#visage || change as the world demands

[sigmadolos]

Dazai’s forced baptism of Sigma! Now in color in theaters near you!

[controld3vil]

i'll hex you, i'll possess you

pairing(s): aegon ii targaryen x wife!reader, aemond "one eye" targaryen x reader (unrequited/one sided)

synopsis: Your husband is gone. He perished in whatever was left of the battle, seared flesh, and dragon’s tar. As unbearable as it was, you fight for his throne against his brother. Believing it is for his for the taking.

notes: mentions of s02ep05, i fr feel so bad for aegon :( also cw: hints of obsessed!aemond (bc he's insane :D)

In quite a haste, you sped past all the onlookers like flies. They were nonexistent in your peripherals, your attention was entirely up ahead to the King’s chambers, the Kingsguards who stood by. Your Grace, they would say before allowing you passage past their protection. You took a glimpse, here in the dressing room for the King. Your King.

“Your Grace!” The seamstress chirped, turning to greet your lovely smile. And your righteous presence everywhere you went. It affected all now that you were the face of King’s Landing. It’s a hefty duty, yes, however, it seemed many subjects were willing, if not encouraged, of your subsequent role as the consoling figure for the realm to look to.

In front of a tall mirror was Aegon, in full Valyrian armor. You’d guessed the armor was passed down through his ancestral line, ancient, and beautiful it was kept. All the plates fit him perfectly with little alterations to adjust. Yet absent of the signature helmet paired with it, his blonde hair lay just above his shoulders, gently. 

Ever so kind were your visage toward the King. You could feel the corners of your lips curve warmly at the sight of him. He was handsome and eager to appease the people of his kingdom. Though he may not be the first choice for Throne, you knew he was trying his best to uphold the responsibilities and burden those must bear. You would have to bear it as well if you were Queen. 

“Good morrow,” You breathed, flattening the wrinkles of your dress as an excuse to eye at Aegon, openly. There was nothing to hide, simply it was different from his normal attire. In armor, in all of your lifetime, you never had to experience warfare, for better or worse. 

“Ah, my lovely wife!” In exclamation, your husband turns to compliment your captivating smile as he gleams contentedly. He takes a few steps down from the small stairway from the miniature podium, while some of his personal Kingsguard can be heard snickering. Which you wholeheartedly ignored as your attention laid straight to your King’s beaming face. “Just who I wanted to see!”

“I must speak with you,” Through your expressed delightfulness, the tone of your voice is quickly replaced with a sour one. And it seemed to have caught the attention of the seamstress and others in the room as they all paused at your subtle notion of privacy. “Alone.” Only when you mention it, it’s as though they were a flock of birds, all fleeing from the chambers at once. A few clatters and suddenly the doors were quietly slammed shut with a whisper of a demand. 

However, your husband did not seem fazed at all. He merely shrugged, casually walking to fill a cup or two with wine. Yet a visible glower can be caught right after he steps off the podium and to the table of beverages. Sometimes his reaction to your urgency was comedic. The King was never one to take duties earnestly. It’s one of his eminent flaws that all of the townsfolk and servants knew of. His days by the Silk Roads were but a regular story. But now, he is a changed man, Aegon thinks. They’ve witnessed all of his mistakes and tourneys. He’s young and has never been as interested in duty as his siblings. And now suddenly, he was pulled onto the seat as King. And you would have to sit beside him and watch. As a graceful symbol yet mute on what to say on any matter. 

How horrendous was that? 

“What troubles you, my sweet?” The sound of liquid plops as all of the noise from the outside world becomes muffled. For the past few days, it has been the most chaotic and tragic period of your life. Not just for you and Aegon, but everyone in King’s Landing. Your son, Jaehaerys, was left for dead at the hands of a murderer and false ruler. Panic was running through the streets of Flea Bottom. People questioned the King’s cruel punishment of the rat catchers though Aegon did not care for their grief. 

To you, it was more than sadness. But anger and confusion, all of your pent-up emotions ever since living in King’s Landing have made you become this way. The Capital has changed you. To who you were as a person and figure of nobility. Now you were suddenly the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, yet only moments ago, you were the princess of the firstborn son of the King. You should have expected war to come between siblings over the throne, yet your father persisted that the marriage would’ve led to success. Having lost your child, your son, made the promise to communicate more to Aegon. To somehow seek solace in the empty void of your heart in whatever left the world had. 

“You named Ser Criston Cole your Hand…” You mumbled slowly, the last words faded out into thin air. Was he wrong to do so? You did not want to say. For the little you knew about the battle being played at hand, you knew Aegon’s impulsiveness would come to the cost of many. Especially of the Council when they have refused relentlessly his thoughts and suggestions. So perhaps this decision would cause more upbringing for the noblemen to bleat about. “Why?”

A muffled sound and then a snort comes out of his mouth as Aegon proceeds to sip his wine. As if not a care of the world or your concern over the matter. “And why does this concern you?” 

He does the courtesy to hand you your cup, as you clasped it eagerly to swallow whatever worry your heart must feel. The Queen Regent, Aegon’s brother, Aemond, and even Criston Cole, all look for you in the guidance you have over their King. You’ve yet to make it clear that you don’t control him like many others would consider to do. You’d think it's heartless to manipulate a man of his feelings, especially your husband. 

Eventually, you lay the cup down, trailing your finger around the outer details of the golden goblet. It’s glimmering through the sun, carefully designed with outlines of a dragon and flames that surround the jugular of the base of the cup. It curves and twists under your palm as you proceed to swirl the liquid inside and watch as a mini typhoon is formed. 

“Do you believe your decision on making him Hand was just?” You lift your gaze to be met with his bright purple eyes. It always seemed intense and vivid in color whenever his attention was on you. As if you were the only person that mattered in the room. And if not at this moment.

You looked ravishing, decorated in his house colors with pops of gold from the jewelry and headwear. You had no shame in exemplifying wealth because he would give you everything willingly. No matter the cost or debt, every piece of gold, and diamond was meant to be yours. He watches as your golden droplet earrings jingle when you shake your head, contemplating your next words. “Because I do not think that was the wisest decision to be made, husband.”

“And, care to explain why?” Like every little piece of his childhood, Aegon looks at every objective like a game. Though he looked like he was trying to resist your hesitancy for his new Hand, he was staring into space at the glorious jewels that make your figure and face pop out more. 

You urged, before meeting the King by the tableside where the pitcher lay. “He is a warrior, not a politician,” You set your goblet aside, to look your husband in the eye more closely. “He does not know the ways of the people, especially those who he surrounds himself with. He was born lowborn, making him more naive than aware of tellings.” 

Yes, you make great points, he would say if you did not have that adorable scowl on your face. Aegon would admit, he was getting drunk by the minute. And your presence did not help in his regard to be sober. Regardless, he does take account of your calls, more than most that surround himself with. Everyone at the Council is eager to spout their plans and news, it makes him deaf to the ear when they have nothing to contribute when he suggests something. Nevertheless, you at least are supportive of his thoughts. Despite your constructive nature, he appreciates and craves your attention. 

Your King hums, drowsily and that was when you knew his mind was somewhere else. You would admit, you too were becoming tipsy with alcohol. After the morning Council meeting, you rather have your head hung outside with ratcatchers at the mess of the Council. You glance at his attire once more and this time, he catches you. He sees you, the way your doe eyes wander up and down his figure. He rarely has a chance to wear dragon armor like this. 

“Distracted, are we?” His breath immediately inches away from yours. And the scent of strong alcohol stings. You’re so accustomed to it, that you’re surprised you would still rebuke the scent of it. Apart from that, the look Aegon gives you makes your heart weak. His smile is sluggish but pulls you in like a serpent in water. It’s alluring and hypnotizing, the way his focus wanders in all of you, and the same for him. You can’t help but wonder if the work of the armor was tricked. And you let your desires plunder when you trace his breastplate armor. Of the harsh outlines it’s supposed to represent dragon scales. It’s majestic and divine, fit for a king. 

Almost timidly, your husband giggles at your touch. He separates a stray hair from your cheek, allowing leeway more into your personal space. You can’t feel automatically embarrassed if someone were to barge in. Because anyone could, the seamstress, Kingsguard, or worse, his mother. 

“Wear that armor more often and perhaps you’ll receive more than indecent staring,” A mischievous grin forms as again another jingle of your golden jewelry. Gods, you’re enticing and coy. Had he mentioned that? More than once. 

The first time you were at Court, it was a spur of surprise. Not only had you arrived with Prince Aemond unannounced, but Aegon encouraged it. You would suspect the disapproving faces of the men, especially coming from the King’s Hand and grandsire. How he ploys and plots with every citizen of King’s Landing to do his bidding. To save the Realm, of course, more to have the most influence in the city. You were aware of what he thinks of you. An obedient and dainty princess. The Queen and wife to the King should have no right to speak of politics. 

And yet here you were. 

“You do not have a seat in this Council,” Queen Regent, Alicent urges, gazing at her second son with slight apprehension. In doubt, she feels a quick quiver of fear the moment Aemond strides past the Council table. When it came to you, Alicent could only muster a poor glance. The one-eyed prince proceeds towards the map of Westeros that stands beside the King. He strides in confidence, abruptly ignoring every piercing stare bestowed on him. Other than him, you reached towards the seat at the opposing side of your King, hand delicately trailing down the handles of the chair.

“Aemond is my closest blood and our strongest sword. I welcome him,” Aegon lay unfazed at the subtle shocked expressions on everyone’s faces. “As for my wife, I think it should be customary for her to be by my side even in Council. As my father has allowed you to do for him, remember mother?” A playful grin, all-knowing of his lightheartedness, and carelessness of what others thought of his decisions. Surely his mother would be the most understanding, bestowing the same position many years ago when King Viserys was dealt ill and immobile. Shouldn’t the Queen beside her King as should they in every instance? 

Alicent is silent in her displeasure. There was no reason to refute the King’s wishes and sometimes made you appreciative of Aegon’s power and status. Being King was a risky position however it offered you more freedom and the ability to speak your mind more often than not. Your husband was the cause of this leverage for the most part. You expected the Queen Dowager to give you any kind of sign of comfort except there was none. Only but a forgotten thought and you were dismissed. 

It fills you with dismay, a small black hole for where her approval was meant to be. For the last few days, you’d only wished for Alicent’s consoling eyes.

“We should send troops marching to Harrehal, the Riverlands have the largest force.” Aemond waves his hand over where the location of Riverrun is plastered on the wall. It’s curved in cursive lettering, surrounding soft green fields, most notably of their Southern lands, which was an inhabited place of divided houses and discourse. The largest force, it had many issues of compromises and its lordship. “With them, Rhaenyra’s forces would be left vulnerable on land.”

The accordance of hums coaxed the second son with assurance. A sense of pride if you will, knowing how much more skilled and knowable he was than his brother. But the Hand was quick to question his methods. 

