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alicesivory · 2 months

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Old Habits Die Hard [5/?]

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Pairing: Nightwatch! Aemond Targaryen x wildling female! Reader

Genre: Historically accurate Aemond

WC: 3454

Summary: Aemond gradually embraced the rugged and untamed ways of the wildlings, adjusting to their customs and survival skills in the harsh environment they inhabited.

As dawn broke, the first fingers of light seeped into Aemond’s tent, casting a gentle, golden glow that wove through the coarse fabric. The sun’s early warmth stirred him from his slumber, and he awoke with a serene awareness of another day granted to him. The sleep he had savoured was a rare gift from the gods especially when he stepped foot in the north.

The finest sleep he had enjoyed in months.

Surely this humble tent wasn’t as extravagant of his chambers in King's Landing. The Wildling’s tent was as if it brings comfort to him than the Night's Watch barracks. Here, the simplicity of his shelter was a luxury in itself, a sanctuary far superior to the cramped mattresses and the chill of the stone walls. Aemond’s gaze fell upon the fur and blankets that cocooned him—a gift of warmth from the Wildling woman who had shown him unexpected kindness; he knew he might never be able to fully repay her. As he drew the fur closer, he inhaled deeply, savouring the lingering scent of the wild, a subtle fragrance of her that spoke of forests and untamed lands.

Aemond took his time layering his new clothing that formerly belonged to the wildling named Yuri, one of her wildling companions. He wondered if she herself could make good clothing. Putting on the thinnest layer first, he wrapped the sheep skin next around his waist up to his chest. After several layers, he topped it off with the wildling’s distinctive camouflage fur coat. Tying it up, he peeks through his tent, finding the area already alive. Stew boiled as children ran through the snow.

Far much different that the smallfolk yet they were just as simple as they were.

He slips on his boots also made out of thick fur, possibly sheep skin.

Tying his hair like he always did since he was a child,

He looked up to the tent’s opening.

It’s time.

Parting the tent’s entrance, revealing himself as Aemond stepped out of his tent, he felt eyes on him. Some were the same, some were positive stares. Through all that, he couldn’t help but to feel a sense of insecurity washing over him. Yet he masked it well enough, walking through the crowd, searching for familiarity in this foreign world he walks in. And he finds his answer well enough when he spots her.

Sitting on a wooden log on the edge of the camp, beside the stallion he brought from castle black, sharpening her arrows. He stepped closer as his heavy footsteps stomped through the snow. Heavy enough for her to notice him, turning her head around. “Snow haired! You’re finally awake. A good night's rest, I suppose?” She teased with a childish grin across her face. “It was well enough,” he said with a smirk. His wildling friend could only smile back before carving her handmade arrows once again.

“Do you sharpen your arrows everyday?” He asked curiously.

“No, not everyday. Just for special occasions or for hunting,” she said as she shook her head. “And what is today’s occasion if I may ask?” Satisfied with his question, the she wildling turned her head once more. “We are going to take you…hunting, Prince Aemond.” Saying his title with a hint of tease, standing up before him. “Taking me for a hunt?” He repeated.

“Why yes. If you shall fight with us, we would like to see first how well you hunt. How you ride your horse, how quiet your steps are–,” tapping his feet with her bow, recalling how heavy his footsteps were wearing her kind’s heavy boots, “–and how true you were of your skills in swords and such.”

“You want me to prove myself to you?”

“Oh not to me. But to the Chief, to Gruff, to Yuri, and the whole tribe, basically. I have no doubt for you, my prince,” she mocked with a chuckle, bowing ridiculously in front of him. “Do not taint my title,” Aemond said, a bit frustrated with her childish behaviour yet his words did not scare her, it just made the situation more amusing to her. “You clearly are no fun! But is it true though? Are you actually a prince?” Her bow reaches out to swipe his hair away from his shoulder in which he swats it away with a scowl in his face. “Yes, I am.”

She snorted.

“You don’t act like one.”

Walking away to their horse, Aemond took hold of her with his grip on her arm.

“Was that supposed to be an insult?”

She snorted once again. Amused with his temper.

“You tell me,” she cockily said to him before taking her arm away.

“Besides, I can’t imagine you sitting on a tall palace drinking wine as your servant pour you more into your cup. Whilst you stare down at your people like some kind of god–,”

“–I hate to break your imagination, but I simply do not do that–,”

“–Now you just made me doubt for a second. Maybe you really did do that in your lavish castle,” she teased with a laugh. “And what? You have ten girls surrounding you?” She mocked once more, turning herself to face him as she walked backwards. “If you are asking if I have ten whores, no I do not,” he snarled. “I beg to differ, snow haired. I bet you cuddled with them all day as they fed you the ripest fruit in the realm!” She cackles, throwing her head back as she started to walk side by side with him

“And what of you? You yourself are surrounded by two men,” Aemond bickered back, playing with her games.

“Gruff and Yuri? You disgust me. They are like brothers to me.”

“But do they see you as a sister?–”

“–Gruff has a wife and Yuri has two children. Do not speak of them that way.”

Surprisingly, he was satisfied with her answer.

They walked side by side as the sun shone down on them.

“But do you actually have maidens by your side?” He heard her ask.

“Maidens? No, not all the time,” he hummed, his hands behind his back.

“Not all the time? Then when do you have maidens beside you?”

He knew of the maidens she meant. Not just ordinary girls but women who threw themselves at him. Lovers or mistresses. He recalled one or two. Sylvie and another woman he replaced her with. He doesn’t even know if Alys is considered one. But he didn’t want to admit this to her. And he does not know why. She was just a stupid wildling, why would he care what she thinks of him? She could not change his past and he should not care if it did affect the way she looked at him. But he couldn’t.

“Why do you want to know so badly?” He instead said, smiling smugly at her. And he swore to the gods he saw a faint of red tint in both of her cheeks. Surely she had them before because of the cold but he could differentiate her usual red cheeks with a woman’s natural blush. “Badly is a strong word. I was just merely curious,” she replied, inserting her arm into her bow. The one eyed prince has a smirk painted on his face as he watches his flustered friend walking ahead of him. It seems he had struck a chord. And he liked it.

Hunting was a rare activity for him at his youth. His father was too sick to even teach him how to hold a bow and arrow or even a sword. The last time he went hunting was for his ten-and-four nameday. Ser Criston Cole was the one who guided him, Aegon, and Daeron through the woods to catch the biggest boar they could find. Even in that, ser Criston was the one who slew the boar himself for the guard told him that he should not risk himself with hunting since it could put him in risk.

And now Aemond finds himself hiding between trees and shrubs, sitting close with the she wildling. The others hid in other places around them as the snow fell from the sky, slightly covering the area around them. “Look!” She said, pointing towards a doe, walking curiously around the forest as it sniffs an area uncovered by the light snow. “It should be an easy target,” smirking at the one eyed prince before lending him her bow and arrow. A crossbow, yes he has taken hold of that weapon. But to act as an archer? He is ashamed to admit that he is untalented of that particular skill. “I shall skin the deer–,”

“–No, I want you to do it. Prove to them,” she insisted, nudging his arm with her bow.

If he lied– no. There is no escape to this.

“I am untalented with this weapon,” he said, boring his healthy eye onto her eyes that resembled the doe they’re hunting. His heart rate quickened when he didn’t earn an instant answer from her. They were cramped as they hid themselves quietly from their prey. In a swift motion, she positioned herself beside him, guiding his calloused hands to her bow.

“An untalented can be talented if they try,” she whispered.

Her whisper was relevant for their situation, yet he felt tiny bumps erupted across his arms. Every word she spoke was like a spell to him, obeying her as he took the bow into his hands. Her small calloused hands guided him to the bow’s grip, close enough for him to feel his cheek pressed to hers.

“You have your foundations for archery. You just need to take another step further– Keep your grip tight, now pull the string back.”

He did as she told him to.

Fixing his fingers with hers, calloused and rough that made him want to know every single story behind it.

He took a deep breath, aiming at their prey.

“Do not let it slip. Just breathe,” she whispered to him.

Aemond’s hands were steady, but his pulse hammered like a war drum in his ears.

His bowstring flicked, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he drew the bowstring back, the taut cord singing a soft, tense note. But it hits a tree beside their prey, causing it to flinch and move from its place.

No, he failed.

“Oi! Catch that deer!” He heard Gruff say from a distance, assuming he said it to the other wildlings that came with, but Aemond wanted to prove himself. He was the one who startled it, letting it run. So he took no choice, leaping from his spot and sprinting to the deer. Startled by a human’s presence, it started to run. But Aemond was close enough to leap and trap the deer with his arms. Tackling it down, he pulled out his dagger.

Ready to stab his hunt.

But he looked down, finding the doe’s eyes looking up at him with fear.

It was alive, and it reminded him so much of her.

Doe.

He asked himself, why did he become so weak?

Was it grief? Fear? Was it all consuming his bravery?

Or did he just know how to feel once more?

To be alive like he was before they took his eye?

His train of thoughts were suddenly interrupted when an arrow shot through the doe’s body. He looked back, and saw her standing not far from him, lowering down her bow as she saw how distraught he was. She saw through his cowardliness and he was ashamed of it. All this time he thought of her as his prey, someone he could easily devour. But now he was the one who felt powerless.

He even could not shed a single blood from a doe.

“You are angry.”

The tent’s flaps were yanked open with a force that sent them flapping wildly against the tent’s sides. Aemond stormed inside as she followed along behind him. His boots pounding the earth with a ferocious rhythm that echoed the thunder of his anger. Each step was a declaration, a defiant stamp that shook through the small, confined space. He grunted, throwing his sword and dagger away.

“Snow haired–,”

“–Do not call me that!” He hissed, pointing at her as he glared the seven hells out of her.

“Is your temper that short, Aemond?”

“My temper can be as short as I please.”

Ignoring her question, he sits down and looked away at her as he felt so defeated.

“Then why was it short today? Was it because of the doe?”

“No,” he coldly replied.

“Then what is it?” She asked again, sitting on the fur covered ground beside him. Then he felt it, her hand placed on his shoulder. “If it is not because of the doe, then what is it?” Her tone is careful and gentle. Aemond forgot the last time someone asked him why he was angry. Not why he did what he did, but why he was angry. He turned his head slightly towards her direction, but not fully showing her his vulnerability.

“When you first saw me, what was the first word that came to your mind?”

A comfortable silence.

A faint laughter of small children bleeding through the tent.

“Different,” she answered honestly.

“How so?” He asked, not daring to lock his eye with her.

“Your hair. It was silver. And your posture, your physique was not big and rough like northerners,” she explained further. “Did I scare you? When we exchanged words in that bridge?” Playing with the dagger he previously tossed away. “I know I should be, and I was at first. I was scared that you would not help me or my people,” she answered again. “But did I– scared you?”

“You’re asking the wrong person, snow hair.”

A chuckle erupted from him.

A genuine one.

“It all felt so easy back then. To kill, I mean. I rode Vhagar on dragon back and burned everything to the ground as I please,” he told her, spacing off to a distance recalling his rage and anger throughout the war. “She was my pride and glory— my dragon, Vhagar. The only thing that preserved my identity and power as a Targaryen prince,”

“So you were not a kind prince,” the spearwife pointed out, listening to every word he uttered.

“I believe so. A war cannot be won merely by someone occupying a position on a council or residing in a castle. It requires more than just strategic planning and oversight from a distance. Someone has to take direct action on the battlefield, face the dangers, and engage in the conflict firsthand. That was the role I had to take on, and I embraced it more than anyone.”

“But it was not a pure act, I must admit. All the bloodshed I have done were sins that I must pay— and I believe the way to pay for my sins were to suffer like them. The Gods kept me alive a little longer for me to endure the torture I have placed upon— innocent lives at war. I suffered when I placed my foot on winterfell. I suffered when I heard of my brother’s death. I suffered when the gods left me to realize that the war was not worth all the pain.”

Throwing his dagger aside, Aemond clenched his fists tightly, his knuckles paling. It was true—he was furious. His anger was directed at his own blind ambition during the war, the realization hitting him with a pang of regret. Everything he had fought for now seemed meaningless, and he was tormented by uncertainty about his family's fate. While he remained free in the wilderness, he could only wonder what had become of them, knowing he had abandoned them in the process.

Where is duty?

Lost in his own labyrinth of his mind, he didn’t feel her shift. Their arms touched as the wildling leaned on to speak,

“Everyone who took part in a war has ever felt that way, Aemond. They all thought about what-ifs to escape for a moment from their fate. A war must be won one way or another. But even the one who wins made as many sacrifices as you did. You both endured the same grief as the other.— Both spilled as much blood as the other.”

“But you are still alive now. You might see it as a punishment, but you have a purpose in life.” Placing her palm on his chest. “You are more than just a pawn at war. This place is not your realm anymore. We live beyond the wall and you are free. You are welcome to be anything, for the wilderness does not limit the people.”

“But what is my purpose if I am not a Targaryen? What is the purpose of being free if I know that the people I love are caged in the walls of—.” He halted, a pregnant pause.

Aemond swallowed a lump in his throat, desperate for an answer.

“Then that is your purpose, is it not? You are free so you could rescue your loved ones from misery. To lead my people back into the wall— pass through it and sail your ship home. Save them from their torment. When 5 people are trapped in a cage, without any of them escaping or letting loose from its cage, they would all be trapped in that cage forever. But you— have escaped. You are outside of your cage and it is your mission to find the key and let them all out.”

As the wildling’s words flowed, a spark of intrigue ignited in the the one eyed prince’s eye. Each carefully chosen phrase seemed to resonate deeply, building a sense of connection and understanding. His posture relaxed and their gaze sharpened with growing admiration. Slowly turning his head to face his now companion.

“How old are you, wildling?” He asked.

“I just turned twenty years of age. Why do you ask?”

“I am one year older than you, yet I feel like a boy beside you.”

She smiled gently at him, letting out a bashful chuckle.

“Your mind is clouded by your emotions. I am sure you are just as intelligent as anyone.”

The air crackled with a charged tension. The girl and the prince sat close, their proximity amplifying the intensity of their unspoken connection. Shadows danced on the fabric walls as they exchanged glances that lingered longer than usual, each look revealing a flicker of vulnerability and curiosity. The silence between them was thick, filled with an electric anticipation, as if every word they might speak could unravel the depth of their hidden emotions.

“Preserving my identity as a Targaryen means so much more to me than I can imagine,” he whispered.

“Then preserve it. Don’t let it slip away from your grasp.”

Their nose almost touched as Aemond felt his body drawn to her. The way she never felt him lesser, validating his feelings that no one could ever did in his life. Helping him to crawl out from his own darkness.

Her eyes still reminded him of the doe he failed to kill. He could devour her right now if he wanted, for she was supposed to be his prey and pawn. But something changed within him. He does not wish to over power her. He does not want to exploit her the way he did with the others. She was his prey but he did not want to make her as one.

He refused to kill the doe.

He refused to harm his doe.

His doe.

Brushing a strand of hair away from her face, he sighed. “But I have changed now. I am not the same person I was in the war,” he confessed.

“Then what shall you do about it?” She asked.

Reaching out for his dagger once more, he looked down upon the sharp edge of it. “The Targaryens were identified with its silver hair, and I would like to keep it that way.”

Taking her hand gently in his, he placed the dagger in her palm.

“But I want to leave bad omen from my identity. For I have changed. My hair was long when the war started— and now it has ended. It is time to cut away the man I once was.”

a/n: they’re evolving😈😈😈 STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER🌷✨🎀

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the-marshals-wife · 4 months

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Refuge (Sierra Six x Reader)

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⋅☆⋅ 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

A/N: It's official: I'm obsessed with The Gray Man. I've watch it 3 times so far in under 2 months, and I really wanted to write something sweet for my current favorite Goose character.

Description: Sierra Six/Courtland Gentry x Fem!Reader, established (secret) relationship; flirty, steamy fluff + angst if you squint | Warnings: suggestive themes, kissing, alcohol | Setting: post-movie | Word count: 1,746

Gif credit: user magnusedom

Imagine Six returning to you, his best kept secret, and asking you to come away with him

There was only one thing in the world that could make you open the front door of your apartment after midnight. The instant you recognize the familiar, distinct sequence of knocking, you shoot upright from your slumber and scramble off of the sofa, the book on your chest flying across the floor from where you had dozed off. Having almost tripped on the rug, you release the dead bolt and frantically fumble with the chain lock. Heart pounding, you slide it loose and jerk open the door.

