#trins fic

[theeholytrinity]

longing comes running || fem jacaerys || jacemond (jacaerys x aemond) || 4/? || 25.8k words:

Chapter 1: Rhaenyra

“Valaena,” she answers after a long while. “Valaena Velaryon,” it sounds so right, for her babe girl, her firstborn and heir. The first recorded Valaena Velaryon had been half Targaryen through her mother as well and she had birthed the conquerors who united the realm with fire and blood and forged the seat Rhaenyra’s daughter will one day sit. 

Chapter 2: Valaena

However, in their land, when you bleed you are somewhat of a woman. Part child, part woman. A maid, a bastard one no less. Bastards grow up quicker than normal children, she reminds herself. With this in mind, she tries to make sense of the events that followed her early flowering and tries to find a justifiable reason for why he did what he did. 

Chapter 3: Aemond

It had started off so silly, this thing between them. They were young then, and so their blood had run lustfully hot with the passions of youth. 

.....

Her skin is like kindling to the flame in his loins, his mouth consuming flesh after tantalizing flesh to feed the fire. 

Chapter 4: Valaena

Aemond, she finds, isn't someone you like right away. He has to grow on you, as moss on the stone, as ivy on walls, crawling its way up and weaving itself into the cracks. But you learn to like the smell of it, moss and ivy, learn to appreciate the simplistic beauty they offer even as they consume what they touch, as wild as wildfire. Such a flame is he to Valaena. 

[alexcabotgf]

THE MATRIX 1999 dir. The Wachowskis

[adrift-in-thyme]

Sooo remember that blupee Wild post from yesterday? I wrote something for it

Forgive the quality I wrote it in less than an hour

—————————

Legend stops short, Wild’s name still hovering on his lips, waiting to be propelled into the indifferent grouping of trees. There are eyes glowing from within the blanket of ferns at his feet. Glowing golden irises rimmed in amber, staring from a heart shaped face of palest blue.

Two antenna twitch. A small nose wriggles.

Legend bends to one knee, holds out a hand.

“Hey there. You wouldn’t happen to know where that crazy cook went, would you?”

Again the nose moves, though this time it wrinkles slightly as though the being has smelt a stench.

“Alright, fine.” Legend sighs. “Do you know where Wild went?”

That earns him some small amount of favor. The creature runs a paw over its face, fluffing up the fur there. Then, with one small hop, it emerges from its hiding place. It settles down on its haunches right in front of the veteran and sneezes.

Legend gazes at it and it gazes at him. It looks for all the world like a rabbit, with its loping gate and compact form. Yet, the appendages atop its head are like vines stretching upward in their ascent towards light. Its eyes are endless pools of molten treasure. They speak of wisdom, of mystery. They are a map Legend has yet to obtain.

Its body is delicate. The magic that waltzes gently around it threatens to spirit it away. But there is a strength about it that calls to Legend’s soul. It is painted in the eruptions of royal blue burned into the side of its face, etched in craggy, sporadic splotches upon its chest and abdomen. It is housed in those eyes of an ethereal stranger, a beloved brother and friend.

Again, the veteran holds out his hand in invitation. His voice is even softer this time.

“I won’t hurt you, champion.”

I know, Wild’s eyes say. Because you’re like me.

Another two hops and he has deposited himself in Legend’s lap. The veteran’s breath catches at this display of easy trust. Long and arduous is the road they walk. Many have been the days when he and Wild have ended up together, two conflicting minds forced to meld into something complementary. But never had he allowed himself to imagine it would all lead to this.

How’d you know?

A soft head presses against his chest. Legend ducks his face into the fur and for a moment, breathes in the scent of bubbling springs and murmuring branches, whispering wind and moist river rocks, moss and magic and autumn leaves.

How’d you know it was me?

He chuckles. Delicate fingers crowned with jewels find the spot behind Wild’s ears and rub there. The champion makes a trilling sound deep in his throat, a melody as pleasant as a bird singing its jovial song amongst the trees.