“And what of the small Houses of Riverrun? The Brackens and Blackwoods have been fighting each other for centuries. They would never work together as one,” Otto points out and it brings more skepticism and worry to the other Councilmen. Alliances with the Southerners were awkward. They do not know when or where to stop the fight. And it has become extremely bothersome at the time of war. The Bracken and Blackwoods were examples of that. They proceeded with the war more for themselves and would kill hundreds of their men if it meant to end their rivalry before the war even began. 

“We should negotiate with smaller Houses beyond the River lands then,” Your lips shudder slightly when the immediate eyes turn to you. Even your husband stares at you in astonishment and curiosity the same. Alicent looks at you warily. And Aemond, all too mysterious, holds a neutral look. “Would it not help Ser Criston Cole secure more of the surrounding Houses towards their larger forces? Gaining allies along the way to Riverrun would only add more to our numbers,”

“And in truth, give us a better advantage to overruling Riverrun altogether?” A devilish grin was on Aegon’s face at your suggestion. Your advice seemed promising and seemed risky but it was the most practical. King’s Landing had more advantage on land than the sea or sky, therefore it was evident in their leverage over the smaller Houses close to Riverrun. 

You tilt your head in amusement, all while lowering yourself to sit down. Yes, even though you had no experience in politics or war, you listened. You had ears whenever you managed to walk past one of their meetings. It should be frowned upon but you did not care. You wanted to have more say in protecting your family and House. Most things had been provided for you at an early age. You were a princess with a wealthy father, negotiations were your family’s specialty. You learned early on how to enunciate and please people with the way of your words. And here, you simply voiced what you believed was the safest way to Riverrun. Despite all the demeanors, none of the other Councilmen had anything else to say or disprove of your plans. 

“Good! Then it’s settled then,” The king rises, as well as everyone else who feels startled at his shifted demeanor. “Then Ser Criston Cole should prepare some men for the long journey ahead of us by dawn!” It was then you felt some sort of pride that would solidify your position at the Council. As long as you hold a strong mind, should your advice become helpful towards the men, you’d hoped they would see your presence as a blessing. 

In some midst of it all or perhaps the end, Aemond is quiet. He’s curious and admires you for everything you strive for. Many people would assume he despises you for taking the initiative to aid his king. But he does not believe in that no, you’re a delicate thing and would never be selfish on greed. Merely he can appreciate your ambitious strides from afar. The way you act around the people, the Council, and his mother makes him believe you were born into the role of Queen. You care for your subjects and think of what’s best for them. You do your best to stay by your king’s side even though he lacks the mind for it. 

Perhaps maybe, in some cases, he should’ve had you. 

The words struck right out of his head just when everyone was dismissed. While the nobleman rushes out of the council room, he delays his leave momentarily to catch a glimpse of you. You define the example of his House’s wealth, always proud to dress in colors of black and crimson red as if it was your second skin. However you do not forget about your own House colors, you embrace it all together with his own and it makes him wonder what kind of beauty like yourself can be persuaded by the likes of his brother. You were quick-witted, amusing, and altogether undeserving of Aegon’s love. 

You do not immediately flee the room as his mother or Ser Criston Cole had done. Instead, you slowly rise from your seat and make your way to your husband, eagerly. Aegon sits comfortably in his golden chair, smug with loving eyes at your figure. He could not help but eye at you openly even with his Kingsguard standing beside him. 

“Aemond, may we have the room?” He hears his older brother say. It does not take a blind man to know the following events as the one-eyed prince simply tilts his head in your direction. Before storming out of the room and the slam of the doors. His footsteps clank against the cold cobblestone pavement as he makes his way to his room. But all he could think about was your lively laughter as he disappeared from the scene. 

The day after Cole’s troops arrived back at King’s Landing, you felt a string of worry crawling down your spine. As you pace across your bedroom, you fiddle with the ends of your loose hair to solace the anxiety you feel in your stomach. The pit was too unbearable as more men would be escorted out towards Rook’s Rest. After Aegon removed Otto Hightower as Hand, Criston Cole became the primary candidate for the position. You voiced your concerns before but Aegon had yet to change his decisions on your advice.

Now rumors have spread that by the time Cole invades Rook’s Rest, Aemond would be by his side to counter whatever attack Rhaenyra plans to defend her councilman. It would risk losing one dragon, the biggest and largest female beast you’d seen. Doubt fills your mind when you try to shake your worries away. You shook your hands feverishly and swatted away the sweat building up against your palms. You must speak to Aemond. You should warn him of the consequences of this act. 

You found the prince outside of the castle. Vhagar resides in a shallow space close to the gateways to the city and is attentively monitored for her whereabouts. Very few dragon keepers watch over the powerful beast for her dangerous nature and size. As a cart, full of sheep was being carried by horses, you looked in awe at the amount of necessity the castle must provide for their dragons now. Surely it would impact the people’s living and cost. It worries you how chaotic and unlawful the palace seemed to behave in times of war. Even though you find yourself wanting to question Aemond’s intentions of helping Cole this way. 

Your words settle like a soothing wave in his ears. “Prince Aemond,” And when the one-eyed prince spots you, holding the reins of your horse with a steady hand, he’s not afraid to show his approval of your presence. The colors you wear today are regarded as wealth and beauty. The golden linen stretches along the cloth of obsidian, representative of his House, your House. The gown expands upon your collarbone, allowing the silver necklace you have on to become the ire of his attention. It entices him, brings him into your line of view. Clear cut diamonds you had on your earlobes, they jingle at the slightest movement you make, as you make your way towards him with ease. 

“Your Grace,” He prompts, politely. He is a plain canvas for you to paint over, to inspect over. You should not be afraid of his presence because he behaves well under yours. The prince regent eyes you down carefully and you’re vaguely reminded of the day before, the two of you entered the Council room.

“How was your ride with Vhagar?” You tenderly incite, head tilting towards his beast. Vhagar sits lazily with her entire body blended into the environment. Her muddy green scales combine with the grassy interior. The dragon pits were deemed too small for her size. And more so claustrophobic for a creature of her caliber, as a champion of many wars and destruction, Vhagar is rather docile for being the largest dragon. 

He hums before easily answering. “The morrow dew is not something to be missed during this time. Vhagar could sense it, and the warm breeze is sure to come sooner for summer,” He crossed his arms behind his back as if analyzing your every breath as you walked in irregular patterns, trailing along where his dragon resides. Your attention was not fully on him. No, not that he wouldn’t mind. But it was ignorant on your part to ignore him so easily. “Now save the rest of this nonsense for supper or shall I ask what were your real intentions for coming here? Though I welcome it,” 

You catch onto his coarse tone. Aemond dislikes those who do not take him seriously, like his brother. And you are aware of his estranged heart. You give him a look of consideration. It was the look of someone who had the upper hand. You knew he was becoming impatient with your meddling. 

“What are your plans with Criston Cole going to Rook’s Rest?” Your figure fully faces him now as you cup your hands together modestly. Surely the prince of the realm should respect the Queen’s uncertainties when he meets with the King’s Hand behind his back. A sliver of dread falls on the blonde prince as you take a step closer. “Consoling with the Hand without the King’s presence is extremely demeaning, my prince. Surely you have a right reason to go behind his back,” 

He takes a step forward, as Aemond’s eye moves back and forth from you. “We have a plan,” He is recursive in his thoughts and manners. Yet under your eyes, he feels utterly weak and broken, as if you have put a spell on him. “It is best if the King does not intervene.”

 Shaking your head disapprovingly, you fake disappointment. “Then what do you plan to do?” The longer it went on, the more you could feel his blood rising at the way you glanced and teased at his exploits. “As I, the Queen should know.”

“You need not,” The second son grunts, moving away to leave whatever conversation you were trying to muster with him. You intended to snuff out his plans with Criston Cole and expose them to your King's husband. Your King husband. What would he know of battles and formation? He knew better strategy than him yet you still side with Aegon with his pathetic whims on the townsfolk. 

Unsatisfied, you shot a disapproving grin. “I know you intend on attacking Rook’s Rest as a surprise, why else would you go with Cole?” You heard his mudded footsteps stop momentarily as you continued. “My question to it is, what are you trying to prove out of this act of disloyalty?” It flicks a trigger in him. A quick flash of anger, jealousy, and disgust, all coiled into one hole that explodes. 

“I intend to prove I am the better fit as heir,” His tone is sharp and alert as he stomps back to you with a violent gaze. His one good remaining eye, unharmed and uncut, shoots daggers at your stern face. A small part of you thinks he is handsome. The way you can rile him within seconds gives you a sense of joy and satisfaction that quenches whatever annoyance you had of him before.

“There is no denying that,” Your lips agape still at how much you were able to pry out of Aemond. However, there was one detail you needed to remind him of. “But you fail to recognize that Aegon still has an heir, Maegor.” With that, you close your mouth to form a thin line as you stand more confidently against the prince’s deadly stare. “And as Queen, I hope you do not try to cross your King’s benevolent trust with your anger.” 

It was his turn to remain there motionless. The one-eyed prince repeats your words over and over again. He contemplates them long and hard, glaring at the ground, at where you stood, close to his breath and space. But all of his emotional desires could be examples of an ill temper. You twist and turn his head like a puppeteer to a helpless marionette. And his strings had long sprung and trapped him in an immobile place.

He leaves without a word.

The battle was over. But the war continued. You became increasingly paranoid as no word from Cole’s army of Aegon’s wellbeing. You heard unreliable news. This and that but you wanted the real thing. The truth from a real member who had witnessed the battle at Rook’s Rest. As you twist the ring on your finger, you glance towards the rising crowd in the city. There were so many citizens.  They succeeded and followed like colonies of ants. 

Your anguish was reassured when the sight of the King’s army appeared. Shouts and screams returned you from your thoughts as hundreds of men walked and rode on horseback. Your lively expression did not last long, only to falter when meant with their solemn faces. What a grim battle it must’ve been.

“All hail King Aegon! Who went against and slain the traitor, Rhaenys, and her dragon, Meleys!” Cole exclaims in a harsh and undeserving undertone. From where you stood, on the high mounts of the castle, you saw the horrors of what they’ve done to the traitors. A severed head of the Red Queen, without her rider. Her flesh was torn and burnt. Charred from the attacks of another dragon, you did not believe Aegon had done so. You had doubts and Criston’s indifferent frown proved your intuition. 

Alicent was by the patio where you spied on the citizens of King’s Landing. She observes and feels a familiar dread from the aftermath she has yet to witness for herself. You have taken the position of Queen and in turn, must understand the order of things. Simply because she had a feeling that things did not seem as they were predicted by the townsfolk. 

When the wooden carriage of your husband is delivered to your bed chambers, everyone storms aside for the guards to set it on the floor. You arrived shortly after, nails and teeth clenched in fear as your mother-in-law appeared beside you with the same fixation. And somewhere else, your brother-in-law, Aemond carefully watches your scared position. The lid lifts and the soldiers hold onto the emergency bed that protects their King. In a swift motion, they lift and allow the body to hover over your shared bed.

In patience and precision, Maester Orywle walks into the chambers with several other maesters under his wing to begin a procedure and analysis of his injured body. The room is quickly transformed into a medical room, with various tools and gadgets displayed for the maesters disposal. You had little clue what they were doing, worried about your husband’s awakened state. 

