#ward and the bastard. it would be chaos.

[dirtytransmasc]

I need more selkie theon (and asha. I just think that would be a vibe. fuck the greyjoy sigil being a kraken for a moment and let them be seals) content.

like the opportunity to have theon's coat taken by ned when he's made his ward is right there and it is perfect and beautiful and tragic.

and you could build on that depending on the version of the selkie myth/story you're going off of (I personally love the song of the sea version of selkies for story writing). maybe he can't talk without it, maybe he gets sick, maybe his voice has magical properties of sorts.

I have this one concept in my head that I don't have the time to write, but it goes something along the lines of theon getting sick after years away from his coat and the stark kids have to find his coat and drag his slowly dying ass to the bay of seals (cause y'know bay of seals and theon's a selkie so he'll turn into a seal... I thought it was creative).

also, in a lot of versions of selkies, when they get sick, their hair turns white, which is on brand for theon. they're also pretty, their stories are typically soaked to the bone in tragedy, they're normally held captive/tortured, amongst other things, which are also very on brand for theon.

and maybe you get some selkie to selkie telepathy of sorts, so when theon finally enter the water a seal again, asha books it to come find him, cause its been years since she's been able to feel him (I'm soft for them, I will create the most improbable and ridiculous scenario's to bring them together and for them to have soft sibling moments).

all and all, theon being a selkie is something I need more content of, please and thank you.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 5: Sapphires and Cinnamon]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to war-related violence, Targ chaos terrorizes poor innocent House Corbray, Red and Jace have a lovers' quarrel, interesting news arrives from the Riverlands, bats!!!

Word count: 7.4k

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Like game pieces on a board, he moves the coins he’s using as tokens around the ink-and-parchment Westeros that is rolled open across the table. He’s been underwater for weeks, but now he can breathe again. Aegon is starting to heal, through the worst of the danger and unlikely to die, and he has been tucked away someplace no enemy will find him: an unassuming farm in the countryside surrounding Rook’s Rest, under the protection of the knights of his Kingsguard and tended to by requisitioned maesters. Criston’s infantrymen and cavalry have rested and healed and reorganized to fill the gaps in their ranks following the battles to subdue the turncoat houses of the Crownlands. Yesterday, Aemond rode Vhagar to the stone gates of Claw Isle and accepted a tremulous, tearful surrender from Bartimos Celtigar’s lady wife, in whose care the castle was left. Rhaenyra will receive no further gold from the region, and she will find the treasury of King’s Landing empty, the wealth once stored there split and hidden at Tyland Lannister’s suggestion in Braavos, Casterly Rock, and Oldtown. She will try to tax the smallfolk to fund her war effort, and they will rise up and murder her. That, at least, is Aemond’s hope.

Criston walks into the room. He’s just come from the rookery, where ravens arrive carrying news from Green spies and allies throughout the Seven Kingdoms: the Triarchy will send ships to combat the Sea Snake’s fleet; the Hightower army in the Reach has won battles at the Honeywine, Tumbleton, and Bitterbridge; the Lannister army in the Riverlands triumphed at the Red Fork and Acorn Hall; Cregan Stark is marching south from Winterfell with ten thousand men to fight for Rhaenyra, and they will need to be dealt with.

This will all be over soon, and I can go home. Home to my family, home to her.

“Daemon is restless,” Aemond says, repositioning his coins. “He will tire of enduring Rhaenyra’s orders in the capital, and he will fly elsewhere on Caraxes. He yearns for battle, I know him. A hero’s glory, perhaps even a hero’s death. When he leaves King’s Landing, I will go there on Vhagar and kill Syrax, Vermax, and this new dragon Sheepstealer. I will retake the capital and then leave Daeron as its protector in my stead while I hunt Daemon. Daeron has proven himself in the Reach. He’s growing up.”

Faintly, fondly, Aemond smiles. But Criston appears stricken.

“Bad news,” Aemond says for him. “From where?”

“The Red Keep.”

“Mother?” He fears that Rhaenyra will have her executed like Grandsire, though this would be a grievous mistake. The people love the queen dowager, who has lived among them nearly all her life and selflessly nursed King Viserys while Rhaenyra seduced her uncle, plotted Laenor Velaryon’s death, and secluded herself and her vile nest of bastards and villains on Dragonstone.

Criston is hesitant to begin. Perhaps he isn’t sure if Aemond should know this. “No, your mother and Helaena are still held in the dungeon, captive but in relative safety. Jaehaera and Maelor are wards of Rhaenyra. I would assume she’s trying to win their affection and then arrange politically advantageous betrothals.”

There has been a name left out. Aemond stares up from his map, waiting.

“She’s been taken out of the city,” Criston says.

An impossibility, an irrationality. “What?”

“I don’t know where to, or for what purpose. But she’s not in King’s Landing.”

Aemond says nothing for long, cold, grey minutes. The sky outside beckons in the coming winter like a nefarious houseguest, one who shares your dinner table and then slits your throat while you’re asleep. When he finally speaks, his voice is low but fierce. “She’s no threat to them.”

“She isn’t.”

“She can’t travel by dragon.”

“No,” Criston agrees. “So they must have transported her by land or sea.”

Aemond shakes his head. “Why would Rhaenyra do that?”

Criston’s dark eyes are afraid. “I don’t know.”

“Where might they have sent her? Where could she be?”

“Anywhere, Aemond,” Criston says helplessly. “Anywhere.”

And it rises in him like magma through the earth: a scorching venom that pools in the capillary beds of his lungs, a fatal heat that burns away flesh and bones and reason.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rain falls from the sky, sea spray erupts from the waves, stinging eyes and the abrasions on your skin from falling on the rocks over and over again. You are a child, and you are tracking Vermithor on Dragonstone. The mist is so thick that Criston and the guards have lost sight of you, and you can hear them shouting for you to wait for them, but you can’t, you can’t, you’ve wanted this for years and now it’s about to happen. You can feel the volcanic stones, black and serrated, quaking as the Bronze Fury stomps in his hovel. The cave is shrouded in fog, but you know he’s in there. He is growling, a sound like thunder. You can see the glinting gold of his eyes.

“Vermithor!”you command him in High Valyrian, holding out your hands, your maroon gown billowing around you in the vicious wind. Strands of long silver hair are torn from your braid. Blood runs in thin rivulets from your ravaged palms down your wrists and forearms. Saltwater burns like fire in the gashes on your feet; you’ve lost your shoes while scrambling over the rocks. “All my life I’ve dreamed of you, and now we will fly together at last. We will be bonded to one another until death. We will preserve the realm and burn our enemies. Serve me, Vermithor! Serve me!”

He emerges from his cave: a colossal skull covered in scales and spines, steam rising from his nostrils, jagged fangs bared, eyes that are at once reptilian and mindless and wrathful and sage. He is a century old and unfathomably mighty; he is an inheritor of the sacred magic of Old Valyria. He judges you with eyes like kindling flames.

“Red, step back!” Aemond yells from where he watches, his black cloak like a banner in the wind, closed at the neck with a silver chain and with a constellation of silver buttons in the shape of Vhagar’s wings across his shoulders. He is the only person who has kept pace with you. “Give him room! Let him approach you!”

But Vermithor is yours, there is no other possibility, in your heart he has always been yours, he has been the beast you claimed in your soul when you first heard his legends as Aemond read them aloud to you, Aegon, Helaena, Daeron under the heart tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, and now you will climb onto his back and fly with him and meet Aemond and Vhagar in the mist-grey sky. From deep in his throat, the Bronze Fury snarls.

“Vermithor, be calm! Don’t you recognize me? We are meant for each other. We belong to each other. The dragon egg I was given in the cradle didn’t hatch so I could come here and find you instead. I am not afraid of you. I will not flee from you. Serve me! Serve me!”

“It’s not working,” Aemond tells you with dawning horror. “Get away from him! Red, get away!”

“Serve me, Vermithor!” you scream, and now you’re terrified, because his jaws are opening and dragonfire is boiling up into his mouth, crimson and glowing. “No, no!”

You try to run but the heat is already everywhere, and the air is suddenly too hot to breathe, and when you touch your face with your bloody hands you can feel your cheeks blistering. And then something collides with you like a lance striking a jousting knight, and you are thrown to the ground. It’s Aemond, and he is shoving you down into a crevice between two slabs of black basalt, and when instinctively you try to push him away—you’re always fighting him, something wild to be tamed—Aemond pins your wrists to your chest and shields your body with his, shrinking from the lethal heat of the world outside and burying his face in the velvet of your gown.

Then Criston and the guards and the Dragonkeepers are here, and with their ancient spells the Dragonkeepers convince Vermithor to retreat into his cave. When Aemond helps you out of the crevice, you see that the buttons on the back of his cloak have melted, and if the attack had lasted even a moment longer he’d be dead.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you wake in your bedchamber at the top of a tower of Heart’s Home, Jace is already gone. You peer through the window and see him strolling in the castle courtyard with Lord Leowyn Corbray, both of them bundled up in heavy furs; there is a layer of powdery snow on the ground, just as high as the ankles. The pine trees of the surrounding forest sway in the cold mountain wind. Servants lead horses in and out of the stable. And you wonder randomly: Do they have bats in the Vale?

Maids hear you walking around and file into the room to show you the clothes your closet has been stocked with through House Corbray’s generosity and help you dress. They try to distract you, but you notice anyway: one of them strips the bed and takes the sheets away, blotted with a watery, pale pink stain of blood. You’re sore, but not terribly so, just enough pain to remind you—when you move in certain ways—that you are wed to Jace, and that he took you last night as any husband would, and that now you could be carrying his dark-haired heir. The thought stuns you; you’ve never been more than ambivalent to the prospect of bearing children. Your dreams were of Vermithor, and marrying Aemond, and being possessed by him in every sense possible. Motherhood would come later, and you had always assumed you would one day begin to dream of that too.

Do I dream of it now?

No, you feel in your bones. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The colors of the Vale are chilly and weak like the sky. The maids show you velvet gowns of dusky rose, icy blue, moss green, dove grey. After some consideration, you choose the blue. Then you wander the castle, your drafty stone prison, your new home. There are no tapestries of the Hightower or wrathful dragons or lovers ensnared like knotted threads, no familiar faces. Heart’s Home is austere, its primary embellishments being candlelit chandeliers and rugs made from dead animals, and the loudest sound you hear is the whistling of wind through cracks in the walls, frigid air that howls in from the Mountains of the Moon.

After much exploration you find the rookery, where ravens squawk in their cages and bed down in mounds of straw, and through the window is a view of snowcapped mountains that stretch on endlessly like a sea. There is no table to write on, and you see no parchment or ink or quills, and you don’t know which raven (if any of them) is trained to fly to Rook’s Rest. It doesn’t matter; you can’t write to Aemond without endangering your family held hostage in King’s Landing. And even if you could, what would you say to him?

Aemond, I’ve married Jace and I did it to save you. But don’t fear for my safety. I am protected here, I am content enough. I have no dragon, but I can help fight the war in my own way. Jace seems to like me. I might even be beginning to like him too.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” someone says, and you whirl to see Lord Corbray’s wife filling up the doorway.

You do not bow or curtsey. As a princess, you outrank her. “Lady Caroline.” No. Not quite. “Lady Carolyn. Lady Carolina.” Then you remember. “I am so sorry, Lady Carolei. Forgive me.”

She laughs boisterously. “Carolei is a common name in the Vale, but not elsewhere, I’ve been told. My closest friends here call me Lady Caro, you can feel welcome to do the same.”

“Lady Caro. Please allow me to apologize again.”

“Oh no, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure you had a late night.” Her eyes—large and round, almost bulging, and a very pale blue—sweep from your feet to your face. “But you didn’t have too bad of a time with it, I think.”

“The maids took the sheets,” you say like an accusation.

She smiles, perhaps a little guiltily. “As High As Honor,” she replies. “They are the words of House Arryn, but all the great families of the Vale aspire to be above reproach.”

“And you are a great family.” It’s more of a question.

“We are not grand or wealthy, that’s true,” Lady Caro concedes. “And I can imagine our little castle cannot compare to King’s Landing or the Hightower of your Mother’s house. But we are dependable and honest. What Queen Rhaenyra has entrusted us with is a tremendous privilege. We will abide by her instructions, and endeavor to satisfy her every request.”

“So she wanted to know that I bled.”

Lady Caro shrugs—I can’t tell you that—and then signals for you to follow her. “Join me in the Great Hall. We’ll have some cinnamon tea.”

The Great Hall of Heart’s Home is about the same size as your bedchamber in the Red Keep, with two rows of wooden tables and a crackling fire in the hearth. When you look into the glowing embers, you are reminded of Vermithor’s flames. Cool overcast light falls like snow in through the windows. Lady Caro gestures for you to sit with her at the table closest to the fire, and maids bring you fried eggs and bacon, fresh bread, butter, blackberry jam, and cinnamon tea, milky and aromatic and very sweet.

“It must be difficult for you,” Lady Caro says thoughtfully as she slurps her tea, steam wafting into the air. “Being so very far from your family. Even if they are traitors.”

She seems to be testing you for a reaction. You gaze into your tea and try not to let tears well up in your eyes as you think of them: Mother and Helaena in a dungeon, Jaehaera and Maelor with strangers, Jaehaerys and Grandsire dead, Daeron at war, Aegon burned, Aemond hating me once he learns of my betrayal. None of us are in the same place. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. “But you must be far from home too. Women get married off and sent across the world, it’s nothing new.”

