the ceasefire deal, after standing with Netanyahu for fifteen months of genocidal warfare backed by the Biden administration.

[...]

In the same week that the ceasefire deal was tentatively announced, two other stories broke that spotlighted the extent of Biden’s moral and political failure in Palestine. One was The Lancet’s publication, subsequently covered in the New York Times, of a peer-reviewed study of traumatic injury deaths in the Gaza Strip from October 7, 2023 through June 30, 2024. The study estimated that the Palestinian Ministry of Health underreported such deaths by 41 percent during that period, and that over 64,000 Palestinians, many of them women and children, had died from traumatic injury, a figure that does not include the untold thousands more who died of starvation or disease resulting from Israel’s bombardment of Gaza’s infrastructure (a previous analysis published by The Lancet estimated total Palestinian deaths to that point at over 186,000). Another six months of nonstop devastation in Gaza have passed since the data for The Lancet study was collected. The exact casualty numbers may never be known and in a sense are irrelevant, as no one seriously doubts that Israel has inflicted indiscriminate collective punishment against a captive civilian population, in what has been declared a genocide by Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, and multiple world-renowned genocide experts (including some initial skeptics), and ruled at least “plausibly” genocidal by the International Court of Justice. The other story that broke last week was an Institute for Middle East Understanding poll that made the most plausible case to date that Biden’s handling of Gaza might have cost Harris the election. Unlike most polls, which focus on what voters overall in 2024 prioritized in the presidential race—typically, economic issues like inflation—the IMEU poll focuses on the millions of Biden 2020 voters who opted for a candidate other than Harris in 2024, whether that meant Trump or a third-party candidate. Among this subset of the electorate, a 29 percent plurality named “ending Israel’s violence in Gaza” as the most important issue in deciding their vote, with even higher percentages in the key battleground states of Arizona, Michigan, and Wisconsin. While no single factor can account for Harris’s shutout in all seven battleground states or Trump’s popular vote win, the IMEU poll provides strong evidence for what seemed anecdotally obvious throughout last year: the Biden-Harris team’s unapologetic support for Israel’s genocide alienated meaningful numbers of potential supporters.

21 January 2025

[silverwingxox]

A Hidden Challenge - Cregan Stark

Pairing : Cregan Stark x Velaryon!Reader x mentions of Aegon Targaryen

Warnings : Targcest, talks of arranged marriages.

Summary : You fly North to Winterfell and meet Cregan Stark, the young wolf your mother wishes for you to marry, but not without a challenge.

Author's Note : Silverwing girly, I don't know wether to make this a series or not, idk.

“I need you to fly North as an envoy, not a warrior.” your mother Rhaenyra said softly, a scroll in her hands. You looked out to sea, your dragon Silverwing flying in the open air with your brother’s dragon, Vermax. “I will send Jace to the Eyrie and Luke to Storm’s End.” your mother continued. Looking towards the rightful Queen, you gave a nod of your head, the sea breeze blowing strands of your brown hair into your face. 

“Silverwing has been North before, she’ll fare the best.” you agree with your mother, holding your hand out to take the sealed scroll. Rhaenyra brought her soft hands to your face, running her thumbs over your cheeks gently, as though trying to remember each one of your features, this only lasts a few seconds before she pulls you into a tight embrace and presses a motherly kiss upon your crown. 

“(Y/N)...you are my heir, it is only right you should know what I have written to Lord Stark.” The Rightful Queen states, pulling away a little, to look into your (e/c) eyes. Confusion takes over your features as you look up to your mother. “I know I have always said I wish for you to marry a man of your own choosing. But with this war on the horizon, I fear I can no longer allow you that freedom.” Rhaenyra states, her eyes softening as she watches your face fall.  

You had no desire to marry, not for a long time. You had wished to marry for love, not convenience. However, you were heir to the Iron Throne so you knew there would be a chance of you entering a political marriage, you remember crying to your mother about it once your uncle Aemond decided to tease you, scare you in fact, of stories of what men do to their wives. Especially wives who aren’t of their own choosing. How brutal they can be when it comes to creating an heir, how they whore around just trying to escape their wives. It was that night your mother promised you she would have you marry for love, not convenience. 

“Yes mother.” You said obediently, the scroll suddenly feeling heavy in your grasp. Rhaenyra took your hands in hers and looked at you lovingly. “Cregan Stark is closer to your age than mine, he is said to be as loyal as they come and I’ve heard rumors of his dashing good looks.” Your mother said the last point, trying to cheer you up as much as she could. 

“Whatever my Queen commands.” You say monotone, you didn’t mean to take such a short tone with your mother, you wanted to apologize and hug her tight but all you could think about was the man you left back in King's Landing, the man you could no longer love, the man who sat upon your mother’s throne. 

