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endless-ineffabilities · 1 year

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never tear us apart

Aemond Targaryen x f!Reader

part five of the prūmia va perzys (heart on fire) series

part one: don't you love me? - part two: and what of your love? - part three: the flames that divide - part four: the aftermath

themes/warnings: injury, language, dragonrider!reader (her house is not stated)

word count: 6.1k ▪︎ masterlist

The Blacks make an attempt to lift the curse cast upon the reader. Aemond does everything he can to reach Dragonstone, in hopes of seeing the reader again. A sinister plot forms, threatening to cast everything into further chaos. Or set everything right. Only time will tell.

Alys Rivers is no stranger to pain.

When she was discarded by her mother at the steps of her apparent father’s castle at a tender age of 10, she felt it.

When her father did not completely recognize her as his daughter, relegating her to be one of the workers of his estate, she felt it.

When she had to fend off an attacker, using all of her meagre physical strength, digging her nails into the man who attempted to overcome her and take her girlhood, she felt it.

Pain is no stranger. And it is no friend, either.

But pain was something that she merely accepted, until she found the Lord of Light. Her mother sought her out years after she abandoned her, telling her that it needed to be done. She needed to leave Alys, so that she might be able to devote her days and nights to the one true Lord.

Alys should have been angry. She should have wept upon seeing her mother again, hurled questions and accusations at her as to why she left her only daughter. But strangely enough, she could not find it in herself to do so. She did not feel it was important then. Does that make her emotionless, devoid of even the slightest connection towards her mother? Perhaps, perhaps not.

All she knew was that she understood her mother’s motives. She found a sameness in how her mother was ready to sacrifice everything to Him.

The Lord of Light. The Red god. Alys found him, but already knew of her. He already knew of her pain, and he promised to take it all away. He promised her a saviour carved out of the very same pain, and strength, and sapphire-blue. The one chosen for her as a vessel into the light. Whether to love or to use as a mere tool to spread the Lord of Light’s power, she does not believe it to be in her hands. What matters is, her one-eyed prince would come and her very being would be devoted to him.

What Alys Rivers did not anticipate was that her one-eyed prince’s heart would already be spoken for. The flames did not impart that she would have to fight tooth and nail for it. For him.

She did not know that Aemond Targaryen’s heart would already be yours.

But then again, she is no stranger to pain. She felt it in the way Aemond squeezed her neck, in the way he dug his fingers into her skin until she almost turned a sick shade of sapphire-blue. Its talons buried themselves deep in her heart when her prince beloved Aemond, in all his unbridled rage, promised that he would never truly love her. Not in the way that he loves you.

No matter. He is merely lost, and I can bring him back into the light. Her delicate fingers graze the bruises on her neck, feeling him. She has already set her plan into motion, but nothing is certain. There are ways to bring you back, and she is aware of this. Her best hand is yet to be played, and there are things about to unfold. Things that will bring untether Aemond from you.

He will be mine, once y/n is consumed by the flames. After all, how can he still love you when you are gone?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Aemond has always been perceptive, ambitious, insightful. Eager to overcome any slight that his disability has added on to his existence, real or imagined.

Even before the fateful injury, he has already possessed a similar sense of pride. Self-preservation, borne out of being a Targaryen prince without a dragon, who also stands to inherit nothing. The second son. Everything he wants, he has had to carve out for himself. To take for himself.

As if to pour salt on the wound, it is clear to everyone that he is far more capable and more suited to the throne than his older brother Aegon. But this matters not, at least not whilst Aegon survives, and his sons along with him.

This thirst to prove himself, to make sure that whoever encounters him sees him as worthy, has always stayed with Aemond. He did all he could – ensured himself to be knowledgeable about the histories, philosophies, High Valyrian, battle strategy and combat expertise, the religion of the old gods and the new, and all else. There isn’t one important volume in the castle's Great Library that Aemond has not gotten his hands on, living and breathing the words, memorizing them.

Every bit of knowledge, each newly honed skill, forms into a new facet of his being. Making him better. Making him whole. All Aemond ever wanted was to belong. To be whole.

But he never thought he could achieve this without effort. Without strife to overcome. This invisible yet ever-present need to prove himself became something like a burden he has to carry. He never felt that he could belong, truly, until you.

But you had seen him. Accepted him. Aemond did not need to woo you with any embellishment, he did not need to tell you how he had memorized the histories of the Seven Kingdoms. It mattered not that he might be the most skilled swordsman of his age, having painstakingly trained each day since his tenth nameday. The allure of his status, of the power of his family, was not something that drew you to him. He quickly discovered that he never needed to impress you, he only needed to love you.

Aemond tried to fight it, but that did not last long. After all, is it not useless to deny oneself what calls out to the heart?

The day Aemond Targaryen allowed himself to love you, and be loved in return, was the day that he finally belonged.

And without you, the one-eyed prince would be unanchored.

Aemond remembers the night that you first met as he sits in his chambers, waiting. Years ago, you had rolled your eyes at him, at a prince of the Seven Kingdoms, when he said something out of turn about your friend Rhaena’s lack of a dragon. You were quick to retaliate, sharp and biting with your words. But the morning after, when you came across him sitting all by his lonesome in the library, you apologized.

Granted, you demanded his apology first, but there was something in his violet eyes. A certain awareness, a melancholy. There might be some darkness creeping in Prince Aemond’s heart, but there is an undeniable light there, too. A remnant of lost innocence. You caved in, and curiosity got the better of you. For hours, you spoke to your heart’s desire, each new subject brought up only increasing your interest in the one-eyed prince. And his interest in you was piqued in turn. From then on, countless days and nights were spent together in the comforts of the great library.

His heart swelled, perhaps for the very first time in what felt like forever, when you had fallen asleep on his shoulder one night, as he read to you about the chronicles of Princess Nymeria.

He hasn’t been the same since.

The night that has passed since he has heard of your affliction has been long and torturous, leaving him increasingly restless and stricken with worry. He had wanted to take Vhagar and fly to Dragonstone right away, without any mind to what his arrival in enemy territory would entail for him. He almost relinquished his part to play in the war. This ceaseless game that is being played out for the Iron Throne is what drew the two of you apart in the first place.

Until his mother stopped him, promising a better plan.