Waiting on the other side like an apparition was a smiling face you weren't sure you'd ever lay eyes on again.

"Sorry for the late hour, ma'am. Could I trouble you for a cup of sugar?"

"Court!"

You couldn't help it. His name, the name only you could use, escapes your lips like a cry.

"May I come in?" he gestures.

You grab his arm and usher him inside.

"Where have you been?" you asked in a hushed voice, looking over him.

"Here, there, everywhere," he answers, leaning back against the closed door. "Spent a little time in nowhere too."

"I've been so worried about you! I haven't heard from you in months. I know that's the job, but it's been so long without a sign or anything. I was afraid something happened to you. I didn't know what to think," you say all at once.

"I know, I'm sorry. I'll explain everything, I promise. Just, let me look at you first," he says, gazing on you softly, "Wow. How is that possible?"

"What?"

"How are you more beautiful than the last time I saw you?"

You feel your cheeks turn red, but it doesn't keep you from pointing a finger to his chest.

"If you think being a smoothie is going to get you out an explanation, think again, buster."

He wraps his arms around your waist.

"Fair enough," he nods, "It's still true though. You're even prettier when you're angry."

"I must be stunning then," you smirk.

He brings his hand up to lift your chin, leaning in close, "Incredibly."

The waning space between you vanishes as he captures your lips. You lean into his touch, savoring every sensation you'd missed so much. From the warm, smokiness of his scent to the gentle scratch of his beard on your skin. When he finally pulls away, you're nearly breathless.

"Why don't you make yourself at home, stranger?" you propose, composing yourself, "You want a drink?"

"I wouldn't say no to a beer," he replies.

"Coming right up," you say, turning towards the kitchen, "They feed you in 'nowhere'? I got half of a leftover sub here, and some really leftover pizza I can nuke in the microwave."

"Tempting, but I'm good for now, thanks. Just the beer," you hear him say as you grab two bottles from the fridge.

"Good call, honestly. We can just order take out or something."

He doesn't respond, and it immediately catches your attention. You grab the bottle opener from the drawer and make quick work of the caps. With a faraway look in his eye, he stands on the other side of the modest island that separates the kitchen area from the living area. You extend the bottle towards him, and even when he takes it from your grasp, he's barely shaken from his silent reverie.

Too worried to imbibe, you set your own drink down on the counter. "Court, what's wrong? I can tell something is bothering you."

He takes a drink, which is followed by a long pause.

"Do you remember Fitzroy's niece, Claire?"

You nod. "Of course. Is she alright?"

"She is now," he sighs, setting his jaw, "Fitzroy is gone."

"What?" you say, rounding the island to be at his side.

"It's a long story, but some bad people got ahold of Claire to get to him, because of something that I did. We took care of it in the end, but...he didn't make it."

He takes another hefty drink and puts down the bottle.

"Court, I'm so sorry," you say, touching his arm, "I know how much he meant to you."

He turns to face you. "He did. Now Claire has no one, except me. And that's what I came here to talk to you about."

Your pulse quickens at the seriousness in his voice.

"Her and I have been on the run the past couple weeks. Staying ahead of Carmichael and his goon squad."

"Wait, you escaped the agency?" you ask, shocked.

"Didn't have a choice after they tried to use her as leverage to get me to keep doing their dirty work. I got her out, which means I'm out too, for good," he confirms solemnly, "I've found a place for us where we might actually have a shot at a normal-ish life."

You stare at him wide-eyed.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying...I'm all she has left. She needs me. And I need you," he says, gently rubbing your upper arms, "Before, I couldn't give you the life you deserved. But this could be my second chance. I think I might have finally gotten to the top of the hill, and I want you there with me."

"Oh Court, I don't know..." you hesitate, mind reeling, "I don't know anything about raising a kid."

He grins. "Neither do I. We can figure it out together. I mean there's gotta be a manual or something, right?"

You can't help but snort at the idea. Just as more protests are forming on your tongue, he gives you a look so disarming that you forget the words entirely.

"Come away with me, Y/N."

He takes your hand in his.

"It won't be easy, and it definitely won't be perfect. I know I've got no right to ask you to leave everything behind. But I've loved you from the very beginning, and I will protect you with everything I have."

His vow brings tears to your eyes. He laid his heart bare, and in doing so, he'd banished the last of your meager doubts.

"Well, when you put it that way," you say.

You grab the collar of his jacket in your fists and pull him into a kiss. He hums in pleasant surprise and laces his fingers through your hair. After another heated moment of rediscovery, you at last loosen your grip and surface from the embrace.

"Is that a yes?" he chuckles.

"It is," you answer, your smile becoming nervous as your thoughts turn to the future, "Do you think Claire will like me?"

"Oh, don't worry, she's going to love you," he smirks, letting you go and walking over to the window. "Honestly, I'm not sure I'm going to survive you two. This was probably a bad idea."

"Now I really I can't wait to meet her," you tease.

Your amusement fades, however, as you watch him part the curtain and cautiously peer up at the surrounding rooftops.

Dread stirs in the pit of your stomach.

"How much time do we have?" you ask.

"We should probably get you packed up," he says over his shoulder.

"Really? I thought we'd at least have tonight. Are you being followed right now?"

"Not yet. No one knows about this place. But the longer I'm here, the greater the possibility that changes," he frowns, "I need to get back to Claire. I took a risk coming here. She can't be alone for long."

You mind begins to race as your gaze darts around your apartment and belongings. The framed pictures scattered across the walls of old friends and family you hardly see suddenly meant more than anything tucked away in the safe beneath your bed. But could you even take them? Would having any ties to your old life be too dangerous?

Old life. The thought makes your head spin.

"This is happening so fast," you say as you rub your temples, "I never thought I'd just leave everything. I don't even know what to take with me."

"Hey," he says, stepping back over to you, "It's alright. Listen, I know I got caught up in pouring out my dumb old heart a minute ago, but you don't have to do this, Y/N. If you want to stay, I understand."

"No, I'm coming with you," you deny, "I want to be with you, no matter where we have to go. I've never wanted anything more. You have made it to the top, Court, and I wouldn't miss the view for anything."

All this time, you had been the only refuge in the world for "Sierra Six". Now, more than ever, he was becoming yours.

He kisses your forehead softly and smiles down on you.

"How about we just start small, and go from there. Baby steps. Like, maybe a suitcase?" he suggests.

"Sounds good," you agree, "Guess I don't need to pack the kitchen sink for wherever we're going?"

He snickers, "No, we have one of those. Got one in the bathroom too. We even have a toilet."

"I wasn't expecting such luxury," you smirk.

"I mean you have to hold the handle down a little to get it to flush, but other than that," he quips.

"Well, I suppose I'll survive," you say in mock exasperation.

"We do have a TV, so that kinda makes up for it. Plus, I got queen bed all to myself. I might could be persuaded into sharing, though."

You cross your arms, eyeing his suggestive look.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, but you'll have to sleep on top of the covers. I don't wanna get your girl germs on my sheets."

"Courtland Gentry," you grunt, smacking his arm.

You take off down the hall to your room, and he follows after you laughing.

"What? What'd I say?" he asks, knowing full well.

"Why don't I just sleep on the floor?" you pose.

You bolt over to your dresser and start rummaging through your clothes, keeping your back to him.

"Okay, you're right. That was unfair of me," he concedes.

Biting your lip, you spin around with your eyebrows raised.

He stands in the doorway, pulling a stick of gum from his pocket and unwrapping it, "You can get under the comforter."

You throw a shirt at him, shaking your head.

"Shut up and help me pack."

He pops the gum in his mouth and smiles.

"Yes ma'am."

#sierra six x reader #courtland gentry x reader #court gentry x reader #the gray man #six x reader #sierra six x y/n #courtland gentry x y/n #court gentry x y/n #sierra six x you #courtland gentry x you #sierra six imagine #courtland gentry imagine #the gray man imagine #the gray man fanfiction #ryan gosling #sierra six #courtland gentry #court gentry #my writing

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amaranthsynthesis · 1 year

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"Not that it isn't an unexpected pleasure to see you, my dear, but why are you bleeding on my rug?" "Don't worry, the blood is mostly mine. I was in the area."

A brief thought about what may have happened after Ballard got his distinctive facial scar, if not how he was wounded in the first place. It turns out to be very difficult to sew up your own face, so he went for help. (I was working on coloring this when I realized it had already gotten out of hand, when all I was doing originally was a sketch of pre-game durge having a smoke, sooo.)

#bg3 #bg3 dark urge #enver gortash #ballard #the dark urge #dark urge x gortash #this is ship art but it doesn't have to be #I just think it's (blood + wounds + smoking) is neat #digital art #artings

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immajustvibehere · 1 year

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Unspoken Fascination

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x gn!Reader

Summary: You observe Arthur as he sleeps. You can't help but note all his little imperfections. But despite them, you love him deeply.

tags: slight (very slight) angst? Maybe. Fluffy. Self-indulgent.

1100 words, less than 10 minutes reading time

"He isn't the most beautiful", you tried to convince yourself. But even thinking that made your stomach turn a bit. Though it is true! You just needed to look at him.

"In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,

for they in thee a thousand errors note;

But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,

Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote;..."

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, you felt yourself lost in the sight of Arthur. His broad frame leans against a tree, his hat resting in his lap, held in place by one of his big hands. Exhaustion had finally claimed him. You had been talking about your day and despite his weariness, he had been listening for a long time, nodding and mumbling affirmations. Now, you had the chance to observe him.

Aside from his soft snores, there was the rustling of the leaves in a gentle breeze. You were a few yards away from camp. Just near enough to hear people talking, but far enough to not being able to make out about what they were going on about.

Arthur's hair were unkempt and dry. You wondered when the last time was he had used a comb. A closer look revealed that it was also unevenly cut. Perhaps Arthur had tried to cut some himself, or the last barber hadn't done such a good job. Strands of his hair pricked his inner ear and you wondered if they didn't tickle him. His beard, too, was trimmed unevenly. It was shorter on his right face half. A small patch under his chin seemed to have been overlooked during his recent trimming session, adding a touch of rugged charm to his appearance.

You wondered when Arthur had stopped caring too much about his appearance. He always wore the same shirt, the blue one. A button was missing and the area around Arthur's hips, where he habitually crammed the shirt inside his patched working pants, was visibly soiled. Years worth of sweat, dirt and blood had worked its way into the fabric of the shirt. You know that he sometimes gave it up to have it washed, but he'd never part from it entirely, despite its worn-out state.

There was dried blood on his boots, and dirt under his fingernails. You looked at his hands. There was something intriguing about them. They had snapped so many necks and pulled the trigger to kill more times than you could even fathom. His skin looked so dry, his fingers calloused. They weren't made for soft touch but for hard work.

As your gaze travelled upward, you couldn't help but notice the various marks and signs of a life lived on Arthur's face and neck. His shirt, unbuttoned and revealing his weathered skin, showcased a distinct tan line around his neck. It spoke of countless hours spent beneath the scorching sun. On the nose, deformed from being broken multiple times, was a mild sunburn. Arthur's lips were chapped. They always were like that, you'd know, because you look at them quite often. And then there was this ugly, fading bruise on his cheek from a bar fight a couple of days ago.

A man, so much older than you, and marked by a harsh and brutal life. A man that had stopped caring about a clean shave or a fresh shirt and a nice haircut some time after he and Mary walked different paths. And - you tilted your head and squinted at him - in a way not the most handsome. His appearance bore the weight of exhaustion and melancholy. His fingertips black with either blood, dirt or pencil stains from sketching in his journal.

"Fuuuck", you mumbled, letting your head dangle.

It didn't matter.

You could pick on Arthur's imperfections as long as you liked, you knew it wouldn't help. As you wrestled with your own internal struggles, torn between your fear of rejection and the undeniable feelings you held for Arthur, you couldn't deny the depth of your emotions. You were desperate to get over this silly crush. No matter how much you may criticize or dissect Arthur's scars, hoarse voice, or any other aspect, it didn't change the fact that you loved him.

His messy hair looked perfect after a ride or even when his sweat made it stick to the back of his neck. The strands that pricked his ears looked cute and you wanted nothing more than to put them behind his ear with your finger. His hands, as rough and calloused they were, could draw the most beautiful pictures. They were capable of those small, delicate crafts. Arthur picked flowers and cleaned his guns like his hands had the agility of a child. And God knows you loved every scar and bruise, you would kiss them until he begged you to stop. Your fingers would run through his beard and you didn't mind the dirty shirt, because you knew it was his favourite.

Your heart shattered when you saw him sad and exhausted, but in his sleep his features were relaxed. This man had every reason to be sad and contemplative, he sure had. Sometimes, you overheard the small comments he made when he looked into a mirror. Please, you would do anything to be the person to tell him that everything will be alright and that he's neither old nor ugly, that you want to hug him and appreciate even the smallest wrinkle on his face.

It was his rough exterior that you loved. Because when you looked closer, it wasn't that rough at all. Every scar told a story, and you wanted to hear them all.

"Yer aspleep?"

Your head shot up and you were met by those beautiful blue eyes that glowed in the evening sun.

"No - I was just thinking."

"That so?", Arthur gave a half-smile and you melted. To see that smile more often you would walk straight through hell without a complaint. He stood up and stretched his tired limbs, looking down on you.

"Yer hungry?"

"Depends. I don't think I can do Pearson's stew again. He talked about a new ingredient and...well, I bet my boots taste better.

Arthur laughed, reaching out with his hand to help you up. You had been right, it was rough and calloused, but warm. And it engulfed your hand entirely, you felt so protected you were disappointed when he let it go again.

"Wanna head to the saloon then? My treat", Arthur offered.

"Only if I can pay a couple of beer later", you grinned.

"'Course. Wouldn't want it any other way", Arthur agreed.

There was no way you would simply get over this crush. Maybe some alcohol will lose your tongue and give you some courage to tell the man how much you really loved him.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption community #rdr2 #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr #rdr fanfiction #arthur morgan x gn reader

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seniorpollinationtechnician · 3 months

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The ORION team stumbled across a previously undiscovered planet during a routine atmospheric probe. Their spacecraft, equipped with advanced long-range scanners, detected unusual energy signatures emanating from an uncharted region of space. Initially, the readings were faint and erratic but as they drew closer, the signals grew stronger and more distinct, piquing their curiosity. That next morning, before the debriefing, each team member meticulously prepared for the mission. Jorlan started by running diagnostics on all their devices. While waiting, he delved into the latest data collected from their recent missions and analyzed the raw data streams in order to compile the data into a series of comprehensive reports, complete with visualizations to make the information more accessible for the team. Zerath began his day long before anyone else with a demanding training session. Afterward, he reviewed the latest intelligence reports with Zyri. He considered various scenarios they might encounter, from ambushes to environmental hazards, and outlined responses for each. Meanwhile, Zyri tried to decipher the energy signatures to no avail. Velana spent the morning in the laboratory where she conducted final analyses on biological samples collected from their latest expedition. Each observation was carefully documented, contributing to the growing body of knowledge about the new life forms they encountered. Despite extensive records, there was nothing that could prepare them for what was to come. As each team member entered the briefing room, they were greeted by a large, central table surrounded by ergonomic chairs, each equipped with individual data screens. The room’s walls were adorned with interactive displays showing real-time data feeds, star charts, and mission objectives. The central holographic projector hummed to life, displaying a rotating 3D model of the planet they were orbiting. The planet's surface appeared rugged, a vast expanse of reddish-brown terrain marked by deep canyons. Dust storms swept across the surface, creating an 3D render of swirling particles. Velana stood at the center of the room, her eyes scanning the holographic display that projected a detailed topographical map. "Preliminary scans indicate a complex network of underground caverns," she began, "These caverns may harbor unique alien life forms adapted to the harsh, subterranean environment." Zyri tapped her datapad and outlined a few zones of interest. "There are also unusual energy signatures emanating from deep within the caverns. If we can decipher their source, it may open new avenues." Zerath stepped forward, his expression serious. "While the scientific prospects are promising, we must proceed with extreme caution. The unstable terrain and frequent dust storms pose significant risks. We don't know what kind of creatures might be lurking in those dark caverns and any misstep could be deadly. Stay alert and stick to the safety protocols." Jorlan stepped up and tried to surpress a smile as he tapped his handheld device to project schematics on the center console. "Before we go, I’ve got a new piece of equipment that I’ve been dying to field-test: a helmet. It isn’t just about protection; it’s equipped with an integrated augmented reality display, advanced environmental sensors, and a real-time communication system.” He carefully pulled out a few high-tech masks, placing them on the table with a sense of pride. The masks were impressive, designed with a sleek, modern aesthetic that spoke of advanced engineering. The main body of each mask was made of a lightweight, durable material with a matte black finish, giving them a streamlined, almost futuristic look. Across the front, a curved transparent panel covered the mouth area, allowing for clear visibility of the wearer's facial expressions while still providing protection. As the debriefing came to an end, the ORION team geared up and prepared to descend to the planet's surface.