“How is he?” You stumbled by the foot of the bed, where the other maesters scurry to give off Maester Orwyle a scalpel. Gods, the wounds he had mustered. You felt terrified and rightfully so. This could be the last time you see your husband, alive and breathing. “Is he awake?”

“I’m not sure, Your Grace,” Maester Orwlye replies with adequate patience. Knowing the panic and hysteria you must feel for your king, your husband, he pities in your state. You should not deserve such sorrow. “But I must be given time to work on his fatal wounds. Whether he lives or not will be confirmed afterward.” His unflinching face softens when glances at one of Aegon’s personal Kingsguard to escort you outside. The knight nods and walks forward to excuse himself before coming forward.

“My apologies, Your Grace,”

Yet you did not want to leave. Your palms felt hot and guilt-ridden with the idea of leaving Aegon alone to suffer. You urge, taking a step forward for only Maester Orwyle to hear. “How long can you be sure he will survive?” It’s so hushed with desperation in your voice. But the maester could only respond with a sorrowful shake. It breaks your heart wholly, to know not even the best medical professionals had a clear understanding or answer to their King’s expectancy. 

As you feel pathetic tears, ready to fall, the Queen Regent rushes to take hold of your forearm. She drags your pitiful self out of the chambers. The bodies that remained stepped aside for you and Alicent to leave swiftly. A quick flash of silver and black vanishes from your peripherals, but you cannot process anything that is happening anymore. 

The syllables of your name ring against your ears as the Queen Regent tries to bring you back to her. “My dear, please focus on me.” Delicate fingers drape a hold of your jaw, firmly. They smooth over the apples of your cheeks, smoothly and soothingly like a gesture a mother would do for their children. “You need to stand strong for Aegon and yourself. Your children, think of Jaehaera and Meagor! Pray to the gods for his health.” 

With that, you took a deep breath. 

Aemond was avoidant to the whole ordeal. No one besides Criston Cole was there when he found his brother’s scorched body. Alongside his dragon, Sunfrye, it looked as though he was fighting for his last breath. Aemond would’ve taken that chance to send him to eternal sleep if not for Cole’s arrival. A pity for him.

As he watches the scene before him, your grief-stricken features are what caused the most pain. You resembled a tragic painting, so angelic it’s saddening to see you this way. Aemond could’ve done it. He could have killed his brother and taken the glory of killing Meleys. Despite that, he did not and stormed from the scene. Now left in the shadows of what’s to come, he numbly waits for the maester’s work to be done with. The Council meeting will begin shortly. After Aegon’s procedure and Maester Orywle, official confirmation of whether he would live or not would determine whether he would become the true heir or not. 

This was what he wanted, yes? 

Except, everything was bleak now. All the colors he witnessed were suddenly wiped; now all he saw was black and white. Your tragic face comes into mind, along with your fragile sniffles and tears. Gods, he wanted to comfort your sweet little heart. Yet knowing he was the cause of it, made Aemond strangely more devoted to you. If Aegon does not survive, you are bound to be a widow. Your youngest child, Meagor was still but a babe, unfit and too young to understand what an heir was. Therefore he would be the rightful option if all else failed. He would rule in the King’s stead. 

That was what the one-eyed prince considered when he stepped through the doors to begin the Council. The King’s chair was empty as expected, looking lonely and authoritative without its ruler. In the same sense, on the opposite side, you sat soberly with nothing but a blank look. You wore cool-toned colors this morning. It reflected much of what you must be feeling. 

Grief, misery, and blame.  Even in this poor state, he still considers you attractive and alluring. It’s a shame you looked dejected and lifeless despite all your energy and might to stay awake. Your hair was even braided in a simpler style. Knowing you always had a knack for extraverted taste, Aemond takes in your appearance profoundly. Because perhaps, everyone in the Council can understand the emphasis on the wife of the King. As they eagerly await Maester Orwyle’s results, they all gaze at your seat for any kind of solace. 

He takes the chair to your left and sits. While the Grand Maester begins to explain Aegon’s conditions. The longer he spewed, the more you felt your heavy heart fall deeper into your chest. How would the realm react now? Their king suddenly struck and immobile to be by their side. He had defeated Rhaenys in battle however now suffered in a long-inducing coma just as his father did. Who would rule in his absence? It only made sense in your mind but you did not make it become a reality. 

“But he is very much alive, Your Grace,” Maester Orywle gives an earnest smile to the Queen Mother as she exhales with the utmost relief. “Though he will need time to recover, I do not think he will ever be the same.” 

An unfavorable grunt from Aemond brings attention from you and Cole. “So he is unable to leave his chambers.”

“I’m afraid not,” 

“Then we must choose who is to rule in his stead,” Lord Wylde speaks of the obvious, sparing everyone a momentary glance. He clears his throat and rubs his beard, nervously.

“If anyone should come in Aegon’s stead, it is his wife,” Alicent jabs, shooting quick assertiveness when she presses her crossed palms onto the table. Your name leaves her lips as a clear sign of hope. “She was the closest companion to the King and has been since this war started. It is only right for her to continue her husband’s intentions and plans.” 

“And what plans did the King have?” A pompous statement coming from her second son, which surprised you as well. Aemond was known for his restrained nature however it seems as days passed, he was slowly losing his grip on his sanity. “I am the closest heir the King has. Would it not be I who rules in his stead?” In the turn of the tides, the room is divided upon their suggestions. You can tell by the wary looks the lords hold with each other. However, you have been grateful for Alicent’s support regardless of the cold shoulder she has given you previously. 

“You are not fit, Prince Aemond,” Your fingers slide and take hold of the marble ball in front of you. The weight of the object pleasantly gives you a boost of poise to look him in his one good remaining eye. “The King’s line is still secured for my son, Meagor will become the next heir. But he is young so for the time being, I am naturally the next in line to come to his stead. As his wife and Queen, I should have a say as well.” 

It’s what Aegon would’ve wanted.

[cosmiccrushes]

Kindness

Solavellan reunion (ish) fic || 1.1k

I originally meant for this to be a reunion fic but then oops got lost in Lavellan's head

-----------

“Tell me, Solas,” she threw her voice like a dagger at his heart. “When you said it would be kinder in the long run, for whom did you mean?”

The elf slowly turned to face her where she stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back. His face, impassive. The first time she had looked upon him in eight years. She knew her own visage was splashed across Thedas. The Herald of Andraste. Perhaps he had stood before her image on occasion. Perhaps, he too, had imagined what this conversation might be like. She’d chewed over her first words to him like a piece of straw. Rolling them over her tongue late at night. Trying to decide if she liked the way they felt, the way they tasted.

Would she want to rage at him? Scream accusations, louder than clashing swords. Would she want to beg him to stop this? Plead with him that it wasn’t too late, that there could be another way. 

Var lath vir suledin. Would she want to repeat her words from their last parting? Praying to whatever gods would listen that his answer had changed, grown into something heartier than the broken stalk of an unbloomed promise. Eight years since Solas took her heart and her arm, leaving her with more than she could bear to carry some days. 

She would never admit it aloud to a single soul, but she ached for a truth she wasn’t sure she’d ever receive, couldn’t be sure even existed. But an absurd conviction had gripped her. Wrapped itself around her with bone-crushing strength. Solas hid himself in omissions and mysterious half-truths. She’d had endless moons to mull over that day when he’d spoken of a kindness in him leaving, in them going no further. She’d thought he’d meant only to protect her from some unknown future hurt. But then, unraveling his knot of riddles left behind, she’d understood that he was wary of being swayed away from his goals. That he feared what it might mean if he were to love, to belong here.

Did Solas resist giving her his heart for so long because it would be kinder to her when he eventually betrayed her? Or because it was kinder to himself? To not love so as to not lose when he ultimately chose to walk the same path he had always been on. The Din'anshiral. A path of death and destruction. A path so far diverged from the one they could have walked together- dreaming, imagining, fighting side by side for a different world. 

The thoughts that kept her lying awake at night weren’t for her own heartbreak. They weren’t even for the fate of the Veil. They were for Solas. Vhenan on his lips and his lips on hers, even as he walked away. The Dread Wolf had fallen in love. Knowing it would be kinder to them both if he had not. Knowing what it would cost him to love her and still maintain that it wasn’t enough to change anything. For Solas to not believe that their love was strong enough to hold the burden he carried together? That wasn’t just heartbreaking, that was centuries of tragedy endlessly unfolding itself. 

Millenia Fen’Harel had spent with his grief, his remorse, his pride. She resolved that when she saw him again, she would demand that he face what loving her meant. Perhaps she was also too prideful for her own good. But how could he think that their love enduring was so easily dismissed into a whisper of a wish instead of a cacophonous certainty? He who has been enduring for centuries. He who has lost, failed and endured over and over again. If anyone understood what it meant to endure, it was the Dread Wolf. 

No, Solas did not let things go. He had not let her go when he’d claimed it would be kinder if he did. He had not let her go when his last words had been a vow that he would always remember her.

Solas. Fen’Harel. The Dread Wolf. They did not let go, they endured.

Which meant his words were empty. Spoken to stop her, but changing nothing. A final attempt at kindness, perhaps, to end things with her there. But it had not been kind to her and it had only been a ghost of kindness to him. Allowing him more sharp edges to shatter himself against so he could become the broken parts he thought he had to be to keep moving forward. 

She refused to let him fracture himself into these easily contained pieces. The piece that loved her. The piece that made friends at Skyhold. The piece that thought he knew what was best for the world. The piece that, if even for a moment, had contemplated what it meant that she was real, that this world was real. 

All these pieces, impossible to fit together into the shape of what Solas thought needed to exist. Had he thought he could carve her out of him? The wolf that watched her from afar as she dreamed told her differently. He had not been kind to either of them, no. But she couldn’t help the sadness in her heart at the thought that he had been more than unkind to himself. He had been cruel- and called it kindness. And then the anger had come to her. He had been unaccountable. He had made decisions for them both and then fled, hidden himself away to avoid her reckoning. To avoid the mirror she could hold up against him to reflect the possibilities he was determined to ignore.       

He wanted to tear down the Veil, doom them all? He wanted to restore what he had destroyed, no matter the cost? Fine. So be it. But he would have to do it while looking into her eyes and enduring her. Enduring that he had not acted with kindness and that she had never asked him to.  

He could go right ahead and try to remake this world as he saw fit. But she would make damn sure he had to face all the pieces of himself to do it. It was her turn to be unkind in the name of love. This was the long run he’d spoken of, where it would’ve been kinder if he’d let go. But he hadn’t and she wouldn’t. She would make him face the omissions and half-truths he told himself. She would make him solve his own riddles. She would show him that they could create a new shape together- one where all the fragmented parts of himself fit. 

It would not be kind, but it would be true. 

And after, if he still thought the best he could do was destroy this world…well, he’d have to do it while looking into her eyes and enduring her love for him.   

“Tell me, Solas. When you said it would be kinder in the long run, for whom did you mean?”