And so he waits.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

At the height of the hour of the owl, in one of the royal chambers of the castle in King’s Landing, something is evidently afoot. The room is bathed in warm candlelight, the shadows reflected on each individual’s sombre faces. Their voices are low, in hushed whispers, ensuring the matter at hand to be clandestine.

Alicent is stern when she commands, “You shall help your prince in this matter, Lady Mysaria. You are, after all, in the debt of your King, and by extension, our family. Whatever slights you had to endure by our hand, we implore you to forget them. Have we not made good upon our word to eradicate the fighting pits in Flea Bottom? To ensure the safety of all the children?”

Mysaria studies the Queen, her shrewd eyes taking her in. She knows that she is not being presented with a choice, not truly. Not with this matter. She notices the grey shade of exhaustion right below Aemond's empty, glazed eye, caused by hours upon hours of worrying over you. His stance is taut, like a viper prepared to strike. Eagerly awaiting whatever impediment will stand in his way, so that he might destroy it swiftly. He would do whatever is needed, even the most distasteful of actions, simply so she would assist him in reaching you.

Aemond continues to say nothing. His eye boring straight through Mysaria. She knows right away that he does not give any mind to her. She is merely a tool for him to use, so that he will see you again.

Mysaria says, in her silky, sly tone, “I know you understand our arrangement, my Queen. I come and go as I please. I give you information as I please. You have had much use for the whispers that I provide. If I were to help you now, it will be of my own volition.”

Alicent purses her lips, “Of course. That it not being contested - ”

Aemond interrupts her impatiently, “Know this, White Worm. I am commanding you to do whatever you must so that I can reach Dragonstone, discreetly. Although,” he stalks towards her, “I will see y/n again, with or without your aid. Should you choose to help me, you shall continue to walk free. Otherwise,” he turns his head away, knowing his point has already come across, “hmm.”

“Are you threatening me, Prince Aemond?”

Slowly, Aemond turns to look at her once more. Mysaria was initially resolute in meeting his gaze, showing him that she will not cave easily. But his eye darkens, his expression a quiet type of menacing, but shadowed with a sense of grim that brought a chill to her very bones.

At once, Mysaria realizes that her Prince Aemond is not to be trifled with.

“I can get you to Dragonstone soon,” she starts.

“Today,” Aemond emphasizes, determinedly.

“On the morrow,” Mysaria counters, “there will be the timed arrival of resources by ship on the island. I can arrange to have you on that very ship, accompanied by some of my trusted… whisperers.”

“That’s not soon enough.” Aemond paces away from her, not satisfied with the solution.

“You should know, my prince, that the Blacks have employed the aid of a certain priestess of the Red religion. Someone who might be capable of countering the effect of the curse laid upon your paramour. They will attempt to conduct a healing ritual tonight,” Mysaria says, knowing every word strikes true in Aemond, hope slowly creeping in his expression.

“And this priestess… Can she be trusted?”

“She has not shown any sign of being otherwise. Rest assured that once you land on Dragonstone, I can have the Lady Y/n in some place which can be easily reached by you,” she pauses, careful to add what follows, “That is, if she will awaken.”

“She will.” Aemond’s eye snaps straight to hers, burning through. “She must.”

Mysaria merely nods once, before addressing Alicent, “Queen Regent, I trust that our arrangement is to your satisfaction? Now that you know how your son will be transported to Dragonstone under my care, do you still wish to move forward with this plan?”

Alicent takes a deep breath, knowing that no matter what her decision might be, Aemond’s mind is already set in stone. He will get to you, one way or another. Better to do it in the safety of the shadows, away from the malicious notice of the Blacks.

Alicent did not fully trust Mysaria, but she trusted that this Mistress of Whisperers understood, that should she play a hand in harming Aemond, then she would not hesitate in subjecting this waiflike serpent from Lys to the worst torture imaginable.

“If Aemond wishes it, then it shall happen,” Alicent finally says, looking to her son for confirmation. Aemond straightens, before nodding, “I shall await your counsel regarding this journey. I trust that you will get everything done right, won’t you, White Worm?”

There is a vague threat lacing the end of his words, one that does not go unnoticed.

The corner of Mysaria’s mouth lifts in acknowledgement, and she curtsies slowly, before making her leave, her translucent skirts billowing behind her.

A mere moment passes, before Alicent strides closer to her son, and takes both of his hands in hers. “Aemond, this will no doubt be perilous. There is no way of knowing what the Blacks might do should they discover you. Is this truly your desire?”

Two seconds pass, four, five. It is not the first time that Aemond has been on the receiving end of his mother’s worried pleas, and he knows it will not be the last.

Taking a deep breath, and comfortingly squeezing her hands in turn, he only has you on his mind. “Yes,” he finally says, “it is.”

Alicent need not ask why. She assents, “Alright. I trust that everything will go well, and you will return to us afterward.”

The last sentence, she says mostly to herself, in desperate need of reassurance. In hopes that no harm will come to her favoured son.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The atmosphere in the room is thick with despair and anticipation. A mixture of strange aromas infiltrate the air, making it hard to breathe.

From one side of the room, Daemon Targaryen’s face scrunches in disgust. And a whole lot of impatience. His fists are clenched on his sides, one foot tapping as the bloody witch continues her work on the seemingly vital concoction.

The Lady Cerrah kneels by the side of your bed, a small cauldron fuming by her side. Her voice comes out in deep, hushed whispers, as she performs the bulk of the spell. Her eyes are shut, and for a task of such importance, she does not seem to give off any sense of worry or agitation.

That fucking witch looks so calm. Daemon paces to another corner of the room. How the fuck can she look so calm with y/n’s very life on the line?

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra beckons to her husband, reaching for his hand, “she will be alright.”

“She best be in perfect health after all this sorcery,” he huffs in response, “otherwise, a certain witch won’t be leaving Dragonstone in the same state in which she arrived.”

Still with her eyes closed, Cerrah calls out, “Make no mistake, my prince. My hearing works just fine. We would not want to distract me from my work, lest it lead to any complication. It would not bode well for the poor Lady y/n here.”

“Our apologies.” Rhaenyra replies, also on behalf of her sulking husband, who continues to irately glare at Cerrah as if she possessed two heads.

“The rest of it, if you please, Maester.” Cerrah says, and Maester Gerardys walks forward and places a wide silver platter beside the cauldron.