#ts4 #the sims 4 #ts4 legacy #the ■■■■■■ legacy #the sims

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zeciex · 6 months

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A Vow of Blood - 70

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 70: The Beast Beneath the Boards

AO3 - Masterlist

As the litter drew to a stop, a final moment of connection passed between Daenera and Helaena. With a gentle pressure on Daenera’s hand, Helaena leaned closer, her voice a soft whisper, “Beware the beast beneath the boards… And beware the one that resides by the heart.”

The silence of the litter was interrupted by the sounds from the outside–a shuffle of feet, a divisive click, and then the door swung wide open, casting a flood of morning light into the previously dim interior. Aemond’s silhouette framed the doorway, his gesture a silent beckoning for them to exit. Daenera returned the pressure of Helaena’s hand in a silent show of solidarity before letting go. Helaena gracefully accepted Aemond’s assistance, gathering her skirts in one hand as she descended from the carriage.

Upon her descent, Aemond shifted his focus to Daenera, his expression tightening ever so slightly, mirroring the anticipation of a challenge as she deliberately lingered within the confines of the litter, her demeanor defiant.

With a purposeful extension of his hand, Aemond gesture towed the line between an offer and a command, a test of his patience thinly veiled.

Daenera held Aemond’s gaze with a defiant scowl, her displeasure manifesting in the slight furrow of her brow and the tight press of her lips. After a moment marked by the silent battle of wills, she released a pointed sigh, an audible surrender to his demand and with a deliberate motion, she gathered the folds of her dress and made her way through the litter, despite her reluctance.

This time, she takes his hand, allowing him to momentarily assist her down the steps of the litter. Once her feet were on the ground, she withdrew her hand, as if the brief contact was more than she could bear. Her hand prickled with the warmth of his, and she felt her heart twist within her chest.

Daenera lifted her gaze to the imposing structure of the Dragonpit, perched majestically on the steep slopes of Rhaenys Hill. The terrain surrounding them was rugged, mirroring the craggy cliffs that formed the foundation of the Red Keep. Carved into this stony landscape, a stairway ascended directly toward the Dragonpit. Unlike the grand staircase that stretched from the Dragonpit’s main gates and all the way down to the foot of the hill to streets below–broad, imposing, and designed to accommodate the comings and goings of large crowds–this path was more modest in scale. It was only a fifth the length of its grander counterpart, yet it still presented a lengthy and steep ascent, beginning from a point more than halfway up the hillside.

This stairway wound its way up from a road that hugged the contours of the hill, a road reserved for their use alone, away from the eyes of the city’s populace. The road itself was a flat, rocky ribbon that snaked through the landscape, culminating in a leveled area at the base of the stairs. This served as a threshold between the road and the climb, a starting point for the final approach to the Dragonpit above.

At the cliffside, an entrance had been hewn directly from the stone, framed by ornate columns. The entrance led into the cavernous depths of bowls of the Dragonpit, where the dragons were. The long, wide, entrance was dimly lit by the flickering light from sparse braziers, their glow too weak to chase away the shadows that lurked within. The mere sight of it sent a familiar shiver down her spine.

From this depths of the Dragonpit a distinct scent wafted through the air–a combination of smoke and the unmistakable presence of dragons.

The area around them buzzed with activity as banners snapped in the wind, and horses neighed, their restlessness a mirror to the anticipation of the assembled crowd. The procession had now fully gathered, with notable figures making their appearances from the ornately decorated litters.

Queen Alicent emerged with the grace befitting her status, accompanied by Aegon, who bore a blank expression as he was flanked by the Kingsguard, their white cloaks fluttering in the wind. And from another wagon, Otto Hightower emerged, followed by the members of the council.

Weariness tinted Daenera’s sigh as she cast a disparaging glance at the daunting staircase before her, her steps reluctantly quickened by Aemond’s guiding hand at the small of her back.

“Why couldn’t they have extended the road to reach the top?” She lamented, her voice carrying the annoyance of a long-standing grievance.

The hint of a smile that played on Aemond’s lips did not escape her notice–a silent acknowledgement of the numerous times she had voiced this complaint in their younger years. Back then, their visits to the Dragonpit were marked by this same ritual: A litter ride followed by the inevitable climb.

Daenera had never been shy about expressing her displeasure, questioning the necessity of the arduous ascent each time. Her frustration was not merely about the physical exertion but stemmed from a deeper sense of exclusion. Without a dragon of her own to bond with, she was relegated to the role of an observer, watching from the sidelines as her brother’s and uncle formed connections with their dragons.

While she had come to terms with the reality of never having a dragon to call her own, Aemond had harbored a bitterness towards this face. His resentment had driven him to search the depths of the Dragonpit on more than one occasion, hopeful of discovering an unclaimed dragon lingering in its shadows. Unlike him, Daenera had never ventured into the deeper recesses of the pit.

The procession embarked on the strenuous journey upwards, each step taking them closer to the Dragonpit. As they finally reached the summit, their path led them through one of the lesser-known side entrances, a discreet gateway into the ancient edifice. The dimly lit corridors that greeted them were nestled within the outer walls of the structure, snaking around its perimeter in a labyrinthine embrace. Shadows clung to the corners, and the air was thick with anticipation.

As they stepped into the vast arena, the cacophony of gathered voices enveloped them, merging into a singular, resonant drone. The upper levels was already teeming with spectators; the upper tiers were densely populated, and a steady stream of people continued to fill arena grounds. The expansive dome above transitioned seamlessly from the open blue sky to an ornate ceiling, where gold murals unfurled the stories of Aegon’s Conquest. These grand depictions, ambitious in their scope and detail, seemed to fade into the shadows under the weak illumination that fought valiantly but in vain against the pervasive darkness of the Dragonpit.

The structure’s inherent gloom was punctuated only by the light that managed to seep through the grand doorway, left open to accommodate the influx of spectators.

In this dimly lit space, Daenera was led to a dias, an elevated platform that rose distinctly from the rena floor, safeguarded by a line of gold cloaks. Positioned at the heart of the Dragonpit, this dias was bathed in light, pouring in from the window above the second door that remained closed.

Daenera’s expression darkened into a scowl as she took in the sight of the banner that served as the backdrop of the dias, its fabric boasting the emblem of the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The gleaming gold of the dragon contrasted starkly against the banner’s black fabric, a symbol of power and legacy that loomed over the gathering.

Her scowl deepened as her gaze settled on the throne positioned prominently in front of the banner, elevated slightly upon another dias. This wasn’t just any seat; it was an exquisitely carved wooden throne, its craftsmanship detailed and grand, accentuated by the tall back and the curves that seemed to frame the seat itself. The throne was a piece of history, the very throne Jaehaerys had occupied during the Great Council held at Harrenhal, when the heir to the throne had been named; making Viserys I Targaryen his successor.

Daenera’s voice was barely a whisper, tinged with outrage as she sneered at Aemond, “This is a fucking mummer’s farce.”

“It may well be,” Aemond hummed, “but it won’t make a difference what you think.”

As the procession made its way onto the dias, they were elevated above the throngs of the commoners who jolsted for a view. The event seemed to have stirred the entire city into a frenzy of anticipation, drawing spectators from all corners of the city to witness what was happening.

Daenera found herself standing between Helaena, who sought comfort in the small gesture of entwining their fingers, and Aemond, who stood with his hands folded behind his back.

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” Helaena murmured lowly, clutching Daenera’s hand tightly. “And beware the one that resides by the heart.”

The air was punctuated by shouts of reverence from the crowd, “Gods bless you, Princess Daenera!” one voice ran out above the rest, igniting a chorus of similar accolades. Helaena, too, received her share of adulation, her name called out with affection by the smallfolk.

Yet, the smiles they offered in return, the warmth did not quite reach their eyes. Their expressions were masks, worn to fulfill the expectations of their roles, even as their minds were perhaps miles away from the grandiosity and the clamor that enveloped them. The moment was a poignant reflection of the duality of their existence–revered and isolated, adored yet distant.

Within Daenera, a tumult of emotions raged. Her heart beat a frantic rhythm against her ribs, betraying the calm exterior she maintained. A hollow sensation gnawed at her stomach, dread seeming like a voracious beast that ate at her as her gaze swept over the crowd.

The crowd surged forward, a living entity in itself, its members merging into a sea of indistinguishable faces that resembled a shapeless flow, much like a mudslide in its relentless advance.

“People of King’s Landing,” Otto Hightower’s voice cleaved through the ambient noise of the gathering, sharp and commanding, arresting the attention of all present. “Today is the saddest of days…”

At his words, Helaena’s hold on Daenera’s hand intensified, her gaze dropping to the ground as a somber expression carved itself deeply into her features. Daenera, feeling the tremor of emotion from Helaena, subtly shifted closer. Their clasped hands became a mutual source of solace, a silent exchange of support amidst the unfolding scene.

“Our beloved King Viserys the Peaceful is dead,” Otto declared, allowing the gravity of his announcement to permeate the crowd. A pause followed, during which the weight of his words seemed to slowly descend upon the assembly, eliciting a ripple of stunned murmurs.

“But it is also the most joyous of days, for as his spirit left us,” he continued, his voice rising high above all else. “He whispered his final wish: that his firstborn son, Aegon… should succeed him!”

Her heart pointed fiercely, a symphony of indignation that surged and swelled within Daenera. She pressed her jaw together, the tension manifesting in the tight set of her mouth as she ground her teeth in silent frustration. Drawing in a deep, deliberate breath, she steeled herself against what was to come, and the theft that was being done in broad daylight, before the realm to witness.

Her gaze darted towards Alicent, laden with a desperate, silent plea for intervention–hoping, in spite of herself, that Alicent might reverse her decision of having her son crowned, that she might alter the course they were on. Yet, as she searched Alicent’s expression for any sign of hesitation, any hint of change, Daenera was met with the stark realization that there would be no such reprieve. The hope that had flickered so briefly in her heart disintegrated, leaving her to confront the truth that this outcome, this path, had been decided upon years ago, and Alicent wouldn’t change it. After all, why should she? She had set it in motion years ago, when she had married Viserys.

The crowd’s initial stirrings were tinged with shock and confusion, gradually swelling into a louder chorus. Voices merged into an indistinct resonance of uncertainty and bewilderment, echoing the collective sentiments of those gathered as they absorbed the news.

Yet, as the gravity of Otto Hightower’s announcement settled, these murmurs evolved into a tentative, apprehensive applause. The assembly, caught between the somber acknowledgement of a king’s death, and the announcement of the rise of another, found themselves unsure what to do. Applauding was the only recourse left to them, perhaps more of a reflex of decorum than joy.

A formation of City Watchmen cleaved through the throng, their march a rhythmic display that drew all eyes. Their cloaks, a cascade of golden hues, flowed behind them, parting the sea of common folk with decisive authority. Woven into this golden procession, the Red Keep’s guards added strokes of crimson, their cloaks melding with the gold.

Orders and shouts pierced through the air, until the Lord Commander of the City Watch halted the procession with a command, “Halt! Turn!”

As the procession came to a standstill, the sharp call of horns sliced through the air, heralding the approach of the new heir apparent. In a synchronized spectacle, the guards and City Watchmen unsheathed their swords, lifting them to craft an archway of shining steel. Through this gleaming path, Aegon advanced, his passage marked by the sequential lowering of swords.

Otto Hightower’s voice cut through the hush that had befallen the assembly, imbuing the moment with grandeur and solemnity.

“It is your great good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this,” he proclaimed, his voice traveling through the filled space, seeming as final as the fall of each sword. “...A new day for our city, a new day for our realm. A new King… to lead us!”

Daenera observed his approach, her attention fixed on the unmistakable look of surrender that clouded his features, as he glanced up at the dias before falling on the first step. He seemed to think himself a lamb being led to slaughter rather than a man being crowned king. He didn’t even want it–and still they would crown him.

Ascending the steps to the dias, Aegon’s demeanor bore the weight of resignation. Shadows haunted his visage, betraying a night's fitful rest, while the hint of unshed tears shimmered in his gaze as he looked towards his mother, his eyes seeming to burn.

Alicent tenderly cradled her son’s face in her hands, drawing him closer to press a soft kiss upon his forehead.

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” Helaena whispered, her gaze steadfastly averted from the scene of her husband’s consecration by the High Septon. Her hold briefly tightened. “And beware the one that resides by the heart.”

“He’s crying,” Daenera remarked, clenching her jaw tightly, her eyes burning with a mix of anger and unshed tears. As Otto Hightower cast a significant glance towards Aegon, the prince appeared to wilt under the intensity of his gaze, his posture yielding as he knelt before them. Traces of tears, now beginning to dry, streaked his face–the appearance of which seemed to mark his own apprehension of being crowned.

“He doesn’t even want it,” Daenera muttered sharply to Aemond, who was a fixture by her side, seemingly unaffected by her observation. Yet, she could sense her words infiltrating his stoic exterior, unsettling him beneath his armor of indifference.

The High Septon’s voice resonated through the hushed assembly as he anointed Aegon’s forehead with holy oil, each stroke invoking the gods.

“May the Warrior give him courage,” he intoned, his movements deliberate as he marked Aegon’s brow. With every invocation to the god, another line adorned the prince’s skin. “May the Smith lend strength to his sword and shield. May the Father defend him in his need…”

Daenera’s eyes clenched shut in an effort to contain the tumult within her. A bitter counter-prayer formed in her mind, her thoughts twisting the High Setpon’s blessings into curses. Let the Warrior expose your cowardice. May the Smith take your strength and forge you shackles. And May the Father judge you and deliver his justice.

“May the Crone lift her shining lamp and light the way to his wisdom,” the High Septon concluded, notability omitting the blessings of the Maiden, the Mother, and the Stranger from his liturgy.

Yet, in the silence of her heart, Daenera bestowed these omissions with her own silent pleas. May the Crone’s light unveil his misdeeds. May the Maiden shield the innocent girls from his cruelty. May the Mother withhold her compassion and so him no mercy. And may the Stranger usher him swiftly from this world.

As the ceremony proceeded, Ser Criston Cole received the crown from the High Septon, elevating it before the onlookers as though declaring its might in its own right. His voice boomed, “Behold, the Crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations,” a proclamation that carried an inherent reverence as it evoked the image of the Conqueror.

Daenera opened her eyes, and with a voice laced with a cruel edge, she murmured to Aemond, “It could have been you.”

A fleeting glance from Aemond, brief yet loaded with unspoken tension, confirmed to her that her words had struck a chord, twisting into the fabric of his pride and ambition.

Ser Criston placed the crown upon Aegon’s head, sealing his fate, followed closely by a proclamation that resounded through the assembly, “Let the Seven bear witness, Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne,” echoing off the ancient walls, its reverberating haunting the cavernous space.

Aegon’s gaze wandered, touching upon Ser Criston Cole, his mother, Helaena, and then Daenera, who stood unyielding, her refusal to bow a silent challenge until Aemond’s insistent tug compelled her compliance. Aemond’s hand lingered on the nape of Daenera’s neck for a moment more, the warmth of his touch searing into her skin, stirring a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. Then, he released his hold, allowing her to rise again. Yet, even in acquiescence, her eyes seared with defiance, unwillingly to fully concede to Aegon’s new authority.

The High Septon’s voice boomed, punctuating the ceremony with a finality that filled the hushed space, “All hail His Grace, Aegon, Second of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and the Protector of the Realm!”