[pascaloverx]

BORN TO DIE

Summary: In a tense political setting, a Targaryen bastard working as a prostitute is summoned by Prince Aemond to the Red Keep. Aemond wants her to approach his dragon, Vhagar, as a test of her worth. Although he plans for her to claim another dragon in the future, her immediate challenge is to survive Prince Aemond demands while trying to stay alive.

Author’s Note: This work is set in the world created by George R.R. Martin, as depicted in his book Fire & Blood, and none of the characters belong to me. The story will follow some events from the series House of the Dragon (2022), but with changes to fit the fanfiction narrative. Therefore, it will not adhere strictly to the series' storyline. This fanfiction is a work of fiction and may contain inappropriate language, adult content, and violence. Readers be warned. I hope you enjoy the story and interact with it. I apologize if there are any errors in the High Valyrian sections; I used a translator and am unsure of its accuracy. I would like to know if you are enjoying the fanfiction, as we are approaching the final stretch.

Warning: This chapter contains inappropriate language and mild adult content. Minors are advised not to engage with or read this fanfiction. You have been warned.

SEVEN NINE

EIGHT

King Aegon II had been gravely injured in a clash against Rhaenys and her dragon, Meleys. It was the talk of all of King’s Landing. Within the Red Keep, it was the only thing spoken of. You found yourself curious to see what had occurred. From whispers, you learned that Aemond had been involved in the combat, which brought Helaena's words to mind. Being merely Aemond’s companion made you insignificant enough to move through the castle unnoticed.

“Whore, the King wishes to speak with you,” Larys Strong murmurs quietly, pulling you from your hiding place among the Red Keep servants and leading you toward King Aegon II’s chambers. He walks with a slight limp, as though unaware you even existed within the castle most days. His demeanor is cautious, his eyes darting as he guides you, each step heavy with purpose.

His twisted feet attempt to move quickly, as if rushing to reach Aegon’s chambers. You wonder if he's truly leading you to King Aegon II or if his intentions lie elsewhere, steering you away from the King. But for what reason would His Grace want to see you at all? The thought nags at you, and as you follow Larys’s uneven steps, the question lingers: what purpose could Aegon possibly have in summoning you?

"I shall be attending a small council meeting, so do not even consider causing any harm to King Aegon II. And do not utter a word about what you are about to witness in his chambers," Larys warns, his grip tightening on your arm, his tone dripping with a strange mix of menace and caution. You feign a frightened expression, hoping to convince him that his intimidation is effective. In truth, if given the chance, you would gladly let Cannibal feast on him.

Before you can utter a word, Larys shoves you into King Aegon II’s chambers, causing you to stumble and fall harshly onto the cold floor. A soft murmur of pain escapes your lips as the impact reverberates through your body.

"Do not dare to complain of pain in the presence of your King, whore," Aegon's voice fills the room, sharp and commanding, a grim reminder of why you are here. Rising silently, you steady yourself, your steps cautious as you approach the burned and battered form of His Grace lying upon the grand bed. The sight is grotesque—his once-proud visage now scorched, his body grotesquely deformed from the flames. You let your gaze linger upon him, studying his injuries with care yet keeping your expression blank. Years of servitude in the streets had taught you well: men rarely appreciated seeing their pain or your thoughts mirrored in your countenance.

"My apologies for the intrusion, Your Grace," you say softly, your voice laced with feigned humility. You dare not ask what happened to him; such boldness would be foolish. Even burned and broken, Aegon II remains the King.

"I was told you wished to see me. My king, how may I serve you?" you continue, stepping closer with deliberate restraint, your hands clasped tightly at your sides to resist the impulse to touch his scorched skin. His expression betrays a flicker of humiliation, a shadow of his former arrogance now dimmed by suffering. The sight is almost too satisfying, a moment of frailty in a man who once wielded power so cruelly.

"My brother must be... controlled," Aegon begins, his voice strained, as though every word carries the weight of his defeat. "If recent events prove anything, it is that you have some form of... connection with him. I have lost what was most precious to me. The future of the crown has grown uncertain. I need time." For a fleeting moment, his words bear an uncanny resemblance to Helaena's cryptic musings. It seems neither husband nor wife knows how to speak plainly.

"My king, I fear I do not understand," you murmur softly, stepping closer, your voice low and unassuming. As you near, his burned hand reaches out, grasping yours. His touch is rough, his fingers calloused and coarse against your skin, a tactile reminder of his ordeal. For a moment, you find yourself staring at his hand in yours, unsure if the gesture is one of desperation, control, or something far darker.

"If Aemond still keeps you alive, then there must be some measure of… sympathy he holds for you, believe it or not. Use that to my advantage—control him," Aegon commands, his tone desperate, though his words are laced with the arrogance of a king clinging to his fading power.

"The weight of the crown still rests upon my head. Remember that. If you prove useful to me, harlot, I shall grant you whatever you desire in return." The desperation in his eyes reveals more than his words ever could. He is a man cornered, grasping at straws to maintain control of a realm slipping from his grasp. You glance at him, and for a fleeting moment, the thought crosses your mind—you could kill him now. It would be easy, and many would likely blame his wounds. Or perhaps they would kill you in retaliation, though the notion of your life holding any value in the Red Keep is laughable. Yet, Aegon is deluded if he believes Aemond harbors any true care for you. No, Aegon’s death must be grand, a vengeance befitting the memory of your mother. A perfect retribution demands an equivalent weight, and if anyone dares to obstruct your revenge, it will bode ill for them indeed.

"Your Grace, perhaps you are delirious. Rhaenys and her dragon gravely wounded you," you say, your tone soft as you gently touch Aegon's forehead, only for him to recoil at your touch.

"Rhaenys and her accursed dragon have nothing to do with what happened to me," he snaps, his voice rising with irritation. "Cease being useless and see to it that you obey my commands. My cock has already been taken from me—do not rob me of my patience as well."

As King Aegon II squeezes your hand, you feel an almost unbearable urge to laugh. "I will control your brother. I shall serve Your Grace," you say, striving to sound sincere. Yet, in truth, your mind is preoccupied—not with safeguarding his crown but with the unsettling thought that someone else might kill Aegon before you have the chance to exact your revenge.

"Another thing, whore—don’t die. You were the last woman I laid with and my only chance of having an heir," King Aegon II mutters, placing his hand upon your abdomen as if caressing the hypothetical child he believes you carry.

You take a deep breath, forcing a smile. "Rest assured, My King, I shall ensure your legacy is safeguarded in my hands," you reply in your most deceitful tone, taking his hand and pressing a kiss to it. He seems sufficiently satisfied, letting out a grunt before gesturing toward the door, dismissing you with an unmistakable command to leave.

You try to absorb the little information you've gathered as you walk through the corridors of Red Keep. Did Aemond attempt to kill his brother, or was Aegon simply delirious during their conversation? No matter the truth, it’s clear Aemond will soon outshine Aegon in power. Lost in your thoughts, you don’t notice someone following you until you’re suddenly yanked backwards.

“The Regent Prince demands your presence. Come with me,” a servant says firmly, pulling you toward her. She’s small but remarkably strong.

"It seems I have little choice," you reply, your voice cool but with an edge of annoyance. "Lead the way." She doesn’t respond, simply guiding you through the castle. You can’t help but wonder—why is Aegon’s brother calling for you now? You’ve barely had time to breathe before you’re summoned by both the sickly King and the ambitious Regent Prince.

Delicately, the servant opens the door to the second room you pass through. She announces your arrival before allowing you to step inside. It’s hard to ignore the thought that this might be the last moment of your life. What would stop Aemond from ending it all now? After all, you’ve done little to earn his favor. With trembling legs, you step into the room as soon as you’re allowed. Prince Aemond is sitting casually, a small ball in his hands as if idly playing with it. His feet are propped up on the large table in front of him, a clear sign that he was likely bored before your entrance. His gaze lifts slowly to meet yours, a sharp gleam in his eye that makes it difficult to gauge his true thoughts. You take a slow, steadying breath, trying to mask the unease that tightens in your chest. You know this meeting could very well be a matter of life or death.

"Leave us alone," Prince Aemond commands, his voice firm and filled with authority. Before any word is spoken to you, everyone in the room, including the servant who brought you, is gone. When one holds power, every command is followed without hesitation. You stand there for a moment, absorbing the empty silence of the room. His gaze never leaves you, cold and calculating. There is a cup near Prince Aemond, he was probably drinking from it too before you arrived.

"You seem frightened, Y/N," he observes, his voice smooth but edged with something more dangerous. Something stirs within you at the sound of your name—no longer "gundjabo," but something personal, perhaps more intimate, or perhaps just more disconcerting. Despite the nervousness rising in your chest, you stare back at him, refusing to be intimidated. The power he commands may be overwhelming, but it will not break you.

"Your Highness, it must merely be your impression. I must extend my well wishes to the King. May the gods be with him," you reply, attempting to sound respectful, though your words are carefully measured.

"Is that all you have to say, gundjabo?" Prince Aemond asks, still seated near the large table, his feet casually resting beneath it. His gaze remains fixed on you, unbothered, as if the situation were nothing more than a passing curiosity.

"Regent Prince, tell me what you want. I am your servant, after all. Your command is my order," you say, meeting his gaze, your tone sincere. In this moment, your devotion will be entirely surrendered to him.

"Show me," he demands, his voice cold and commanding, his eyes narrowing as they linger on you, treating you as though you were nothing more than an object to be used at his will. You know what he means. He wants you to show him that you understand that he has power over you.

"With pleasure, Your Highness," you reply, steadying your trembling hands as you reach behind your back to untie the laces of your dress. Slowly, you peel the garment away, the air brushing against your bare skin as you cast it aside. Keeping your gaze locked with Aemond's, you lower yourself onto your hands and knees, crawling beneath the table toward him with deliberate slowness. His eyes track your every movement, a predator watching its prey, and just as you draw near, he removes his boots from the table with a calculated calm.

"Gundjabo," he drawls, his voice laced with suspicion. "Were you with my brother before I summoned you?" His irritation is palpable, the sharp edge in his tone mirrored in his hardened expression, his single eye glinting with suppressed anger. You sit before him, your knees parted, your back straight despite the vulnerability of your position. Aemond’s impatience radiates like heat, his gaze drilling into yours as if he were searching for the truth hidden in your soul.

"I was with your brother before I came here," you admit, your tone measured. "King Aegon II sought assistance that he believed only someone familiar with his... intimacy could provide." You keep your expression composed, determined not to reveal the true nature of your encounter with the king. Prince Aemond rises from his chair with a deliberate slowness, his gaze trailing over your body in a way that feels both invasive and predatory. His single eye sweeps at your body, going from looking to your breasts to spending a long time looking at your pussy.

"Your breasts swell when you're nervous, gundjabo," Aemond remarks, his voice low and cutting. "I wonder, what stirs you so deeply that even your breathing betrays you?" He lets the ball he was holding drop to the floor with a muted thud, the sound hanging in the tense silence. Leaning forward, he places his arms on either side of you, caging you in. His face is dangerously close, his body positioned perfectly between your parted legs—a move that leaves no doubt about the power he holds in this moment. Every movement, every look, is a deliberate play for dominance.