“(Y/N) I-” Rhaenyra tried, she didn’t want to part on bad terms. Anything could happen until the next time she lays her eyes upon you. You put the scroll in the pocket of your riding trousers, and begin to fiddle with the silver knot ring on your index finger. Your beloved ring your Uncle Aegon had given you on your last name day. 

“I best go, It’s a long journey and I need to prepare Silverwing.” As if hearing your conversation with your mother, your beloved dragon turned her body with a loud roar and made her way towards the dragon pit. As you turned your body to leave, your mother grabbed you by the shoulders and pulled you into her chest.  “You are my eldest child and my only daughter, promise me you will be safe. Be vigilant. I love you.” hearing your mother’s words, you couldn’t resist any longer. You wrapped your arms around your mother’s waist and squeezed your eyes shut.

“I love you mother.” With one last kiss upon your temple from Rhaenyra, you turn from your mother and head toward your chambers to pack some of your belongings. 

The journey to Winterfell was a long and cold one, you made a mental note to thank Baela when you next see her for reminding you to pack warm. Holding onto your saddle, with one hand, you lean forward and give Silverwing a good few pats. “Māzigon va hāedar” (Come on girl.) you encourage your beloved companion. The high valyrian rolling of your tongue naturally. As Winterfell came into view, you bit your lip looking for a place to land. “Tegon Silverwing.” (Land Silverwing.) Following your command, the majestic dragon scans the white covered land and makes her descend, just outside the castle gates. 

“DRAGON!” smiling to yourself you can’t help the little laugh that escapes your mouth from hearing the panicked shouting and seeing people flea around the courtyard. Silverwing huffs, as though the Northern folk are just over reacting. Once Silverwing had come to a stop, she lowered herself down to the ground, making it easier for you to climb from her back. As you walked towards the gates guarding the castle, your eyes scanned the people coming towards you slowly, all following behind a man who you could only assume was Cregan Stark. Seeing the group of men walking towards you, Silverwing let out a warning roar, making the Northern men halt in their advance. 

“Gīda Silverwing.” (Calm Silverwing.) Your eyes lock with the stormy gray eyes of Lord Stark, you take in his appearance, from his brown hair falling into his handsome face, his broad shoulders, his ancestral sword sat on his back. He was tall, and you hated to admit your mother was right, but he was in fact good looking. You lifted your head, a teasing glint in your eyes as you silently challenged Cregan to walk towards you. 

Unbeknown to you, Cregan Stark was stunned from seeing a dragon outside his castle gates, but shockingly it wasn’t the giant beast that had him at a stand still, it was you. Princess (Y/N) Velaryon. It would seem your mother’s title had been passed down to you, as you were in fact The Realm’s Delight in his eyes. He had never seen a woman so breathtakingly beautiful before, his eyes trailed down your body before returning to look upon your face, not caring that you had caught him shamelessly admiring your body. 

“Princess, It is an honor. Winterfell is at your mercy.” Cregan spoke loudly to you in formality, still a bit of distance between you. “We weren’t expecting you to travel North so soon.” The young lord spoke once more as he walked towards you, despite the uncertain looks from his men and the warning look coming from your dragon. 

“Lord Stark, I have a letter from the Queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen.” You spoke confidently, as you pulled the scroll from your pocket, you held out your hand, not moving an inch. Silently daring Cregan to come within touching distance of Silverwing. Cregan smirked at you  as he slowly walked closer towards you and your fire breathing dragon. Silverwing let out a low rumble causing Cregan to halt for a few seconds before he continued in his pursuit. He knew you wouldn’t let your dragon kill him, your mother needed his support and his men, but he still decided to play into your hands. 

As Cregan came to stand in front of you, it was then you noticed the height difference, he was at least a head if not two heads taller than you, having always been a bit on the smaller side, yet another thing your uncle Aemond would tease you about. Cregan bowed his head in respect before taking the scroll from your outstretched hand. 

The young wolf opened the scroll in front of you, his stormy eyes scanning the message written in ink. His eyes met yours as he gave a slight nod of his head, looking behind you at your dragon, Cregan held out his hand for you to take. “Let us discuss this over food and drink.” Slipping your soft hand in his rough larger one, you followed the young lord through the iron gates. 

“Get a few sheep for the Princesses dragon, it has been a long journey for them.” Cregan commands one of his men, as he leads the way to the castle entrance. The man who had received the command looked at the beast with a gulp, suddenly feeling faint, Silverwing shook her head at the pale looking man knowing she wasn’t getting her meal anytime soon.