“This is true,” Lady Caro muses. “I am originally of House Coldwater, and if you think Heart’s Home is plain and remote, I hope you never see Coldwater Burn. You’ve probably never even heard of it.”

“It’s up near the Fingers,” you say softly, remembering Aemond showing you dots littering the Vale on one of his maps, warm firelight, teasing hands, his lips murmuring against the shell of your ear. “The colors of its banner are blue, red, and white.”

She gasps and presses a palm to her chest, delighted. Her already ruddy cheeks flush pinker. “Mother have mercy, they teach that in the capital?”

“I have an interest in geography.” No, you don’t; but Aemond does.

“Do you embroider or sing?”

“Neither. Not well, anyway. Helaena works miracles with a needle and thread.” Absently, you touch your gown where beneath the pale blue velvet a scar runs from your left collarbone down to the top of your breast. So does Aemond.

Lady Caro observes this curiously, peering at you over the rim of her mug. “How did you occupy yourself before you came here? I do want to make you feel as comfortable as possible.”

Because you are kind? Because Rhaenyra told you to? Or because I might be the queen myself someday? “I spent a lot of time with my brothers and sister,” you answer honestly, dolefully. And I kept bats. You decide to omit this. “We all had our crafts. I made mosaics out of seashells.”

Lady Caro titters. “Seashells? Well, they aren’t exactly abundant, but there are some out near where the river meets the Narrow Sea. I’ll see if I can have a bucketful brought to you.”

“I can collect them.”

“The water is very cold, and the current powerful.”

“I like to choose my own shells. You can send knights to watch over me, I’m not hoping to drown myself or anything.”

Now Lady Caro laughs loudly. “Drown yourself! The things you say, princess…”

You decide to try to make conversation to encourage her affection, as Mother would want you to. “Do you have children, Lady Caro?”

“Oh yes, five of them. Four died though. Awful luck, isn’t it?” She goes somber, staring blankly out the nearest window for a long while, leaving you unsure of what to do or say. Eventually, she returns to the Great Hall and is cheerful again. “My daughter Jessamyn was married into House Mallister of Seagard. I get to see her and the children once every few years. And she’s nothing like you.”

You smirk cautiously. “What does that mean?”

“It means she’s very sweet and agreeable and naïve.” And then Lady Caro winks at you, and you realize you might be becoming friends. “Not like a Targaryen.”

You drink your cinnamon tea and think of last night, feeling a strange brew of fondness and shame and relief and loss. “Sounds a bit like Jace though.”

“Yes, well,” Lady Caro says, then wisely leaves the rest unspoken. He’s more of a Strong, isn’t he?

One of the Great Hall’s heavy wooden doors creaks open and Jace strides inside, wearing black accented with red and a bear fur coat overtop, speckled with snowflakes. More flurries are melting in his hair. You stand to meet him and he takes both of your hands. You smile uneasily, not knowing what to expect; then Jace playfully kisses the knuckles of your right hand, and after that your left, and he beams at you.

Instead of a greeting, he says: “We have a few more days together, then I have to go away.”

It’s the second time a man has told you this. “Go where?”

Jace shrugs evasively. No one is allowed to tell you anything. “Do you like horses?”

“Sure.” Aemond used to take you to visit his war horses, all towering and temperamental: Rusty, Apple, Fox, Ladybug, Pomegranate. Then he would watch as you stroked their forelocks and their downy muzzles, his remaining eye fixed on you, imagining sins that never felt like damnation but rather searing, tumultuous waves like an ocean of blood.

“Good. I’ll show you the stable.” Jace kisses you, a quick peck for modesty’s sake since you aren’t alone. He grins and licks his lips. “Mm. You taste like cinnamon.” Something warm, something red. He turns to Lady Caro. “Thank you for making us feel so welcome. The queen will be pleased to hear of your devoted service to the crown. We know that this is an imposition, and we appreciate your generous sacrifice.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Caro replies, and she seems to mean it. “It’s no imposition. It’s an honor.” Then she rises to her feet. “Let me find some boots and a fur coat for the princess.”

Once you are properly guarded against the cold—wrapped in a thick coat of fox pelts—Jace links his arm through yours and leads you outside, and you tread together through the shallow snowfall toward the stable.

“You’ve probably never even seen snow before,” Jace says, and you agree even though this isn’t true. You saw snow here in the Vale when you were very young—you don’t even remember which castle Mother and Father had been visiting on their royal progress—and that was the trip when Aemond pushed you into a frozen river and you caught a chill that almost killed you.

“Jace?” you ask, cutting him off mid-sentence. You hadn’t meant to interrupt him; your mind had been wandering.

He looks at you with some trepidation, as if he’s worried you might have a complaint. “Yes?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

He blinks at you, then exhales in a relieved chuckle. “You’re asking why I’m nice?”

“You never liked me before. And you had no reason to.” In your eyes, I was a traitor. If you could tell what I’m feeling, you’d know I still am.

He ponders how to answer as you walk. Now his expression is serious. “I always knew that when I married—to whoever it was, although for most of my life I believed it would be someone else—that would be it for me, and I would never be estranged from her or take another lover. There are so many families with…” He pauses, and you watch him closely. “There are so many children who suffer from the indiscretions of their parents.” There is a bloom of ashamed, gory pink in his cheeks, and you know he is speaking of himself, and of all the bastards anywhere in the world who have ever been made to feel lied to, less than, disgraced, disavowed. “I swore to myself that I would be a good husband and father, and that my own household would be…wholly uncomplicated.”

“So you would act this way with anyone. With whoever you were wed to.”

“Well…” He smiles softly. “As it turns out, there are things I like about you.”

“Really?” you tease, grinning, and when you reach the stable you shove the door open and step inside onto a straw-strewn floor. There’s no biting mountain breeze here in the shadows, and the body heat radiating off the horses makes the air more hospitable. Jace seems surprised you didn’t wait for him to open the door for you. “What things?”

“Several things,” Jace says, then—now that you are alone aside from the horses nickering and chomping on hay in their stalls—wraps his arms around your waist and holds you from behind, kissing the side of your neck. You have to resist the reflex to fight him off so he can overpower you, pin you to the floor, fuck you as you hiss and claw at him and tell him to stop. Jace wouldn’t understand it. Jace would be horrified by it. “Here,” Jace whispers, skimming a hand over your gown where he made you bleed last night. Then his palms travel up to your breasts. “And here.” Then he nuzzles your silver hair as he gently unfastens your braid and inhales deeply. “And I like this too. Although I’d be interested to see you wear it in a style that is a little…softer.”

“Softer?” you echo doubtfully.

“You’re not a warrior,” Jace says as if he thinks you will want to hear this, as if it will comfort you. It doesn’t. “And that’s alright. You can be soft. You can be ladylike.”

You don’t feel very much like a lady. You feel like a kettle full of boiling water, like lava bursting up through the cracks in the earth, like dragonfire hemorrhaging from a beast’s gaping throat. Now you and Jace are on the wooden floor of the stable, displacing straw as you kiss hungrily and pull off each other’s coats. Jace climbs on top of you, and you think: I can’t do this again, not like last night. I want to be fed too.

Jace stops to marvel at your face, his thumb skating over the curve of your cheekbone. “I want to make it as good for you as it is for me,” he says solemnly. “Last night it was over so quickly, and…I didn’t…I feel like I could have done more, but I don’t know…I’m not sure if…”

You grab his right hand and lace your fingers through his. “Can I show you how I touch myself?”

Jace’s eyebrows go up. “You touch yourself?”

“Don’t you?”

“Well, yes,” he admits bashfully, blushing. He does this a lot, you are learning. “But I’m a man.”

You smile. “Women experience longing too, Jace.”

“Yes,” he says, and now he’s breathing quickly and it sounds less like he’s merely intrigued and more like he’s begging for it. “Show me. Please show me.”

You take his hand and guide it beneath your gown, up the length of your legs, stopping where you are slick and needful, an ache so deep it hurts like the cramps when your blood arrives each month. You place two of Jace’s fingers on the right spot—he keeps inadvertently moving his hand just off the mark, and each time you put it back where it belongs—and lead him into a rhythm, a tight swift circling and pressure that makes your thighs open wider for him and your spine arch.

Jace murmurs as you pant on the stable floor, shadows on your face and straw in your hair: “Is this okay, am I hurting you at all?”

“You can press down pretty hard,” you assure him. “You won’t break me. I’m not glass.”

He’s trying not to lose his focus. “Okay…okay…”

“Jace,” you gasp as you sling your arms around the back of his neck and cling to him, your hips rocking, and he moans and kisses you—deeply, passionately, gluttonously—and under your dress his hand suddenly strokes you so forcefully it’s almost painful and then it’s on you, that feeling better than anything else on earth, being opened, being dragged under, being ignited, being devoured until you go weak and limp and boneless, aftershocks throbbing and your lips smiling drowsily. “Jace, Jace, Jace,” you breathe dizzily, still holding him.

He is gazing down at you, awestruck. “When can I watch you do that again?”

“Soon,” you purr through Jace’s dark curls. “Now…your turn.”

You are barely aware of it as he pushes the hem of your gown up to your waist and frees himself from his trousers, and you only come back to Jace when he enters you—your flesh still tender from last night, but wet and wanting him—and he is careful as he slowly pushes himself all the way inside, trying not to hurt you again. Then he thrusts and you are stunned by how good it feels, like your climax made everything more sensitive, more ready, more flawlessly tailored to fit with him. Jace doesn’t last much longer than the first night, and yet just before it’s over there is the ghost of something, a vague desire that is building, and you think next time (or the time after that, or the time after that) you will be able to finish again, and you will be drained like a slaughtered animal with its throat cut and its body hung by the feet, every last blood drop purged and collected in a bucket to be used for fertilizer or pig feed.

Lying together exhausted on the stable floor, you twirl one of Jace’s curls around your finger and—purely by instinct, because it’s what you and Aemond used to do—whisper to him in High Valyrian: “I love how you touch me, thank you, I needed this, I needed you.” But you can tell by the way Jace turns to you, startled and a little self-conscious, that he doesn’t understand what you said.

“I know some High Valyrian, of course,” he explains quickly. “But I’m…I’m still learning.”

“Oh.” It doesn’t come easily to him. Because he’s a Strong, and the Strongs have nothing to do with Old Valyria. And then, to temper the blow: “I can help you practice.”

“Who taught it to you?” Jace asks. He is suspicious, then hopeful. “Helaena?”

You should lie to him, but you don’t. At some point you have to start letting raindrops of the truth seep in. You are going to share a household with Jace, your bodies, your futures, your children. You want him to understand who you really are. You can’t pretend forever; already, it is stifling, a constant and trudging effort, a vanishing until you are transluscent like clear water. You are reminded of all the times when you’ve tried to hide pieces of yourself to please Mother, whose Hightower blood was washed away by the grim, intoxicating magic of the Targaryens. “No, Helaena doesn’t speak High Valyrian except when giving commands to Dreamfyre. She can understand it fairly well, though.”

Jace nods, studying you, but he doesn’t say anything else. The phantom of Aemond stands in the far corner of the stable. You think: I am a traitor to both of them, I am a house of no banners. After a moment, you ask Jace for your very first favor.

“I want Helaena freed from the dungeon in the Red Keep,” you say. “I understand Rhaenyra’s distrust of Mother, but Helaena is innocent. She should be confined to her chambers and permitted to see her children. And allowed to walk in the garden sometimes too.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jace says distractedly.

“You know Helaena. She is gentle, she is fragile. She deserves compassionate treatment.”

“So did Luke,” Jace replies; and though he takes your hands and helps you to your feet as horses snort and paw at the straw-covered floors of their stalls, he averts his dark gaze—an inheritance from his bloodline, the indomitable lineage of the First Men—and doesn’t meet your eyes.

Two days later he departs Heart’s Home for a destination that Lord and Lady Corbray know, surely, but you don’t. Jace bids you farewell at the edge of the field beyond the castle walls as Vermax waits impatiently for him across the clearing, not liking the mountain cold, not liking you. Jace wears black and red as he almost always does, the colors of his mother’s house. His curls are ruffled by the breeze, his red cloak flowing down from his shoulders like a trail of blood.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Jace touches your cheek, then your chin. “I’ll miss you and all those things I’ve discovered I like so much.”

You smile back. You have the beginning of a headache—a throbbing above your left eye, a fuzziness in your thoughts—but you’re trying not to show it. “I’ll be here.” Where else could I go?

“I love you,” Jace says, and then looks at you expectantly. It takes you a minute to realize he’s waiting for you to say it too.

You open your mouth, but your pulsing skull is clamoring with prayers you cannot voice. Please protect the family I have left. Please don’t find a way to kill Aemond. At last you manage: “I love you,” but it sounds hollow and unnatural and cold, like stark snowcapped peaks and the gales that shriek through them.

Nonetheless, Jace is satisfied. He tilts up your face to bring his lips to yours and then treks across the field towards Vermax, leaving footprints in the fresh snow. His sword hangs from his belt. He practices with knights in the castle courtyard each day, and he’s not bad, you’ve observed anxiously. Not as good as Aemond, but not bad.