"I feel like I'm being interrogated; perhaps that’s why my breathing is uneven," you respond, forcing a tone of boldness into your voice despite the tension crackling in the air. "Ñuhā dārilaros, if you are curious about the nature of my meetings with your brother, I suggest you ask King Aegon II directly." The words are a challenge, and you know it, daring Prince Aemond to seek his answers elsewhere. Aemond’s lips curl into a smirk, the expression laced with both amusement and menace. Without a word, his hands reach forward, and his fingers find the peaks of your breasts. The sudden touch, firm and deliberate, sends a jolt through you as his fingers tease, almost pinching, drawing a low grunt from your throat.

"I don’t care what dealings you had with my brother," Aemond says, his tone icy but laced with venom. "They end now. If I so much as hear that you’ve been in his company again, you will share in his pain." His voice drops to a whisper as he leans in close, the threat dripping like poison into your ear. Before you can respond, Aemond pulls back slightly, only to trail his lips along your bare shoulder. The kisses start soft, almost deceptively gentle, before his mouth latches onto your skin, sucking with a force that sends warmth spiraling through your body. Your breath hitches, your eyes falling shut as the hot, wet sensation of his tongue sets your nerves alight. His mouth continues its path, the trail of heated kisses moving from your shoulder to your neck, each one more intense than the last. You can feel his breath against your skin, heavy and unrestrained, as his tongue claims every inch of exposed flesh. Your body tenses, caught between the sharp edge of fear and the undeniable heat his touch ignites within you.

"I would never disobey your order, Your Highness," you say in a shaky voice. Your concentration is lost between the sensation of his lips now sucking on the skin of your neck, and his fingers squeezing the tips of your nipples tightly. However, his fingers stop pinching your nipples and start to hold your waist tightly. He arranges you under the table as if he is planning something. His fingers roaming over your pussy, already wet from the mention of feeling Aemond so close.

"I would never disobey your order, Your Highness," you manage to say again, your voice trembling under the weight of the moment. The heat of his lips on your neck, sucking and leaving faint marks, pulls your focus entirely, while the tight pinch of his fingers on your nipples sends jolts of sensation through your body. Just as your breath hitches, his fingers abandon their assault on your breasts, sliding down to grip your waist with a possessive force. With a deliberate motion, Aemond maneuvers you further beneath the table, his touch firm and calculated, as if he were setting the stage for some unspoken plan. His hands roam over your bare thighs, the proximity of his fingers teasingly close to your core. Your body betrays you, responding to his touch, the wetness pooling between your legs undeniable evidence of his effect on you. His fingers ghost over your pussy, their proximity igniting a spark of both anticipation and dread, the tension between you thick enough to smother the air in the room.

Prince Aemond gives you a thirsty look as he throws your body back, making you lie completely under the table. Without saying anything, he seems to be looking for something with his hands but you can't see anything. Only seconds after being laid down, you feel him abruptly pulling you, holding your thighs and pulling your body towards him. He pours the liquid that was in the glass on the table you saw when you entered the room over your breasts. Then he licks every part that got dirty with the liquid, which by the smell seems to be wine. He licks your chest, your breasts and even some of the wine that fell on part of your belly.

"I want you to know that I wish I was burying my cock in you, feeling you so deep that you'd wonder if I want to join you. But before I give in to the pleasure of eating you the way you deserve, I need to make sure there is no trace of my brother in you." Prince Aemond speaks as he pours even more wine over you, this time on your pussy. He licks up every trace of the wine again, but when his tongue reaches your pussy, he starts sucking it, as if he was enjoying himself. You squirm, feeling his tongue play with your pussy as he pulls your legs towards him. However, when his tongue seems to be about to explore your pussy, he stops. You raise your body slightly, to face him.

"What happened, Your Highness?" you ask, your tone laced with frustration, unable to hide your yearning. You crave more—his touch, his mouth, the fire he ignites in you.

"As I said," Aemond replies, his voice low but commanding, "I must cleanse you of any trace of my brother that lingers on you." He towers over you, his presence imposing as he looks down with a mixture of authority and desire. "The servants will bring you a potion. You will drink it, and you will maintain the distance I demand between you and Aegon. Only then will I give you what you desire."

His hand grips your chin firmly, tilting your face upward as his lips crash against yours in a kiss that is anything but tender. His movements are voracious, almost feral, as if he seeks to claim not just your mouth but every part of you. His tongue dominates yours, the kiss more a conquest than an exchange. The pressure of his lips is possessive, consuming, leaving no room for doubt about his intentions.

"Do not worry, Your Highness," you whisper breathlessly against his lips when he finally allows you a moment to catch your breath. "I will remain faithful to the one I belong to." The words, though meant to appease, carry a hint of defiance in their unwavering tone.

Aemond’s gaze narrows slightly, but a flicker of satisfaction crosses his face. "I trust you will." His voice softens only a fraction, but the steel behind his words remains. "In fact, I summoned you not only to remind you of your place but to prepare you. Soon, you and your dragon will accompany me and Vhagar to Harrenhal. There, we will claim what is rightfully ours." The declaration sends a shiver through you, the weight of his ambition and your role in it crashing over you. The fire in his eye burns brighter, and the air between you feels charged with unspoken desires and looming threats.

[astarionsilverbough]

Hi. Hey. It’s lit anal anon. Just the summary had me excited for this one let’s gooooo

As always: @ cazador KILL URSELF!!!!!

Astarion’s animosity to the guardian is so fascinating to me but i love the idea. Do NOT steal his mommy!!! Rude!!!

Love astarion in halsin’s shirt I’m a big proponent of Let Astarion Wear Long Shirt. Lets him be cozy but also a bit of privacy which is important for him, imo

Halsin fight. H. He’s so. I’m. Oh baby

YOU MAKE ME HOLY ahhhhh. Ugh. Star praying for the gods to bless him with no reply and then in turn blessing someone with no demand….

Honestly the entire monastery w astarion is so… it’s almost mocking. Why was he not worth any light until now?

Excited to see Raphael as always peekin in at the end and I can’t WAIT for him and astarion!!!!

HEY BABEYYYYY

Class is in session!!!!!

Astarion’s animosity makes sense to me bc he’s had so many mfs try and manipulate him and like. Yeah he wants power but the real mistake of the guardian was absolutely choosing Astraea as a visage - worst option

The mere thot of Star in just a big tunic of Halsin’s drives me feral I - I can’t

AND YES YES YES U GET IT THEIR LOVE IS JUST- their love IS the divinity it’s going to change the fuckin world!!!! Period!!!!!

Oh darling he was worth the light! He was entrenched in shadows too deep for Lathander to reach, shadows not even Shar would touch (they were demon-born, as it said in the chapter) and in DnD the gods aren’t truly supposed to interfere with mortal happenings even when it comes to their chosen. Lathander,,,,, has already broken that rule.

All shall be revealed I promise 💕

THE BUDDY COP MOVIE CHAPTER IS UPON US!!!!! I’m so excited lmao their dynamic takes me the fuck out

As always such a joy seeing a comment from you my dear ilu 3000 💕💕💕

[fyodcrs]

Leaves of Impermanence

Fyodor/Dazai (explicit) Dazai leaned against the rail, gazing dreamily down at the water below them. “Shall we jump?” he asked, his tone still cheerful. “It’s a beautiful night for it.” “Isn’t it?” Fyodor smiled, not looking at him. “And what if I only wanted you to jump, Dazai?” “Then just say the word, and I’ll jump.” - Dazai and Fyodor take a little stroll.

[Read on AO3 here]

A chill wind stirred the leaves beneath their feet into a papery whisper. The colors of autumn blazed in the sunset light, the trees alive in vivid shades of fire to herald the change of seasons, the sky painted in vibrant pastel hues to herald the fall of night. A time of impermanence, of the in-between, when nothing was quite certain. Alone on the bridge, they were like lonely spirits crossing from this world into the next.

“Didn’t I tell you this was a perfect time for a stroll?” Dazai said cheerfully, slipping an arm around Fyodor’s slender waist.

“No, actually, you didn’t,” Fyodor replied, with a touch of fond exasperation. “You just dragged me out here, right in the middle of our chess game. Because you were about to lose, no doubt.”

“I was definitely not about to lose.” He definitely had been, but that was quite irrelevant to his admittedly sudden decision to go out for a walk.

Fyodor paused, drawing Dazai to a halt beside him. He turned to look out across the river, his expression serene but thoughtful. Tonight was going to be a cold one, and he was all bundled up in a winter coat and the new scarf Sigma had bought him. His arms were crossed over his chest, braced against the wind. Catching even a slight chill could make him sick.

Dazai leaned against the rail, gazing dreamily down at the water below them. “Shall we jump?” he asked, his tone still cheerful. “It’s a beautiful night for it.”

“Isn’t it?” Fyodor smiled, not looking at him. “And what if I only wanted you to jump, Dazai?”

“Then just say the word, and I’ll jump.”

Fyodor laughed. As if in response, the wind picked up, and leaves rattled across the bridge as if laughing with him.

“You don’t believe me?” Dazai demanded. Once not so long ago, one might have looked into this young man’s eyes and thought of endless dark pits into which no light could reach. Now those same eyes danced with their own wild light. “One word from you, and I’ll throw myself down headfirst.”

“If only I could believe it’d be that easy to rid myself of you,” Fyodor scoffed, half-teasing. “You weren’t willing to drown for me once, when it would have benefited me. Why should I ask you to drown for me now when I have nothing to gain from it? And why should I believe that this time it would be true?”

“We’re playing a different game now,” Dazai said, lowering his voice just slightly as the wind raised its own. “A different game, with different stakes. If it would win me your love, I would give my life at once, and gladly.”

Fyodor shook his head. Something like sadness crossed his visage. “Knowing how little value you place on your own life, that only tells me you place as little value on my love.”

He turned, but stopped and looked back, his hair blowing into his face. He smiled, and if Dazai’s eyes blazed with the dying rays of the sun and the raging colors of autumn, Fyodor’s violet eyes were as cold and dark as the encroaching night and the coming winter. “But one day I will speak that word, Dazai, if only to see how far you will go.”

He walked away. Dazai followed him down to the walkway above the riverbank, into the shadow of a cluster of trees. When Fyodor turned back to him, Dazai kissed him deeply and lingeringly, pushing him backward until he had the other man pressed against the trunk of a tree. Fyodor’s lips were cold, and so were his hands, but soon they were warm, and a light flush crept into his pale cheeks. Dazai untied his scarf to expose the white, smooth skin of his neck, and Fyodor sighed and tilted his head back when Dazai pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

“You have no idea,” Dazai whispered in his ear, “how far I will go.”

Fyodor laughed again, low and a little breathless, and the sound dissolved into a gasp when Dazai worked open the button and zipper of his pants and slipped a hand inside.

“How detestable you are, Dazai,” he murmured. “All your grand and empty words—ah.” He moaned as Dazai began to stroke him, slowly, firmly, his cock hardening under Dazai’s touch, and for all that the temperature around them was steadily dropping, the contact of their skin was red hot.