Cerrah studies the contents, her fingers drifting over them as if feeling for a pulse. She takes a handful of charred wormwood and drops it in the cauldron. Next, she takes the sliver of dragonscale, retrieved from the hide of a slumbering Fyraxes, and it follows suit. The mixture hisses and bubbles as a result, the fumes growing ever stronger and more pungent.

“Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla prūmia. Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla ñelly. Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla ābrar.” Cerrah’s chanting increases in intensity, her tone sounding harsher, the words muddling over one another like a single drawn out command.

A cold, biting gust blows inside the chambers, causing the shivers to erupt on the skin of its occupants. The flames of several candles flicker then die out.

Rhaenyra’s hand tightens around Daemon’s, as she senses his distress resurfacing.

Cerrah lifts the chalice of young goat’s blood from the platter, and pours it in the cauldron, which suddenly begins to expel a bright, blue flame. It rises several feet high, the resulting heat so searing that it warms the entirety of the chambers.

Maester Gerardys and his two attendants have to wipe at their foreheads to keep beads of sweat from entering their eyes. But the Targaryens stand still, unperturbed by the blazing heat. The blood of the dragon rings true. Queen Rhaenyra’s violet eyes mirror the flames in their vibrance, fierce and unblinking.

“Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla prūmia. Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla ñelly. Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla ābrar.” The words echo again and again, as Cerrah lowers her fingers into the cauldron, her face struggling to mask the pain it brings. Her fingers come out stained, and she stands, relentless in her chanting. She drags the potion from your hairline to the tip of your nose, painting your skin deep red, the colour of the god R’hllor.

Cerrah’s words wash over you, prayers to her high beloved. “Lord of Light,” she pleads, “take hold of her heart.” The ritual is centered on the healing of your heart, as it had been the target of Alys Rivers. Your heart had to cease, to symbolically be set in stone, so that it will not yearn to be united with its other half. The very one belonging to Prince Aemond.

Love has been the catalyst of all this pain, and only love can bring you back. The Lady Alys never would have set her tainted sights on you, had you not been the keeper of Aemond’s heart.

As you still are. As you will always remain.

“Āeksiot Ōño,” Cerrah rasps, passion punctuating her every word, “gūrogon zirȳla prūmia lenton.”

The flame in the cauldron disappears, as does all the flickering candlelight around the room. Everything is enveloped in shadow, with only the pale moonlight peering through the shutters.

All is silent, save for Cerrah’s hushed whispers.

A long moment passes, until Daemon’s growl breaks the stillness, “Why will she not awaken? This procedure has taken up nearly the entirety of a fucking hour.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra chastises, “perhaps you should wait outside.”

Daemon sulks, lowering his head, “No. I want to be here when she awakens.”

Rhaenyra comfortingly strokes his back, almost amused at his disposition, “Very well then.” She understands his qualms over the situation, over the notion of entrusting your wellbeing to this strange priestess. But they were at their wits’ end. They needed you back, hale and healthy.

Cerrah’s chanting stops abruptly. She lays a hand atop your nightgown, just above your heart.

“Is something the matter?” Daemon asks.

“There is… something missing.” Cerrah sighs. “I can feel the Lord calling out to me in return, but he cannot fully take a hold of myself and the Lady Y/n. It does not seem as if he can heed my plea due to a missing piece.”

“What piece, my lady?” Rhaenyra questions, growing nervous.

“A piece of her heart.” Cerrah breathes. “I need a piece of her heart.”

“You’re bloody demented, witch, if you think I will allow you to cut her open like some fucking boar.” Daemon strides forward without much thought, allowing his emotions to overcome him.

“Daemon, don’t - ” Rhaenyra tries but her words fall to deaf ears.

“You said you would bring her back to us,” Daemon grabs Cerrah’s shoulders, gripping tightly, “so, bring her back.”

“I said I would try, Prince Daemon.” Cerrah meets Daemon’s eyes unwaveringly, unperturbed by his anger. “I just need a piece of her heart. Not in the literal sense, mind you. If only you would give me a chance to explain myself first.”

Daemon releases her, stepping back, “You are in no position to reprimand me, my lady.” He adds the title mockingly. “Tell us what you need.”

“I can’t be certain about the object,” Cerrah muses, addressing everyone in the room, “but I need something that she owns, or something that was given to her out of love. A piece of her heart. Something laced with love. True love. Yes… yes, that is what we need.”

“Laced with love,” Rhaenyra whispers, something coming to mind.

Maester Gerardys looks perplexed, unable to come up with an answer. Daemon looks around, his eyes landing on your sword resting on the mantle, “What about her sword? She has fought with it since her youth. Surely it holds a special place in her heart.”

“That may not be enough.” Cerrah shrugs.

“Wait,” Rhaenyra says, before walking over to the round desk in the middle of your chambers. On top of it rests the boxes sent many days prior, the ones containing gillyflower from your own secret field. A thin layer of dust is displaced as Rhaenyra lifts the lid of one, revealing the remnants of wilting gillyflower inside.

She takes them gently, careful not to crumble the fragile flowers in her palm.

“Laced with love,” she declares, meeting Cerrah’s eyes across the room. The priestess only nods in understanding. She does ask any questions. She can feel it, feel that the dull flowers in the Queen’s palm hold something more vivid that anything else in the room.

It is, in essence, a piece of a heart. From your Aemond, for you.

“It will not work.” Daemon grumbles, gripping Rhaenyra’s wrist as she approaches Cerrah, “Look at y/n. How can that one-eyed idiot claim to love her after having caused this.”

“We have no other choice, Daemon.” Rhaenyra shakes out of Daemon’s hold, and extends her palm to Cerrah, surrendering the gillyflower.

In one swift motion, Cerrah lowers the gillyflower in the cauldron. She resumes her chanting, her confidence renewed, “Gūrogon bisa jiōragon. Iā piece hen zirȳla prūmia. Iā object hen drēje jorrāelagon. Dovaogēdy, mijegon sȳndror, vok.” Take this offering. A piece of her heart. An object of true love. Unsullied. Without the strain of darkness. Pure.

She dips her fingers once more in the deep red mixture, and flits them over your lips. With your mouth now stained crimson, the flame reignites in the cauldron.