That night you see the shadow of something interrupting the moonlight that floods in through the window of your bedchamber, and when you push open the glass a bat lands clumsily on the sill and then scrabbles inside. You squeal with delight and scoop it into your arms. It’s a male and a different sort of bat than the ones in King’s Landing, larger in size, black and white in color and with long fanlike ears. He sniffs at you and gazes up with small but intelligent inky eyes. Then, as a mark of friendship, he begins to lick at your fingertips.

“And what do you eat, huh?” you coo as you pet him. “Probably not honey or fruit if you live way up here in the mountains. Probably just bugs. Should I try to catch you some spiders tomorrow? This decrepit old castle must be full of them.”

You have to name him. And this is an opportunity to break all your old patterns. You could call him Seahorse for Jace’s false house, or Dragon for his true one. You could call him the High Valyrian word for bat or wings. You could name him after something black, the color that Jace favors. And yet as you hold him, old memories come screaming back to you, Aemond helping you tend to your bats, Aemond protecting them, moments of kindness and understanding that you now fear were illusions.

He never said he loves me. Not once in eighteen years.

You keep waiting for a glimpse into Aemond’s mind, a stabbing pang of loss and longing when he realizes you’ve been taken away, but it never happens. You keep waiting for him to find you and descend upon House Corbray with fire and blood.

Aemond, where are you? Aemond, have you forgotten me?

“Sapphire,” you whisper to your new bat—your only bat—and he looks up at you as if he knows his name.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jace is gone for weeks, and in his absence you try to learn how to be his wife. You ask Lady Caro to teach you how to wear your hair like the ladies of the Vale: soft waves, sedate buns knotted at the nape of the neck, delicate wisps that frame the face and blow in the harsh mountain wind. You attempt to cultivate an affinity for pale impassionate colors. You distract yourself so you don’t think of Aemond. You catch spiders and moths in secret to feed to Sapphire when he visits you each night. You spend days practicing quiet, feminine embroidery—ruining yarn scenes, piercing your fingertips with needles—until you give it up and fling the cursed tangle of threads away and return to your strange fixations that once confounded Mother.

Lady Caro sends knights to accompany you to the mouth of the river, and you wade up to your knees in the icy water plucking rare shells out of the silt and the pebbles. You are not permitted to collect bones from the forest—there are bears and wolves and shadowcats—but you arrange for the hunters to give you what’s left of the carcasses once they’ve been skinned and butchered. The carpenters give you boards of wood and the blacksmiths forge you a small iron mallet. Sometimes Lady Caro stands in the castle kitchen watching you boil animal bones in a caldron or in your bedchamber as you shatter shells and paint the shards with glue, and she shakes her head, surely thinking: What is wrong with these Targaryens?

You don’t dare to make any mosaics of Aemond. It’s too dangerous, and too painful, and too revealing of what you’re truly feeling. So instead you piece together visions of the rest of them: Aegon smirking over a goblet of red wine, butterflies landing on Helaena’s outstretched palm, Daeron riding Tessarion, Mother smiling at Criston, Jaehaera and Maelor playing together in the garden of the Red Keep. You hang them on the walls of your bedchamber and at night you sleep better.

When Jace and Vermax return to Heart’s Home, you and Lady Caro are in the inaptly named Great Hall sipping cinnamon tea and nibbling blackberry oatcakes, and Lady Caro is telling you about her flock of grandchildren who reside at Seagard on the shore of the Sunset Sea. “Jasper is clever but terribly loud, and then Joy won’t talk to humans at all but loves her cats…” She trails off as your husband rushes into the room, his steps buoyant, his red cloak flying behind him.

“Welcome back, Prince Jacaerys,” Lady Caro says as she stands to greet him. “I hope your travels were comfortable and all your ventures went well.”

“Very well,” he says, grinning, alight with victories that are yet unspoken. Lady Caro dismisses herself to give the two of you privacy, promising to bring cinnamon tea for Jace. As soon as she is gone, Jace bolts to the table.

“What happened?” you ask he sits opposite of you. The hearth throws off rage-colored heat.

Please let this be peace and not violence. Please don’t have harmed anyone I love.

He is beaming as he takes a messy bite of a blackberry oatcake, crumbs falling down onto the table. And he must have decided that he can begin telling you his secrets now. Perhaps he trusts you; perhaps he knows there’s nothing you can do to sabotage him anyway, no ravens to send, nobody to inform. “I found someone to ride Vermithor.”

The realization sinks inside you, dark and heavy, an anchor, a sickness. You murmur, knowing it is pointless: “He was supposed to be mine.”

“Well…he didn’t agree.”

This hurts you; Jace doesn’t seem to notice. You think of the tiny wooden Vermithor that Aegon once carved for you, and you wonder if it’s still on your dresser in Maegor’s Holdfast or if Rhaenyra has burned or broken it, or mistaken it for something of no value.

“Corlys’ bastard Addam has claimed Seasmoke,” Jace continues, as if this could not possibly be anything to you but good news. “Vermithor and Seasmoke are now helping Mother to safeguard the capital. Daemon and Nettles…” Jace gestures awkwardly. There was a falling out with Rhaenyra. “They’ve taken Harrenhal as a base in the Riverlands. So we needed more help in King’s Landing, and we found it.”

We have two battleworthy dragons. Now they have six. No wonder Jace is so pleased.

“And there are still other unclaimed dragons,” you say dully, nauseous with dread.

“Yes,” Jace agrees. “But unfortunately, Aemond realized what we were doing. So he took possession of Dragonstone, and he and Vhagar are always back and forth from there, and no one can approach the island and risk him happening upon them.” Another bite of his blackberry oatcake, more crumbs, more casual chewing. “Which brings me to my question for you.”

“For me?”

Jace nods. “I need you to tell me what he’s going to do next.”

You stare at your husband inanely. “What?”

“Aemond is the problem,” Jace says, more agitated now. He devours the last of his blackberry oatcake. “Even with all the dragons we have, it’s going to be difficult to destroy Vhagar. Our new dragonriders are inexperienced, and Daemon, he’s…” Jace waves a hand. “Unreliable. Self-serving. But you were there at the Red Keep with Aemond when he and Criston were drawing up their plans, and therefore you can help us.”

You lie immediately. “I don’t know anything.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Another lie. “Really. He didn’t discuss it with me.”

“Then tell me about him,” Jace says impatiently. “I know he’s good with a sword, but he must have weaknesses. Does he have lasting pain from his maiming, does he have vices that distract him?”

I’m not convinced I knew Aemond at all. “I’m not going to help you kill him.”

Jace glares at you incredulously. “How do you think this ends?”

“Rhaenyra promised Mother that Aemond would be spared, and you were a part of that bargain—”

“We said we would let him live if he’s still alive when the war is over, but we can’t win the war if he and Vhagar are seizing castles and territory and burning our men and supplies and nobody can stop him!”

“Does he know that…” You swallow, your throat burning. “Did Rhaenyra send him a raven to tell him about our marriage?” About my treason, about my ruining?

“No. Why would we provoke him like that? Why would we put a target on my back? The realm will be told when the battles are past and the surviving Green loyalists must be convinced to bend the knee.”

You close your eyes and you can’t picture Aemond as a warrior; you can only see him as a child with stitches and agony, as a man who gave you forbidden, bewitching pleasure. “I don’t know anything. I can’t help you.”

“I did as you asked,” Jace snaps. “I persuaded Mother to give Helaena more freedom, I ensured that Alicent is healthy and that Jaehaera and Maelor are well cared for and never lonely. I can probably even save Daeron. But Aemond must be stopped.”

“He’s my family too—”

“I am your family now!” Jace roars, jolting to his feet and pounding on his own heart. “Me and my siblings, and my parents, and my children, not them!”

One of the doors of the Great Hall swings open and Lady Caro is there with a tray of cinnamon tea and fresh blackberry oatcakes. She gapes at you and Jace, too shocked to remember to be polite. It’s too late for her to pretend she hasn’t heard. She stalls, trying to think of something to say.

“I believe we’re having venison for dinner,” she announces with feigned cheerfulness.

Jace looks at you one last time—with disappointment, with fury—and storms out of the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

He doesn’t come to bed all night, and you leave the window wide open so Sapphire can glide in and visit you: hanging from your bedposts, scrambling over your blankets, and then vanishing shortly before daylight. You have a headache that worsens until you are half-blind and sick to your stomach, and the maids hear you retching and bring you toasted bread and ginger tea and a bucket and wet cloths to cool your face.

Lady Caro wanders in and sits down beside you, her weight shifting the feather mattress, and pats your shoulder sympathetically. “I think you should tell the prince that his efforts have been successful.” To produce an heir, she means, and you’re convinced she’s wrong.

“That’s not what it is,” you moan, burrowing under the blankets. “I’m sick all the time.”

“You haven’t had your monthly blood since you’ve been here,” Lady Caro says gently, and of course she knows this because of her maids, her spies. You stare up at her vacuously, unable to comprehend it.

Pregnant with Jace’s child?

And this feels like a final severing of any possibility that Aemond will ever want you back. No other man was allowed to lie with you. Now Jace has wed you, bedded you, bred with you, turned your coat.

You force yourself out of bed and let the maids dress you and comb your hair, nursing the ginger tea—unappetizing, but good for nausea—as you gather your courage. You aren’t sure how to tell Jace. You aren’t sure that you want to see him at all.

Your skull still throbbing and your bare feet unsteady, you stumble through the cold stony corridors of the castle until you hear men arguing spiritedly in the Great Hall, their voices rumbling like thunder. Inside you find Lord Corbray, a number of lords and knights, and the maester of the castle. Jace is bent over one of the tables and reading, then rereading, a letter that the maester must have brought from the rookery.

Lord Corbray is saying: “They write that he has already razed Darry, Blackbuckle, Claypool, Swynford, and Spiderwood. The noble houses are constructing scorpions, but even with them, how many bolts would be needed to kill Vhagar? She’s massive, she’s monstrous. The Northmen are marching south, but now they’re saying they won’t go beyond the Twins without Caraxes and Sheepstealer as escorts, and can we count on Daemon for anything…?”

Jace looks up and sees you standing in the threshold. His dark curls hang over his bloodless face; his eyes are staggered and fearful. And twistedly, horribly, there is a flash of light that burns radiantly through the murky gloom of your skull and your ribcage, a forbidden vindication, a rapture you can never reveal.

Aemond remembers me? Aemond longs for me?

Jace says: “He thinks you’re in the Riverlands.”

[fangirlingpuggle]

Bio billford alt au (Stanley ends up through the portal but the experiment box with Mabel and dipper also goes with him with no one noticing)

So while Ford has a mental breakdown about his brother.

Stanley is going through what he has that went with him and ends up with the 2 demons almost fully developed but not quite. Give or take a few months.

Stanley noticed his bros drunk handwriting and instantly grew attached to these kids.

The twins grow up with Stanley traveling the multiverse until they somehow end up back at the shack. ( Either Ford reworking the portal, or the twins powers)

And Ford find out his kids and brother is alive.

This makes ford 100 times more protective. So he has all 3 wear tracking devices and protective charms 24/7.

Also Mabel and dipper are not use to so little chaos. Stan is just tired and really wants to loose it on Ford but the kids are still adjusting so it will have to wait.

Oh wow, that AU would be really rough for Stan stuck in multiple dimensions with 2 tiny demon babies, and if Bill found about them... constantly running away from demon who wants his kids.

Stan just running away holding tiny chubby demon babies cursing Ford like 'Ford when I see you I am punching you in the face and then lecturing you for your choice in guys!'

Ford desperately trying to get his brother back and then relief of Stanley being back and then... surprise your also a dad... and now not only is dimension at risk but Bill knows about these kids and he wants them... Ford was already in crazy protective mode for getting Stanley back and keeping him safe but now it's turned up to the extreme.

Ford has all protective wards and has 110% tried to inject tracking chips into them.

Stan has definitely torn into Ford silently mouthing at him over sleeping twins. Very silent fights and also 'SIXER YOU COULD DO SO MUCH BETTER? WHY THAT TRIANGULAR BASTARD?'

[miifu666]

You mention you had facts about Suklha awhile back XD love to hear about them please

Annoonn hii ♡♡♡ 🤩🤩

I do i do!! Heres a few Fun Facts ♡♡

Suklha likes to dress in brightly colored garments and thick layers, this is mainly because i was inspired by some centipedes who have vivid colours to warn predators they may be poisonous to eat!

Ive put Peking Operas as the main inspiration for Suklha's garments. This is because centipedes are known to move swiftly through almost leaves and rocks and more. To imagine an Opera actor who wears thick garments yet still moves so swiftly and naturally athletic without any problems is mesmerizing to me! I believe Suklha would be like that too!!

Part of Suklha's clothes are inspired by traditional Tibetan clothes, not fully but definitely some of it.

Suklha is inspired by Hundun! A faceless being in chinese mythology who is believed to be the central of primordial chaos. Actually, I wanted to make that fact as part of Suklha's story- so spoiler ig

Given the title "Bastard of Immortality" by the celestials, is also a reference to a chinese slang "Filthy egg". A small note to how Whatever is her origin, its most likely primordial enough to be connected to the cosmic egg

Suklha loves to riddle!!! So much! She might even deprive Wukong from any affection till he answered her correctly lmao

She has a sweet tooth!! And an iron stomach!! Which means she loves both sweet and spicy things, Shes eating best of both worlds fr fr. She doesn't like bland food though, like one look is enough to make her disagree from coming into a place.