As Aegon turned to face his subjects, Daenera’s gaze swept over the sea of faces that bore witness to his ascension, each pair of eyes reflecting a multitude of emotions. Beside Daenera, Helaena’s grip tightened.

A ripple of murmurs traversed the crowd, as the smallfolk exchanged wary glances, their eyes lifting to the dias with a palpable sense of anxious expectation. They seemed to assess the newly crowned king, who returned their gazes, a mirror of their own apprehension, as if he too was gauging the reception of his subjects. Both the king and his subjects seemed to hold their breath, caught in a moment of mutual uncertainty, each waiting for the other to signal their acceptance or dissent.

“Aegon the King!” Ser Criston Cole’s voice rang out once more, the underlying threat in his tone unmistakable as the peal of bells began to resonate, signaling the dawn of a new rule.

Tentative applause arose. What started as a hesitant clap from a solitary pair of hands soon burgeoned into a unified cascade of applause, swelling into a resonant ovation as cheers emerged and well wishes were shouted at the king.

In this moment adoration and acclaim, Aegon stepped forward seemingly with a new sense of purpose. With a deliberate and theatrical gesture, he unsheathed Blackfyre, raising it high above his head as he stood as a figure of triumph, absorbing the adulation of the crowd.

Tears, born of indignation and helplessness, threatened to breach her eyes, and she fought them back with a hard swallow, struggling to maintain her composure as the crowd accepted the new king.

With a bitter swallow, Daenera had to reconcile with this acceptance. The coronation of Aegon as king was executed with meticulous precision. They had deliberately adorned him with the iconic crown and sword of Aegon the Conqueror, and draped him in symbols of Targaryen might, prominently featuring the three-headed golden dragon across his attire and the surrounding banners. This display was not mere pageantry but a strategic act designed to lend credit to Aegon’s image as the legitimate successor of the Conqueror’s legacy. The orchestration aimed to solidify his claim to the Iron Throne in the public’s heart also served to cast doubt on anyone who meant to oppose him.

And yet, amid the orchestrated celebration, a dissenting voice cut through the atmosphere, boldly proclaiming, “Long live Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Rightful Queen!” This unexpected declaration momentarily disrupted the ceremony’s carefully curated narrative.

Otto Hightower and Ser Criston Cole reacted immediately, signaling for guards to locate and silence the bold supporter of Rhaenyra. Gold cloaks cleaved through the masses in search for the owner of the voice, but it was little more than finding a needle in a haystack.

Despite the overwhelming applause that filled the air for Aegon, scattered shouts of support for Thaenyra intermittently broke through, each one a beacon of resistance against the narrative the Hightowers imposed. For Daenera these isolated yet resilient shouts in support of her mother were not just acts of defiance but rays of hope, suggesting that the fight for the true succession to the throne was far from over.

Alicent approached her son, whispering words of counsel or encouragement into his ear before gracefully retreating. With a final, sweeping glance at the crowd, whose cheers and applause filled the air, Aegon sheathed Blackfyre. He then took a step back, turning to ascend the step to Jaehaerys’s throne, where he seated himself.

The crowd’s uproar gradually subsided, attention shifting as Otto Hightower positioned himself with commanding presence. A gleam of triumph sparked in his eyes as he surveyed the assembly, preparing to speak.

When his voice rang out, it was clear and authoritative, resonating through the hush. “Let it be known across the realm, that the King, Aegon, is the one true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Otto Hightower paused, letting the words settle before continuing. “With his crowning, any who oppose his rule are to be deemed traitors to the realm.”

Daenera gritted her teeth, swallowing the poison that was this farce. If anyone were traitors to the realm it was them.

“Though others may assert a claim to the throne, it must be recognized that Aegon Targaryen, as the late King Viserys firstborn son and chosen heir, holds the undeniable right to rule.” Otto Hightower’s words boomed out over the crowd, seeming to gain traction as a low murmur erupted. “No one holds more of a claim to the throne than the trueborn son of Viserys Targaryen.”

Otto’s proclamation was delivered with unwavering conviction, designed to extinguish any lingering doubts about the rightful heir to the throne. His words not only sought to undermine Rhaenyra’s claim to rule but also diminish Jace’s standing, by emphasizing Aegon’s legitimacy.

He may well have just called them bastards, Daenera thought, clenching her jaw tightly as her gaze bore into Otto Hightower with a silent plea for godly intervention – a lightning bolt sent from the sky to strike him from this world or, at the very least, ignite his thinning hair into flames.

“In our presence today, on this historic day, we have the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, Daenera Velaryon,” Otto Hightower announced, turning the attention towards Daenera. The sudden shift caused her heart to beat faster as countless eyes scrutinized her. Feeling the weight of their gaze, she instinctively straightened her spine and lifted her chin, a gesture of defiance and pride.

“It brings me great honor to declare the betrothal of King Aegon’s brother, Aemond Targaryen, to Daenera Velaryon!”

In that moment, Daenera wished for the ground beneath them to open and engulf the assembly, to escape the overwhelming pressure and the piercing gaze of the crowd. However, no such escape came. Instead, the announcement was met with a wave of applause and cheers, the crowd extending their joyous congratulations for the future union, while tears threatened to blur her vision.

As Daenera was subtly nudged forward by Aemond’s hand on the small of her back, they progressed to the forefront of the dias, leaving Helaena’s comforting grasp. A chilling emptiness took over where warmth once resided, and she clenched her hands in the folds of her skirts. She knew the expectation that lay before her: to bend in fealty, to acknowledge Aegon as her King by kissing his ring. Yet, she stood unyielding, her gaze piercing through him with an intensity that matched his smug satisfaction.

Daenera’s thoughts drifted back to the words exchanged with Helaena, her voice resonating with a foreboding echo in her mind. ‘I fear what happens when he’s got a taste for it… the power…’

Now, witnessing the fervor in his gaze, it was clear he had indeed acquired a taste for it – a beast fed by the adulation and undeserved love of his subjects. There was a dangerous glint to his eyes, one that filled her with dread as it trailed over her face, drinking in her defiance.

Aemond, stepping ahead, paid his respects first, his lips briefly meeting the ring on Aegon’s finger, followed by a respectful bow. His hand then returned to Daenera, creeping up her back to rest authoritatively over her shoulder, compelling her into submission.

Reluctantly, Daenera lowered herself, her knees bending as she inclined her head, her eyes defiantly locked onto Aegon through her lashes, silently challenging his authority. Aegon seemed to revel in her submission and had her remain in a deep bow for longer than necessary until, finally, he signified she could stand once more. Upon straightening, Aegon’s gesture was clear and commanding, extending his hand for her to kiss his ring.

The heat of humiliation flushed her cheeks, acutely aware of the multitude of spectators. Among them, a few gazes were so intense, they seemed to burrow under her skin, igniting a fire of indignation within her very soul.

Daenera clenched her jaw tight, lowering herself in a reluctant gesture to kiss Aegon’s ring. Yet, her lips paused just shy of the cold metal, floating merely a breath away – a subtle act of defiance.

Aegon leaned in, his voice laced with smug satisfaction. “It suits you being on your knees.”

“This is the only way you’ll ever see me on my knees,” Daenera bit back.

Straightening up, Daenera felt Aemond’s guiding hand on her back, ushering her back to their designated places. They stepped aside as a line of nobles advanced towards the dias, each one bending a knee in homage to the king and whispering their oaths of fealty.

“Ser Tyland of House Lannister, the Master of Ships and the newly appointed Master of Coin,” Ser Criston Cole’s voice rang out, introducing Ser Tyland Lannister as he stepped forward. Dropping to one knee in a gesture of submission, Tyland not only pledged his personal allegiance but also signified the backing of his powerful house.

“I, Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships and Master of Coin, hereby pledge House Lannister’s loyalty to the King, Aegon Targaryen,” Tyland proclaimed with solemn fervor. “I pledge my fealty to him and shall defend him against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

Tyland Lannister rose from his kneeling position, the chain signifying his office shimmering upon his shoulders under the gleaming light. With a measured step forward, he leaned into press his lips to the king’s ring in a final act of fealty before gracefully receding.

Given the haste with which Aegon’s coronation had been arranged, many nobles had not received an invitation in time – or at all, given the secrecy of the ordeal – resulting in a noticeably smaller procession of lords and ladies presenting their homage.

Daenera silently labeled them traitors, yet she restrained her tongue, internalizing her scorn as the ceremony unfolded. The brevity of the event, not stretched by the presence of lords and ladies who might have flocked to the city for the grand affair that was a coronation under different circumstances, only served to emphasize the Hightowers’ hasty grab for power.

“Lord Jasper of House Wylde and House Rain, the Master of Laws,” Ser Criston Cole continued.

Taking Ser Tyland’s place before the king, Lord Jasper knelt, as he too declared his allegiance to Aegon’s reign. “I, Jasper Wylde, Lord of House Wylde and Lord of House Rain, Master of Law, promise to be faithful to the King, Aegon Targaryen. I pledge my fealty to him and shall defend him against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

With a solemn grace, Lord Wylde grasped the King’s hand, his lips briefly pressing against the ring in a gesture of his fealty. Upon standing, he offered a respectful and courteous bow towards both the Queen Mother, the Queen and the Hand of the King, a silent acknowledgement of their roles. Then, with a steady stride, he resumed his place alongside Tyland Lannister.

“Lord Larys Strong of House Strong, the Lord Confessor and Master of Whispers, and the Lord of Harrenhal,” was announced next. The hall watched as Lord Larys Strong approached, his movement marked by the distinct drag of his clubbed foot against the wood flooring of the dias, his cane nowhere in sight.

Daenera leaned slightly towards Aemond, her curiosity getting the better of her as she whispered, “I wonder what has become of his cane.”

Without turning his gaze from the spectacle, Aemond’s response was terse, though soft, “I broke it.”

Her eyebrows knitted together in surprise, and she turned sharply to look at him, her gaze searching his face for the meaning of it. She found him looking back at her, a slight, self-satisfied tilt to his lips.

“You broke it…” She echoed, disbelief mingling with a dawning understanding.

“Yes,” Aemond confirmed with a dismissive shrug, his casual demeanor belying the significance of his actions. Though he offered no explicit explanation, the implication was clear in the brief flicker of his gaze over her face–a silent, protective retribution, a gesture meant for her. The retaliation of this unsaid stirred something within her.

Daenera’s heart raced, a tumultuous flutter within her chest as she forced her gaze away from Aemond, redirecting her attention to the ongoing ceremony. Her cheeks flushed with warmth that betrayed her inner turmoil, her heartbeat a relentless drum echoing within her. A bitter sensation twisted around her heart and she blinked back her tears.

Lord Larys Strong made a valiant attempt to kneel without any assistance, stubbornly waving off any offers of help. His knee met the wooden floor of the dias with a thud that promised a bruise.

And with a clear voice, despite the physical effort it took to maintain his dignity, Larys declared, “I Lord Larys Strong of House Strong, Lord Confessor and Master of Whispers, and Lord of Harrenhal, promise to be faithful to the King. I hereby pledge my fealty to him and shall defend him against all enemies, in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

The act of descending to kneel had been far easier than the prospect of rising again.

Larys moved his leg into position, taking a deep breath before struggling to his feet. Ser Criston Cole stepped in to assist him, helping the Lord Confessor to his feet before he shuffled forward, bending down to kiss the ring of the King before moving over the dias to the rest of the council.

Following him, a procession of lords and ladies took their turn before the King, each swearing their loyalty to Aegon. Whether they were the head of their house or represented by a proxy–a brother or a son–the pledge of fealty was made, binding them to their new king.

As the formalities of the pledge of allegiance concluded, the coronation neared its end. Aegon moved once more to the forefront of the dias, his arms thrown wide open, reveling in the adoration showered upon him by the crowd.

Shortly thereafter, Otto Hightower and Ser Criston Cole led the way, guiding Aegon from the dias. The Queen Mother and the Queen gracefully took their leave. Aemond and Daenera followed, descending the steps of the dias to find solace in the quietude of the empty hall.

Together, they traversed the winding passageway of the Dragonpit, retracing the path they had taken upon their arrival. The group moved with a sense of purpose, the dimly lit corridor echoing with the soft sounds of their footsteps. And finally, they emerged, stepping out into the brightness of day, the sunlight momentarily blinding.

Daenera briefly closed her eyes, lifting her face towards the heavens to let the sunlight bathe her skin, seeking a brief respite to soften the stiffness that had settled along her spine. The warmth was a small comfort, a fleeting escape from the weight of the day. As she felt a reassuring hand at the small of her back, her eyelids fluttered open in response to Aemond’s silent cue to join the others in their descent.

From this position, high upon Rhaenys Hill, the Red Keep seemed to loom in the distance, its formidable towers stretching skyward. Daenera’s heart constricted at the sight, knowing what reaching that destination meant – an imminent return to the confines of the walls and the isolation it brought.

With careful hands gathering her skirts, Daenera began her cautious descent down the carved steps.

“You did well,” Aemond’s voice was soft beside her, his presence a steady assurance as they moved down the uneven staircase, his hand likely there to offer support or prevent a misstep.

Daenera bristled at the comment. “I am not a child; don’t patronize me.”

“I wasn’t suggesting–”

“Yet you insinuate that I’m seeking approval for merely keeping my composure,” Daenera countered, her pent-up frustration from the day’s events spilling over. “Believe me, if I wasn’t forced to be there under the threat of my men's lives, I would have disputed this farce and declared you all to be the traitors you’ve made yourself to be.”

Aemond’s sigh, heavy with exasperation, only fueled Daenera’s anger. She sent him a piercing glare, her eyes alight with silent fury, before shifting her gaze. It moved back to the trail before them, settling on the white cloaks of the Kingsguard, swaying with each step they took. Beyond this imposing barrier of gleaming armor and sheathed swords were the newly crowned King. In a fleeting moment, the impulse surged within Daenera to dash forward, to weave through the two sentinels of the Kingsguard and seize Aegon by the neck. She imagined hurling him down the steep steps or over the edge of the hill, to an untimely but deserved demise. The vivid fantasy of retribution momentarily clouded her judgment, a desperate grasp for justice through her own hands.

Daenera’s breath hitched, a sudden slip on one of the uneven steps causing her heart to leap into her throat. In an instant, Aemond’s presence became her anchor; one hand firmly grasped her arm, while his other swiftly extended across her chest, steadying ehr fall. He halted their progress, his expression marked by a subtle frown, eye intently scanning her face as if searching for something.

With a silent nod of gratitude, Daenera regained her composure, signaling she was unharmed. They resumed their descent, his hand returning to the small of her back. The light pressure offered a strange sort of comfort.

“It’s hard to decide which is more appalling,” Daenera muttered lowly, “the act of usurping my mother or the fact you did so to place the crown upon the head of the one who least desired it. If only he had refused it or fled…”

“He did,” Aemond answered, drawing Daenera’s gaze back to him, her expression perplexed as she searched his face. “He didn’t make it very far.”

“He attempted to flee?”

“I brought him back.”

“You… brought him back…” Daenera repeated, each word dripping with a mixture of incredulity and realization.

Aemond had the opportunity to let his brother vanish into obscurity, a chance to don the crown himself rather than bestow it upon his brother. Yet, forsaking this path and the allure of the power it promised, he had chosen duty over ambition, ensuring his brother’s return.

“You should have let him go,” Daenera remarked.

The muscles along Aemond’s jaw tightened, a visible testament to the weight of her assertion as it landed on his shoulders. After a tense pause, he opened his mouth, his voice filled with a firm resolve. “You know why I couldn’t.”

Indeed, Daenera understood the gravity of Aemond’s choice, understood the intricate web of loyalty and duty that bound him–she understood him, and she knew why he had brought him back. The legitimacy of the Hightower’s claim to the throne was intrinsically linked to Aegon’s ascension. It was a claim rooted in the precedence of him as Viserys’ firstborn son, the clear and unchallenged heir by virtue of the cock between his legs. In the eyes of tradition and the law, Aegon’s gender positioned him as the natural successor, his cock’s very existence assuring his right to rule. He was a son and Rhaenyra was a daughter.