From the shadows, your spirit awakens. You faintly hear an unfamiliar voice, a woman calling out to you from the void. You sense a light, glowing in the periphery.

“Ivestragī jorrāelagon jemagon se ñuhoso.” Let love lead the way, you hear the voice again.

You gather your strength, aching to find home in your body once more. Struggling against the haze that confines you to weightlessness, disconnecting you from reality, you will yourself to return.

For the final time, the flame dies in the cauldron. The room is neither warm, nor cold. Everything becomes still. Quiet.

All at once, your crimson-stained lips part, panting for air. Your fingers curl at your nightgown, seeking to feel something again, anything.

Nobody can attempt to conceal their amazement.

“Gods be good,” Maester Gerardys gasps in awe.

“God,” Cerrah haughtily corrects, all the more feeling that she has a right to, as she gazes upon the result of her work.

“Silence.” Daemon commands, as he walks over to your bedside, “Y/n?”

At the height of the hour of the owl, nearly a fortnight after being cast in the shadows by Alys Rivers, the Lady Y/n finds her way back to the light. To the living world filled with suffering and bliss. Of hatred and desire.

Ultimately aided by Aemond Targaryen’s love, you had been coaxed out of the darkness.

In the caves underneath the castle in Dragonstone, one particular dragon shakes back into consciousness. A deep, resounding growl builds in Fyraxes’ chest, threatening to escape.

When it does, it reaches even the farthest corner of the island.

Finally, you open your eyes.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Your muscles ache as you reorient yourself with movement, leaning against the windowsill. The cool morning air is nothing but a welcome sensation, and you cannot resist taking deep breaths of it, the smell of the sea creeping up your nostrils. Rolling out your neck, you let out a faint groan.

“You should rest, y/n. The maester has advised you from engaging in strenuous activity of any kind.” Rhaenyra suggests. She and Daemon have steadily kept you company since you had awoken, themselves forsaking the comforts of slumber.

“I’d wager that the maester prefers me to not make any movement at all,” you jest, walking over to the table, and sitting down slowly. You take another plum from the plate brought over by your lady-in-waiting, and devour it eagerly, juices flowing down to your chin.

“Easy there, y/n,” Daemon chuckles, “or you might just exhaust Dragonstone’s supply of fruit.”

The doors open, and in enters Jacaerys, a relieved expression on his face.

“Y/n,” he rushes over to you, and squeezes you with both arms, “don’t you ever do that to us again.”

“Alright,” you smile, “I’ll try not to be put under some inexplicable curse. What a burden it turned out to be.”

“Right,” Jace nearly punches your shoulder in jest, but catches himself at the last second, “I am glad you are finally awake.”

“Jacaerys,” Daemon says, “why don’t you arrange for Fyraxes to be taken at the eastern coast, somewhere close to the docks, so that y/n might reunite with her dragon as well as enjoy the morning sunlight.”

Your face lights up at the thought, “She is okay? I would love to see her again.”

“Of course,” Jace nods in agreement, before quickly planting a kiss on your cheek, “leave it to me. Y/n here could benefit from a bit of fresh air. Besides,” he winks at you, “you kind of reek of stale sheets and sweat. The outdoors should do you a world of good.”

A hearty laugh escapes your lips, the first one after a very long while.

“You arse,” you call out to Jace’s retreating back.

“You mean, royal arse.” He counters lightly, humour lacing his tone. He politely nods to his sires, before leaving the chambers.

It is not long after his departure before Rhaenyra decides to address the low hanging question, “Perhaps we should talk about this… curse that you were dealt. A grievous harm had befallen you, and by extension, us. Rest assured that the one behind this assault will be put to justice.”

“I trust that you have some inkling as to who possesses the ability and the motivation to harm you, y/n.” Daemon adds, looking out the window in thought.

Rhaenyra says, “We have determined that it had been the work of a priestess - ”

“A demented witch.” Daemon interjects, sneering.

Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, before continuing, “It was a priestess of R’hllor who did this to you. The consensus seems to be that it may have been Alys Rivers, Aemond’s apparent consort. Well, at least she was. Word has reached us that the wedding has been called off, by none other than Aemond himself.”

So, he has followed through on his word. You straighten, letting the news settle over you. They are not to be wed, but what does this entail? He did mention something about keeping her in his employ.

“And if it is that wretch who placed a curse upon you, then it must have been at the behest of her master.” Daemon determinedly says, not a trace of doubt in his mind.

You feel empty. In the literal sense, as you had not been able to consume anything for too long, before this morning. Your head feels light and floaty, like you are a newborn babe finding her bearings.

But it is another matter entirely, the way that possibility makes you feel hollow inside. That Aemond may have been behind this ploy. That he had tricked you, and is not to be trusted.

“He couldn’t.” your voice comes out weak, tinged with doubt, “He would never do this to me.”

“I must admit that I feel inclined to agree with you, as it was the gillyflower sent by him that rendered the ritual effective. We needed something given out of love, and it worked.” Rhaenyra reaches for your hand, “However, it might be best if you do not see him. Even if he did not play a hand in the curse, as you believe, he could still lead Alys to you.”

You shut your eyes, leaning back against your seat. Nodding your head once, you attempt a smile at Rhaenyra, but it does not reach your eyes, “I wish to see Fyraxes.”

“Of course,” Rhaenyra stands, “I shall fetch someone to escort you.”

“No need,” Daemon says, “you’ll find Ser Erryk waiting outside. I had anticipated your desire to see your dragon, y/n, and I have already alerted the knight to keep a close eye on you.”

Rhaenyra pauses, this knowledge not having been shared with her, but she lets it pass. After all, Daemon truly cares about you, and would only be attending to your needs, especially in your fragile state.

“Thank you, Daemon.” You take his arm as he escorts you out of the room at a sluggish pace, your body still lacking its former vigour.

You hope that seeing Fyraxes might keep any thought of Aemond at bay, even though you already know that it will be for naught. Sooner rather than later, he will find his way back to your mind. To your heart.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The waves have been harsh and unrelenting, the wind threatening to make Aemond’s hood fall to his shoulders. He kept a tight grip on his cloak, as he sat in the quarterdeck of the hunkering supply ship. His royal garb has been exchanged for commoner’s clothing. All measures had to be taken to conceal his true identity.