Has a habit of taking too long to shower, her bodycare routine is like a wholeass scripture. She always smells good atleast.

The main reason why Suklha wore Yunjian (Cloud Collar) is because Wukong had enough of her indecent "chest exposure." (He's dramatic) Not because he's afraid, he believes if she isn't fully clothed, it'll give the sign that she's open for marriage. Now, monkey king does NOT like that. And such he always helps design her cloud collar from now on.

Suklha doesn't particularly like it. Made her broad ish shoulder looks bigger. But damn if she doesn't appreciate Wukong's effort to design one

The markings underneath Suklha's eyes are scars from her deal with some guardians in the underworld that went south. A permanent reminder to her that while she has more power, her own body and vessel still belongs to the world.

If you hurt Suklha enough, more Centipede like limbs and traits will show. She won't be able to keep her humanoid physique while being badly injured.

I have a habit to add more details to things i KNOW not many people will notice, but here is some things in their design.

Replica! Suklha. color palettes consist of White (Signify her death, since chinese people use white as a funeral garment), Purple (Signify her Immortality after death), Gold ( which is Wealth, power and prosperity, a symbol of her omnipotent strength also as a place of yellow is a representation of freedom and entering Buddhism), Red (Opposite of original, color to ward off evil, good luck, sign of happy ending), Gray (Wisdom, Calmness, unassumingness)

Original! Suklha, color palettes consist of Blue ( Strategic and thoughtful nature, calmness, security and trust), Gold ( wealth, power, Prosperity, Symbol of omnipotent strength) , Red (Makeup, Good luck) Gray (Wisdom, Calmness, unassumingness)

Original!Suklha has a much more realistic Centipede attributes in her tails and antennas, while Replica!Suklha is much more tamed. This is because the energy flowing through the vessel is different, one is dark energy and the other is new enlightened energy.

[thelov3lybookworm]

I’ve been loving Lucien lately too! I have a request but I’m not sure how to word it so I’m sorry if this doesn’t make sense. 😅

The reader and Lucien have a child. The reader is from the night court (possibly Rhys’ sister) and is away. Lucien panics through the bond because the child has suddenly developed night court powers and he doesn’t know what to do. Like maybe they keep making themself disappear into darkness or something. 😂

Dreams and screams.

Summary: Y/n's mate is about to have a panic attack due to their daughter creating chaos.

•○●⛦●○•

A/n: it does make sense, don't worry darling. Also, I love your brain so much for this brilliant idea, I adore the idea so much 😏❣️Also, this has no right to be this funny😂. Oh poor Lucien 💀

Also, I was thinking of posting a sneak peek, but the fic was done, and I didn't want to keep anyone waiting, so here it is.

Enjoy! ❣️

•○🌑○•

A wave of panic slammed into Y/n from the other side of the bond, making her suck in a sharp breath.

What the hell?

Her brother looked up from stirring his cup of tea, his mouth open mid sentence. He frowned.

"You okay?"

"I don't know–" She cut off as a relief emanated from the other side of the golden string connecting her to her mate.

Rhys nodded solemnly. "Makes sense." And then the bastard went right back to stirring his tea.

She gaped at him. "You– piece of–" Another wave of panic made her gasp, and she was stopped from the pleasure of calling him a very inappropriate name.

He grinned, glancing at her. "Is it Lucien?"

She nodded, rubbing at her chest, feeling a little relaxed before panic again gripped her.

What the hell is going on?

"He seems panicked."

Rhys furrowed his brows. "Do you think it's something about Astrid?"

"It could be." While they spoke, the sudden bursts of panic and relief continued.

"Are you going then?" He asked as she stood up. She nodded. He pouted but she simply kissed his cheek, hoping to get back to Day Court. He stood too before placing a peck on her forehead, pulling her in for a hug and squeezing her tightly.

"We'll meet soon. I'm so sorry." He shook his head, letting her know it was alright as she sprinted out the door.

Y/n had been visiting her brother for their monthly family meeting, where she spent some time alone with Rhys before Lucien, with their daughter Astrid and the inner circle joined them for dinner. Lucien had a lot of work to do, hence he only joined them for dinner, and her daughter, being her father's daughter, was always stuck to his side, wherever he went, even tagging along to court meetings.

Y/n didn't mind.

She rushed through the gates of the Palace in Day court, only able to winnow in front of them due to the wards around the place.

All the time that she was trying to get to her chambers as fast as possible, she continued to wonder what might be going on. The Royal chambers, where she and her mate lived with their daughter, was just a huge room with different rooms attached. One was their daughters room, one for the two of them, a library and an office for Lucien.

She opened the door to her daughter's room, poking her head in.

There she found the father and daughter in the middle of what she could only describe as chaos. The state of the room almost gave her a panic attack.

Astrid seemed to be crying as Lucien crouched in front of her, gripping her face in his large hands as he tried to calm her down.

At the sound of the door opening, Lucien glanced up, a relieved expression crossing his face. Astrid also noticed, and she started crying again, running up to Y/n as she stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind her.

"Mama–" Astrid hiccuped, clinging to the front of Y/n's dress. "I am a very bad girl." She continued sobbing.

Saying Y/n was confused would be an understatement.

"Why would you say that?" Y/n glanced up at Lucien, who sighed.

"She seems to have inherited your daemati powers, as well as winnowing."

Y/n grinned, a sudden feeling of happiness and pride spreading through her for her daughter. But she needed to calm Astrid first before she thought more about it.

"How does that make you a bad girl my love?" She questioned, trying to get out of Astrid's grip so she could pick the four year old. But children seemed to have the best grip, as Astrid didn't budge.

"I hurt daddy!" She wailed, clinging harder onto Y/n's skirts.

Y/n looked at Lucien questioningly, and he shook his head slightly.

He walked forward, caressing Astrid's head and pressing a kiss to his mate's cheek before whispering in her ear. "She's been winnowing random objects and her toys around the room without noticing it, and one of her toys hit me in the head. She thinks I got hurt. She's also been screaming random stuff in my head, like cookies and chocolate and candies."

Y/n had to force her laugh down at her mate's tired state. He looked thoroughly worn out. Poor guy.

Y/n finally managed to get out of Astrid's death grip on her legs, and knelt in front of the little girl. "Baby, I didn't think you hurt daddy. It's okay."

Lucien also went to his knees next to his mate, wiping at the fat tears rolling down Astrid's round cheeks.

"You did not hurt me, my little sunshine. You always say daddy is very strong, right?" As he spoke, he slowly tugged Astrid closer, which she didn't seem to realise as she went, sniffing and rubbing at her eyes, nodding along.

"Daddy did not get hurt, I promise." He tugged her into his chest, placing a kiss on her little head, and Y/n's heart swelled with love. The two of them were adorable together, especially because of the size difference. Lucien seemed like a giant in comparison to Astrid, and him being so gentle with her made her happy.

Astrid glanced up at her father, her eyes going wide, her lips parting in awe when he smiled at her.

DADDY'S SO STRONG. I LOVE HIM SO MUCH.

Y/n winced as she heard Astrid's voice screaming that in her head. Her voice was so loud that it penetrated the thick walls around Y/n's mind. She glanced at Lucien, who barely hid his wince, giving her a knowing look. Y/n grinned.

"Darling, how about we go to sleep?"

"No mommy, I want to play with daddy."

"Daddy has work to do. How about we go to sleep, then we can play with daddy whe you wake up?"

Astrid shook her head, but when Lucien said the same thing, asking her to sleep, she reluctantly agreed.

When Astrid and Y/n were settled in bed and Lucien had taken a seat next to the bed, Y/n began explaining to their little girl what was happening.

•○🌑○•

"So you see, your powers are developing. You will have to learn how to control them, and when you do that, you will become powerful and strong. Just like mommy and daddy."

The little girl stared up at her mother with wide eyes, gripping onto the blanket that was on her chest tightly. "Really?"

Y/n smiled and pressed a kiss onto her head. "Really. Now, I want you to go to sleep so you can be rested and relaxed when you wake up, and then you and I can start your lessons on controlling your powers. Is that okay?"

"Yes mommy!" Astrid squealed happily. Mere moments later, she was already drifting off, the uncontrolled use of her untested magic having taken a toll on her little body.

Y/n smiled at Lucien, getting up and walking closer to where he sat.

"It'll be a long journey teaching her." Lucien mumbled, pulling Y/n into his lap.

"It will be." She glanced at Astrid to make sure she was asleep. "Maybe it would be better if we got a teacher for her. They might be able to teach her better."

Lucien immediately shut the idea down. "No. What if the teacher we get for ther is strict and makes Astrid cry? What if they hit her? No. No teacher."

Y/n laughed at her mate. He truly was a protective father, at times unreasonably so. Looking at him scared about a teacher made her wonder what he would do when their daughter started taking lovers. It would only be a matter of time till then, and it would surely give Y/n a headache.

But for now, she would enjoy what she had, and try not to complain too much.

Suddenly, a image of the three of them playing in the largest and most beautiful garden in the palace flashed through her mind, and one look at Lucien gave her the confirmation she needed. He was seeing the same thing she was seeing.

Astrid was dreaming, and she was sharing the image with her parents unconsciously.

Y/n shook her head, grinning.

It certainly would be a long journey.

•○🌑○•

General Taglist: @bubybubsters @eos-princess @nightless

[loboto-bear]

As promised, following from this post and this art, I present to you a little exploration of Franco/fem!Easterman, because something something Mommy Doctor - enjoy!

——————————————————————————

Easterman’s office was a sacred place. A myth, almost. A place few had entered, and fewer had returned from. The Doctor rarely graced her subjects with her presence, save for her shadowy visage on a screen or calm, demanding voice over a speaker. As a result, actually getting to see her- to be in her presence- was a monumental event, for both patient and doctor.

The low-lit quarters had been thoroughly cleaned, top to bottom, in preparation for the Doctor’s upcoming visitor. After all, it was only polite to tidy things up before indulging a guest, especially someone so… important. Easterman loved all her patients like they were her children, but even the best, most loving caregiver has favorites. The Prime Assets were the Doctor’s pride and joy, her greatest achievements aside from the Sinyala facility itself. Three hand-selected experts in pain and torment, each with their own methods to employ and baggage to exploit; their brains, perfectly malleable. Yes, Easterman loved all of them, but even they weren’t immune to her preferences. Gooseberry and Coyle were undeniably brilliant displays of the Doctor’s prowess, and they had both had time as her golden children, but they were too far gone; too lost in the world their ward had given them. It made them thrilling to watch, but agonizing to interact with.

Then there was the baby.

Despite being the newest Prime Asset, Franco had already caught Easterman’s attention for his performance. At first, the Doctor assumed his skill, his brutality, would level out the same way the others’ did, but much to her surprise he only got better. While he wasn’t the most graceful executioner, every kill Bambino performed was more gruesome, more purposeful than the last. Initially, it was theorized that this was because of his weapon, his Lupara as he called it. The raw, psychic energy of Franco’s ‘pacifier’ was undeniable; the Doctor had spent many a night studying it intimately. However, it quickly became clear that Franco’s motivation was a little more straightforward. While the others were children in the figurative sense, Franco was literally a child, craving love and validation that Easterman was more than happy to provide- if he behaved well, of course.

It was a rare occasion, but the Doctor wanted to speak with her new favorite. She had spoken to him before, albeit indirectly through one-way glass or over the tannoy. Seeing him face-to-face would be a new experience.

She sat at her desk, legs crossed and hands folded in front of her, listening intently to the sound of chaos emanating from the hallway.

“Get the fuck offa me!” She heard her subject bark. “The fuck you tryn’a do, huh?! I swear, if I had my Lupara, your ugly mug would be paintin’ that fuckin’ wall, pal- AGH!” The sound of him getting hit by one of the guards brought the Doctor no joy, but it didn’t dissatisfy her either. As the door opened, Easterman felt herself grow excited.

“Here he is, Doctor,” the security officer grumbled. “Whiny bastard was giving us a lot of trouble.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Franco retorted. “Wouldn’ta been so difficult if you just told me what was goin’ on.”

A guard was about to hit him again, but Easterman raised a hand, prompting him to stop. “You may go,” she said.

The men exchanged glances. “Ma’am, do you really want to be alone with him? He’s-“

“I’m not repeating myself,” the Doctor affirmed. “Leave. Now.”

Begrudgingly, the security guards left the room, looking back over their shoulders a final time before closing the door behind them with a loud clunk. The office fell silent, the air growing thick with tension as Easterman and her patient stared at each other. The longer they remained quiet, the more Franco’s stature began to shrink; twiddling his thumbs and tapping his foot, unable to keep eye contact.

“Hello, Franco,” the Doctor began. “It’s nice to finally see you in-person. Well, in-person with no bulletproof glass in the way, at least.”

The young man stayed quiet, his bulging eyes twitching in their sockets, flitting from each corner of the room, analyzing every object. His new demeanor was a far cry from the volatile gangster he embodied during the journey to the office. The leather of his gloves creaked as he wrung his hands behind his back. His heavy, labored breathing was audible, creating a soundscape of anxiety. Easterman had read his file and observed his behavior enough times to understand why he was suddenly so diminutive, but she could play along. It would benefit her more that way.