“Whose are the grand and empty words?” Dazai challenged, panting as delicate, clever fingers freed his own aching cock and wrapped around him. “Just yesterday you told me my death would be the greatest gift I could give you. Now you say you’d have nothing to gain from it.”

“And yesterday you said we could both learn to live. Now you practically beg me to demand of you to throw yourself into the river.”

Fyodor twisted his wrist, rubbing his thumb over the slit of Dazai’s cock, and Dazai shuddered, hips jerking into the touch. He nipped at the flesh between Fyodor’s neck and collarbone just to get the same reaction from him.

“We’re both liars, Dazai.”

Dazai traced with his mouth a well-known path up to capture him in a kiss that grew headier and sloppier as they both quickened their pace, moving in effortless rhythm with one another.

“Yes,” Dazai murmured, in between heavy breaths, “we’re both liars. But not in this.”

Fyodor came quietly as he always did, and Dazai greedily swallowed down the soft sounds he made, until Dazai buried his face into Fyodor’s shoulder as he spilled into Fyodor’s hand with a curse.

Fyodor sagged against the tree, and Dazai went with him, wrapping an arm around his middle to keep him close. He raised his dirtied hand and pressed his fingers to Fyodor’s lips. Fyodor opened for them, half-lidded violet eyes locked on Dazai’s as he sucked them clean. And, before Dazai could formulate the thought to reciprocate, he raised his own hand to his mouth and did the same. Dazai watched him, enraptured, desire a sweet burn beneath his skin that never seemed to go away.

“Do you know,” he said, “I already love you more than is possible, and somehow, I love you even more every day. Do you understand what a torment that is? But it was you who said that there is no suffering without salvation. I know now I only want to die with you.”

Above them, the red-orange canopy of the trees shivered, and several leaves were torn from their branches. Fyodor turned his gaze upwards and caught one as it spiraled elegantly down toward them. It fluttered in his hands, as if trying to escape his clutches.

“Lives are like autumn leaves,” he said, studying the leaf he had captured. Dazai’s eyes never left his face. “Fleeting, fading—and soon lost.” He opened his hands, and the wind swept the leaf away into the spreading gloom, in the direction of the river. Dazai could imagine it landing on the surface of the water, forming gentle ripples. “But there is beauty in them—even in their final moments, they burn with color, bright and blazing. Wasn’t it you who told me my world could be a little more beautiful?”

“Is it now?” Dazai asked softly.

Fyodor looked back at him. His hands cradled Dazai’s face as lightly as they had held the wayward leaf. “Is yours, Dazai?”

Dazai closed his eyes and leaned in to press his forehead against Fyodor’s. He did not answer.

Fyodor would give the word, eventually, and they both knew it. It was only a matter of time. And when it happened, they both would stand firm. Dazai was content to wait.

For now, they simply stood there, sharing breath and space, as around them slowly descended the autumn dusk.

[lorianbladeoflothric]

This was meant to be a short warm up that I didn't post, but now I have 1200 words about Mary specifically.

----

Mary was exhausted by the time she reached the cathedral. Her feet dragged, leaden, up the hill as the servants of rot hailed her arrival. They parted for her as she marched forward, yet crowded at her sides, chittering, whispering, reaching for her with troublingly human hands. 

She stopped in front of the crumbling remains of the altar; looked up at the ruined visage of the goddess who broke the world. That was her grandmother, she supposed.

Kneeling down, Mary realized that she had never prayed before. The Sellians were staunchly against the gods, and Gowry had never taught her or her sisters how. She looked over her shoulder at the fanatical insects surrounding her. “Um. A little space please?” Instantly they moved as one, leaving a two foot gap around her. At least now she could breathe easier. 

She turned back to the altar and clasped her hands as she’d seen the servants do many times. Yet, they would also raise two their arms, palms skyward, and make gestures with their many smaller hands that she had never studied closely. Which was the prayer? How could she ensure her mother heard her if she only had two hands? Maybe if she spoke out loud?

“Ma—Lady Malenia— or, um, would you prefer Mother? O-or Goddess?” Stop it Mary, she chided herself, this isn’t the important part! “Whatever I may call you, I beg you to hear me. Amy has taken ill, and we fear she may leave us. Her fever hasn’t broken in days, and though we have ventured as far as Liurnia to gather them, there are no herbs that will help. Please, my Lady, o great goddess, please help your quiet, most gentle daughter. Our little flower.”

She took a shaking breath through clenched teeth. Her hands held a white-knuckle grip on each other as she struggled to keep from crying.  “Little flower” was a nickname she’d gotten when they were young, back before they were ousted from Sellia. It was just four of them then— and only three that the townspeople knew of— “Gowry’s little flowers” they called them, and Amy was so shy back then that it was the only name many of them knew her by. 

How ironic that, even if she lived, their little flower would never bloom. None of them would. Only Millicent. Only Millicent was strong enough. Only Millicent was chosen.

The tears building in her eyes dried up. Anger burned in her chest like a hot coal. Her voice cracked as she demanded “Why? Why is it only her? Tell me! What kind of mother favors one of her children over the other? What kind of mother leaves four of her daughters to die?” Malenia was silent. The servants chittered madly, understanding nothing she said but so so happy one of their goddesses was among them. In that moment, she felt a strange kinship with them. The insects were born of her mother in the same way she was, and they too were spurned by their creator. Yet here they were, and here she was, begging to be heard. 

“We only want to serve you, you know. To become the Valkyries that will stand by your side...Please, Malenia, how can I become worthy? What must I do so that I won’t have to watch my little sisters wither away?” What did she need to do to be loved as Millicent was?

She folded her hands in her lap and sat silently, waiting. For what, she wasn’t sure. A change in the wind? A voice in her head? A golden light shining down from the heavens? For Malenia to just walk through the door sixteen years late with a plate of pastries?

It was going to get dark soon. 

Under the crumbling stone eyes of her grandmother, Mary got to her feet. Her kindred watched, but did not follow her as she left. Her legs were still sore from the journey here...at least the way back was mostly downhill.

Smoke billowed from the chimney of the tiny, cozy shack the six of them called home. Mary walked faster as she got close, eager for nothing more than to curl up in bed. A red-haired girl— which really narrowed down who it could be— burst out of the door as soon as Mary got to the road.

“Mary! Marymarymary!” That was Millicent’s voice. 

She froze, certain that the worst had come to pass. She wanted to run away, until her legs gave out, until their mother’s blessed rot claimed her as well. Alas, she was the oldest, and they needed her. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she held her arms out to catch her little sister in a hug. 

Instead, Millicent grabbed one of her outstretched hands and started to pull her towards the house. “Um, Millie?” Mary stumbled after her. 

“Come on, Amy’s awake! She’s feeling better!”

“She is?” Mary could have cried. 

“Uh-huh!” She stopped with one hand on the door, “But first, don’t freak out about her eyes, okay?”

Her heart sank. “What’s wrong with them?”

Millicent shrunk back, leaving her to wonder what sort of altercation happened while she wasn’t there to stop it. “She’s blind...and Gowry got her to calm down, but she’s not taking it well.”

That was all she needed to hear. Mary nearly knocked her sister over as she rushed inside and towards the bedroom. True to her word, Amy was indeed awake, sitting up in bed and sulking quietly. She picked up her head as Mary entered. “Who’s there?” Once the same brilliant gold as the rest of them, her eyes were now pale and clouded. 

“It’s me.” 

“Mary?” she asked again, her voice so small and so scared that it brought tears to her eyes. 

Slowly and steadily, so she wouldn’t startle her, Mary went over to the bed. “Yes, Mary. I’m here.” She climbed up next to Amy and pulled her into a hug, running a hand over her tangled hair. Amy buried her face in her shoulder and sobbed wordlessly. “I’m here...It’s okay...You’re okay...” Gowry had always provided for them, but when any of the sisters was upset, it was Mary they turned to. 

She held her long after she’d finally calmed down, heaving sobs fading to soft hiccups. “...Mary?” Amy looked up.

“Yes, little flower?” she thumbed a lingering tear off of her scarred cheek.

“When I woke up, you were gone, and the others had no idea where you went or when you’d be back....Where were you?”

“I was...” she hesitated, maybe it was stupid to go so far and pray to someone who may very well not know she existed, or maybe it was what woke Amy up in the first place. “I was praying to Lady Malenia. Like, uh, like the...bugs...do.”

Before Amy could say anything, Maureen’s voice came from the doorway. “You were gone for half the day to hang out with the fucking bugs!? We were worried!” Amy jumped at the sudden sound.

Mary sighed, “I wasn’t ‘hanging out’ I was— ugh! Whatever, what do you want, Maureen?”

She held up a steaming bowl of stew. “I’m bringing Amy her dinner. You need to get some before it’s gone though. No dinner in bed for you.” She brought it over and gingerly handed it to Amy, sticking her tongue out at Mary.

“Fiiiiine.” Mary got up and stretched before following her second-in-command out. Suddenly, she felt a hand on her arm. “Yeah?”

“Did mother ever answer you?”

Mary took her hand and squeezed it. “I'm not sure.”

[tooktalks]

fire seems to follow him no matter where he goes.  it exists first in his body; a fiery passion to be something else,  something better than his humble beginnings.  it manifests as his ever-changing visage, names so uniquely un-his. 

earth feels the same and yet so different under his feet as he stumbles across a doorway to somewhere different. they feel that push too; it forces them forwards, pushing innovation and creativity beyond the bounds of  the known world.  he watches in  amazement at what they are able to do when presented a  minutiae of problems. 

water droplets across his face as the city rises through the layer of clouds always crowning their mountaintop city. he loves standing on the many balconies of the city,  feeling the rumbling under often-bare feet, and a silk robe tied loosely around his body.  he is a nobody here;  he has only a name to make for himself. he wonders sometimes what it would be like to stick his hand out of the city limits and feel the 

air.  it seems to escape his lungs when he sees her for the first time.  she holds a book and does not buy it.  he commits its name to memory. they hardly fit the same circles and deep down, he makes it his mission to meet her as an equal.  she steals his breath every time she graces a room with her presence. he yearns, in a way he has not yearned since his feet first reminded him of his need to travel. she is everything. she is 

fire.  it is what drives her through her studies, an ever-burning desire to prove herself. her mind, her abilities, arcane or otherwise.  fire burns in the ring of city while its top soars; she dreams of joining the clouds one day, atop the city. it burns deep in her heart as she commits each name of those who wronged  her, doubted her, to memory. she will soon prove them wrong.  she will never forget them. 

earth finds its way between her toes as she dances, barefoot, in the garden of the home they share.  her wardrobe is an amalgamation of the earthy tones she prefers and the brighter colors he prefers,  shirts and robes stolen from his side when she gets lazy  —or when she wants his attention— and they are most often dirtied from  gathering dust on the floor as the newly wed leave them  to be picked up eventually. 

water, salty,  flows freely, carving canyons on her cheeks as she mourns truly, deeply.

air barely fills her lungs each day; she doesn’t raise from their bed at first and then their house grows  dark and quiet in her absence. 

fire- hot burns his fingers in the new place. he calls it a new place but it is familiar to him. he calls his office home only for the space  it allows him to give her.  perhaps she doesn’t need space but he has run out of ideas. he is not of this world, with their endless creativity and inspiration. he misses the smell of 

earth under their feet.  the last time they landed was the day they had wed; it had rained. she could remember the smell, the taste,  the laugh lines on his face when she chose to let it rain still.  she grits her teeth and stays underground.  it takes her two weeks to realize he’s left their home.  her home.  she goes to his office with

ice  in her voice and in her eyes as she demands answers.  he speaks softly, gently, as though she will break if he tells her the truth.  her heart freezes over and shatters into a thousand pieces when she sees the couch he has slept on in the office, the wrinkles on his collar, the exhaustion in his whole body.  she can’t handle to lose another person, not on terms not her own. she leaves the

air between them tense and unfinished. unfulfilled. they both throw themselves into work. he climbs the ranks until he is the face of the city.  she climbs the ranks under she is so far hidden that few will know her name but all will know her work.  they attend parties and barely speak to one another.  but she knows. he knows too.  the

fire of their love has never died.  her grief is not a bonfire, all-consuming.  his frustration is not a tidal wave, extinguishing.  they come together again and again despite themselves.  they cannot help but love, even to the bitter end.