The White Worm’s supposed whisperers were a pair of fishermen, regular workers on the ship, responsible for gathering the greater part of their freshwater fish reserves. They had stood to the side, always a few feet from the Prince, should any trouble come up.

But fortunately, it did not. The long journey from King’s Landing to Dragonstone remained uneventful.

The ship had docked nearly half an hour ago, and the two fishermen led Aemond further onto the island. The small group had only been walking for a quarter of a mile, before one of the men turns to address Aemond, “Continue down this path,” he gestures forward, “for just a good few minutes, my prince. Then you will find what you came for.”

Aemond looks to where the man is pointing, seeing nothing but the same jagged rocks. There is no path. This might as well be a fucking ambush.

The taller of the men notices the prince’s hesitation. “Head down this way, Prince Aemond. It is understandable if you think that your trust is misplaced in us, but know that the White Worm does not turn back on her word.”

Aemond turns away in contemplation, watching as the waves slam against the eastern edge of Dragonstone.

“Hmm.” What other choice does he have, if he wishes to reach you?

Mindfully keeping his hand on the dagger by his belt, he marches forward, tilting his head in acknowledgement to both men as he passes them by.

Aemond is only partially giving mind to any potential threat, his focus unconsciously straying back to you. He is not even certain of what he will find as he walks further, but he wants only one thing.

To see you again. He holds on to the hope that whatever ritual conducted has been successful, and that you are free from the clutches of Alys’ spell.

That is the one thing that can set things right. The very thing keeping his sanity intact.

You are the final strand of light keeping Aemond from completely yielding himself into darkness.

Not too far away, Fyraxes stretches on a clearing amongst the rocks. Your hands glide over her scales, the feeling of her immediately making you at ease. She groans in satisfaction, mirroring your relief.

Your brow furrows as you notice her tense abruptly, craning her long neck to the side, seemingly sensing a new arrival.

“Skoros iksis pirta?” What’s wrong?

Leaning against her, you can’t help but brace yourself against danger. Dragonstone might be a steadfast fort, easily defensible against explicit attacks, but you now know better than to underestimate the reach of dark magic.

Fryaxes groans, not one of displeasure or alarm, but rather, recognition. Familiarity. A call you knew all too well. Whomever she sees coming is far from an enemy. Could it be Daemon? Rhaenyra? Surely it cannot be Ser Erryk, who has just taken leave to allow you some time alone with Fyraxes.

You take a few steps toward the direction she watches in anticipation, the faint sound of rapid footfall reaching your ears. You think to call out to ask who goes there, but the words never leave you. You see him.

Aemond comes into view, and your knees almost buckle from underneath you, your body seemingly remembering how delicate it has become.

His familiar shapely lips are parted in amazement, taking you in. Reaching up, he lowers his cloak, his silver hair a stark contrast to the dark cloth.

“Aemond,” is all you can say. And that was all it took. Aemond’s legs move on their volition, drawn to the sound of your voice. He pauses right in front of you, his hand reaching to caress your face, and you cannot find the strength to protest. You are not certain that you even want to. Whatever peril he might pose, your skin still yearns for his touch.

His hands gently hold either side of your face. He notices how you appear slightly gaunt, frailer, and it torments him. Immediately, he is compelled to punish the woman who caused you to be this way.

But for now, he relishes in the elation that only you can bring him.

“Y/n,” he whispers, his voice breaking. Carefully, as if fearing that you might break against him, he presses his forehead to yours.

“Aemond,” you say, stronger this time. A hundred questions threaten to spill from your lips, but you reel them in, save for just one. “What are you doing here?”

He laughs in disbelief, shaking his head. “What am I doing here?” He repeats, making it sound like the answer is supposed to be the most obvious thing in all the realm.

“What am I doing here?” he scoffs, repeating the question yet again, and right away, you know.

“Avy jorrāelan,” Aemond says, quelling whatever worry remains in you, “That is why.”

I love you. Of course. It truly is the most obvious thing in all the realm.

Your lips meet, finding home in each other once more.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

In another part of the sprawling castle, a clandestine meeting takes place. At the bottom of a turnpike stair, at the end of the long and narrow hallway, there lies a room cloaked in shadow.

Three individuals stand inside, only able to speak freely to one another in this very room. At least, when it concerns Aemond Targaryen… and you.

“Has he reached the island?” The mastermind speaks. Who else can it be but the Rogue Prince himself?

Mysaria replies, “Indeed he has. He is convening with Lady Y/n as we speak. Everything is unfolding according to your plan, my prince.”

Daemon sneers, “Very good.” He turns to the other person in the room, “And you made certain that the Queen remains unaware of what transpires?”

“Queen Rhaenyra does not know that Prince Aemond is on Dragonstone, my prince.” Ser Erryk affirms. “I swore fealty to the Queen, and as you said, this plan is solely carried out in her best interest. I will not turn my back on this.”

Daemon’s pride swells. Soon enough, his beloved nephew will atone for his crimes.

And the rest of the Greens shall fall.

So who suspected that Daemon may be up to his usual serving of chaos? Alys Rivers will still play her role, but the more realistic threat to yours and Aemond's romance will be our very own uncle-daddy. You guys seriously didn't think that he would just everything slide, did you?

Wow did this take so long to post!?!?! I still don't think that long of a wait was worth it, and I'll try my hardest to get the next part done sooner :)

Thank you thank you to all of you who follow this series, routinely flooding my inbox with requests for the next part when I take too long. 🖤 Hehe yous are aces.

Apologies if I missed anyone on the taglist - it has gotten all too long (which is a good thing, after all) but I suck at organizing it, so I hope this post finds you well if I failed to tag you. 🤍

Series taglist: @crazylokonugget @xinyourdreamsx @raging-panda @zelzablues @whitejuliana1204 @caught-in-the-afterglow @a-demon-daughter @meilikki @carlottalhn @aemondswh0re @afro-hispwriter @xcinnamonmalfoyx @ietss @writer-lee5 @solacestyles @noneedtosearch @umavvitch @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @inpraizeof @evye47 @kellzlib @janelongxox @daydreamerblues @hearmeout-inc @marrianena @poisonedsultana @lithebunnyq @nushy @foras @thesheelfsworld @abcrosia @anangelwhodidntfall @kyrieshoka @katefullerrr @gxthicwxrm @bluscryn @lwqfhp @vampxra @jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels @justsumtuffstuff @verycollectivecreator @chiyausu @mistalli @buttercupstrand @cullenswife @blacpiink @darylandbethfanforever9 @pockcock @alexayoonlee (continued in comments)

#aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen fanfiction

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violetduchess · 1 year

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Muzan with a horrifically scarred reader? the reader's parents were overbearing, cruel and uncaring to reader, and when they put reader in a arranged marriage with Muzan for profit, reader tries to stand up for themselves... but ends up getting acid thrown in their face and body, making them wear a mask & long clothes to hide the permanent scars. Muzan doesn't know the treatment reader was given until reader fesses up when they first talk alone.