“What’s all this about…?” He finally stammered. “Am I in trouble or somethin’?”

How cute.

“No, no, not at all,” Easterman continued. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I’ve brought you here because of your exceptional performance.”

Franco’s ears pricked up. In an instant, his half-worried expression melted away into something more arrogant. A wry smirk split his unpleasant face. “Oh really?”

“Yes, so there’s no need to worry, I can assure you,” the Doctor affirmed. “Please, sit. Make yourself comfortable.” She gestured to the chair in front of her desk, and the small table next to it with a glass perched on top. “I’ve even taken the liberty of preparing some Wolf’s Milk for you. A little treat from me to you.”

While there was still reluctance in his movement, Franco eagerly strutted over to sit himself down, taking the glass of foul liquor into his hand. He seemed far more relaxed, satisfied even. He was always the easiest to win over.

“As I said, Franco, your performance in my trials recently has been beyond my wildest expectations,” Easterman continued, pride oozing from every word. “You really are talented.”

The young man slicked his hair back, swirling his drink. “Naturally,” he snickered. “I’m a businessman at the end of the day, Doctor. Gettin’ my clients what they want and takin’ out rats who get in the way is what I do best.”

Easterman watched as he took a long, uncomfortable swig. “You view me as just another customer then?”

“Oh, no, never,” Franco insisted, picking up the dissatisfaction in her voice. “You’re much more important than that. I promise.”

“Is that so?”

“A’course.” Franco chuckled anxiously. “I, uh, value your feedback.”

There it was. Exactly as expected. The Doctor smiled, leaning forward slightly. “Positive reinforcement is a valuable tool. Even the most hard-hearted individual can be swayed with praise and appreciation.”

She paused for a moment, observing her Asset’s body language. It was fascinating how steadfast his bravado was when he put it into action. The second the guards left he was like some trembling schoolboy being sent to the principal, but now he was his usual cocky self, downing his cocktail as if nothing had happened. Easterman had seen that switch flip so many times, but seeing it physically in front of her was a new experience. It was time to tear it down.

“I give you such positive evaluations, Franco, because-“ The Doctor tutted dreamily. “- well, because you’re my favorite.”

The young man froze, mid-sip, almost choking on his beverage. “What was that?” He spluttered, clearing his throat.

“I know, I know,” Easterman continued, raising her hands in acknowledgement. “It’s terrible to have favorites, but I simply cannot help myself. You’re a skilled killer, Franco, and you’ve adapted to my tests so beautifully.” She turned her head slightly, feigning bashfulness. “And knowing that you’re doing it all for my praise- why, it makes my heart swell.”

Shaking, Franco placed his glass on the table, swallowing heavily. “T-thank you.” His face twitched between emotions, unsure whether to settle on concern or a rare burst of appreciative humility. Either way, the mask was slipping. The Doctor gave her patient time to process her words, hanging on every slight movement he made, every expression. The only thing better than building someone up was breaking them down, only to build them back up again as something new. Better. It was practically Easterman’s speciality.

“It means a lot to hear all that. That I’m… good,” Franco uttered. “You- You know I’d do anythin’ for you, m-.” He stopped himself. “… Doctor.”

Instinctively, Easterman squeezed her thighs. That’s what she liked to hear. Franco truly was an ideal torture toy. Just enough pride to make exposing and exploiting his abysmal self esteem exceedingly satisfying. An ample vessel for love and affection, humiliation and contempt. The equally frightened and thrilled look on his ruptured little visage told her that much.

“As you can imagine, I have more patients than I can count here at Sinyala,” Easterman purred. “All of them try to gain my attention and approval, and most of them fail miserably.” She stood, tracing her fingers along the edge of her desk as she moved in front of it. “But not you. You’re special, Franco. Near perfect. That’s why I wanted you here.” The Doctor paused for a moment, basking in her Asset’s crooked, ecstatic smile and pleading, worshiping gaze. Literal child’s play. “With the others, I can say ‘jump’ and they’ll jump, but with you, I can say ‘jump’ and you’ll ask-“

“How high?!”

Franco practically leapt out of his seat to interject, only held back by his gloved fingers digging into the arms of the chair. His already loud, almost pained breathing had grown frantic. It took him a moment to realize what he had done before he settled back down.

“‘H-how high’,” he murmured. “I-I would ask ‘how high’… right?”

He scrunched up his face, almost as if he was expecting his superior to strike or shout, but she didn’t. Easterman just continued to stand there, looming over him; a smug, pleasured look on her shadowy face.

“That’s right,” the Doctor cooed. “You’re my little ‘How High’.” Gently, she reached out a hand, keeping it just inches away from Franco’s flushed face. As she expected, he took the first opportunity to lean into it, nuzzling and whimpering against her palm. She smiled wider. “Yes… Mommy’s little How High.”

Easterman stayed there for a while longer, watching her Asset squirm beneath her, all just from offering her hand. His desperate, childish murmurs were beyond pathetic, but they were valuable. A demonstration of Franco’s dependence and loyalty.

“You’re going to keep trying harder for me, aren’t you? For your mother. For your… mommy.” She moved closer, encouraging him to push his cheek against her stomach as she moved her hand to the back of his neck. “You’re going to keep doing better and better just for me, and maybe you’ll even help my patients ascend to your level-“

“Fuck that.”

Easterman scowled. “Excuse me?”

With an infantile huff, Franco wrapped his arms around the Doctor’s waist, forcing himself further against her. His grip was strong, but not crushing, suggesting some awareness of what he was doing- or rather, who he was engaging with.

“I ain’t trainin’ up your lab rats,” he snarled. “If I’m your favorite, I’m your favorite, mommy. I’ll take out as many of those stupid roaches to prove that.”

The Doctor couldn’t help but chuckle. Little did he know how much killing reagents was part of the process, but she was happy to let him live in ignorance- especially if it produced such promising results.

“I know you and your other doctors are watchin’ me when I’m out there,” Franco continued. “Just know that all my kills are for you, mommy. I’ll make sure you’ll see my effort. Th-that I’m good.” He nestled his face against her abdomen, right where her womb would be. “A-and if I’m not good, you can discipline baby as much as you want,” he whimpered. “I gotta keep bein’ mommy’s favorite.”

Easterman sighed, starting to rub at her Asset’s shoulder. It was hard to believe that Franco was like this even upon arrival. Usually, it took months of training and experimentation to get a reagent even close to this, but no. Franco was practically born for this. Reborn, even. It made the Doctor beyond proud.

“That’s right,” Easterman purred, “I have special plans for you, Franco. Very special plans. You’ll always have an opportunity to earn your mother’s love.”

[januaryembrs]

MASTERMIND | Theon Greyjoy x Bolton!reader

Request: @marsconer says - hii!! hru? the requests are still open? if so i can request for a theon one, with mastermind by taylor swift as a prompt?

description: You knew you wanted him, none of it was accidental. Theon had no idea the Bolton bastards were masterminds.

Word count: 1.1k

trigger warnings: dark!reader. reader is not mentally well and believes Theon loves her even though he doesn't know her. RAMSAY KINDNESS? Ramsay loving the Reader as her brother. hints of Theon's torture.

main masterlist

authors notes: First I'm so sorry this is so late to be published things have taken a turn in my life and writing has had to be put on the back burner. but I'm back! and I'm trying something new, I've never done a dark reader before. I hope this was okay! I feel like its not but I'm trying :)

You knew you wanted him the moment you set your eyes on the Stark’s ward.

He wouldn’t recognise you, how could he? The last time you’d ever seen him he was a teenager, too busy chasing girls in pretty skirts and competing with Robb for the fair maiden’s attention to take note of such a plain, quiet girl like you. 

Ramsay noticed you staring almost immediately. Being your older brother, possibly the only person in the world who understood you and loved you since you were both Bolton bastards, he was determined to give his sweet, little monster anything she wanted. 

“He’s caught your eye, sister?” His ice-blue eyes followed your entranced gaze to see the scrawny Greyjoy boy, too busy yanking a maid’s pigtails to notice you looking. His eyebrows furrowed, “Are you sure you don’t want someone stronger? Someone who could protect you and whatever babes you give him,”

“He has a kind face,” The maid squealed, and noble Ned Stark leant forward to smack both Rob and Theon across the ears to set them in place. “You will get him for me one day, won’t you Ramsay?”

Ramsay looked down at you from your place at the back of the dining hall. Being bastard children, you were not permitted to sit with your father beside the noblemen. Instead, you were among the last to collect your supper, drank the dregs of the wine the other Stark council did not consume, sat near the chill of the open windows. You had less in this world one might think for those born to a nobleman like Roose, but Ramsay had always made sure you had the best he could get, even if it meant getting his knuckles bloodied as it did most of the time. 

“Of course, sweet-hearted. Anything you want is yours. When you’re of age to marry, he will be yours,” He smiled with too many teeth as he always did, making his face look sinister to others, but to you he was your dearest brother. The only one who understood the way your mind worked, in a way that others would call twisted you called unique.

Watching Theon Greyjoy that day, you knew your brother would never fail you. 

Ramsay made good on his promise as he always did. A few days after your ten and eighth birthday, he led you down to the lower passages of Dreadfort claiming he had a present for you. You had never quite forgotten about the Stark’s ward. But with the chaos the people were now calling the war of five kings, you had some trouble keeping up with his whereabouts. He had betrayed the Starks, killed the youngest two boys, boys he had grown up with like brothers, all for his own gain of power.

Nothing could make you so certain he was perfect for you. A man who would stab his company in the back in the name of helping his genuine family was exactly the man you wanted.

You had always known he would be special, that he would understand the way your mind ticked. While everyone called you cruel, he would love you the way you loved him.

So when he led you to Dreadfort dungeons, and there was Theon Greyjoy, strung to a flaying cross, you felt your heart swell in excitement.

“For you, my dear sister. Just as I always promised,” Ramsay presented the man, who looked scruffier than the last time you had seen him, just a few months before the war started. Again you had been just a fly on the wall in Winterfell, but this time was different. This time he would know who you were, know just as well as you did you were perfect for each other.

You squealed, squeezing your brother around the waist in a tight hug. “I knew you could do it, I knew you would never disappoint me,” 

“Please help me!” Theon begged, though his words fell on deaf ears as you moved closer to him, “Please let me go, I’m not supposed to be here,” 

“Of course you are, silly,” You said, reaching up to unbind his arm. You were smiling at him almost too wide, a crazed look in your eye that you shared with your brother, as though this was all a part of a bigger plan he knew nothing about. 

Theon was sure he had seen you before, sure he had felt those two eyes piercing his skull many a time before. But he didn’t know you. 

“W-what?” Theon asked, as his first hand was let free, and you began to undo the second, “What do you mean? I need to leave, I need to find my father,”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you just got here. We need to arrange the wedding first,” You said simply, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. Poor Theon was confused, and his battered face said as much. 

“Wedding? What wedding?”

“Ours, of course,” You replied, working away at the knots in the rope. Theon looked over your shoulder to see Ramsay’s face full of a silent fury, as though he was warning him against upsetting the woman who was trying to free him. 

But Theon being Theon was lost, curious. He was disoriented and tired and hungry, and you were making no sense. “Ours?” He cried in shock, “But, I have no idea who you are,”

You froze before the knot could be pulled free and immediately Theon felt the mistake he had made fall over the room in deadly silence.

Your eyes snapped to him, and the manic look was gone, replaced by pure hurt. “You don’t know who I am?”

“Should I?” Theon felt Ramsay’s eyes darken in the shadows of the dungeon. If what he had said before had been a mistake, then those two words felt like a death sentence. 

Your bottom lip started quivering. All you had ever wanted, ever dreamed of was fading right in front of your eyes. You were supposed to be his, the way he had always been yours. 

“Come, sister,” Ramsay jumped in, tucking you under his arm and leading you to the dungeon door, “I will have a word with your dearest fiance, I fear he is feeling a bit under the weather at the moment,” You retreated away from the Greyjoy boy, knowing sweet Ramsay would fix everything for you as he promised. “Let me have a word with him, make sure he remembers to cherish you even in his sickness,” 

You nodded solemnly, your sad eyes never leaving Theon’s fear stricken face as he realised the hidden threat in your brother’s words.

And within moments, the door was closed and he was left with the vengeful face of Ramsay Snow, and Theon wanted for nothing more than to have you back near him, promising him the world.

[theprinceofliones]

Tristan has always been scared of the dark.

It's a fear he's never been able to shake ever since he was little. Not being able to see what surrounds him, not being able to anticipate what would come next---it terrified him to no end.

Arthur Pendragon must be aware of this, as wherever Tristan is being held now is as black as night with no entrance or exit in sight.

His hands and legs have been wrapped in chains that obviously nullify his magic, his goddess wings have been strung to the floor, open and unable to move. He's on the stone concrete floor below, unable to muster the strength to lift any part of his body as they're weighed down so heavily. He keeps his eyes closed, attempting to focus on his breathing so he doesn't have to open his eyes to darkness.

He doesn't know how long he's been here, doesn't wish to know. He just wants to go /home/.

Suddenly, after what felt like hours, the door, entrance, opens wide.

Tristan's eyes snap open and they adjust to the light now spilling into the endlessly dark cavern that is this dungeon, and when they do, their he finds the man behind it all.