“It’s as you said. I’m like you.”

There is something about rabbits, he decides, a thread that weaves between their hearts and minds, connecting them in ways far beyond what words can explain. So that they may find one another, helpless creatures though they may be.

He checks over Wild one more time, searching for an explanation to the champion’s sudden disappearance from camp. But there are none to be seen. No wounds. No disturbances in the pattern of quick breaths. No skips in the race his tiny heart runs.

Legend lies back on the firm, packed earth, and Wild immediately readjusts along with him. He curls around himself, head meeting bushy tail in the form of a snail’s circular shell. Legend’s fingers continue their trail along the curving form, silk turning skin soft.

Above them, the trees bow to one another, limbs meeting midway to filter the pale rays of the sun. A leaf flutters down toward them. Its lazy journey ends atop Wild’s body. He doesn’t seem to mind. A tiny sigh lifts his chest. He readjusts, blinks open one eye that probes Legend’s soul.

Hey…thanks, vet.

The veteran grins. “Never thought I’d hear you say that to me.”

There is no bite in his tone. The sarcasm usually biting is gentle, teasing.

The wounds were never outward to begin with. He knows that now. He should have seen it the moment Wild’s eyes grew wide as a memory took over, the moment afterward when his chest had heaved in subtle attempts at breath, and those in the days following when he had walked with slow steps, head bowed, smile a ghost ready to fade and flee.

He doesn’t know how the hero came to take this form. It doesn’t matter however.

Legend runs his hand over the tiny head and he understands.

[kikker-oma]

@adrift-in-thyme TRIN YOU ARE AMAZING AND INCREDIBLE AND THIS FIC TORE MY HEART OUT AND STUFFED IT BACK INTO MY CHEST (in the absolute BEST way possible❤️❤️)

Please please please PLEASE give this a read, it made me acream

Warnings: blood, slit throat(after the cut)

Also, here's a bonus from @skyloftian-nutcase done in exquisite restaurant crayon lol

[sai4u]

★ — wish i hated you !

⤷ hyunjin loves love, but does it love him back ?

− ⌗ ft .∿ hwang hyunjin x reader

− ⌗ genre + warnings .∿ angst + reader causes heart break, hyunjin is sad, changbin & jeongin mention :p

− ⌗ word count .∿ 0.6k

− ⌗ trin’s note .∿ felt a lil sad this past week so I’m making hyunjin suffer with me /j

Mr. lover boy, the romanticist, love’s expert, Hwang Hyunjin could and would claim all these names that surround love. He wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed to say that he loves love. He wants to melt in love, live in it, bask in it, carry it in a little glass box, and protect the box with his life.

Though, some could say that he can be blinded by love. His friends do get concerned whenever another relationship/situationship doesn’t work out but he reassures them that it’s okay, and everything’s fine. He tells them that he’s just one step closer to the perfect person, the one person that he can share his love with for eternity. but of course, that has yet to happen.

Thankfully, he has grown from every person he has been interested in, and/or, messed around with. He has grown from many of them since they all come in a similar pattern. But you, however, were dissimilar from the others. Something about you ignited a flame in Hyunjin that didn't wish to be extinguished. He wanted that flame to rise and felt it anytime he was near you.

He felt as if you completed him in some way, you were his person. you adored love almost as much as he did. Again, almost. Hyunjin showered you in love, he told you how perfect and significant you were to him. to him, you were his person. the person he had hoped for his eternal love. His love that he had for you was held tighter than the others Hyunjin has dealt with.

Nonetheless, Hyunjin finds himself in his bed with his eyes burning. His chest heaves, hands shaking, and his lips trembling as he looks at his phone. The screen displayed a message from you, at first the boy believed it was something mundane or a compliment but it was neither. It was small but broke apart hyunjin’s entire world.

“I’m sorry but it’s over. we’re over.”