Aegon’s potential disappearance presented a dilemma of succession, a void that threatened to unravel the fabric of their claim. In such an instance, Aemond stood but a shadow behind the prospect of Aegon’s own son, a contingency plan activated only by the absolute absence of the elder brother–assured only if he were definitely dead. And even then, in the face of Aegon’s hypothetical death, questions lingered: Would the crown then pass to Aemond, or would the realm fall into the hands of Aegon’s son, however young.

In the absence of Aegon, the succession’s focus would inevitably shift towards Rhaenyra, whose claim to the Iron Throne had been solidified years earlier through her father’s explicit and public endorsement. The realm’s nobility would find themselves at a crossroads, forced to choose between Rhaenyra, whose path to the throne was paved by her father’s will, and a young boy who would not wield real power for years to come. This boy, bereft of the ability to govern due to age, would merely serve as a figurehead, leaving the realm under the stewardship of someone like Otto Hightower during a regency.

Daenera’s understanding of Aemond’s actions did not alleviate the turmoil of her emotions. She grasped the strategic necessity behind his choice–the preservation of his family’s claim to power. Yet, this insight did not mitigate her resentment or the sense of betrayal that gnawed at her.

As Daenera reached the foot of the stairs, her gaze met Aegons, a fleeting smirk twisted the corner of his mouth–a smirk laced with malice and self satisfaction. A foreboding sense of dread settled in her stomach. She harbored no illusions about the man Aegon was destined to become–a tyrant in the making.

“You made a choice, and now we have to suffer the consequences of that.”

Aemond guided her towards the waiting litter, where guards stood at the ready, holding the reins of the restless horses. The banners fluttered fiercely in the wind, signaling a blend of grandeur and urgency as the horses pawed at the ground, eager to move. As they approached the litter, Helaena ascended the first step, pausing to cast a glance back.

“Beware the beast…” she uttered, her voice laden with an ominous tone. “It is here.”

With those foreboding words hanging in the air, Helaena disappeared into the sheltered interior of the litter.

A thunderous roar, bone-chilling in its ferocity, tore through the gathering, seeming to pierce the hearts of all assembled with its sheer power. This sound was followed by a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated through the air, a sound so profound it felt as though it reverberated within the very chest of every onlooker. Every gaze abruptly shifted towards the dark maw of the cavernous entrance to the tunnels beneath Rhaenys Hill, where a stirring shadow and a billowing cloud of dust heralded the emerging terror.

Daenera felt an unsettling chill run down her spine, the fine hairs at the nape of her neck rising in alarm. She felt an urgent pull on her arm, as Aemond swiftly drew her behind him, positioning himself protectively in front of her. The tense silence that followed was broken by the sound of swords being unsheathed, a clear response to the menacing growl resonating from within the depths of the shadows.

From the darkness of the cave’s entrance, two deep red eyes pierced the gloom, their glow ominous and foreboding. The beast’s heavy footsteps vibrated through the ground, its massive form barely discernible as it advanced towards the light, shrouded in a cloak of dust and shadow.

“Protect the King!” Otto Hightower’s command cut through the tension, prompting the Kingsguard to swiftly encircle Aegon and Alicent, who had protectively pushed her son behind her, readying themselves against the looming threat that had stirred from its captivity beneath the Dragonpit.

Daenera’s heart pounded fiercely within her chest, a tempest of fear and anticipation thundering within her. Her gaze narrowed, seeking to penetrate the darkness to find the source of the fearsome roar that had cloaked the area in dread. From the depths of swirling dust and deep shadow, a figure emerged as if conjured by the chaos itself–Meleys, the Red Queen, with Rhaenys, her formidable rider, on her back.

The striking blood-red figure of Meleys broke through the veil of darkness, her roars echoing, a primal call that resonated with all who heard it. Sunlight danced upon her crimson scales, highlighting the regal horns that crowned her head as she stepped forth from the cave’s maw. With every movement, her claws dug into the earth, kicking up plumes of dust. Meleys stretched her massive form, a snarl revealing her formidable teeth, while her flame-like eyes locked onto the crowd with a fierce, unyielding gaze.

Rhaenys’ gaze found Daenera amidst the tumult, her expression just as fierce and unyielding as her dragon’s. “Release my granddaughter!”

A spark of hope ignited within Daenera, and she surged forward, only for Aemond’s arm to ensnare her waist, pulling her back against him with a vice-like hold. She struggled against his hold, beating back at him as she demanded her release.

“Let me go!” Daenera spat, clawing at his arm, attempting and failing to twist free. “Release me!”

She writhed in his embrace, making another desperate attempt to escape, trying to force her way out. Yet Aemond’s grip only tightened, his voice close to her ear, laced with a sneer yet tinged with desperation, “Stop! Please. Stop fighting!”

There was a raw, broken plea in his use of ‘please,’ a plea that resonated deep within her, tugging at her heartstrings in a way that was almost painful to acknowledge. But the turmoil within her was too overwhelming, her thoughts a whirlwind of recent grievances–the humiliations endured, the imprisonment, the loss of those she loved, and the cruel usurpation of her mother’s rightful claim. All these thoughts clashed violently within her, fueling her struggle against Aemond’s constraining embrace.

With a menacing growl, Meleys advanced, her formidable teeth exposed in a terrifying snarl. Daenera’s eyes locked onto Alicent then, the creator of her family’s suffering, shielding her son Aegon, the usurper king who robbed her mother of her rightful throne. Her eyes traveled to Otto Hightower, the one who orchestrated it all to satiate his own ambition, and Ser Criston Cole, the man who killed Joyce, alongside Lord Larys Strong, the one who humiliated her and lured her into captivity–and the rest of the council that allowed it all.

And then there was Aemond, his breath whispering across her skin, his arms ensnaring her in a protective yet confining embrace, the man who seemed prepared to do anything to possess her–who would see her as both his wife and his hostage.

In this moment, surrounded by the creators of her misery, Daenera found herself whispering a command born of desperation, “Drakarys.”

The word, barely more than a murmur, was nonetheless caught by those nearest, drawing their shocked and fearful stares towards her. She made another frantic attempt to escape Aemond’s hold, her fingers clawing at him with wild desperation.

Having to endure and watch the usurpation of her mother’s throne and the theft of her rightful crown had filled Daenera with unbridled fury – akin to a storm raging beneath the calm surface of the sea. The egregious act of being compelled into submission, to degrade herself by bending the knee, bowing her head, and kissing the ring of the usurper as a sign of loyalty, only served to fuel this tempest within her. She was reduced to a mere pawn in their game, a puppet manipulated by strings, dancing to the tune of their desires. Every fiber of her being had screamed in protest, yearning to dispute this charade, to shout out that this was an abomination. She had wanted to expose them for what they truly were: thieves and traitors.

Caught in a whirlwind of emotion, torn between madness and the culmination of years of torment and degradation, Daenera found herself compelled by forces she couldn’t fully understand. With a renewed sense of defiance, she raised her voice once more, this time with a vigor that surprised even herself. “Drakarys, Meleys!”

Aemond’s grip remained unyielding, his arm like a vice around her waist, his other hand securely holding her wrist to thwart any attacks. Daenera struggles grew more intense, tears brimming her eyes.

“Drakarys, Rhaenys!” She cried out, her voice breaking with the intensity of her plea. She imported an end to this farce, for fire to consume them all, to cleanse everything in its wrath. Yet, Meleys and Rhaenys did not heed her call. As Daenera fought against the constraints of Aemond’s embrace, she could feel the rapid pounding of his heart against her back, his breath hot on her neck, his lips barely brushing her ear, drawing her even closer to his hold. He murmured another plea for her to stop, desperate and demanding all the same.

An arrow whizzed through the air, narrowly missing Rhaenys before burying itself in the earth. Rhaenys’ gaze shifted swiftly towards the line of archers perched high on the hillside, arrows poised for a second volley. Meleys expressed her disdain with a snort, her massive feet stamping the ground in frustration. Her tail lashed out, striking the rocky terrain with a force that served as a clear warning. Yet another arrow cut through the air, this time grazing Meleys’ scales, failing to penetrate the dragon’s armored hide.

A heavy sense of despair settled over Daenera as Rhaenys locked eyes with her once more. It was a silent exchange, one that confirmed Daenera’s fears; there would be no escape today, and Rhaenys couldn’t linger no longer in this peril. With a resigned nod, Daenera acknowledged the inevitable.

Meleys advanced with deliberate steps towards the semicircle of Kingsguard surrounding the King and Queen Mother. With a deafening shriek that seemed to vibrate through their very bones, Meleys unleashed a roar so powerful it sent several horses into a panicked frenzy. The echo of the roar caused a few guards to lose their footing, tumbling to the ground with a startled crash as their mounts scattered in terror.

As Meleys propelled herself skyward with a mighty flap of her wings, a tempest of dust and debris swirled around them. The force of each wingbeat sent gusts that buffeted those below, stinging Daenera’s skin with sand and grit. In a protective gesture, Aemond hunched over her, using his body to shield against the maelstrom. Meleys, now airborne, stretched her wings to the fullest, casting a large shadow over the grounds. With one final, thunderous roar, she ascended higher, her form shrinking against the backdrop of the city as she made her way towards the distant horizon–towards Dragonstone.

A profound silence enveloped the plateau in the wake of Meleys’ departure, a quiet so intense it rivaled the dragon’s roar in its impact. The air hung heavy with dust, settling slowly as reality began to seep back into the stunned assembly.

Aemond eased his grip on Daenera but stayed close, his hand lightly resting on the small of her back. Daenera, still grappling with the whirlwind of emotions and the surreal turn of events, felt her mind clouded, her thoughts a tangled mess. It was in this moment of vulnerability that she felt a stinging slap across her face, a sharp, unexpected pain that broke through her stupor. The force of the blow left a burning trail on her cheek. The tears that had brimmed her eyes seemed to be struck loose, running down her cheeks, as her eyes found Alicent.

Otto Hightower’s voice, steeped in authority, cut through the tense air. “Alicent, restrain yourself.”

Daenera, her gaze defiant yet wounded, met Alicent’s eyes. The Queen Mother, her face wrought in seething anger, raised her hand for a second strike. Yet, before her hand could descend, Aemond interposed himself, his grasp firm around his mother’s wrist, effectively halting her motion.

Shielded behind a barrier of soft, supple leather, Daenera’s vision was limited to the broad expanse of his back. The defined curvature of his shoulders and the visible tension in his muscles captured her attention as he intervened, placing himself between his mother’s wrath and her.

In that fleeting moment, time seemed to suspend, stretching the moment between heartbeats as the realization dawned upon her: he had defied his own mother to shield her. Her heart constricted, skipping a beat in a moment of acute stillness, as her eyes lifted, her fingers unconsciously tightening on the fabric of his doublet as though to center herself. Amidst this pause, a fragile seed of hope emerged within her – a sentiment profound and dangerous, a truth she could not admit to herself.

“That is sufficient, Mother,” Aemond declared, “You’ve made your point.”

The moment between heartbeats passed, and the world came into view again. Daenera inched out from behind him to see Alicent glaring at her son in outrage, yet beneath it, there was a subtle hint of betrayal woven through her expression, perhaps even a strand of loss. With a sharp twist, she freed her wrist, her movement accompanied with an angry sneer as her eyes landed on Daenera again. “Would you have us all burn?!”

Daenera met Alicent’s gaze, her eyes now cold as the depths of winter, wipping her tears away. “I would.”

“Even yourself?” Alicent pressed, her voice laced with the weight of the morning’s events, the near brush with death still palpable. “Even Helaena?”

Daenera’s response was a silent one, her resolve firm as she met Alicent’s narrowed gaze without flinching. The determination etched in her eyes was a clear declaration of her stance–she was prepared to face the consequences, to embrace the fire if necessary, for the retribution. She was even prepared to face the fires of the seven hells and eternal damnation, knowing that they would join her there while Helaena would find peace in the heavens. It was a sacrifice.

Alicent turned her eyes upon her father. “Rhaenys will surely bring word to Rhaenyra.”

And Otto, in turn, took command of the situation, turning his discerning eyes upon Ser Criston Cole. “Ensure the King and the Queen are safely seen to the Keep and gather our forces. We do not know how Rhaenyra will respond.”

“I won’t be made to cower in the Keep,” Aegon interjected, fixing the crown on his head, his hand falling to the hilt of Blackfyre. “I shall take Sunfyre to the skies.”

Alicent protested, her concern manifesting in a gentle, yet futile attempt to dissuade her son from such ideas. “You cannot seriously consider pursuing them–your responsibilities as King–”

“That is right,” Aegon firmly interrupted her. “I am King now, am I not? And as a King I mean to show the city and the realm that we, too, have dragons.”

Otto Hightower scrutinized Aegon with a keen, measuring gaze, taking a moment to assess the young king’s determination. Eventually, he nodded in agreement, signaling his endorsement. “Proceed, then. Fly over the city, let our dragons be seen as protectors, and show the people their one true ruler.”

Ser Criston Cole interjected with a note of urgency, “It’s imperative we escort everyone else back to the Keep immediately. With the realm now aware of the late king’s passing and the ensuing shift in the line of succession, we must ensure the city’s safety. The City Watch should be mobilized to maintain order.”

“Moreover, we must identify whomever responsible for the negligence that permitted Rhaenys’s escape,” Otto Hightower said, his voice taking on a sharper edge. His gaze shifted accusatorily towards Alicent, suggesting that he found her culpable.

Alicent, seeming to feel the weight of her father’s critical eye, exhaled sharply in indignation. She collected the folds of her gown with a swift, dignified motion and ascended into the litter, deliberately distancing herself from the unfolding discourse. And as she moved past Daenera, her gaze locked onto her with a chilling intensity. Her eyes, dark and unforgiving, bore into Daenera, conveying a silent but unmistakable threat of punishment. The fleeting exchange, though wordless, was laden with a promise of consequences for the upheaval that had ensued.

Daenera, somewhat detached from the core of the discussion, was brushing off her attire, deciding not to engage, though she felt their eyes prickle against her skin.

“Ensure the princess is securely confined within her chambers. Afterwards, take to the skies with Vhagar. We must be vigilant and ready for any threat,” Otto directed.

Acknowledging with a curt nod, Aemond accepted the Lord Hand’s command.

The scene shifted as Otto made his way to the litter, joining the Queen and Queen Mother. They settled into the confined space, preparing for departure.

The scene was a tumultuous blend of urgency and confusion. Guards were everywhere, hastily trying to regain control over the spooked horses, while one of the litters sat crippled, its wheel shattered against a rock in the chaos that erupted when the horses bolted, sending it crashing and leaving the wooden wheel splintered. Amidst the chaos left in the wake of Meleys appearance, some horses had fled in terror. Now a contingent of Gold Cloaks was being dispatched to retrieve them, their cloaks billowing behind them as they set off on foot. The remaining horses, calmer now, were commandeered by the Kingsguard, as the council members took refuge in the second litter, all of them eager to escape the scene and find solace within the study walls of the Red Keep.

Daenera’s resistance was palpable as she found herself being nudged towards the litter. She spun around to confront him, their eyes locking as she grabbed his arm insistently, biting out, “Do not force me to ride in a litter with your mother!”

Aemond’s jaw clenched visibly, a sign of agitation, before he finally relented. With a heavy sigh, he shut the litter door, sealing his mother inside, and away from Daenera. His actions spoke volumes, acknowledging, albeit grudgingly. He instead guided her towards his horse, the steed stamping the ground impatiently.

As she attempted to mount, firm hands clasped her waist, offering unsolicited support. Daenera couldn’t help but retort with a sharp, “I don’t need your help.”

Aemond exhaled a short breath, seemingly frustrated, as he secured his own position on the horse, sliding behind her with practiced ease. His arms encircled her, taking control of the reins, as his presence enveloped her in a tangible warmth. Daenera felt the slight brush of his hair against her shoulder, eliciting a prickle of gooseflesh throughout her body.

“Maintain close ranks!” Ser Criston Cole’s voice cut through the air, his figure advancing before the procession, setting the pace for their return.

With a nudge, Aemond urged the horse onward, aligning with the measured pace of the procession. A distant, ominous rumble echoed from the depths of the Dragonpit, a lingering whisper of the dragons within. They embarked down the meandering path that circled the hill, gradually making their descent towards the city below.