Arthur Pendragon smiles at him sweetly, head titling.

"Are you comfortable?" He asks. "Little prince?"

Tristan glares at him and his fists clench behind him. He doesn't say anything, choosing to keep his last remnants of dignity that he can muster to keep to himself.

The false king grins wider. "Shy now, are we?" He chuckles. "A shame. You were quite mouthy last time we met."

"I'm gonna kill you," Tristan suddenly seethes and Arthur laughs.

"There it is!" He cheers and claps. "Such /rage/. You look just like your father when you glare at me like that," He chuckles again and sighs. "I don't know why everyone says you look like your whore mother, Elizabeth---to me, you are a carbon copy of your monstrous father and all his demon kin."

At the mention of his sweet mother, Tristan /snarls/. "/Don't speak her name, bastard/!" He screams as he shakes with rage. "Else I'll rip your fucking tongue from your /throat/!"

Arthur just scoffs. "I will admit, you're either quite brave or quite /foolish/ to insult me when you're in the position you're in now," He says nonchalantly. "All alone, away from home. You poor thing, you must be so scared."

Tristan wants to claw the bastard's eyes out, rip out his vocal cords and shove them down his throat until he chokes and dies.

He's never felt such rage before---a wrath taking over him like nothing ever has.

"Well," Arthur sighs with a devilish grin as he turns around and away from him with a wave of his hand. "I hope you enjoy your stay here, little prince, because you're going to be here for a /while/, I'd wager. Who knows, maybe you'll even come to like it here? Perhaps you will one day come to lick my boot---"

Tristan doesn't even realize he's able to move until he's near inches away from Arthur's face.

Chains stops him, tugging him back and away from the bastard.

Tristan cries out as he nearly loses his footing and pain floods his senses as the brackets around his wrists and ankles nearly pull his skin off. His goddess wings attempt to flap uselessly and he nearly /screams/ in frustration.

Arthur rears back, obviously not expecting Tristan to be able to move with the magic wards and drugs in his system flooding his senses to make him dizzy and drowsy.

Tristan tries to get as close as possible, shrieking in rage as he can't get any closer and Arthur stares at him in complete disbelief before he begins to laugh, as though he were in shock and awe.

"Wow!" He gasps. "I shouldn't have expected any less! The fact that you're able to get past my wards at all is---"

Blood spills from a cut on his cheek and the God of Chaos stumbles.

Tristan pants for air and his one /freed/ wing floats beside him, feathers sharpened to the same sharpness of steel /blades/.

Arthur is stunned into silence.

"/I/ am Tristan Liones," He begins, gasping as he stands up as tall as he can. He can feel his magic flowing through him, as little as the wards allow. "I am the son of Meliodas and Elizabeth Liones, the Crown Prince of Britannia, the Four Knights of the Apocalypse of Pestilence, and, when I escape from here, I will take your /head/."

The only sound that can be heard is Tristan's gasps for air and the sound of chains rattling and Arthur's lips part as their eyes remained locked.

After several moments of silence, Arthur just smiles again, tiny scar and droplet of blood gone as he heals himself.

"I look forward to your meager attempts, sweet prince," Is all he says before he turns around and leaves the dungeon before he shuts the door.

Thus, encasing Tristan in a darkness that will now, unfortunately, become his home for a long, /long/ time.

[cienie-isengardu]

Bi-Han and: Sareena, Shang Tsung or Sektor

I’m pretty indifferent* when it comes to the romantic aspect of shipping Bi-Han with Shang Tsung, Sareena or female Sektor but if there is one thing I like about all those potential relationships is how the theme of freedom and/or being freed is something those three ships have in common.

Bi-Han and Sareena? In Mythologies: Sub-Zero, the demoness asked Bi-Han to take her away from Netherrealm as she wished to escape this place for a long time:

Sub-Zero: Why did you help me?  Sareena: You are still mortal... that means  you can escape the Netherealm.  Sub-Zero: There won't be anywhere to go if I don't get the amulet back.  Sareena: Take me with you... I've waited an eternity to escape.  Sub-Zero: You don't understand. I can't leave  without the...

Bi-Han couldn’t leave Netherrealm without the Shinnok’s amulet because if he failed to steal it back, Earthrealm would be destroyed. We have no idea if after fulfilling mission Sub-Zero would take Sareena with him or not, as the demoness was killed by Shinnok.

But then in Mortal Kombat X, Sareena joined Special Forces against Quan Chi and on mission confronted Revenant Kitana:

Sareena: "It is possible to escape Quan Chi, Kitana. I can aid you as Bi-Han aided me." Revenant Kitana: “You became too familiar with Bi-Han. Allowed emotion to corrupt you." Sareena: "Emotion freed me!"

And though we have no idea if demoness talked about mortal Sub-Zero or Noob Saibot from between MK9 and the current game, she associates Bi-Han with escaping Quan Chi (freedom).

I have talked before how past timelines' Bi-Han and Shang Tsung share similar theme of reputation vs reality  and despite how dangerous or cunning or skilled they are, they are pretty much enslaved characters, as both were bound one way or another to their merciless masters (with the difference that Sub-Zero actually could left the clan if he had enough money, as was implied by his original ending from the first Mortal Kombat game). Noob Saibot and Shang Tsung have also in common patience to bid their time to overthrow their masters and rise to power, as was suggested by their various endings (mentioned here). So though power is associated with both men, the theme of enslavement and freeing themselves is also vital to their characters. 

And with Mortal Kombat 1 (2023) we have Bi-Han wanting to reject centuries-old tradition of Lin Kuei servitude to Liu Kang and Earthrealm and even saying to his brothers how father’s teaching (tradition) should guide them, but not shackle. Only to be seen literally shacked and by allying himself with Shang Tsung, being (visually and symbolic) freed from it by no other than Shang Tsung himself.

(And then NRS was a bastard and completely ignored Sub-Zero after dueling with Scorpion for the rest of the game).

This leads us to female Sektor, who shares Bi-Han’s vision of rejecting Lin Kuei servitude. In her BIO, Sektor is called Bi-Han’s kindred spirit and both are willing to go to great lengths to achieve their goal. At the end of Khaos Reings, Noob Saibot was seen put in coffin and taken to Temple of Elements,

where Liu Kang was supposed to undone the effects of Chaos Magic that influenced Bi-Han’s mind. In Sektor’s ending, Bi-Han is freed by her from being “imprisoned”:

Sektor:Though I had returned to the temple after Titan Havik's defeat, I remained livid. Livid with Bi-Han's foolishness, Kuai Liang's betrayal, and Cyrax's defection to his Shirai Ryu. So when Quan Chi arrived to parley, offering to eliminate the upstart clan, I listened... For his services, Quan Chi asked that I retrieve an amulet that was locked away in the Temple of the Elements. No small task, given its wards and guardians. Though one worth understanding, if it would finish the Lin Kuei's rivals. But before I could find the amulet, I found Bi-Han. There he was, imprisoned and forgotten, when Liu Kang had promised to restore him! As I rescued Bi-Han, all thought of retrieving Quan Chi's treasure was quickly forgotten. I will never forgive Liu Kang for this betrayal. That he is a god will not stop me from seeking vengeance." 

And I must say, there is something interesting about how three so different ships involving Bi-Han seem to share a similar theme of being freed. That, and the how Sareena, Sektor and Shang Tsung are all named on S.

*By indifferent, I mean I don't care one way or another, as Bi-Han is my precious aromantic & asexual cryomancer that I ship with freedom before any other character XDD

[peachymilkandcream]

Kingdom of Ash and Greed|Part 15|King Levi x Evelyn

(A/N: Next chapter will be the last. After this a Mafia AU will start to come out. Hope you enjoy this chapter!)

WARNINGS: noncon/dubcon, big age difference, kidnapping, slavery, violence, power imbalance, implied somnophilia, forced pregnancies, mind breaking, yandere behaviour, yandere themes, forced exhibitionism, etc.

===============================================

His kingdom quickly turned into a battlefield. Soldiers and guards running around like madmen to their stations to offer a support back. How the hell had the enemy managed to come in to the capitol?

Levi shoots a hardened glare at the footsteps that lead up to his wife's chambers, maybe his counsel was right in not trusting her.

==============================================

Upon hearing the chaos below Evelyn gathers her children to her. It was like some cruel nightmare playing out all over again. First it was fire and smoke, then her children killed before her eyes and both her and her daughter taken away to the next vile monster who craved depravity. She couldn't escape this violent and vicious cycle.

The panic within her was just too much. Her vision was blurry and she felt sick. Her eyes kept darting from corner to corner and she couldn't seem to catch her breath.

It felt like an eternity before a maid came and shook her. "My lady, my lady! You need to calm down, you and the children are in danger. You have to get out of here before it's too late-"

"I can't- I can't- I tried to escape before- they found me-"

"Please mistress, you have to get on your feet and start moving or else all of you will be killed."

Evelyn takes one more look at the scene before following the maid's footsteps, bringing her children with her into the bowels of the castle.

==============================================

A warrior to the end Levi grabs his sword and joins his men on the battlefield. Sure enough, his latest conquest that had earned him a bride was coming back to haunt him.

At the very front the old bastard who gave him his Evelyn led the charge. For the first time since Levi had met him had the king actually fought on the frontlines with his men.

A pathetic display. The fool was like a dying animal snapping its jaws to ward off predators before succumbing to fate. He would hang for this. In Levi's great mercy he had let Fritz live, taking only his daughter and treasure as plunder, now his generosity had been spat on.

And Levi wouldn't take it lightly.

Their eyes met and the enemy king pointed his barely bloodstained sword at his opponent, daring him to meet him one on one. Levi scoffed, a death by the blade was a soldier's honorable end. He would not humor him with that, he would wipe out every little bug of a soldier Fritz threw at him and then spill his blood. Even now he thought up different methods of torture to use on the slimy bastard.

He turns to his aid. "When this is all over I'll bring that man's wife to you to do with as you please."

The other man seems surprised. "Thank you sire, what have I done to deserve this?"

"You've kept your post and faced death with me on the daily. You've proven yourself again and again but your station deprives you of anything more than nobility. I'll give you a taste of royalty. And besides, she will be a widow soon enough."

The man beams and nods. "Thank you again sire, I won't fail you."

Levi sends him off, the same rush of excitement he gets with every kill coming back to him. He had been sitting for too long without death surrounding him. Oh how he missed it.

===============================================

Evelyn followed the maid through the twists and turns of the castle. Confined to Levi's bed most days she had never had the chance to properly explore the place. Now in her rush she tried to take in every right and left to ensure she knew where to go if she needed to get back into her room secretly.

Eventually they reach daylight and Evelyn feels herself being pushed into awaiting arms. She stumbles and struggles to regain her footing before looking into the eyes of her father.

"Evelyn, I'm so sorry my daughter, but I've come for you."

===============================================

Levi cursed under his breath, he was dripping in blood but lost sight of the main prize. These cockroaches kept coming, following under the influence of their king. If he was captured maybe they'd just give up. But no, Fritz took untrained farmers and gave them swords, thinking they could win against Levi's elite soldiers trained from the moment they could carry a weapon.

Finally he catches sight of the old man, up on the balcony.

His blood runs cold when he sees who's with him. His wife, staring confused and dazed at who she thought would be her savior. The little bitch had been conspiring against him the whole time. She would pay for this once he got up there.

==============================================

"What are you doing father- all these men- how-?"

"Time, while Levi was worrying about expanding his kingdom he didn't think that there were any smiths left who would defy him. We made weapons in secret, railed the men. They all came to end this tyranny, they came for you."

"All this? After you handed me back over to Levi...?"

"It had to be done. It was too soon to enact our plan, I had to give us more time. While he was distracted with you we could plan our revenge and rescue. Are you alright? He hasn't touched you, has he?"

Evelyn couldn't help it, all the rage within her boiled over. "What do you mean in asking that!? Of course he has! The day he brought me back he abused me until I couldn't think straight! I was made to be lower than an animal! I escaped to be free of him and you gave me right back! Day in and out without fail worshiping the body of my captor!"

His eyebrows furrow. "Well I'm sorry. But there's nothing to be done for it now. You let yourself get captured and now you've paid the price. But I'm here now. We'll get home and I'll find some noble in another kingdom to marry you too. Your worth has gone down since that bastard defiled you, but you could still help us rally our tiny kingdom."

Evelyn couldn't even believe her ears, not registering him starting to pull her along with Isabel grips her skirts.

"Mama? Where are you going?"

Her father turns, a dark look on his face. "Who is this creature-"

Suddenly protective of her child Evelyn meets his eyes. "My daughter. Levi's daughter." She motions for the other three to come out of hiding. "And his sons. This is my first born, Furlan, he will take the throne after Levi has passed."

Outrage crosses his features. "But the child is a bastard, it would never work-"

"That's where you're wrong father, when I became with child. Levi married me, and crowned me his queen."

"Queen!? You?! My own daughter- queen to the nation that put hers into ruin! How could you!? You're ruined! A filthy cur! You and your disgusting bloodline should die here and now! You're tainted! You slut! Tainted! No longer my daughter, you're just- a King's whore!" He slaps Evelyn to the ground, pulling out his sword and pointing at her as Furlan takes charge and brings the kids back.

"I'll run your vile womb straight through and spare the world from anymore devil children!"