Seven minuscule words and yet all seven had Hyunjin in such a tragedy, a spiral of emotions. He withers into a downfall of just a complete mess; pairs of eyes still tinted red from crying, baggy and puffy as well, his full lips shakes and let out small noises. That was Hyunjin's routine for however long he allowed those words to eat up inside him.

He tried to deny those words, he thought maybe you meant to send it to someone else. He confided and almost pleaded with his eyes that the text was a mistake but the way you couldn’t look at him, he knew. He lost you, he didn’t want to accept it, he refused to come to terms with it. Even after you posted a new relationship, even after you stopped talking to him ever since, he didn’t want to accept the truth.

You were Hyunjin’s everything. Even without a title, Hyunjin's heart was at ease, different colors of happiness paint his insides, he has seen himself smile more than when he hangs out with jeongin or changbin. He thought you were the one that he’s been hoping for, the one to spend all his life with, and be high strung that love exists and it’s set for him. But yet again, he’s proven wrong.

Even after all this, he wouldn’t and he couldn’t hate you. No matter how much he cursed your name to the heavens above, no matter he cursed himself for falling for you, he still loved you. Hyunjin wishes he doesn’t but he still cares for you, he’ll drop everything for even a second to be with you again.

The boy whose heart is broken still yearns for the one who broke it.

kisses to you all and God bless you 💗

© 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝟦𝗎. 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽

[skyward-floored]

I’m going to see how many wips I can finish this week 💪

[bejeweled-wahlberg]

Chapter 6 of Tearin up my heart Is out now

[inigofication]

reading fics ithat include Laslow is so funny bc I think I’m so used to Laslow’s FEH voice (bless you Mick Wingert) that I always forget our wonderful main-game canon (bless you Liam O’Brien) of Laslow’s much deeper voice LMFAO and it makes the dialogue so much fun

[chaosintheavenue]

What are some weird interests or hobbies you have that people probably wouldn't expect you to have?

For Trin. Hier sind kekse.

Thank you!

-

Trin counts on her fingers as she reels off interests that she considerers unusual, "When I was younger, I got seriously invested in bubble tea for a while. One taste, and I was hooked. When I'd travel, I used to try replicating different types and textures of pearls to add to any old drink- with totally incorrect ingredients, mind you, so without much success."

"As for current hobbies, I guess I sing to myself a lot? Always have, always will. Photography's a pretty new one- generally surprises people back home. I wanted to share the scenery of West Virginia, and some things really have to be seen to be believed, so when I found this camera... things spiralled from there!"

[theeholytrinity]

In another life, she would have named her daughter Aemma, and a selfish part of her mourns the lost opportunity. Rhaenyra’s mother could have lived on through her daughter, her name standing tall against the tides of history, refusing to be washed away in the seafoam. Remembered as the namesake of the second ruling Queen of Westeros. That is how she would have honored her mother, how she would have righted all the wrongs. But in this life, it is not to be. So Rhaenyra chooses a Velaryon name, to honor her husband who, even in his grief, has stood by her as best he can. And to hide the truth, though the veil is clearer than glass.

“Valaena,” she answers after a long while. “Valaena Velaryon,” it sounds so right, for her babe girl, her firstborn and heir. The first recorded Valaena Velaryon had been half Targaryen through her mother as well and she had birthed the conquerors who united the realm with fire and blood and forged the seat Rhaenyra’s daughter will one day sit.

Or

Jacaerys Velaryon is born a girl.

[xandle]

i truly miss the halcyon days of fanfic on quizilla

[adrift-in-thyme]

Anyone up for an angsty little fic? XD

I wrote this for whumptober but never could find a prompt that fit it. So I’m publishing it now instead!

CW for blood and injury, referenced torture, and burn wounds

———————————————————

The world is blinding and it burns.

Time grits his teeth, turns from it in an effort to escape the light. Endless and crackling, reaching out, snapping back, a whip seeking an unsuspecting back.