Scars to your Beautiful

Character: Muzan x reader

CW: angst, mentioned abuse, terrible parents, arranged marriage?

Note: I'm sorry it took so longs for me to get to this

In a world consumed by darkness and the allure of power, you, the reader, bore the visible remnants of a painful past. Your body, once unblemished, now carried scars that told a story of survival and strength. The world had not been kind to you, but you refused to let it define you.

You were born into a family plagued by cruelty and indifference. Your parents, driven solely by profit and social status, had arranged a marriage between you and Muzan. Their motives were selfish, for they sought to exploit Muzan's power for their own gain. You were nothing more than a pawn in their game.

But you, brave and determined, refused to succumb to their plans. You stood up for yourself, ready to defy their expectations and claim your own destiny. However, your defiance only fueled their anger. In a fit of rage and desperation, they resorted to an unspeakable act.

Acid was thrown upon your delicate flesh, searing your body and leaving behind permanent scars. The pain was excruciating, both physically and emotionally. Your once flawless visage was marred, and you became a prisoner of your own disfigurement.

As fate would have it, you found yourself face to face with Muzan. Trembling with both fear and vulnerability, you hesitated to reveal the truth of your past. Would he see you as damaged, tainted by your scars? Would he turn away in disgust?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the dimly lit chamber of Muzan's grand estate, you stood before him, your body concealed beneath layers of clothing and a mask shielding your face. Deep scars marred your once smooth skin, a painful reminder of the cruelty you had endured in your past. Your heart raced as you gathered the courage to reveal your truth.

"Muzan," you began, your voice quivering with a mix of anxiety and vulnerability. "There is something I need to tell you."

Muzan, who had always exuded an air of power and control, looked at you with curiosity and a hint of concern in his eyes. "What is it?" he asked, his voice a low, commanding rumble.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for his reaction. "These scars," you gestured to your covered body, "they are not the result of some accident. They were deliberately inflicted upon me."

Confusion flickered across Muzan's face, followed by a flicker of anger. "Who did this to you?" he growled, his voice laced with a cold fury.

"It was my own parents," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "They were cruel, controlling, and saw me only as a tool for their profit. When I tried to stand up for myself, they threw acid at me, leaving me scarred for life."

Muzan's expression darkened, a storm brewing within his gaze. His fists clenched, betraying his simmering anger. "They dared touch what's mine?" he seethed, his voice laced with venom. He looked seconds away from finding them and ripping them to shreds.

You took a step forward, placing a hand on his arm to calm his rising rage. "It's in the past now," you assured him, your voice filled with a mix of resignation and determination. "But I wanted you to know the truth because...because I trust you."

Muzan's gaze softened as he looked down at you, his anger slowly subsiding. His eyes seemed to contemplate something, as if weighing the possibilities. A silence hung between you, thick with anticipation, as he processed your words.

After a moment, Muzan's expression changed, and he wore a thoughtful look. His features softened, revealing a surprising vulnerability. "You trust me," he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper with a slight edge of dark amusement. "Despite all I've done, you still trust me?"

You nodded, meeting his gaze with unwavering resolve. "I do," you affirmed, your voice filled with sincerity.

A mixture of emotions flickered across Muzan's face, an internal battle raging within him. Finally, he exhaled deeply, his shoulders relaxing as he made his decision. "Then, if you truly trust me, I offer you a choice," he said, his voice tinged with both certainty and determination. "You have the chance to become a demon, to gain immortality and power beyond human comprehension."

Your eyes widened, surprised by the unexpected offer. Becoming a demon was not a decision to be taken lightly, but it held the allure of leaving your painful past behind.

You took a moment to consider his words, weighing the risks and rewards that came with accepting his offer. The scars of your past had shaped you, but now, you had the chance to embrace a new existence, alongside the one who understood and cared for you.

"I accept your offer."

#xreader #muzan x reader #muzan kibutsuji #muzan jackson #kny muzan #kimetsu no yaiba muzan #demon slayer muzan #muzan x you #muzan demon slayer

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 5 months

Text

Persephone's Devotee (Hello, Mr. Monster AU, I)

Master List

Summary: In the age of Spiritualists and magicians, wyrds winds in different ways to link Dream of the Endless and Aisling Hunt. AU of Hello, Mr. Monster beginning in the 1920s. (Alternatively titled 'We All Hate Roderick Burgess')

Warnings: Implied child abuse/neglect, child left to travel solo, manipulating children for profit (non-sexual trafficking)

A/N: Your bird just got diagnosed with a life changing chronic condition (in addition to being put back on depression meds). We'll see how this post does. Have four chapters planned. The last scene is based on personal experiences with heat exhaustion/borderline heat stroke.

Dream’s tools brought many things to Fawney Rig. Wealth and prestige. Admiration, gifts, and influence. Nearly everything the magus wanted and only a fraction of what he thought he deserved. Roderick’s dreams of power and riches drew another tool to his hand, or perhaps Destiny drew the magus to her. The girl who saw strange things in the dark and found answers to strange riddles in her cards. But her wyrd would always draw her to old house and its shrouded dungeon, in any world or time. All because of what the Burgesses kept there.

In the eight years since the fateful evening he summoned and caught one of the Endless, Roderick had become a man much desired. He found himself with an invitation to Lord and Lady Werthrope’s party, a guest of honor at a soiree at their country estate. They promised a night of occult mysteries and foreign prizes. Bits of people and places from across the empire and beyond. Mummies from Egypt and fragments of Greek antiquities to gasp and shriek over with glasses of champagne and brandy.