[dcwnthercbbithcle]

Ah, the return of the bingo notes. It had been a while. Picking up the ash-hewn paper in calloused hands, Evan felt himself smirk to match the wide grimace of his mask.

It had been too quiet as of late, at least by the Fog's standards, with the weather warming and those suspiciously skull-shaped snowballs melting back from whence they came. It made sense she'd cook up some new, twisted form of entertainment thematically tied with the changing seasons in the world just out of reach.

Would this make this— March? No, February. He was sure of that. The fog of memories, half muddled by time and Her Influence, was a brutal storm to navigate at the best of times; however, this knowledge fell beyond his grasp despite that.

Before, Evan had never paid much attention to the holidays, let alone observe them. Life gave no pause, even in the face of festivities. No, the Mines waited for no man, the demand for iron unyielding. There was no time, no energy, even had he wanted to stop and pay heed to the bright facsimiles of love and hearts in the candle-lit window sills beyond the estate. It was a frivolous expense, one he could not afford.

The urge to crumple the paper was strong at that moment— crush the weakness— silence the corner of his heart that hissed in bitterness. Still, Evan fought it; he could afford it; he wanted to afford it. Curiosity nipped at him.

Let's see. The Pyramid Head? That was a turn he hadn't expected. Here, his mind had thought it was another of the survivors, shooting their shot into the void. Yet the Red God, and more than one bingo? His eyebrows raised beneath the bone visage, his smirk of amusement dropping into something conflicted, interested?

Breaking the silence, Evan grunted simply a 'Huh,' he would keep this in mind.

[republicsecurity]

Monastic Rescuers

Nestled amidst the bustling precincts of the Rescue Corps are sanctuaries of contemplation and devotion—monasteries inhabited by monks who embrace the dual calling of religious dedication and life-saving service. These devoted individuals embody a centuries-old legacy, harking back to the ascetic practices of the Carmelites and other ancient orders.

A Glimpse into the Unseen: Guided Tours of Monastic Life

For the curious and the spiritually inclined, guided tours of these monasteries offer a window into the lives of these modern-day monks. Immerse yourself in the atmosphere of devotion, witness ancient rituals that have endured through the ages, and gain insight into the unique balance they strike between contemplation and action.

As you traverse the hallowed halls of these monastic retreats, you'll discover a profound harmony between sacred tradition and modern necessity. The monastic rescuers, veiled in humility and guided by their unwavering faith, stand as a testament to the enduring union of service and spirituality within the heart of the Rescue Corps.

Vows of Virtue: Poverty, Obedience, and Service

In a world marked by rapid change, these modern-day monks have chosen to follow the sacred vows of their spiritual forebears: poverty, obedience, and service. Bound by their sacred oaths, they seamlessly transition between the tranquil solace of the monastery and the demanding rigors of rescue operations.

Heralds of Silence: The Helmets of Humility

A practice both emblematic and enigmatic, the monks who serve within the Rescue Corps often observe the vow of silence and solitude—a profound commitment to introspection and inner peace. When interfacing with the public these dedicated souls choose to shroud themselves in anonymity, donning helmets that obscure their faces. This humble gesture serves as a powerful reminder of their devotion, as they seek to channel the essence of their service and honor the sanctity of silence.

The Chapel of Respite: Reflection and Reverence

Discover the inner sanctum of the monastic retreat—the Chapel of Respite. Ornate carvings and intricate stained glass windows create an ambiance of reverence, inviting visitors to partake in moments of quiet prayer or simply marvel at the exquisite craftsmanship. Join the monks in their daily prayers and experience the spiritual connection that infuses every corner of this sacred space.

Welcome to the Spiritual Haven: A Guided Tour by a Resilient Monk

Greetings, seekers of wisdom and insight. I am Brother AL0RN, a humble servant of the divine path within the Rescue Corps' monastic order. As we embark on this journey through our hallowed halls, I invite you to open your hearts to the serenity and dedication that define our way of life.

Follow me to the Scriptorium, where the ancient art of transcription flourishes. Through the vocoder, my words may sound distant, but my commitment to preserving knowledge and enlightenment remains resolute. Bear witness to the meticulous craftsmanship that has safeguarded wisdom for generations.

As we traverse the Gallery of Service, reflect on the unity of purpose that binds our monastic family. My obscured visage is a testament to our dedication to humility and service, reminding us that it is our actions, not appearances, that define our calling.

In the Hall of Unity, where silence yields to shared introspection, I invite you to pose your questions. The vocoder may cloak my voice, yet I am here to illuminate the harmonious convergence of devotion and duty that defines our existence.

Remember, dear guests, that the veil that separates us is symbolic of the sacrifices we make in our unwavering commitment to our path.

[sigmadolos]

Call me ANOTHER TRAGEDY

[spilled-soup]

im gonna post all of the rain world iterator OCs i came up with over the past week; this'll have all of them in one image, but they'll also have their own separate posts

recently ive started coming up with my own local group for rain world because iterator names are fun to come up with, so here are the ones i have so far! keep in mind that these characters are still a work in progress, so names, descriptions, and designs may change when i come up with something better (also fyi i made my own simple iterator character base to make the designing process a bit easier)

shown in this hastily thrown together image are: Claws Through The Horizon (he/him)

Glimpse of Somber Fields (she/her)

Suspected Transgression (he/him)

Visage of Three Points (they/them)

Prosthetic Conviction (he/they)

character descriptions below

Claws Through The Horizon is the youngest iterator in the local group, and is optimistic towards finding the solution to the Great Problem. He is obsessed with creating purposed organisms to the degree that the area around his can is full of various different species he has created and let loose. His can is located close to the ocean, so many of these creatures are aquatic or semi-aquatic.

Glimpse of Somber Fields is the oldest of the group, and makes sure her neighbors do not forget her seniority privileges. She is prone to abusing her authority over the other iterators, and loves to use forced broadcasts to ensure her demands are met. She also tries to keep other iterators in check, often clashing with Claws Through The Horizon and Visage of Three Points. Despite her rude behavior and actions, she does care for the members of her group.

Suspected Transgression is calculating and resourceful, and befriended his local scavenger population. In exchange for conducting rudimentary maintenance and other missions, he lets the scavengers live in the city on his back. After many cycles, he was integrated into the scavengers' culture as a benevolent authority figure, and is treated with a high level of respect. The scavengers even went so far as to decorate his puppet with paint, pearls, and a modified vulture mask. In his interactions with other iterators he can be quite abrasive, but the second he believes a fellow iterator is in trouble, he is very quick to offer help.

Visage of Three Points is an older iterator, and is quite nihilistic regarding the Ancients and the Great Problem, stating on numerous occasions that the iterators were "cursed" with an impossible task. This has led them to get into many heated arguments with the zealous Glimpse of Somber Fields and the eager-to-please Prosthetic Conviction. Their can is located in a humid, swampy biome, which has caused many areas of their superstructure to rust, including their puppet.

Prosthetic Conviction is a younger iterator with a nervous disposition. He holds the Ancients and their ways of life in high regard, and rushes to defend them whenever someone speaks ill of them. He admires Glimpse of Somber Fields and looks up to her. Their eyes are cracked, due to an incident involving his chamber being invaded by a rather ornery and disrespectful slugcat with a rock. Now he is quick to assess whether a new visitor is a threat or not.

if anyone wants the iterator base i made, feel free to ask!

[keepsdeathhiscourt]

Diminuendo

Elijah Mikaelson x OFC (referenced)

Warnings: descriptions of violence and death

Word count: 621

A/N: This is a short drabble inspired by Diminuendo by Lawless and part of larger fic I'm slowly fleshing out. Thanks for reading!

Summary: Even an immortal has his limits. When love is once again ripped from Elijah and he's forced to face the man behind the Red Door, he'll discover that there is music in the horror.

The rush of his breathing cut through the permeating silence in jagged, arrhythmic waves that seemed utterly incongruous to a musician’s psyche. There was an aspect of meticulousness to music; a devoted rigidity. And therein had always laid the appeal, the magnetic draw of symmetry, of balance. Each note had its place within a larger, more demanding structure. It could not come half second too late nor early lest the entire piece careen into utter chaos, give itself over to dissonance.

And so dissonant was the cadence of his breathing that his trembling fingers found themselves tapping against the side of his leg, absently urging him back on beat and back into control. He inhaled slowly through his nose, vaguely aware of the acrid smell of burning flesh intermingled with blood before he released it all back into the room.

The first thing he noticed as he blinked the world back into focus was the blood, deep and dark. It left its claret signature beneath his shoes and across the concrete. It served as an uneven paint for the walls and a macabre shroud for the bodies. And there were many, he noted with a detached curiosity.

Why were there so many?

Hazy recollection stirred somewhere in his subconscious, beyond the threshold of a red door that had been flung recklessly open.

He tipped his head from one side to the other, stretching the stiff muscles of his neck.

In another life, he would have felt the heavy tendrils of guilt seeping into his gut right about now. The disheveled, disgraceful state of his suit would have made the ruined fabric burn against his skin.

And his hands...his hands unrecognizable beneath the blood would have sent him into a spiral of shame.

But he could not seem to find the will to care. Curiously, he could not seem to draw up any sort of emotion at all. Rage satiated, he was left only with profound emptiness. Emptiness and that gnawing, distant ache in his chest that no amount of bloodshed nor vengeance had yet been able to eradicate completely.

The sound of approaching footfall behind echoed: the sharp, even staccato of heels on cement masking his unsteady breath. The rhythm changed, steady at first and then a faltering stuttering percussion, before coming to a complete halt.

He turned to face the intruder. A pair of blue eyes surveyed the room, wide first with confusion and then with the horror of realization. She made a tentative step towards forward. Her mouth opened for a moment and then closed, lips trembling all the while. He cocked his head slightly to the side, eyes glossy and distant.

“Elijah.” Rebekah managed a hoarse whisper. “What have you done?”