Someone is screaming. He knows it is not him.

“What-what…no!” A foot clad in crimson stomps once, twice, a masked face bobbing in time with it. “No, no, no! This wasn’t supposed to happen!”

Fools. Time thinks. Fools and cowards.

The Yiga have brought this upon themselves.

Days, perhaps weeks of torture and experimentation have led to this. He only wishes he could have stopped it. Not for their sake. No, never for theirs. For all he cares, they can writhe beneath lightning’s brutal claws, screech, and scramble like insects trying to escape a boot.

Not for their sake does guilt pierce his soul. For Sky’s.

He lies in the center of the room, the sun in the center of a universe of destruction. Trembling with power, choking on fear, his cries ring in the hero’s ears like the bells in the Temple of Time.

The Yiga are running – the surviving ones, at least. Time can smell the smoke of their stealthy escapes. It hardly manages to permeate the heavy scent of electric death.

He breathes in, exhale hitching as he tries to move. His wounds ache and blood clings to him, dripping from the shreds of his tunic. He must get up though, he must get free.

He has to reach Sky before this power tears him apart.

The ropes around his wrists are frayed, bristling with the relentless aggression of his struggles. Day after day the Yiga had yanked him back, sliced at the fingers trying to pull at the hulking knots, aimed kicks at his stomach, his head, his back – anything to get him to cease trying to escape.

Cease trying to reach Sky.

His throat aches from shouting his name. His head pounds from sobbing.

Time contorts throbbing hands in a half-circle his wrists shriek against, pawing desperately at the same bonds that have held fast all this time.

Their strength had not been their own. This moment, they crumple beneath his force. This moment, they fall.

He is up in an instant, scrambling, gritting his teeth against the way everything shouts and screams and erupts into dazzling bursts of light and color, color and light that all take on the shade of red.

He coughs. Something damp and clammy hits the ground.

“Sky!”

One of his feet isn’t moving right. It feels like someone has wrenched it off, screwed it back on backwards. It doesn’t matter. What won’t move, will be dragged.

“Sky!”

“Time!”

The eyes that turn, tear-filled and pleading to him, match the tongues of lightning that lash out at his unarmored form. They are like the shooting stars he and Malon used to watch as they blazed across the Hyrulean sky.

Sky inhales and the force of it is nails scraping against metal, calloused fingers against a blade.

“Help me!”

The scream is a collection of shattered glass, raining down upon the room in terrible, glinting projectiles. Time winces with the pain of it.

“I’m coming.”

He chokes it out more than speaks it.

“I’m coming, Sky, just…”

He coughs again, stumbles, catches himself on the wall. It is wet with a substance he would rather not contemplate the existence of. He pushes off of it and keeps going.

The lightning reaches for him, tantalizing, hypnotic. Determined, he fights to reach it.

“Just hold on. Hold on!”

The first of them snaps back, connects with vicious precision with his thigh. He cries out, nearly crumples, and trips right into another. It sends a jolt through his side, snaking rapidly in and out of bones he didn’t even register having.

What will you do once you reach him? His mind hisses, doubtful, pessimistic. What will you do when, bloodied and broken, you fall beside him? Will you touch his shoulder? Draw him into your arms?

What good will comfort do?

He reaches for an answer. He has none. Only his mission and his determination to accomplish it.

Time grits his teeth and he presses on.

Sky screams his name again. Lightning strikes again. It is all around him now, a hurricane whose eye he is swimming towards. A hurricane that is tearing him apart.

They devour like ravenous wolfos. Streaking through muscle and sinew, razing them like fields of sun-warmed wheat; splintering bones, boiling blood. He is breathing the life-giving liquid, tasting it, smelling it. It pours from his mouth and eyes and nose, peppers the ground like a morbid artwork. It mixes with the pungent wetness of his tears and tears, melds with sickly yellow bile he cannot keep down.