As they delved deeper into the heart of King’s Landing, the city unfolded around them, a vibrant tapestry of activity and curiosity. The presence of the City Watch ensured a semblance of order, yet the throngs of people couldn’t help but cluster along the streets, craning their necks for a glimpse of the royal procession. Voices rose in a cacophony of sentiment–some cheering for King Aegon, others mourning for the demise of the late King.

In the midst of this clamor, Aemond’s voice found its way to Daenera, a whisper of quiet intensity close to her ear, his presence unyielding as stone. “Have you utterly abandoned reason?”

Daenera clenched her jaw, suppressing a retort, her attention momentarily diverted by a disturbance at the periphery of her vision. A bystander’s voice pierced the air with a bold proclamation, “Hail Queen Rhaenyra!” The words barely had time to echo through the crowd before a Gold Cloak swiftly intervened, silencing the supporter with a decisive threat, grabbing him by the scuff and hurling him to the ground.

“Are you really so desperate to see us all dead that you’re willing to burn alongside with us?” Aemond asked, his voice bordering on a sneer, laden with disbelief and exasperation.

Daenera’s retort was just as fierce. “I would gladly face the fire if it meant preventing you and yours from usurping what rightfully belongs to my mother.”

“How admirably noble,” Aemond sneered, the venom in his voice palpable in the bitter edge of his taunt. “Is this the length you would go to to avoid marrying me?”

“This isn’t about the marriage,” Daenera shot back, her voice sharp with anger. Her nails dug into the leather of the saddle, picking at it restlessly. “This is about betrayal, it is about the usurpation–about the years of torment and degradation at the hand of your family. It’s about the insults and the treachery.”

A scoff escaped Aemond, and Daenera could feel him shaking his head in exasperation–undoubtedly unable to see her point and unwilling to try. In that moment, Daenera had embraced the concept of sacrifice, accepting the notion of burning alongside her adversaries as a means to rectify the injustices they had perpetrated. It was her way of preemptively ending the war that loomed on the horizon. There was a certain poetic justice, she thought, in the imagery of them all being consumed by the same flames, united in destruction as they had never been in life.

“So, is it death you seek?” Aemond asked, his tone mocking yet tinged with an undercurrent of seriousness, as they continued their ride through the bustling streets, surrounded on the life of a city on the brink of change.

“No.” Daenera shook her head gently, her fingers brushing the corner of her eye as she contended with the onset of a headache that seemed to encircle her skull. A sigh of exhaustion escaped her lips as she instinctively leaned back into Aemond, craving the warmth that his presence offered against the sudden cold that had started to infiltrate her body. Her head reclined, settling comfortably against his shoulder as she gazed upwards, losing herself in the vastness of the azure sky above them.

“Then perhaps, refrain from pursuing it with such fervor,” Aemond’s voice, less harsh now, whispered close to her ear. In the quiet that followed, Daenera sensed a shift in him; his resentment seemed to dissipate, his posture relaxed as their bodies belted together in a moment of unexpected tranquility.

And for just a moment, Daenera allowed herself to pretend that everything was as it were before – that she was within the embrace of her lover and not her captor, that death weren’t traversing the halls of the Red Keep, that her mother’s throne were unchallenged, and that she was not drowning in a sea of despair, struggling not to lose herself and her sanity. If she merely shut her eyes, she could sustain this facade a little longer.

“Where were you?” Daenera’s voice was a soft murmur, her eyelids heavy as she spoke. Exhaustion clung to her as sleep had been elusive in recent days. “That morning – you weren’t there when I woke.”

Their conversation hung suspended in the air, the procession’s slow pace allowing the city’s ambient noises to envelop them–a blend of distant conversations and sporadic outbursts. The sun, now fully ascendant, bathed the day in warmth, exacerbating the city’s inherent odors. Yet, to Daenera, the openness under the sky offered a breath of freedom far removed from the oppressive atmosphere of her recent confines.

Aemond’s reply came after a moment, his tone matching hers in quietude, laced with underlying weariness. “I couldn’t sleep… I went in search of… something…”

Her curiosity piqued, Daenera opened her eyes to the expanse of the sky above, observing a group of birds as they danced freely across the blue canvas. “I suppose it was good you weren’t there. Had you been present, I don’t know what would have happened.”

“I would have stopped you.”

A subtle grin touched her lips, a playful spark finding its way into her eyes. “Fenrick would have been forced to hold you back, binding you to the bed, perhaps even rendering you unconscious–he would have enjoyed that.”

“I would have overpowered him,” Aemond retorted with confidence, a current of amusement in his tone.

Her grin widened. “Attempt as you might, but with you bare and unarmed, I doubt your cock would serve as an effective weapon.”

A soft hum escaped Aemond, not quite conceding but not arguing either. Daenera sensed a light amusement in him, a gentle lift at the corners of his mouth betraying his usually impassive demeanor. He shifted the reins to one hand, skillfully guiding the horse with gentle nudges, while his other hand found a place on her abdomen–the touch warm and comforting.

“Did you find it? The thing you went looking for?” Daenera’s voice softened, curiosity weaving through her tone.

A shadow draped over them then, accompanied with a thunderous roar. Sunfyre soared above, his scales a spectacle of shimmering gold under the light, wings unfurling like sails of silk, the soft color of rose petals. Despite his beauty, the dragon remained just that, a dragon–with sharp teeth and claws, and a breath of fire.

“In the end, yes,” Aemond murmured back, his voice a deep, stirring hum that sent a shiver through her. Her eyes closed again.

In this momentary escape, Daenera allowed herself to pretend that everything was as it once was – a world familiar and untainted. She could delude herself into believing that the rapid beat of her heart wasn’t for a man she was supposed to despise, for someone she wished she could loathe as effortlessly as she once had. She could imagine that he wasn’t one of the makers of her suffering, that his hands weren’t stained with the blood of those she held dear, that he wasn’t holding a dagger to her, ready to inflict wounds as easily as Ser Criston’s blade had upon Joyce.

She could indulge in this illusion. She could wrap herself in this fabricated comfort. She could just…

And then the return to the Red Keep brought her back to the grim reality, where Lord Caswell still remained, a lifeless figure suspended in the air.

Did I change a whole lot? Yeah and let me tell you why! While Rhaenys bursting through the floor was visually satisfying and a like 'go girl' moment, it didn't make sense narratively or for her character. She basically committed an act of terrorism killing dozens of people and it would be seen as an act of instigating the war. I don't know why she thought she'd get away with it, fly off to DS to warn Rhaenyra and then back to Driftmark as though the Greens wouldn't have taken it as her declaring for Rhaenyra. Even if she didn't declare for Rhaenyra, she killed a bunch of people and Greens would have no choice but to apprehend her, because… murder, terrorism. So, I changed it. This way she didn't kill anyone and she can fly to DS warn Rhaenyra and then go off if that's what she want--we know what happens. But here you can say; But Zeciex, Daenera could have gone with her! Do you really think Aemond would have let her go? Rhaenys was on borrowed time and as she says 'she won't be the one to start this war'-- she wouldn't kill the Greens and an anointed king, that too would be a death sentence. One that Daenera was willing to pay. Yes, for a moment, with all she's been through the last few days, she may have lost it a bit. She was willing to sacrifice herself to see an end to it all--to the usurpation and threats, to set things right. Does she want to die? No. But let her be dramatic, she's got a lot going on. Also, Aemond is doing what he can too, within the confines of his duty. Don't blame him too much for forcing her to kneel to Aegon, it's as much an act of duty as it is him ensuring that by behind the knee she doesn't risk herself even more. And Ya'll are lucky I decided to end this on a high note and not include the next scene; which will be next chapter; Daenera visits the tower of the hand and has a conversation with Otto that is…. suffocating. Oh, and she also have a talk with Larys. It will be a very dialogue heavy chapter with little action happening, and it will be the final chapter for a while as we travel to Dragonstone to see what's happening there.

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #a vow of blood #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen x reader

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ashleyfableblack · 4 months

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A Mother's Day Eternal Courtship Jam. Love is complicated. Love takes work. For a Big Mama Bughorse with a family spanning several species it can take alot. A hard tale about love and family some may find all too familiar. TW in hashtags

"THERE'S my SPECIAL Boy..." Chrysalis beamed a grin of gleaming, razor-keen fangs at Pharynx as the guards shut the balcony bay doors behind them. She levitated a bunch of grapes from a nearby table of assorted dishes and goblets, offering them. "MY Pharynx. Come. Sit with me. Something to eat?" Pharynx politely refused with a reserved smile. "No, thank you, My Queen." Purple grapes. Very plump, ripe ones at that. He wasn't surprised that she knew his favorite fruit. Though he'd gotten to spend very little time with her since The Exodus of their people, he had little doubt that her agents were still hidden among his Lovebug kind. She likely knew more of their affairs than he did. Making his way to the heap of cushions she was lounging upon he climbed the pedestal and sat. "Happy Mother's Day." He gave a sheepish grin. After last years celebration he hadn't been sure what to expect from her. 'Mother's Day' wasn't a changeling concept. Every Day was Mothers Day as far as The Hive was concerned. His people's decision to adopt the pony holiday as a lovebug tradition was received awkwardly at best. But Chrysalis was a Queen and the Mother of her entire race and she was certainly making a go at it for her sons sake. She was looking healthy. No doubt she was eating very well. Her pony wife had made it very clear that she alone would give her wife all the love she needed. She had always been large, so tall, beautiful and majestic in an indefinable way, by changeling standards. But she seemed larger still, these days. Her chitin gleamed, dark and smoky. The pitting of her limbs seemed reduced. Her mane of spidersilk seemed more like the hair of a pony. Her shape even seemed different. Her plot, in particular seemed rather... round. He wondered if she was unconsciously adapting her form to suit her wife or maybe to fit more closely with their pony subjects? It was a common enough trait among changelings in deep-cover. Her eyes shifted between her two sets of irises as she looked him over, examining him both visually and taking note of his emotional state. "I trust your trip was well. Hmmn." She could see he was particularly troubled but spoke nothing of it. Decorum was to be observed. She was a Queen. "Where is your idiot brother?" Pharynx chuckled. "Heh. He got pulled into a discussion on some artsy-craftsy garbage about 'decorative baking' with one of Queen Twilights advisors. The bubble-headed pink one." "Ah." Chrysalis nodded. "That would be Pinkie-pie." "That's the one. Ugh." Pharynx shifted uneasily on the pile of assorted cushions and royal-blue throw rugs. Some creatures would say that all ponies looked alike. He knew this to be untrue. Though he was a lovebug he still had a changelings eye for fine detail. Ponies of any tribe were very distinct, visually. Their personalities on the other hoof, on that he could definitely see their point. They were all so cloying, so irritating. They all just blended into one big blur of annoying, bouncy, frivolous children to him. Tasty as food but still, annoying. "I told him to just go on with her and he could meet us later. Seemed just as well."

"Indeed." She pursed her lips, studying him. The Queen took a sip from an ornate silver goblet. "She has a way with most creatures, one I would imagine fitting your brother's demeanor all too well." Pharynx regarded the view. He could see why his Queen-Mother had chosen to make this balcony into a receiving area. From here, New Canterlot castle had an impressive view of the surrounding land. From the peaks of far-off Yak-Yakistan to the tides coming in off the Celestial Sea. This perch was as tactical as it was deceptively pleasant. She could plot out an entire campaign from here as easily as charm unassuming diplomats. He sighed. He missed those days as a changeling agent. Chrysalis broke his drift into the past with her sharp, multi-tonal Hive voice. "But you desired a private audience." It wasn't a question. She knew. "Yes." He cleared his throat, straightening himself. "Yes, My Queen." Her emerald snake eyes stared expectantly. Most of his life those eyes had been a place of comfort to him. She was his Queen-Mother, the source of all life for his people. However, in this moment, he would almost be anywhere else than in their gaze. Still, he had planned. He had prepared. This was the time and this was his moment. He was going through with this. "I wished to speak with you on a personal matter, My Queen." Chrysalis raised an eyebrow. "Pharynx, it's not like you to be so nervous. Speak." "I needed to-" he paused. His deep, gravelly voice cracking, he cleared his throat. He couldn't believe it but he was actually trying to recall Thorax's 5-5-5 rule for dealing with his anxiety. Or was it 3-3-3? UGH. He would have to punch him when he saw him next time- more than he usually did. "I needed to apologize... to you, My Queen."

Chrysalis furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?" She adjusted her irises to study the shimmering pattern of emotions emanating from her lovebug son. Guilt, radiated from him like smoke from a oil-fire, guilt, shame and a deep, black loathing. She craned her neck and drew slightly closer. "You've nothing to apologize for." Pharynx visibly shrank. The words and the feeling behind them hit him like fists. "Respectfully, My Queen-" his lavender eyes glanced to her "I feel I do." Pharynx sighed hard. It had been years in the build-up. He'd finally opened the door. Nothing to do for it now but walk through. "Mother... I failed My Hive. I failed our people. I failed myself. Most of all, I failed you." His lips pursed as her struggled to contain the breaking dam inside his chest. Chrysalis straightened herself. She narrowed her eyes, her intense gaze could cut through stone. Her ears flitted as she listened intently. "Continue." Pharynx stared into the floor. His eyes looked to the same past his voice spoke from, a time some decades ago now. He could almost see the timeline in front of them, the chain of events which led him to this moment. "Look after her." He paused. The word, the identifier, it stung his tongue to say it. "That's what you said to me. The first thing you ever said to me. Look after her. You ordered me to protect my idiot younger sister, my broken, faulty twin." Pharynx sighed. "She was born wrong. You knew it. I knew it. She wasn't like the rest of us. From the moment I crawled out from our egg and looked back at her, still wobbling around, she was silent in the hive-mind. Not a ghost, not a whisper, just nothing. But rather than just leave her to our sisters to be eliminated, you ordered me to protect her. You seemed to value her, maybe me as well, if by proxy." He looked into his hooves as if searching for the secrets of his past in them. "You didn't give us designations like our sisters. We were different. We got names. I would be Pharynx. She was Thorax." He bit his lip. The dam was stressed but holding. "I wanted you to be proud of me. My Queen. My Mother. So, I protected her, the idiot. The coward. The weakling. Our sisters knew she was born wrong and they hated her, wanted her gone, if not dead. She was not of The Hive. She smelled wrong, tasted wrong. None of us could hear her in the Hive Mind." Pharynx gritted his tiny nub fangs "But I protected her from them. I kept her safe. When they bullied her, I fought her fights. When she failed missions, I cleaned up her mess. When she betrayed us, ran away like the traitor she..." He paused, the words caught in his throat. The dam was cracking. "The traitor he was. I still obeyed. I kept the patrols from finding him. I guided any incidental seekers from his pathetically obvious hiding spots. I even masked the scent of his fear in the air- THAT took ingenuity. But All for you, My Queen. All for The Hive. I protected him even up until..'" Pharynx shuddered. He hesitated to even say the words. The name his changeling people had given to the day of their near-genocide. The day their home was destroyed and the lovebugs were born. "The Exodus. I could have stopped him. I could have stopped all of them. The cowards." He gritted his teeth, hooves clenched against his thighs like fists. "The ingrateful, treasonous scum. The filthy pony intruders, that stupid draconequis-thing, my traitorous brother. I could have stopped them but I didn't." Pharynx looked to his Mother, His Queen. He owed her the respect of looking her in the eyes when he said this. When he admitted to the price of his shame. "I had a choice to make. In that moment I had to choose. To be the perfect daughter for you like I always wanted to be..." The weight of his guilt was crushing. The dam was breaking. Held back for the last thirty years The edges of his eyes moistened. "Or be the... the worthless... Son... I always knew I had needed to be."