Roderick carried himself as Lord Werthrope’s equal, and at least for that night, surrounded by ancient mysteries of all kinds, he was seen as such. He was an expert, a guide, someone to hold in reverence rather than an oddity to gawk over. He told them with his bearing, his dignity, and the ruby he wore on a golden chain around his neck. His wishes became dreams and so became real. He stood like a stronger god beside the broken figure of Apollo and scoffed at the mistranslations of texts he’d only ever read secondhand.

Beside the wonders kept under guard at home, what were these paltry things? He could have any of them he desired, and he’d already claimed better.

His sense of superiority carried him through the party’s early hours, moving from acrobats in elaborate costumes, to fire eaters, to ghost stories and flights of fancy spun by swindlers far below his consideration. He had an answer or alternative for everything. And then he met the girl.

She sat at a bare table with no long cloth to hide rolling ankles, clever fishing lines, or knocking accomplices. Only a candle and a deck of cards separated her from the guests, and she’d drawn quite a queue. Her feet didn’t even reach the floor, swinging idly between the legs of the chair as she read the cards of a distraught-looking dandy.

Taking his arm, Lady Werthrope said, “This one you really must see, Magus. She’s made quite the splash in New York and London.”

The Magus offered a tolerant smile. “And what is the trick? Does she blow out the candle? Bend spoons?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” The lady practically vibrated, eager to impress as she led them to the table, scattering the line. “She sees things, and she reads fortunes like no one I’ve ever seen, and I’ve had more than a few pet psychics in my time. This one’s a bit of a sad story.”

The magus clenched his jaw until the muscle in his cheek twitched. He could make whatever sob story the girl shilled much worse. Of all the frauds and liars who feigned knowledge of the occult, Roderick Burgess hated mediums and ghost whisperers the most. The tantalizing promise of connection with Randal – always waved in his face, always ultimately denied – it clawed open the rotting wound in his heart, and he let the poison drip back on any fools who tried his patience.

Let this one try to pull the wool over his eyes, and he’d unmask her in front of this glittering audience. She’d be a penniless sad story when he was through.

“Those people,” the lady said, nodding to a couple flanking the child, “are just the adoptive parents. Saw her family murdered, poor thing. They say that’s what cracked her open to the other world.”

“Do they indeed.” He kept his smile, showing his teeth as his grip flexed over the cane in his free hand. “Then I look forward to her performance.”

The Magus and the lady sat across from the faux family, and the girl looked at them. The people who weren’t her parents did not manage her well, Burgess couldn’t help noting. They’d painted her up with rogue and kohl that made her look even more like a child playing grownup games, and the feather in her headband hung limp and lifeless. She barely managed to grimace through a smile, and she spoke with all the enthusiasm of a student reporting on Ovid to the class.

“What are you asking?” A child’s voice really shouldn’t be so dull. Now that he was nearer, the Magus couldn’t help wondering if she was even younger than he’d first assumed. Not even ten, he thought, and already so exhausted.

It wasn’t what he’d expected. He kept his guard, but curiosity stirred beneath. She was no great performer.

Lady Werthrope leaned forward, eager to take the first reading as the girl shuffled her cards. They were nearly too big for her to manage, but in this at least she clearly had much practice. Her handling of the tarot was the most natural element of her demeanor he’d yet to see.

The lady talked about her dog Moxy, a cocker spaniel much loved and terribly spoiled. It was getting on in years, and, well, ought she prepare for anything dreadful? Only, her friend had just lost her terrier, and she couldn’t chase it from her thoughts…

The cards appeared on the table. One by one. The Six of Cups. The Two of Swords. And, lastly, the Nine of Swords reversed.

“Moxy is well-loved.” The child pointed to the first card. “That’s the foundation. But she’s getting older, and she may go blind eventually. She’s accepted it, though, and you will, too.” She smiled a little, hesitantly, like a pet used to getting kicked when she barked at company. The Magus noted how her gaze flicked to her pseudo-father.

Lady Werthrope clucked and reached over to squeeze the child’s hand. “You’re very honest. And very sweet. Now, won’t you show the Magus what you can do?”

Obediently, she gathered the cards and folded the deck, shuffling them with the fresh energy of her next customer. “What do you want to know?”

Roderick considered. It was a little below him to ask anything specific of a child spiritualist, and he still meant to test her. Hate stirred the old thorn in his heart, and although she didn’t speak with ghosts to earn her bread, he didn’t need to justify himself.

“I’ll leave the question to you.” He squinted in a way that may seem affectionate, but it was only sharp, a predator focusing on little fawn to see how quickly it might run. “What do you see?”

She flinched, lifting her eyes from the cards to meet his in a fleeting, startled glance. Like he’d come near to guessing something she didn’t say out loud. But then she bent over the deck, back to her work as the woman behind her set a hand on her shoulder.

“Be good, Aisling,” the adoptive mother said. “Show the Magus your skills. Don’t embarrass us.”

The child rolled her lip between her teeth, sorting the task quickly. One card. Two cards. Three cards. Tap, tap, tap on the bare table. The Magician’s face glowed in the candle light, and Roderick blinked. A good tarot reader must have good luck in order to draw the appropriate cards – or a marked deck. But he’d watched those little hands like a hawk, and he’d seen nothing. It wasn’t definitive proof by any means, but Roderick Burgess knew himself to be cleverer than a child.

Pointing to the first card, the Magician, the girl said, “You’re the Magus. The Magician is your creation of yourself.” The second card was the Nine of Cups. “Your cups all overflow, and you enjoy the plenty you already have.” And then there was the Ace of Pentacles. Roderick wondered for a moment if she’d laid the cards out of the intended order, but she simply said, “There is new wealth coming. You’ve just found something that will bring you more good fortune. The benefits will grow in the months and years to come.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.” He looked for cracks, and there were many. Fatigue clouded her eyes and weighted the end of every sentence. Not a sign of a lie, though. She couldn’t even pretend to be happy for the audience.

He turned the interaction over in his mind through the rest of the night, wearing away the questions and presumptions like the rough edges of a stone, and by the later hours, he thought he might hold a jewel.

The adoptive parents made themselves easy to find. They hadn’t left the table. Neither had the girl. The lord and lady hired them to entertain, and they stayed at their posts. They’d gathered refreshments, but no cup or plate sat on the table, and he wondered if they had any idea children needed things like water after a long night of speaking with strangers.