“Sky…” He tries to call. He is close to him now, so close. If he just extends his arm…

His next inhale is hardly enough to be called one. At some point walking became impossible. He can’t recall when. But now he pulls himself along like a newborn babe.

Even that is too much for his body.

It smells like death. It smells like burning bodies.

He will not give up, though, not now. Sky needs him.

A trembling hand goes up, goes out, seeking its destination. An exhausted body exerts the last of its strength to lunge.

Time won’t allow himself to scream. But as he brings Sky into his arms, he can’t keep back a cry.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I so, so sorry,” sobs the shattered boy who has collapsed into him. “I can’t stop it. I can’t stop it!”

It hurts. Darkness is beginning to join the endless light.

The world is blinding and it burns. Oh, it burns. Worse than the magma of Death Mountain, worse than the clawing grasp of a deadhand, the sting of a skulltula.

It doesn’t matter.

“You can,” he croaks and pulls Sky closer. “I believe that you can.”

Time has not thought of himself as naive in a very, very long time. But for a split second, drenched in guilt, he wonders if, perhaps, he is being so now.

He shoves the thought away, drowns it beneath the battle of staying awake and staying alive.

Sky lets loose a cry like a warrior who has lost a great battle. A sound that is dazzling in its ferocity, terrifying in its grief.

“Please, please just leave.” He lifts his face, blood and soot and snot made stark against a backdrop of silvery white. “I’m gonna hurt you more than I already have! Leave!”

He tries to shove away, but it is a weak attempt. Time holds him closer.

“I won’t leave you.”

Talking is a struggle, breathing is a struggle. How long can he keep doing both?

As long as it takes.

“I am used to storms.” He smiles and that hurts as well. The expression tears at fragile flesh. “I have never run from one.

“And I refuse to do so now.”

[kitsune-kita]

୨୧₊♱ TRIN'S FIC RECS

— note: please read the tags and warnings before proceeding as my fic recs contain both sfw and nsfw works.

— HAIKYUU!!

iwaizumi hajime - oikawa tooru

akaashi keiji - bokuto kotaro - konoha akinori

kita shinsuke - miya atsumu - miya osamu - ojiro aran - suna rintaro

sawamura daichi - sugawara koshi ennoshita chikara - nishinoya yu hinata shoyo - kageyama tobio - tsukishima kei - yamaguchi tadashi ukai keishin

kuroo tetsuro - kozume kenma - yaku morisuke

semi eita - ushijima wakatoshi

— LOVE AND DEEPSPACE

rafayel - sylus - xavier - zayne

— ATLA & LOK

azula - katara - sokka - suki - zuko - zutara

asami - bolin - iroh - korra - mako

— DC (MAINLY BATFAM)

barbara gordon - bruce wayne - cassandra cain - damian wayne - dick grayson - duke thomas - jason todd - kate kane - stephanie brown - tim drake

© KITSUNE-KITA - do not repost, translate, plagiarise, or claim any of my works as your own.

[skyward-floored]

I sat down to figure out more of the Swapped plot because um. I only half have it figured out haha it started as just a random idea okay but then I thought of another interesting IAU idea I could do and I am physically holding myself back from writing it because I have like three fics I need to finish

[adrift-in-thyme]

@krissis-averted you know when I said this art had given me serious brainrot? Well…

This gorgeous, painful piece wouldn’t leave me alone so I wrote a little something inspired by it. I hope you don’t mind

CW for major character death and blood/injury

————————————

It is cold.

For some strange reason that is the thing his mind has chosen to fixate on. Out of everything else. The pain and the blood and the dread of death — it all seems to pale in the face of the cold.

It feels like Snowhead, Time thinks dimly. Or perhaps, like Zora’s Domain did when it was turned into a frozen tundra.

He coughs. Blood splatters into the snow.

The wolves surrounding him prowl closer, growls deepening. They sense weakness. They smell death. He cannot bring himself to care.

They have already torn him apart, ripped a hole in his abdomen, scattered his blood across the frozen ground. What more can they do?