His shoulders shook with the pressure of containing the tears. Gritting his teeth he continued. "I hated him. He wasn't a Changeling. He wasn't one of us. I hated him for being weak. I hated him for being different. I hated his stupid smiling face. I hated his stupid feelings, his selfishness, his self-important, self-righteous- OH, he was SO much better than the rest of us, he was better than The whole HIVE. He was so special, like those stupid pathetic little ponies. But I-" Pharynx choked. "He... He was braver than me. He was Thorax. He was... your son. And I made my choice." His lips quivered. The hot stinging droplets formed. His vision blurred and he looked away, sending the tears to patter against the cushions. "I could've stopped him, Mother. I could've saved you from all that. I could've saved all our sisters. I should've stopped him. I wanted to. I... I wanted to be strong for you. I swear I did. I swear I- but I couldn't- had to- I had to be- Ff- Ff- Ph-" Years of self-loathing buried the rest in a mass of sobs as he pressed his face into his hooves. The dam was broken now. Pharynx was broken. His chitinous body convulsed as he wailed. Like a tiny foal, he shrieked, loosing out the tears of self-hatred he'd held deep inside for decades. The venom within him had rotted away, cold and black, like tar on his heart for years. Pouring out from his eyes now, it burned, searing like fire. His lips curled back, baring his tiny lovebug faux-fangs. They were not the fierce, dagger-like sabres of a changeling. He chattered them together, trying to finish his thoughts but all that came out was a gibbering, wailing mess. To his shock Chrysalis pulled him to her barrel. Without thinking, he threw his hooves around her, hissing his tears into his Mother's chitin in thick, painful sobs. Several minutes passed as years of hate poured forth, drenching her chest. Not as The Changeling Queen-Mother but as his Mother, she held him firm and steady. Several minutes passed as years melted away between them. Finally, enough of the pain drained off, Pharynx found his words again. "Mom? Do you... hate me?" Chrysalis stared back at him with her giant serpents eyes. In all these years, he had never called her that. No drone had. 'My Queen'. 'Majesty'. 'Excellency'. 'Queen-mother.' 'Perfect One'. 'Exalted One' 'Our Beloved Perfection.' Never 'Mom'. She considered the question in silence. Her horn glowed. In a small eruption of emerald flames a trinket appeared in Pharynx lap. Her multi-tonal voice cut through the tense silence between them. "Do you know what this is?" He looked to the trinket. A fine golden chain set around a series of opaque transparent flakes of shimmering, almost crystalline material, chitin from a changeling. As many times as he'd seen his alicorn mother-in-law wear it, of course he knew what it was. "This is the wedding token you gave to Queen Twilight." "And its significance?" He swiped away a bubble of snot with the back of his forelimb. "It's an ancient pony practice- unicorn, specifically, to give an expensive token of affection to a mate." She starred expectantly.

He expanded- "Adapted during the fusion of their 3 tribal cultures to include the Terrestrials... Err... colloquially, 'Earth Pony' tradition of an exchange of a family heirloom ... one holding a more personal value than one dependent on the unicorn system of material worth." Chrysalis nodded. A smile began to warm her lips. "And what is this?" "It's your token to your mate- Queen Twilight." The Queen gave a small huff of impatience, touching the article with her pitted hoof to accent each word. "What. Is. This?" Pharynx wasn't certain what his mother was asking him. He lifted the article carefully in his hoofs and examined it. He'd never actually seen it this close before. He could see now the small plates of chitin were quite old. He had always thought they were just tiny clippings his Mother had made from her wings, emulating the pegasus practice of giving their mate one of their primary feathers. But that couldn't be. They were far too old for that. Their translucent quality was caused not by their age, but by their structure. No only that, they were slightly curved and shaped irregularly, each slightly smaller than the last. They were fitted plates. "These are..." he straightened as the realization dawned on him, suddenly taking even greater care to be very gentle with the artifact in his grasp. "These are the plates of a grub's first molting." She nodded again, her smile growing to expose her fangs. "They're yours."

Chrysalis draped a hoof around his shell. Pharynx fought to find the words. "Mine? But... How? Mine? They're... How did y-" "Your idiot brother saved the discards of your first molting. Don't ask me how he secreted them away or where he hid them. None of your sisters ever knew." She looked from the tiny bracelet to the astonished Pharynx. He stared at the jewelry as if it were speaking to him in a foreign tongue. "I've never found the knowledge in the Hive Mind, anyways. " She gave a wistful sigh. "I remember. You had both just completed your nymph molt a few days before. He came to me, all puffed up and smiles, and presented me with a set of baubles he'd made. A necklace and a bracelet. He'd managed to cobble together the materials from one of our caches of acquired valuables. I'm still not sure how he learned the skills required to craft them, half-dumb as he was. Still, he did. A necklace from his own remnants..." She lifted the trinket in her green flames. "...and this, from yours." In an implosion of magic the matrimonial token vanished, teleported back to Twilight's dresser. Pharynx stared in silence. She'd held onto such a thing, all these years, in secret. With a gentle touch of his angular cheek, Chrysalis regarded him. "I gave this to Twilight, my immortal love, as an act of trust, to honor the ancient custom of her people. It was only a thing but it was my most precious of things. And if I could trust her with this thing I could trust her with my hearts." She stroked his cheek, drawing close. "I am your Queen. I designate you all with purpose." Her snakes eyes held him like a helpless little grub. "When you hatched, I knew it. You were never born wrong. But you were born different. You weren't like any of our kind, ever, more like..." She paused, catching herself as if to keep a secret. "Yes, I named you. I knew what you were, as I have all my children from the dawn of our kind. Your foolish, flighty brother, he was Thorax, 'my heart'. You..." She smiled in a warmth he had never seen from her before. "...you were stronger, fiercer stuff. Pharynx, 'my voice'." As she smiled down at him the tears came again. He didn't fight them this time. "I've never hated you. In all The Hive, I've thousands of drones. Infiltrators, Warriors..." She wiped at his cheek with her pitted hoof. "But I've only one Pharynx. One you. You are my son."

He returned her smile, wiping at his cheeks.

They sat in silence. Maybe for the first time in their lives, they were truly Mother and Son, as Pharynx would see it. "Any other questions?" She gave a playfully irreverent smirk. still draping a hoof over his shell. "Heh... Maybe... Another hug? My Q-" She cut him off, pulling him into her hooves and squeezing her son tightly. He embraced her in return. He could almost taste the love in the air around them. It was an unusual feeling, this warmth. Was this 'acceptance'? It was alien but certainly not unwelcome. If this was what Thorax was always going on about Pharynx could get used to this 'family' business. The balcony-bay doors creaked open. A guard broke the tender silence of their moment with her announcement. "My Queen. Prince Thorax awaits Her Grace." Chrysalis looked to the guard, then to Pharynx. He smirked, making to hop up. "I'm gonna go pound him." The Queen rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Don't pick on your brother." Pharynx sniffled and froze. He had an almost pouty quality to his silent obedience. She sighed in resolution. "Fine. You're brothers..." Pharynx leapt up with a burst of energy and sprinted for the door. From the halls Chrysalis could hear the sounds of things being broken and shouting of various slurs of endearment. She chuckled and took a large mouthful of the grapes, chomping them down hungrily with a smug, self-satisfied smile. "Best. Mom. EVER."

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globalfloor · 10 months

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#How can we get the Bespoke rugs made from a manufacturers #How are Bespoke Rugs made #benefits of having a Bespoke Rug #choose the perfect manufacturer for your Bespoke Rug #take care of your Bespoke Rug #Custom-Designed Rug to Match Your Style #Tailored Rug in Your Preferred Design #Personalized Rug to Suit Your Style #Bespoke Area Rug Reflecting Your Aesthetic #Made-to-Order Rug in Your Chosen Style #Custom-Made Rug to Complement Your Decor #Handcrafted Rug to Match Your Unique Style #One-of-a-Kind Rug Designed Your Way #Bespoke Carpet Tailored to Your Taste Unique Rug in Your Signature Style #Signature Style Bespoke Rug #Personalized Style Rug Creations Crafted Just for You: Bespoke Rugs #Designing a Rug to Your Style #Custom Rug in Your Distinctive Style Custom Rugs #Tailor-Made Rugs #Personalized Carpets #Made-to-Order Rugs #Handcrafted Custom Rugs #Artisan-Made Rugs #Unique Design Rugs #One-of-a-Kind Rugs #Custom-Designed Carpets #Individualized Area Rugs #Customized Handwoven Rugs #Bespoke Rug Creations #Designer Customized Rugs

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quirkwizard · 5 months

Note

Can you make a Quirk based on Casita from Encanto? Like the user can rearrange chairs, set plates, etc

So I have done something like this before with "Director", but I think I could make something distinct enough from it. Something like the full on shapeshifting it does may be more for the evolutions though.

I see it working as an Emitter type Quirk that activates when the user touches the ground floor of a building. This lets the user slowly establish an area of control around the building, up to a medium-sized, two-story home. This lets the user manipulate parts of the house, like causing doors to close and lock, giving them an extensive amount of control over it. This effect extends to any items that are in the house, such as causing a rug to flip or plates to fly off of the shelf. The user has a limited awareness of the location as well, being able to tell if something has been moved or if someone is inside. This gives the user a good mix of defense and utility, turning their chosen place into a fortress under their control. They can trap foes in specific locations, protect people or items in their home, alter the battlefield in their favor, offer a safe spot in a conflict, or simply enjoy the convenience of an autonomous home. However, this is limited to a specific spot, and the user needs to constantly be in proximity to the area to build and maintain the effect. The user will have to make sure that everything is maintained in the building, as damage and decay will hamper their control over their space. The user's control does not extend to any people or foreign objects, and the effect stops if anything leaves the area. A possible name for the Quirk could be "Homebase".

#My Hero Academia #Quirks #Original Quirk

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dragon-mantis · 8 months

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grabs dsmp fans by the shoulders utah is not just desert.

most of central and northern utah is mountainous. southern utah is the place with the most sandy desert area, and utah as a whole is considered a steppe climate.

if you are writing or drawing about utah and its supposed to be set in wintertime, there should be at least a foot of snow on the ground.

^ like this!

this is southern utah

this is northern utah

this is central utah

some other really beautiful areas:

notice how there are forests and mountains all over the place! notice how the deserts are more rocky than sandy!

utah is 84,900 square miles (219,884 square kilometers). to put that in perspective, the entire uk is 94,060 square miles (243,610 square kilometers). it has a very large and varied climate

from the wikipedia article on utah:

"Utah is known for its natural diversity and is home to features ranging from arid deserts with dunes to thriving pine forests in mountain valleys. It is a rugged and geographically diverse state at the convergence of three distinct geological regions: the Rocky Mountains, the Great Basin, and the Colorado Plateau."

please do research on the places you are writing about/drawing i beg of you

#dsmp #utah #wilbur soot #<- bc it is relevant to him #call you tell ive been frustrated by this for a long time #cause i have #nickels talkin

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ask-the-monarch-absol · 7 months

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It is incredibly dark. You feel cold and a rancid, pungent scent hangs thick in the air. These hard, stony corridors feel somewhat familiar, yet you cannot understand why that may be. It's far too dark to see, so you cling to the closest wall to you. Feeling your way around, your hand touches something wet. You'd rather not think about what that may be so you try to shake it off. You feel you got most of the substance off but you can't quite see in this inky darkness. You also noticed a variety of small to large smooth protrusions coming from the walls. They're all somewhat angular in design. Perhaps they are crystals? You continue to move close to the wall, your sense of touch acting as your eyes. Again, the feeling of familiarity is strong. It's like you've done this before.

The corridor comes to an end, revealing an open space. This area is slightly more visible, with a small torch gently lighting it up. The room is rather large, with black columns holding up the ceiling. That stone wall which guided you towards this place surrounded the room with what appeared to be narrow corridors branching off of it. A rug lay in the center of the room, frayed around the edge. Near what you can roughly make out to be the back wall, a figure is sat on what appears to be a throne made of stone and crystal. A pair of crimson eyes stare directly at you, watching you. Analysing your every move. Is that...?

You hear a couple of taps and suddenly a force brings you closer to the Pokémon sat on a large throne. As much as you struggle to stop whatever is dragging you from doing so, it does not seem to be working. It brings you directly in front of this Pokémon. You can see they have a rather distinctive-looking horn, with a large crack on the side. White and grey fur, which has clearly not been cared for in a long while, droops down the face and front of the chest of this figure. The faint glow of what appears to be a mega stone is attached to a royal blue cloak that hangs on the shoulders of this Pokémon. A silvery crown adorned with dark crystals sits on top of their head. Those eyes that are fixed upon you have a somewhat cold, callous feeling to them.

The figure looking upon you speaks in a voice you're far too familiar with. However, the cadence is off. They appear not to recognise you.

"Why are you here?"

Destino (?) is available for questions.

#pokeask #pokemon art #pokemon ask blog #pokemon #pokemon askblog #pokemon oc #ask blog #destino the absol #pokeask community #tyrant destino #tyrant au #absol #oops made another ask blog

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johnnyslittleanimalblog · 3 months

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Wild Carneddau Foal and Mother - Pensychnant Nature Reserve, Sychnant Pass, Conwy, North Wales - 21.6.2022 by Kenneth Simms Via Flickr: En route to Penmaen-bach Headland, to capture the Summer Solstice Sunset, I came across this newly born Carneddau Foal and its Mother three quarter of one hours earlier in the 148 acre Pensychnant Nature Reserve. It's can only be a few months old. Compared to the rugged and open surrounding hillsides and mountains this area offers distinct advantages for raising young. In fact I saw several parent groups with much older foals too. There are thought to be around 200 Carneddau Ponies living wild on the Carneddau Plateau between Aber and Conwy on the North Wales Coast - of which the Pensychnant Nature Reserve is a part. They are a sturdy and hardy breed capable of surviving even the harshest of winters. Research has shown them to be one of the rarest breeds in the world - having lived in the mountains for thousands of years and being around since the time of the Celts. Such lovely and endearing animals - long may they continue!

#Carneddau Wild Foal and Mare #Carneddau Wild Ponies #Wild Ponies #Pensychnant Nature Reserve #Sychnant Pass #Conwy #North Wales #Great Britain #UK #United Kingdom #Flickr Nature #Canon #Canon EOS 1200D #Tamron 28-300mm lens #June 2022 #flickr

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slxsherwriter · 1 year

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Monsters in Plain Sight

Pairing: None. Hints of Otis Driftwood x female reader

Warnings: Cursing, violence, gore, the Firefly clan

Word count: 4.2k

A/N: This is my first foray into the Firefly family and the fandom as a whole. The idea took root and refused to let go. What had started off as just a short one shot turned into this with the plan to continue. I mean, who would have more fun with some creatures of the night than the Firefly clan? Read on below the cut.

The moon was high overhead, the rural, rugged landscape seemingly devoid of all life. Motion was scarce to nonexistent and silence reigned. The stench of death and decay hung heavily in the air, though it wasn’t obvious to most. To you, yes. Ruggsville County always held the heavy scent of death, both decayed and fresh. The problem was that most didn’t have the heightened senses to be aware. Not unless they were right on top of the source.

You knew better. While the county had not been home your entire life, you had spent the better part of ten years around these parts. For as rural as it was, hunting was abundant when needed. Plenty of tourists drove through the area, meaning they were free picking. If you didn’t get to them, some of the other monsters that hide behind human skin would surely use them as playthings.

It was hard to ignore the Firefly clan when the source of that scent of death hung so heavily from their property. After all, it spread out for well over a mile from the home. It had been on a hunt one night that you had stumbled onto their property, chasing down a member of a group that had become dinner and chew toys for the wolf. As a lone werewolf, you had taken to avoiding most people and this place was high on the list. Common sense and self preservation had demanded that the place be given a wide berth but in your eagerness to tear down the escapee, you had run directly to the home.

It was from behind one of the many rusted and abandoned vehicles on the property that you hid as your prey stumbled to a door and slammed their fists against it in pure desperation. Blood caked her face, her shoulder torn open from where your claws had pierced through flesh. If she thought that she would receive salvation here, she was sorely mistaken but it was hardly something that she could know. Your prey had been lost for the evening and it wasn’t worth losing your shroud of secrecy and anonymity. Seclusion and isolation was best for your survival so with a low growl, you were forced to retreat. She would end up among the decaying soon enough.

*********

That had been three weeks ago. Again, a respected, invisible boundary to their land had been given. The problem? There had been a distinct lack of people moving through the area and you felt the beast entirely restless beneath your skin.

There hadn’t been any hunters in the area in the last six years. Was it safe to begin showing your face among some of the local hunts? Probably not but at this point, it was either that or settled off the measly scraps of the few animals that called this part of Texas home. It wasn’t enough to satisfy the cravings. Especially as the full moon drew closer. Nothing settled the animal that was a part of you as a proper hunt, the screams of humans as they realized all the nightmares that they had dreamed of were true.