Before he can strike metal hits metal, sending him back.

"Be careful how you talk about my children old man. They're still royalty.

"Levi-" Evelyn tears up with relief.

"Now I'd like to not kill you just yet. But torture you beyond measure. So surrender now and I might forgo the disemboweling."

"Never, you've stolen from me, something so precious, you monster!"

"If your daughter feels like I've stolen then she is free to leave right now. Once you are dead I'll return her to her kingdom, let her rule there as queen." He looks back at Evelyn.

"No- you bastard-!"

"Look around you Fritz, your men are dropping like flies. Within the hour they'll all be dead. I've won again, accept it."

Seeming to grasp the situation, he grows slightly calmer. "Evelyn, do as he says and go home. Rebuild our kingdom and repent of your wicked ways."

Evelyn stands, taking Levi's arm in hers. "No father. My place is here. With my subjects." She pauses to look into Levi's eyes. "With my king. My kingdom is this one here and no other. I denounce the name of you and that crown. All of you and that kingdom are dead to me. What matters now is this one and how I rule alongside my husband."

"You witch!"

"Face it, it's over. Your daughter has chosen well and will be rewarded. And you will die."

In a final act of rebellion Fritz pushes past them and moves to jump off the balcony. However is thwarted by Levi's soldiers who he had meet him here. They haul the king back and make him look in Levi's eyes.

"The last view in life you'll have when I'm through with you will be your wife given away to my men and your daughter on my lap as you die. My cock deep in her as I give her the next heir to my throne. Then as your head is freed from your wretched shoulders, you'll curse that you were ever born."

He nods and the king is taken away. He turns back to Evelyn. "Did you mean what you said? You are denouncing that life?"

"Yes Levi. I know now that there was nothing awaiting me there but a crueler fate. They never loved me. Only you do."

He smirks. "That's right."

"Only I do."

[golvio]

Most people’s interpretation of how Ganondorf and Ghirahim would interact if they ever met: Ghirahim desperately trying to nag Ganondorf into being a 1:1 replacement for Demise, then getting pissy when that isn’t the case.

My interpretation of their relationship: Ganondorf’s “meet cute” and subsequent quiet-but-very-insistent courtship with Ghirahim basically being a reenactment of the corpse-witch vigil scenes from Viy (1967), with Ganondorf ominously circling the ring of salt, sinisterly intoning that 100,000,000 years of mourning is long enough and maybe he should finally start dating people (like Ganondorf, who is not only standing right there in front of them, but also just happens to be wearing a sheer burial shroud that, in the church candlelight, shows the shadowy outline of his solid, voluptuous body in a way that is totally coincidental and in no way a very deliberate ploy in his long, patient scheme to seduce this little metal bastard into breaking his oath and joining the self-proclaimed new god of Malice, transformation, revenge, ambition, death and resurrection and rebirth who has long eclipsed that dull, ambitionless primordial god of fire, destruction, and ultimate endings). Ghirahim recoils in terror and holds up the symbol of his Master’s fallen house to ward off this wicked, worldly seducer, determined to keep the Master’s memory alive by flagellating himself with his own grief for all eternity. Besides, he’s not supposed to actually hook up with someone on screen! He was written to fit the archetype of the pathetic homosexual henchman who endlessly pines after his very masculine, very heterosexual, and eternally unavailable boss to serve as an example for the straights to laugh at for “acting like a woman”/pity as an example of the degenerative results of the homosexual, non-Shinzo Abe/American Christian Dominionist-approved gender-disobedient lifestyle! Who knows what kind of narrative and cosmic chaos he could unleash if he actually followed his own desires and reached out and grabbed hold of what he craved for once instead of being the audience’s sexless little purse dog? And yet! And yet...!

[wherethedeadneversleep]

Favors Owed

"… See you next week, Luke."

Loki stood at the door, and watched his teenage patient vanish down the stairs before he stepped back into his office. After turning his back to the door, he flicked his wrist, and the seals were set in place. A magic ward unseen by humans covered the small building he occupied. Nobody would bother him during his lunch break. Sauntering back to his desk, Loki sighed, picked up one of his leisure magazines, and started flipping through the pages.

But then a familiar presence leaked into the room. It was a far more powerful presence that was able to push through even his magic.

"You clever bastard," Loki mumbled, but he chuckled, nevertheless. "I haven't seen you in over millennia. Do tell me you weren't listening in on that last therapy session. That breaks protocol, and it took me a long time to earn that boy's trust. You know I have problems earning people's trust, given MY history and all with causing chaos. By the way, how's Gabriel doing these days?"

Lucifer had always known Luke as a strong and resilient individual, someone who rarely showed vulnerability or sought help from others. So, the mere thought of Luke needing a therapist intrigued him. As the Prince of Darkness, Lucifer prided himself on being able to read people and understand their deepest desires and fears. But this sudden revelation about Luke left him feeling perplexed.

He couldn't help but wonder what events had transpired during his absence that could have led Luke down this path. Had something happened that shattered his confidence? Or perhaps there were underlying issues that had been festering beneath the surface for far too long? He recalled their last encounter, just before he went off to face Michael in battle. Had he placed too much weight on the young boy's shoulders?

Thankfully, as he listened in, he got a good taste of what the real issue was. Sooner or later Luke was going to have to face the fact that the women in his family were fierce, headstrong, independent, and knew exactly what they wanted when they wanted it.

" You know me, I never was one for following the rules. " Lucifer admitted before allowing himself to finally be seen. In an ideal world, he wouldn't be here right now ─ he would have gone straight home to his wife. The only thing stopping him from doing so was one pesky Winchester that was welshing on their original deal. " I couldn't tell you the last time I saw Gabriel. Word would have it that he's somewhere in hiding. He never was much for the family rivalry. Michael on the other hand is still as much of a pain in my ass as always. " Enough with the small talk, it was time for the real reason he was here. " What I need from you, Loki, is a favor. Probably not one you're going to like very much. "

Loki temporarily disappeared from his desk, only to reappear in front of Lucifer, only this time, he was sitting cross-legged in midair. Gone was his suit and tie. Now he wore his fine, Asgardian leather, cape, and helmet. He wasn't expected to fight the fallen angel, but Loki was more comfortable in his familiar attire. A playful smirk played on his lips as he spoke once more, while his cape flapped behind him in an unseen breeze.

"I'm not a likeable fellow to many. The favor you ask of me wouldn't be one for my liking anyhow. But, how fortunate for you, that I'm capable of many things."

The god of mischief lived within whatever path he chose. It was naturally anarchy and chaos. In this current timeline, he chose to moonlight as a therapist for supernatural creatures, specifically those who struggled to live among humans, in a world who feared and hated them. With his last patient, Luke, he was a young boy who questioned his place among his own unique family.

Regardless of what Loki had seen and encountered in his own frenzied timelines, anybody who crossed him suffered dire consequences. He had few, oh so very allies, which he gained during his adventures outside of space and time. Here, Lucifer was one of those allies he kept at an arm's length.

Lucifer chuckled, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. " Oh, I'm well aware of your capabilities, Loki. That's precisely why I've come to you. " He began to pace, his footsteps echoing in the ethereal space around them. Lucifer chuckled, a sound that would have sent chills down the spine of any mortal. " I need you to infiltrate Heaven, " Lucifer said, his voice low and serious. " There's a flask there holding my grace and preventing me from returning fully to earth. "

 Lucifer's expression remained serious, though a hint of amusement flickered in his eyes. " The flask is heavily guarded, and the angels are on high alert. But your... unique abilities might just be the key to bypass their defenses. I know this isn’t a small favor I ask of you, but you’re the only one I can have pulling something like this off. Of course, I wouldn’t ask you for such a thing without rewarding you. "

Lucifer thought for a long moment. His eyes gleamed with dark promise. " How about... a favor from me, to be called in at any time ? " He spread his hands, a gesture both inviting and dangerous. " Think of the possibilities, Loki. The Prince of Darkness at your beck and call. " Lucifer then took a seat to make himself more comfortable and to save what energy was still within him. Transmitting himself like this wasn’t an easy task when his grace was trapped in a tiny little flask.

 Unfortunate for the Archangel that the do-gooders of Heaven had managed to track his grace down before his body cold fully repair itself and return to earth. " As you are well aware, I do not welsh on deals. So what do you say, old friend ? " In one fluid movement, Lucifer stood and held his hand out to the god of mischief.

A Cheshire's smile spread across Loki's lips. Infiltrate Heaven? That was a mighty request from the likes of Lucifer. When it came to Loki's powers, he was in full control, and if it was one thing Loki had, it was control.

As a youth, Loki studied the fine arts of creating illusions, such as breaking and entering into places he did not belong, and manipulating others. He didn't earn the title of God of Mischief for sitting idly by and watching Thor earn praise from father dearest, Odin. Entering Heaven, a kingdom he'd yet to step into even after all these centuries, should be a fun challenge for the Frost Giant to work his craft.

While it wasn't often that Loki needed much help from anyone, given that he wasn't exactly the most trusting individual, it wouldn't be a terribly bad idea to have the Devil in his back pocket in case something dire were to come up. After all, there could be the dreaded chance of another Thanos incident where he'd wind up killed. Again. Or what were the odds of him being pulled into another multiverse? Gods help him. Could he be that lucky? He'd rather take his chances with Lucifer.

Loki offered a whimsical laugh, before he thrust his hand out and shook Lucifer's.

"Fortune smiles upon you today, old friend," he promised. "You won't have to wait long."

[fireblcd]

࣪𓏲ּ  ֶָ  𝑤𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑠𝒕𝒗  ⁝         daniel henney,  44,  cis male,  he / him.    announcing  the  arrival  of  THARION  of  HOUSE  YRONWOOD,  the  LORD  of  YRONWOOD / MASTER OF LAWS.  whispers  among  the  court  name  them  to  be  both  INTELLIGENT  and  DECEPTIVE  in  disposition,  and  those  closest  to  them  speak  to  their  interests  in  sparring.  if  we  bards  could  compose  a  song  for  them,  it  might  tell  stories  of  a broadsword constantly strapped across his back reminiscent of stonekissed gates , mouth tugged into a near permanent scowl, humour tugging his lips wide with mirth when something awful occurs, blood coating his hands that only he can see .  the  seven  whisper  to  their  most  devout  queen  as  she  sleeps,  making  her  question  where  their  loyalties  truly  lie.  are  they  right  to  whisper?  for  their  loyalties  truly  lie  with  HIMSELF.   

i ⸻ general

NICKNAMES  :  rion

ALLIANCE : himself , his family

TITLES  :  lord heir of yronwood and master of laws

MARITAL STATUS  : in a long term relationship

CHILDREN  :  a bastard child

PHYSICALITY  :  black hair with a few grey streaks always tied back, scars littering every inch of his body , broad shoulders , 6′4 , lean but muscular.

ii ⸻ personal

SEXUAL  ORIENTATION  :  bisexual

ROMANTIC  ORIENTATION  :  biromantic

MORAL  ALIGNMENT  :  chaotic evil

SINS  :  lust  / gluttony /  greed  / sloth /  wrath  /  pride  /  envy

VIRTUES  : chastity / temperance / charity /  diligence  / patience / kindness /   humility

iii ⸻ biography

adopted  first  of  the  yronwood  clan,  tharion  was  always  a  quiet  child.  no  one  really  knew  quite  what  he  was  thinking  or  feeling,  acting  more  like  a  shadow  on  the  outskirts  of  any  room  than  being  front  and  centre.

he  was  mischievous,  often  pulling  little  pranks  with  other  friends  his  age  and  tormenting  his  younger  siblings  for  his  own  amusement.  most  of  it  wasn’t  ever  done  with  malicious  intent,  instead  more  interested  in  just  causing  chaos. 

he  took  his  house  and  it’s  reputation  very  seriously.  his  mother’s  were  both  incredibly  skilled  warriors,  with  plenty  of  houses  around  the  realm  sending  their  children  to  ward  there  and  learn  from  them.  as  the  eldest  that  would  inherit  that  responsibility,  tharion  dedicated  himself  to  his  training.  he  cared  very  little  for  studying  history  or  houses,  instead  studying  hand  to  hand  combat,  weaponry,  and  various  combat  technique.

he  was  sent  to  various  other  houses  to  study  their  armies  and  what  it  took  to  command  one.  he  studied  under  generals,  tried  for  hours  a  day,  and  it’s  about  the  only  thing  in  his  life  he’d  ever  truly  dedicated  himself  to.

he  travelled  to  braavos  at  seventeen  to  study  the  second  sons,  working  with  them  as  he  learned  how  to  operate  amongst  an  army  that  had  battles  to  fight  and  enemies  to  slay.  he’ll  never  forget  that  feeling  of  running  towards  his  enemy,  sword  in  hand  and  a  smile  on  his  face  as  thousands  of  other  warriors  fought  with  him.

he  fathered  his  child  not  long  after  turning  eighteen  and  for  a  moment,  it  put  his  dreams  of  battle  and  glory  on  hold.  he’d  never  really  considered  the  idea  of  fatherhood  despite  knowing  it  would  be  his  duty  as  the  heir  to  yronwood.  the  mother  died  in  childbirth  and  tharion  had  little  choice  but  to  bring  the  child  home,  though  he  didn’t  take  much  responsibility  for  the  child.  he  was  too  young,  too  self-centred,  and  he  left  the  household  and  other  members  of  the  family  to  care  for  his  blood.