He raises his head, with an effort, peering up at the crimson moon shining above them. It looks like the Blood Moon from Wild’s Hyrule. But it can’t be. He is not in Wild’s Hyrule.

Regardless, he hates it.

Usually such a sight fills his heart with dread. Now, it only seems to mock him.

I have won, it says. At last, I have won.

He lets his head droop again. Somehow, the crimson snow is easier to look at than that cursed thing in the sky.

A shiver runs through him. More of his life force drains away, soaked up eagerly by the unforgiving ice. Time drags in a breath.

He should rise, he should walk, attempt to find some way back to the camp, back to the warmth and company of his brothers, back to the ranch where Malon waits to welcome him home. He longs to do so. But he lacks the strength to move.

One wolf drifts towards him, eyeing him with something like curiosity. Perhaps, it is wondering how he is still breathing? Perhaps, asking how he got into this situation in the first place?

The Hero of Time, felled by a pack of common wolves. Time laughs and the sound is a bitter choked thing, soaked in sorrow.

It had not been so simple as that, however.

He had been wounded when he had fallen upon these icy slopes, plunging through one of the Shadow’s many portals. And when he had risen, dizzy from blood loss, weak with fatigue, and lacking either of his two prized swords…the wolves had been here to greet him.

His fallibility had drawn them like ravenous desbreko.

Wolves are mighty beasts, feral, and brave. But even they cannot resist easy prey now and then. And in the state he had been in, he had certainly been easy prey. Especially to wolves such as these. Though they do not look quite the same as the wolfos in his own era, they had been just as strong.

With their powerful paws, they had pushed him to the ground. With their sharp teeth, they had torn his flesh.

They had stopped only when his breathing became shallow, his vision dull and clouded. They had stopped only when he had stopped trying to fight back.

Perhaps, it just wasn’t fun for them anymore, at that point, no longer the sport they were hoping that it would be. Or…perhaps, these animals possess some strange sort of mercy.

Maybe they had looked at him, pathetic, gasping, and bleeding in a time that is not his own, separated from those he loves…and they had felt pity.

Time blinks, sluggishly attempting to clear his fading vision. The night that had once been so vivid, is now grayish and lackluster. The deep blues of the sky and distant pines, the reflections of navies and crimsons on the snow — none of it seems all that striking anymore.

The wolves’ eyes, however, those terrible blood-red orbs — those are still as piercing as ever. And when the curious one comes even closer, his gore-tinged muzzle almost touching Time’s face, a shiver runs through him.

Though, perhaps, that is only because of the cold.

It is within him now, rather than merely a product of the harsh elements. The fingers of death clutch at his heart. His strength has fled completely.

When he slumps sideways, when his cheek connects with ice, he hardly knows it.

The wolf nudges him. The movement is so different from its vicious attacks previously.

Get up, it seems to say, come on now, hero, rise and soldier on. Your regrets are many. They must be put to rest.

He gazes at the proud beast. It has kind eyes, he can see now, almost like his pup.

How very strange.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. Because there is nothing more he can say to those who he loves, those who he is leaving behind.

Those who are far away, unable to hear him.

Time breathes and the exhale is hardly enough to create a cloud in the bitter air.

“I’m sorry.”

…

The wolf remains by his side through the bitter night. It and its brethren stand watch as the Hero of Time grows cold and stiff. As the blood he shed on the icy ground crystallizes beneath the assault of icy wind.

He has perished, after a lifetime of escaping death. But he has not done so alone.

His attackers guard him, never touching his body, never trying to tear the meat off of his bones. They merely remain, stalwart and strong, gazing into the endless expanse of snow.

And when a figure of gold, with a single eye of red, appears as though he is a product of the wind itself…they welcome him as they would their own kin.

Welcome, Hero of Time, they say in the howls that echo into the night. Welcome, hero with the heart of a proud beast. We have waited long for you.

In the shape of one's death