You had taken to camping out at the gas station and roadside attraction that was run by one of the men that was of the Firefly family. Even fewer people knew about their connection but it was impossible not to make the connection as the same scent clung to his skin as it did the land. Each person also had their own unique underlying scent. Subtle but present to you. Something you had trained yourself to notice in case there was a hunter that trailed you. Better to know where they were ahead of time and try to be three steps ahead. It was a trick that had kept you alive when you were far younger and significantly less experienced at covering your tracks and making sure loose ends were tied up.

Tonight, the first thing that you noticed was a suspicious looking fellow hanging around about twenty feet away, hidden just off in a small set of bushes across from the front door. Your nose wrinkled in distaste. Sour. He smelled incredibly sour. Not good for eating but certainly for something to sink your teeth into. It would be worth the horrible taste that would accompany him. But for the time being, you held back and observed.

When he pulled a mask over his face, it became apparent what he wanted to do. A mistake on his end for multiple reasons. Before you could do anything about it though, he was rushing to the door. Feet were carrying you to the door before you could think about it. The need and urge for violence was far too overwhelming. It needed to be sated, the beast needed to be quelled before you lost all control.

As you opened the door, the shaky head turn told you that the man wasn’t ballsy enough to really be doing something like this. It made sense that the sour smell clung to him. Desperation when it wasn’t from utter fear for a life held a far different scent. One that was unpleasant at the best of times.

“Listen lady, get out of here.” Cute that he thought he could order you around. The man behind the counter, Captain Spaulding himself, was holding his hands up, middle fingers high in the air. An amusing position though you could barely spare another glance in his direction. Missing the way that intrigue sparked his gaze, head cocked slightly to the side as you stepped into the shop further.

“No, I don’t think I will.” Defiance in your tone, a grin slowly appeared on your face. A look that had the man shifting his weight on his feet. He couldn’t keep the gun on both of you but it really hardly mattered. While the pain would be a bitch, you had doubts he was sporting silver bullets in his gun. Therefore, the damage would be temporary.

“Are you fucking crazy?” There was a waiver to his hand, eyes flicking back and forth between you and Spaulding. As if his brain was racing to see if somehow this was planned between the two of you.

“No clue who the fuck she is. But I like her.” If he really liked the macabre, he was going to truly enjoy what happened next.

“Oh, fuck this.” The man turned his gun to you and shot. The bullet hit your shoulder, which just tore an inhuman growl from your throat as you launched your weight forward. The shift happened in seconds, your form changed before their eyes, just as your jaw clamped around the guy’s throat.

“Holy mother fuck!” The shout of the other registered but you were far too busy clamping down on the man’s throat, crushing bone beneath the powerful bite and feeling far too satisfied as blood hit your tongue, coating your maw. Claws dug into his shoulders, deep wounds that scrapped bone. He was dead before you both hit the ground though that didn’t stop you from pulling back, the wet sound of flesh tearing filling the area around you. Blood splattered almost everywhere.

Your focus shifted back to the owner of the establishment, seeing a glee overtake his features rather than horror or fear. There was just a hint underlying somewhere but his joy was far more palpable. The show had clearly been enjoyed and now there was something entirely new to unpack. Backing off the body, it took just a moment longer to shift back to your more inconspicuous form. The first time that you had done so in front of someone that you hadn’t planned on killing. A risk. Massive if you were honest and hopefully it panned out in your favor. Being alone was wearing on your stability. Wolves were natural pack animals after all. Among the killers perhaps you could find yourself a place. The worst that could happen would be having to end their lives, doubting that they could end yours.

“Now that was quite a show! And from such a pretty little lady.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. Not the first time that you had heard comments about you being this small little thing compared to the beast that you became. Frankly it became rather annoying after awhile. Clean up needed to happen. The question was, did he want the body? You sure as shit didn’t plan on taking it as you spat out the blood that lingered in your mouth. It tasted as poorly as anticipated. “Not the sort of shit you see every day and I specialize in freaks of nature. Just what are you?” He had stepped around the counter now. The man in the clown suit seemed to be no slouch himself, moving with the smoothness and threat of a predator. He may be human but his instincts were just as honed as yours were. Something that surprisingly puts you at more of an ease than perhaps it should have. Like spirits recognizing like spirits perhaps. A snarl ripped from your throat though when he stepped just too close.

Your response brought a sound that couldn’t be called anything other than a giggle from him. Amusement shining in his eyes.

“Oh, I really like you.”

“Yeah, well. Hunting has been some slim pickings lately so I had to take what I could get. Should I leave him here to be added to your collection?” Your nose wrinkled. “Fucker isn’t going to do me any good. Tastes as rotten and spoiled as a carcass out in the oppressive, lizard scalding Texas heat for days on end.” The comment brought another laugh from him, though there was a moment where the amusement had dropped and the simmering rage beneath the surface threatened to appear. You pointed to your nose as if it answered how you knew about it without any other explanation. But the man didn’t know any better even if he had just seen your other form.

“You seem confident in that.”

“Can smell it for miles. Not a scent that can be caught by humans, but the decay and death rolling off this place and that family home extends for quite awhile. And before you say anything else, I’m the only one of my kind in the area. No one else knows about it. Been laying low here for nearly ten years now.” His gaze narrowed, lips thinned out and nearly disappeared for a moment in the facial hair that adorned his chin. Nothing else was said for a few moments but I sensed movement in the back, another two living bodies by the smell of things. His expression cleared, a wide smile reappearing on his lips. Surely that look had put plenty on edge.

“Fucking surprise there,” he admitted. “But guess there are other things that go bump out in the fucking night. Long as my family ain’t in your sight.” You felt a tinge of amusement at that.

“Your family’s seen my handy work before. Ain’t got any interest in taking out the shared hunters of the land.” Which was the truth. You really did not have a desire to tear the family apart. “As for what I am? I’m a wolf.”

“Impressive as shit is what you are. Never seen a man’s throat torn out so fucking easily. And that change was quick.” A low hiss came from you as the bullet finally worked out of your shoulder, dropping to the floor with a small ting. The wound healed over before his eyes. “Well, fuck me. Even more fucking impressive.” You looked at the spot in your shoulder before feeling the grin take over your features without warning. One that could not be fully controlled. Perfect timing for your body to do what it needed, letting the man across from you know that you weren’t that easily disposed of, that it wasn’t just all fang and claw.

******************

Things from there had happened at a seemingly rapid pace. After more than fifteen years on your own, one act had brought about a drastic change. Spaulding hadn’t insisted that you meet the family but he certainly inquired about having you around more. The crude sense of humor and the fact that the man didn’t bat an eyelash at your tendencies, going so far as offering the bathroom to let you clean yourself up when you came in bloodied, meant that you could call him a friend. Of sorts. Hell, on occasion, you even provided some bones for him to add to his entire set up, after he had allowed a traveler or two to wander a little too close to your hunting grounds.

You had exchanged names after a couple of weeks, you discovering his by accident and offering yours in return. That hadn’t settled it though. He wasn’t content calling you by your name. Which was fine by you since you hadn’t heard it in years. As if fucking with you, he had taken to calling you Bunny. A hint towards another Marx brother’s thing if his name was anything to go by. It annoyed you for about the first week before you decided you saw the humor in it and accepted it.

It was a natural thing, for you to finally have a run in with a family member since you began visiting Spaulding weekly. Having gone from no interaction, beyond your prey, to having someone there was something that you couldn’t easily give up right away. Especially not someone who was a kindred spirit.

It was a quiet night, without the prospect of any travelers on the horizon. You were leaning over the counter, discussing his fried chicken, something that had become a favorite of yours, when the door behind opened up loudly. A grunt issued from the man across from you as his eyes traveled up to see who it was that had come wandering in. When he didn’t say anything, you found your interest a little piqued. Brow cocked in a silent question, the clown didn’t give a single thing away.

“Got another piece fer yer ride.” Not another happenstance individual that was out of gas. There was a familiarity to whoever it was since Spaulding was still leaning over the counter.

“Then stop standing there and bring it the fuck in.”

“Fuck you. Get off yer fat ass and come help me.”

“You wanna do all that shit, do it your fucking self.” Oh, these two definitely knew one another. Though that didn’t stop the hostile tones.

“It’s fer yer fucking business. Get fucking moving, bozo.” A chuckle came before you could stop it, thoroughly amused by the exchange. The glare from Spaulding barely registered, though the sounds of boots hitting the floor closer to you did.

“Fuck you Bunny,” Spaulding spat. “Why don’t you go help this asshole? Standing around here enough, might as well get some fucking use out of you.” You straightened up, eyes narrowed. A low growl was given, though you had no intentions or real desire to hurt the man that was across the counter from you. Arguments and cursing was pretty much the basis of his relationships it seemed. Besides, what the hell were you going to do? He was your only friend on the hellhole known as Earth. He knew your secret, you knew his. Neither of you had sold the other out.

“The fuck you on about?” The other voice decided to chim in and you finally turned to look. He was far closer than what you typically allowed. Lanky but strong, his frame had that same sort of silent promise that Spaulding’s did, though he looked like he could move a hell of a lot faster. And probably do some more damage. Far more predatory than Spaulding too. The beast knew when it had met another and for the first time ever, the wolf part of yourself was actually content with the presence of another. Not a threat. No. Even if arguably, he was one.

“Otis, this here is Bunny. She’s been coming around here a lot and helping out. She’ll help you out no problem.”

“Don’t look like she can lift shit.And the fuck you mean helping out?” Before you could retort, Spaulding broke out in amused laughter.

“Son, you don’t know shit. Let the little lady help you on out.” At that, you thew the bone from the drumstick that you had been gnawing on, at him, half eaten. Crunching on the remaining bone, you turned to face Otis fully.

The appraisal was obvious and not quick. His eyes slid over your form and felt heavy enough to be a physical touch. The wolf both bristled and keened, something that caused a nagging throb right behind your eye.

“Let’s get this shit over with so I can finish my dinner.”

“You didn’t catch dinner, Bunny.” You flipped Spaulding off and Otis was obviously confused by the statement, glancing back and forth between the two of you before finally grunting and accepting that you were going to help him with whatever it was that needed to be brought into the roadside establishment.

His presence seemed to loom overhead, demanding attention in a way that you had never experienced before in your life. It had you staying quiet, more than usual. Otis seemed observant, even beneath the bluster of rage and impatience. It left the sensation of being so thoroughly and utterly exposed.

"The fuck did he mean you hadn't caught dinner?" He couldn't have missed the growl in the crowded store. You can to a beat up truck and in the back was something under a trap. It had an odd cross between death both human and animal and formaldehyde. That always burned your nose in the worst possible way. Otis apparently caught the look on your face and scoffed. "Ya can stand it in there but this is what causes ya to fucking make a scene?"

"It ain't the smell of death. It's that preservation shit. Unnatural." The distaste was obvious. "Burns like a mother fucker and leaves a rotten taste in the back of my mouth. Rather chew on one of those dessicated hands that Spaulding's got in there. Dry as shit and rotten but at least it's fucking natural." There was a moment of pause, his hand stuck on the tarp that kept the object hidden. From the way that his lips curled, something about your comment and perhaps your appearance pleased him.

"Them shits ain't chew toys."

"Everything's a fucking chew toy if I want it to be." At this, you willing flashed a set of razor sharp teeth. He leaned in closer, as if wanting to inspect them but there was something else in the way that he eyed you. That instinct was proven correct when he grabbed the back of your neck. It caused another growl to rumble from within, a repeat but far more aggressive than what you had displayed inside.

"Well, shit," he laughed. There was a smugness to the words before he was pulling back, though not before giving a tight squeeze to the back of your neck. "I can see why Spaulding keeps you around." You snorted and worked the tarp off the piece now that he seemed ready.

"He doesn't keep me around," you grumbled, bristled at the notion. "Mutual understanding is more like it."

"He gave ya a name. Don't think I didn't catch that shit. Means he is keeping you."

"Fuck off. I'm kept by no one. Ain't some God damn pet." In the blink of an eye, you had a knife to your throat, just as you were getting ready to climb into the bed of the truck. The cold steel was tight enough and sharp enough that you could barely feel it but it was slicing into skin, droplets of blood pooling. He was damn fast for a human. Real damn fast.

"The fuck you ain't." He pressed a little harder but you remained calm, lip twitching just a bit against the unpleasant sting. Otis had no idea that it wouldn't kill you. Not unless he decided to clean slice your head off. An all our snarl worked from your lips this time, feeling the beast simmering right below the surface. There wouldn't be control if he kept pushing.

And push he did.

"Bet yer skin would look real nice added to this piece." The blade drug upwards just a bit, the careful refinement of years of practice showing as he worked skin away from muscle.

Pulling away happened simultaneously of the shift. The screeching of claws against metal rang out in the empty desert air.

Clearly loud enough to cause Spaulding to come racing from inside.

"The fuck is happening?" Otis was grinning as he stared you down, eyes shining with fascination and a darkness that could verge into lust or hellfire. You weren't sure which way would be more beneficial. The wound was already healing, you had put some distance between yourself and him.

"Why the fuck ya been keeping this girl here a secret, Cutter?" You could practically hear the eye roll from the older man.

"Oh, for fuck…put the God damn knife the fuck down you idiot. She'll tear your scrawny ass in fucking two. You ain't gonna do shit with that knife before she guts you."

"Ya picking sides now?" Otis didn't turn his attention from you, even as he spit the words at Spaulding. Even so, you decided to be the one to back down. It wasn't a submission. No, that was a fact that you refused to believe or acknowledge. While he was a threat, there was still no real desire to gut the man and standing there ran a higher risk of someone seeing something that they shouldn't. It was simply self preservation that made you stand down. Besides, taking the fight with Otis would put you at odds with the entire family and isolate you once more. It was also the smarter decision.

With a roll of your shoulders, your form shrunk right back down. Though this time, the man seemed interested in the twisting, cracking of bones and stretching and thinning of flesh as things changed.

"Don't wanna fucking fight. Not you at least." A hunt would be a good thing but that didn't seem to be happening any time soon. Not with how desolate the landscape had been the last two weeks. "Let's get this inside." You could hear Spaulding laugh as Otis grunted once more. After a few more seconds, his knife finally lowered and he was inching forward once more to get the latest piece of the artwork off of the truck. This time, he was the one to hop into the bed, sliding the piece towards the edge while you kept it steady. The formaldehyde was still strong and burned but you kept a straight face this time, not at all wanting to let an inch of it slip.

There was an odd silence between all of you, something that you were not keen on breaking right then and there. Carrying the piece inside with Otis, Spaulding directed you on where it was going to be set, leading you further into the place than you had ventured before.

It was actually a pretty impressive set up and admittedly, if Otis was indeed the one making them and not just transporting them, he was pretty damn talented. Twisted, but incredibly talented. Something that you could appreciate as you stepped back once it was in place.

One more step back and your back met the chest of a warm body. It certainly wasn’t Spaulding. Otis wrapped an arm around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as he looked at the piece with you. He smelled of death and the farm that he lived on, a combination that wasn’t really that off putting, even if you would have preferred to not be in the man’s grasp. The hold was tight, signalling that he wasn’t planning on letting you go any time soon. Breaking out of the grasp might just cause another fight and really, you didn’t want to hear Spaulding bitch about anything breaking.

“Have to admit, it’s pretty damn impressive,” you found yourself murmuring as a way to break the silence. “I don’t got the eye for it. Never have, even if I have wanted to.” His fingers were trailing along your stomach. Not an entirely unpleasant feeling. Maybe you really had been devoid of touch too long.

“You two get fucking moving! I got a customer!” Spaulding’s voice rang out. You pulled away from the man, who was caught off guard by the sudden action, his fingers grasping tightly at your shirt, clearly not wanting to let you away. But it didn’t matter. The potential meal was too enticing.

“All right, fuck calm down!” Otis called back to the other before turning his attention back to you. “You wanna stick around and not end up a part of this? Let’s see what you got.” Grinning, that was a challenge that you were all too happy to meet.

#otis driftwood #otis driftwood x reader #house of 1000 corpses #slasher writing #slasher x reader #house of 1000 corpses fic #otis driftwood fic

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