instead,  he  was  making  a  name  for  himself.  he  protected  dorne  by  serving  the  martells  in  their  armies,  ensuring  that  no  one  from  across  the  sea  or  borders  that  threatened  them  walked  away  with  their  lives.  he  became  known  for  never  losing  a  battle,  people  even  going  as  far  as  saying  that  he  was  the  greatest  warrior  in  a  generation.  that  sort  of  glory  fueled  him,  filling  his  veins  with  blood  and  only  spurring  him  on.

over  time,  he  worked  his  way  up  the  ranks  until  he  was  the  man  commanding  armies,  making  the  calls.  he  offered  his  protection  to  plenty  of  houses,  though  he  didn’t  let  on  that  he  would  expect  something  in  return  one  day  until  after  he’d  helped  them.

he  came  to  think  of  the  martells  as  rather  weak  willed  in  recent  years,  and  he  began  to  wonder  why  it  was  simply  accepted  that  they  would  rule  all  of  dorne  when  they’d  earned  their  place  through  conquest  in  the  first  place.  he  begun  to  quietly  speak  among  dornish  houses,  stirring  up  confliction  and  the  idea  that  perhaps  there  were  better  suited  houses  for  rule.  for  how  could  a  man  who  couldn't  even  decide  on  an  heir  be  trusted?

he  didn’t  expect  so  many  to  maintain  their  loyalty  and  start  whisperings  of  him  being  untrustworthy.  he  knew  that  he  had  to  get  out  of  dodge,  so  he  ended  up  going  to  king's  landing  to  visit  some  old  friends.  by  the  end  of  his  visit,  he  had  been  made  master  of  laws  and  had  permanently  moved  into  the  castle.

he’s  in  support  of  the  targaryen  rule,  if  only  because  he  believe  it  can  give  him  what  he  desired.  power,  and  the  possibility  of  swaying  them  to  let  him  take  control  of  dorne  one  day.  .

iv ⸻ tidbits

basically is a very morally grey dude with a lot of ambition for himself. he looks out for himself above all others and really only cares about like five people.

his personality is more quiet and brooding , he can be quite serious in some ways and in others he is just a smug asshole .

while he is a master in all weaponry after dedicating his life to training , his favourite weapon will always be a sword. he carries his family's sword , stonekissed, around with him . it is made of valyrian steel and was stolen from the ruins of the crimson rain.

v ⸻ wanted connections

long term lover / wife : their  portraits  seem  to  resemble  caitriona balfe , natalie dormer , lana parrilla , gemma chan , utp  -  and  whisperers  among  the  court  seem  to  say  the  following  regarding  their  relationship:  i'd say that they've been together 10 - 15 years so far if not more and they are the one person that knows tharion wholly. she knows about all of his ambitions , his wants for dorne to fall into his hands , and she is behind them 100% . she should be just as morally grey as he is and more than a little okay with doing horrible things , and ofc they are also very in love with each other and extremely loyal. the rest can all be plotted out! 

scheming friends : people that also have agendas of their own that he's buddied up with over the years. they probably don't share his vision of wanting to tear the martells down , but they could both be helping each other achieve their goals.

friends from essos : he spent quite a bit of time there in his youth when he was focussed on his training and definitely made an effort to network amongst the houses.

[writteninscarlet]

Peace was never an option. That’s what their actions were screaming at her. Wanda didn’t believe that for one fucking second. There could have been compromise and a level of peace, even if it wasn’t solid or stable. Nothing good came all at once. They could have worked on it together and promoted a level of companionship and trust between nations. Instead, haters would always do what they did best: fear what they did not understand. Wanda know fear well, and though it had long been a curse she could she the gifts fear sometimes could bring. But their fear was unnatural and they were blinded by ignorance.

Mutants and humans were not destined to fight continually. It was not some law of fate, it wasn’t something written in stone that could not be diverted. There was no need to be mortal enemies, when even a grudging rivalry would be better for both parties.

The screams were now vocal and loud and primal. Someone was in PAIN.

Wanda didn’t want to face Kate Pryde’s wrath, the young mutant could be incredibly vicious and was as lethal as they came. Already the organised group was becoming disorganised in the chaos of lost limbs and lost lives. Wanda couldn’t focus too much on what the brunette was doing, she had her own bigots to deal with, but Kate was dancing through the crowds and leaving a trail of bodies in her wake. Wanda was not dancing - yet - but she was moving swiftly and capably.

Her hexes were enough to ward most away, and to take them out completely. For those who dared step even closer, Wanda was kindly showing them the results of training from some of the best physical fighters the Avengers and other heroic teams had to offer.

She was angry. Rage was pulsing through her, a flash fire deep within. It wasn’t all consuming this time like such emotional outbursts had been in the past. Wanda was very much still herself, but she knew that such a rage wasn’t going to go any time soon and that some of her hexes were perhaps stronger than needed. But her rage was fuelled by injustice and pain. There was more than enough fuel to keep the fire going. These anti-mutant haters had picked on the wrong two mutants. These woman were going to obliterate them.

Or close enough.

They couldn’t kill them. Not all of them. Not unless necessary.

It didn’t matter that THEY had started the fight. It didn’t matter that Wanda and Kitty had been doing no wrong. They were simply two friends in a public space. It didn’t matter that THEY would happily kill the two mutants or make a show of them. This fight would end up in the news if it wasn’t somehow hushed up first, and it would be the mutants of the world who would come of looking worse.

There was a flashing pain in her side as she released someone had thrown something - a knife? A pole? Something. Didn’t matter what unless she somehow found out that there injury was infected later. It was enough to know that it was bleeding, but not heavily. She wasn’t dying on her feet, and she should have seen it coming. The hexes stopped, briefly, as she punched the fucker nearest hee. A clean cut to the throat, a gargling sound from the man perhaps two or three times her weight, down he went.

Her hands moved as quickly as a speedsters, the hexes coming more frequently now. Things were TOO chaotic.

She sensed Kate by her side, and said (though was sure Kate knew it too), “We need to finish this quickly. We’re drawing too much attention. Someone could get hurt.” Someone OTHER than the idiots and bastards currently around them. She didn’t know how Kate was doing either. Wanda thought she could feel a magnificent bruise forming on one of her cheeks, and there was the cut above her hip of course. Probably others. These were humans and no REAL match for either of them. But their sheer number told her this had been organised, and that someone above the level of these goons knew the mutants wouldn’t be prepared to annihilate and kill them. They had to exert restraint. That meant taking a few blows.

“I wouldn’t trust them to organise a piss up in a brewery,” she added through gritted teeth as the end was in sight. A few more fell. A couple left. So was behind it? There were any number of organisations that might wish mutants harm, from Orchis to Hydra to AIM and beyond (to other mutants in fact).

Closed Starter ;; @onlyaphcse

[bohemian-nights]

Can you imagined if Aemond had been raised by Daemon? Like after the eye situation Luke becomes Viserys ward and Aemond becomes Rhaenyra or Daemons ward. The chaos that would ensue (not sure if this would realistically change anything but I like to have fun and imagine it would).

Now this is chaotic, but fascinating👀

I don’t think much would change either, but I could see when Viserys dies Luke becoming the Greens hostage. He’s probably also forced to make public statement at Aegon’s coronation that he is a bastard and that his uncle is the rightful ruler of the seven kingdoms. He for sure still dies, but it’s later in the Dance. Probably the biggest thing here is that Blood & Cheese doesn’t happen.

I think Aemond would find some way to flee Dragonstone during the chaos of lizards birth, but ultimately though I don’t see this preventing the Dance or any of the deaths that occurred.

[silverflame2724]

WWX wisely chose not to attend Jin Lings 100 day celebration but still has to listen to Jin Zixun's screaming about some curse from the edge of the corpse barrier. Finally at the end of his patience Wei Wuxian curses Jin Zixun in a manner that no one can mistake as anything other than a curse cast by Wei Wuxian.

It's a truth curse mixed with a babbling curse as well as having a area of effect so everyone within a li of the victim is affected. Almost with a hour of returning to carp tower for reinforcements during the party with everyone in attendance fights break out as inconvenient truths come spilling out.

"I was paid by the Jin to spread false rumours about the Yiling Patriarch!", "I cursed Jin Zixun with the 100 holes curse!", ect.

When the invitation came, Wei Wuxian really wanted to go at first. He never thought he would get the chance to see his Shijie again. And for Lan Zhan himself to sign the letter of invitation made it all the more tempting. But......

But Wei Wuxian knew the Jin. And knew that they wouldn't let this chance go to possibly attack the Burial Mounds or maybe even him on his way to Lanling. Everyone knew Wei Wuxian no longer used his sword and Wei Wuxian would have to travel through Qiongqi Path to get to Lanling. Qiongqi Path was structured in a way that made it perfect for an ambush. And while Qiongqi was sure to have plenty of resentful energy and corpses around, Wei Wuxian couldn't count on the chance that the area would be purged in preparal for his arrival.

So though it tore at him, Wei Wuxian rejected the invitation, choosing instead to strengthen the wards in fear of retaliation from his refusal. And just as he expected, the Jins came knocking. Though, not for the reason he had initially thought.

“Wei Wuxian!!!! Remove this curse you have put on me!!!!” Some random Jin yelled, banging futilely against the wards. 

Wei Wuxian ignored him. He wasn’t about to go see what the ruckus was about. What if he was just yelling about it only to lead Wei Wuxian into a trap? He doubted many Jin had the smarts to think about that, but still. He’d rather err on the side of caution.

.

.

It had been a few hours and this guy still hadn’t given up. Wei Wuxian was starting to get annoyed but still dreaded over having to deal with this annoyance. Can a man just get a few days without someone cursing him to death? He had inventions to invent!

“So you finally show your face, you servant!!!” The Jin spat, heaving and red-faced. The cultivators behind him looked ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. 

Wei Wuxian was not impressed.

“Undo this curse right now, Wei Wuxian!!! Otherwise, I’ll tell my uncle to have the clans siege you!!!!”

“Your....uncle?” Wei Wuxian asked curiously. “Who are you again?”

“You know who I am!”

“I really don’t.” Wei Wuxian shook his head. “Look, I don’t know who fed you the lie that I cursed you, but I really have better things to do than curse someone I don’t even know.”

The Jin began yelling again and Wei Wuxian sighed, rubbing his temples to ward off a headache. He was really getting annoyed. And then--

“Ha, if your parents could see you know, they’d be so disappointed in you.” 

Wei Wuxian twitched. 

“It’s a good thing they died, huh? So they don’t have to see what a tainted mess their bastard of a son became!”

Normally, Wei Wuxian would brush off any insult. However, to target his parents? That was crossing a fucking line.

“Since you want to be so badly cursed by me, so be it!” He put Chenqing to his lips and began playing. A wave of resentful energy gathered and blasted the Jin and his companions away. 

The curse was a little thing Wei Wuxian had come up with when he was bored. Wen Qing had given him the idea, indirectly. She had been tired with him disguising his injuries from many of his failed experiments and decided to curse him with a truth curse, causing him to be unable to hide his injuries from her. (Of course, after it wore off, he stopped hiding things from her, knowing she had something like that at her disposal.) In an effort to undo it, Wei Wuxian had studied it and though he hadn’t been able to figure out how to undo it before it wore off, he had been able to figure out how to improve it. 

This new and improved curse had the same function. However, instead of being forced to tell the truth, the victim would blurt out any secrets they had kept hidden. On top of that, it would spread to others quickly. Wei Wuxian hoped that a few minutes of embarrassing secrets being spilled would be enough to deter them.

And sure enough, it did. 

The Jin and his rather disgruntled group of subordinates left. Now that Wei Wuxian looked at them though, he noticed some Lan disciples in their midst. His heart had clenched with betrayal and hurt, remembering that it was Lan Zhan who had signed the invitation. 

He shook his head. It mattered not. 

...........................

What Wei Wuxian didn’t know, though, was that the effects of the curse had not worn off. So when Jin Zixun returned to the celebration to get reinforcements, it quickly spread to all of the guests.

At least three sect leaders immediately blurted out, “I was paid by the Jin to spread false rumors about the Yiling Patriarch!” 

“Me too! The Jin promised me women and crops in exchange for telling everyone at the recent Discussion conference that the Yiling Patriarch had sent his corpses to my land! They were just wandering fierce corpses, but who wouldn’t believe that Wei Wuxian would send his corpses to any random person?”

“I was told to spread the rumors about the Yiling Patriarch raping virgins!”

And then......

“I cursed Jin Zixun with the hundred holes curse!” Su Minshan, sect leader of the newly emerged Su sect, said.

Jin Zixun turned to him quickly and took out his sword, rushing to him. “Undo it right now!!!”

“I don’t want to! You always bullied me, why should I?” Su Minshan yelled, easily beating back Jin Zixun. However, he couldn’t defend himself against all of Jin Zixun’s subordinates and was quickly taken into custody. 

The party quickly descended into chaos as everyone everywhere began spilling their deepest, darkest secrets.

Jin, Lan, Jiang, Yao, Ouyang......no one was spared. No matter how they tried to stop it, the curse was too strong.

And the culprit for all this chaos? He was happily tinkering away in his cave, unaware of how powerful the curse he casted was.