The tremulous, breathy intrusion of her voice sparked the ember of a memory. Images coming back to him in flashes.

A young woman with eyes like warm coffee peering at him over her book with a shy smile.

Then it shattered and twisted.

Starless eyes gaze blankly up at him, coldly empty and the color of grave soil.

His jaw twitched and he was vaguely aware of the pregnant pause. His sister was waiting for him to speak, to explain away the actions revenge had wrought and his hands had carried out. But the abject horror in his sister’s glassy eyes nor his own grisled visage reflected monstrously back in them could truly reach him. All he could feel was grim satisfaction and the temporary balm it provided.

A life for a life.

Death to pay for death.

The heart pounding crescendo flourishing to a fever pitch of screams, ebbing away into the diminuendo of the final, tragic notes, and then, finally silence.

Nothing else mattered now.

[innertragedywerewolf]

Mirror Images: A Trip of Self-Discovery Through PTool's Face Changer

In the digital tapestry of our lives, a pixelated portrait often speaks volumes. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to wear someone else's visage, if only for a moment? This curiosity led me down an unexpected path, one illuminated by the innovative beacon that is PTool's AI Face Swap. It's more than just a playful Face Changer; it's a portal to new dimensions of self-expression and connection.

Let me share a tale of change. One lazy Sunday afternoon, I stumbled upon PTool while browsing for a novel way to spruce up my social media posts. With a flicker of excitement, I uploaded a selfie, and within moments, the Face Changer feature whisked me into a stranger's shoes—or rather, a stranger's face. It was a visual tightrope walk, one that demanded a leap of faith.

The Face Changer was not just about donning a different face; it was about embodying a different persona. As I swapped visages with friends and acquaintances, I found myself asking, "What if I could see the world through their eyes? How would my perspective change?" The Face Changer became a mirror reflecting not just my own image but a spectrum of possible identities.

This tool, a clever blend of technology and creativity, sparked conversations that transcended the mundane. No longer was it just about the typical likes and shares. With PTool, my posts became gateways to discussions about identity, empathy, and the shared human experience. It became a platform where people could explore the "what ifs" of life in a safe, virtual sandbox.

But PTool isn't just a casual playground for the curious. It's a launchpad for the imagination. During a digital art project, I used PTool's Face Changer to blend my face with landscapes, abstract patterns, and even historical figures. Each merge was a piece of art, a fragment of my personality intertwined with the world's vast canvas. The Face Changer wasn't just altering faces; it was blending souls.

What's most remarkable about PTool is its accessibility. It democratizes the process of face swapping, making it available to anyone with an internet connection. No longer a tool reserved for the tech-savvy or the privileged, the Face Changer invites everyone to play, to experiment, to change.

Of course, the NSFW mode opens up a Pandora's box of creativity, allowing users to swap faces with abandon. But with great power comes great responsibility, and PTool reminds us to respect personal boundaries and the integrity of the images we use. It's a reminder that fun and ethics can coexist in the digital realm.

As I reflect on my trip with PTool's Face Changer, I realize that it's not just about changing faces; it's about changing perspectives. It's about understanding that beneath the myriad masks we wear, there's a common thread that binds us all. We're all human, with our own stories to tell, our own masks to don.

In a world where online interactions can feel superficial, PTool offers a window into deeper connection. It's a tool that doesn't just entertain but also inspires. It asks us to look beyond the surface, to participate with one another in new ways, to empathy in action.

So, I invite you to try PTool's Face Changer, not just as a fun activity, but as a way to explore the layers of your own identity and to connect with others in a meaningful way. Who knows what you'll find when you look through someone else's eyes? The trip might just change your perspective forever.

[sebthemerciless]

Witches. If ever he could think of a faster route to headache-inducing situations, it had to be witches. When last he could remember closing his eyes, the world had a very clear and defined hierarchy. Now? Now he was utterly confused and out of place.

Not only had he awakened to not one, but two, witches -- one of which he was explicitly forbidden from sampling the sweet life nectar of; but the other? The other was not only a witch, but a werewolf too? Interspecies relationships?! If that wasn't bad enough - his two would-be 'saviors' had immediately demanded that he be stripped down (something he was rather easily convinced to do) and changed into... whatever they had chosen for him that evening. It was a 'costume' for something they referred to as a 'Halloween Party'. Whatever that was. When he had asked, he'd only been told they were 'wicked'.

Thus far, the only thing wicked he'd been exposed to was the utter mechanical monstrosities that resembled wagons but flew down the roads without any sort of guiding steed. Twice he'd almost been struck by those things as he blindly tried to follow the two young women that had awakened him. Now that they had arrived at this 'party'? They were gone. Lost into the crowds, leaving Sebastian to stand there working through the sights and the sounds of a world over four centuries removed from his own with barely any time to begin adjusting before being forcibly 'invited' to this event.

And he was starving. He'd only been allowed so much blood upon awakening; enough to move around freely and for his youthful visage to be restored. He needed to eat someone, anyone really, but he knew how hard it was to stop once he got started.

( @darkskiesrpgstarters )

[zydrateacademy]

A Heist in the Making

Some weeks ago, Dibbe had conscripted a branch of the Thieves Guild to raid a home belonging to an absent lord by the name of Bernard Auberon. Having sequestered himself to Summerset to wine and dine the world, his house was ripe for Dibbe’s best scout to report what might lie within. It revealed a vault, one the Khajiit could not penetrate, but was otherwise able to inform her of other potential earnings from within.

Once Dibbe brought the Iliac Bay branch of the Thieves Guild, the vault hosted a dark revelation. An entire Dagonite shrine, full of corpses sacrificed to the lord of change. Indeed, during the thieves incursion, several daedra were summoned within to take the souls to Oblivion, intercepted by said thieves. Mercifully nobody died, and when the branch reconvened to safer pastures, it was universally agreed upon that the Lord be reported to the local authorities.

The Lord did not have a chance to defend himself, being arrested the very minute he made port. He was quickly hauled off to prison, and though the Lord of course made a variety of demands ranging from representation to trial by combat, some were either denied or postponed for an indeterminate amount of time. So he rots in prison.

Dibbe had different plans for this fallen lord. Unbeknownst to the Iliac branch of thieves, she’d been planning a specific heist that she quickly surmised most would disapprove of. Entering a realm that almost everyone would prefer to avoid, but there’s a certain Prince that has something precious of hers. Discovering a Dagonite presented an interesting opportunity.

Grifting as a pale scale is difficult enough on its own, but with the right set of armor, a confident stature, and most importantly the properly forged papers, even an Argonian can find her way in most places. She made sure to command that she be left alone, though one guard had to be outside the chamber door, just in yelling distance in the event there was a complication with her meeting.

The Lord had only been in prison for a short time, but a growing stubble upon his middle-aged face began to grow. He was naturally not treated very well given the discoveries beneath his estate. Naturally his weight loss also had become obvious. He gave Dibbe a once-over, more confused at her being an Argonian than her armor and stature. He spoke first.

“What do you want, Argonian?”

Dibbe replied in her characteristic smarm; “Oh friend, it is you that might have something I want. I’ll make this brief; You won’t last long here. I need to find myself in possession of a fresh, unattuned sigil stone.”

The lord looked upon her with some confusion, taking a moment to drink in her visage once more. He was very clearly trying to discern her allegiance or intent, but such a polished-armored, white-scaled Argonian… There were too many incongruent elements involved that he couldn’t quite place her.

“Everything was taken from me, there’s nothing left in my cellar.” “I’m not asking what’s in your cellar now. You were a well traveled noble. One smuggler to another, there’s always more than one stash.” He narrowed his eyes, Dibbe having given him an inopportune clue. “So a thief, is it? This is your…” He gestured vaguely to her, his wrist-bound chains clanked together as he did. “What, disguise? Persona? I have half a mind to deduce you were involved in the breaking in of my house.”

Dibbe admits, “Oh, but I was. That’s why I know more than just the surface-level investigation brought against you.”

“And why in the fuck would I want to help the one who put me here?”

Dibbe holds up a finger, “Because the one that put you here can also get you out.”

This gave the lord pause. He weighed his options. His resources may be drained but in his mind, he still had his loyalties. Perhaps a pocket of a Dagonite cult would still bring him in. Maybe his name could still mean something. Dibbe remained silent, seeing the thoughts churn from behind his eyes. She knew he wanted to be free, that he wanted out. And he looked upon her confident grin, himself knowing that she was not bluffing about getting him out.

“Say I know where to find such a thing. How would this trade work?”

Dibbe specifies, “I can’t get you out this second, it will be a couple of days. I expect the information the second you are freed and safe. Not before, not after. Literally outside whatever escape hatch we find ourselves outside of. After that, you go your own way.”

She grins a toothy grin, her maw vaguely intimidating to the man in lower-lighted conditions. To wit, he wouldn’t be able to discern any fangs from the usual shark-like set of teeth that her kind usually have to begin with. She soon adds;

“And if I don’t find what I’m looking for, remember that I still have some of your books. I know where all the holes you hid in still are. I have connections with mages, and I can find myself in many places very quickly. Lying to me will not be great for your lifespan, and a few Dagon cultist buddies won’t deter or scare me.”

He could tell this was not an idle threat. Her armor was custom made, this was no mere disguise. This Argonian was connected and wealthy, and he weighed the risks. To him, it might be easier to make sure she found what she was looking for rather than compound his problems further. One problem at a time, he was more certainly thinking.

“Fine,” he accepted the deal. “I know where you can retrieve an unspoiled sigil stone.”

Dibbe claps her hands, “Just the words I wanted to hear! I will return in a couple of days. I already have a small crew scouting this place, picking out its weaknesses.” She began to make her way out.

Bernard just waved his hands towards her in surrender. His options were slim to begin with, and here came a lifeline.

Dibbe was true to her word, but with complications. She actually had to arrange for him to be transferred to a less secure prison, which was not easy. It required a veiled threat to one Warden and a bribe to another. It took several extra days but Dibbe was able to keep Bernard informed of said complications, never demanding the intel before her part of the deal was kept.

Eventually she was able to arrange a prisoner transfer, where in a mocked bandit raid took place, scattered the guards in a nonlethal manner and sequestered the lord in a cave. Finally free, he wrote down on a piece of parchment and silently handed it to her. She gave it a look, nodded, and tossed the piece of parchment into a campfire, to his approval.

“We part ways then, thief.”

“Come now, Lord. Aren’t we friends by now?” Dibbe asked, chuckling.

He simply scoffed. They had some idle banter before he was fed and clothed, and then made his way into the wilderness. Dibbe waved him off, a big grin on her face.

After an hour or so, two of her associates crawled into the refuge. An orange-tinted Khajiit, clothed in dark leathers. Her scout, Sajadar. A longtime friend, and Dibbe’s most trusted infiltrator. The second, to contrast Dib’s own white scales, was Sleeps-Under-Skies, a tar-scaled Shadowscale, a survivalist and dressed in very little to accentuate that fact.

Sleeps spoke first, “And now?”

Dibbe casually packed up her things, nonchalantly stating, “Follow him for a week, then send him to the void.”