Really. The scheme was too transparent. The only lies hid in any manner of affection the parents pretended for the child they claimed.

The Magus marched up to the table, rapping the top with his cane to seize the drowsy girl’s attention. She blinked, started licking her dry lips, caught herself, and pinched her mouth closed with her teeth.

“Aisling, wasn’t it?” He nodded to her, encouraging her to echo the motion. “I would like a word with you. No cards. No reading. Just a conversation. Alone.”

The father stepped forward, ready to defend his meal ticket. “Sir, I’m afraid we can’t just –”

“The girl and I will sit here, at this table,” he tapped it again to make his point, “and you will both stand over there.” The cane swung to point towards the bar, which was well within sight but well out of earshot.

When the man moved to protest again, Roderick pulled out his wallet, and the father’s mouth snapped shut. A few pounds bought the adults’ willing compliance, and they went off in search of drinks with barely a backwards glance. Roderick settled into the seat he claimed earlier, watching the girl squirm. Her hands fluttered restlessly between her lap and the table, clearly used to the cards, uneasy without the form and ritual of a reading to guide the conversation.

That was well enough. Roderick had his own plans.

He signaled one of the roving staff, and as the waiter approached, he ordered, “A lemonade for the young lady.”

With a bow, the server hurried off, and the Magus smiled, lips closed, tilting his head as his legs crossed under the table. He was not a client. He was an adult who noticed, who might be moved to care, and in the few hours of their acquaintance, he was already offering more than anyone else.

“So, you see things?”

Her eyes snapped from him to the people who managed her. Then back again, and down to her lap.

“I’m not supposed to upset people.” She picked at the fringe on the garish frock she wore – entirely unsuited to her age and clearly uncomfortable. “It upsets Mr. and Mrs. Foster when I see things. Or when I talk about them.”

The Magus nodded, unsurprised. He wondered if the people who adopted her even realized her talents were genuine when they snatched her up. They had too many connections and too much showmanship to be anything other than experienced con artists. This little Aisling must be very sensitive, and the truly sensitive didn’t see strictly good, kind, or encouraging things. How she must terrify the fools.

The server returned with a cut crystal glass rattling with ice. The girl thanked the server, then thanked her benefactor, and wrapped her hands around the condensation-slicked sides. She sipped carefully, and Roderick could see the tension ease from her posture as she drank. Desperate as she was, she didn’t gulp, and with clear regret, she set the drink on the table still two-thirds full. But she kept her hands on the glass, lest some waiter assume she was finished and spirit it away.

“I won’t be upset, and I’d like to believe you.” Angling his head down to peer at her meaningfully, employing a look he’d once used when his son misbehaved, he asked, “What have you seen tonight that would upset people?”

The girl looked around, shifting so her chair creaked. This time, it wasn’t her adoptive parents she feared. Any ears may be a threat. When she leaned in, the Magus copied her, silently assuring her the secret would be safe with him.

“There’s a guest who’s not a guest, and he isn’t a man, either.”

The Magus hummed. “Say I believe you. Could you prove it?”

Seduced into the invitation of an adult confidant, and revived by the lemonade, she rushed to answer. She wanted to prove herself. She wanted to be believed and heard. The Magus was listening, and he was beginning to believe as well.

“The man paid the footman with holly leaves,” she hissed in a loud whisper. “The footman folded them like bank notes, and the spines stabbed his palms, but he didn’t notice. Look for the one with blood on his gloves.”

“And the man who isn’t a man?”

Shrinking back, the girl shook her head until the headband went crooked. Her hand pressed over her heart, rubbing hard circles as her face creased.

“He’d know I saw him,” she said. “I don’t let them know I see them anymore.”

Now there was a tale and no mistake. A child with enough power to annoy things beyond the veil – one that survived an encounter – was rare indeed.

“What happened?” He lent his tone a shade of concern. Facts, he found, traveled swiftest to a sympathetic ear, and he needed to know everything. Curiosity was growing into practical fervor as the first dreams of a plan grew into place. “Are you ill?”

She crumbled just a little bit more, folding into herself to protect the place she rubbed from some invisible threat. “Sometimes I see things that don’t want to be seen. One of them – hurt me. There’s no scar, but it hurt me, and now it aches.”

The Magus donned a solemn expression, though he felt a thrill at the prospect sitting before him. The little girl had unusual skills, and though she wasn’t handled well by the adults governing her, they must still turn a pretty penny showing her in salons and private homes. He’d confirm what she’d said, of course, validate her little proof, but she was either a better liar than he’d ever met or she was childishly honest. He knew where he’d put his money.

Where he might very well invest it, actually.

He didn’t say goodbye, only nodding as he rose and went in search of the servant with bloody gloves.

Of course, he found him. When he demanded to see what the footman had in his pockets, the boy paled, stammering excuses, only to pull out a handful of forest detritus. As the young man fell into a whirl of confusion and disappointment, the Magus truly smiled. The first real smile since Lady Werthrope brought him to the child’s table.

He must have a proper conversation with the girl’s current guardians.

Aisling clung to her bag, drowning in the heat as the train pulled away from the Wych Cross platform. Men and women fanned themselves with hats and newspapers, desperate for a breeze in the dead summer stillness. Ladies shed their gloves. Men loosened their ties. Propriety mattered less when the air was trying to suffocate them, a crushing, inescapable oven scalding the usually damp countryside.

A miserable day to travel.

Sweat dripped down her back, soaking the neck of her dress, gluing her hair to her skin. But she didn’t have a free hand to stir a breeze. Her bag was too heavy, full of everything she would need in her new home, or at least everything the Fosters thought they couldn’t sell for a profit. Mrs. Foster took her to the train station and dropped her at the door.

“Here’s your ticket. You’re heading to Wych Cross, and then to Fawney Rig. Don’t forget, and don’t miss your train,” she’d said. Then she climbed back into the cab beside Mr. Foster and disappeared into the flow of London traffic.

They’d sold her on to someone else, and now they were free of her.

She peered around the station, but it was really just a platform. In London, there were helpful adults in uniforms and suits who pointed out the right train and the right stairs to reach it. Nothing here told her how to find Fawney Rig, though, and the only adult in a uniform seemed to be the man in the ticket booth.

She’d find her way. She wasn’t a baby after all. She was eight. And she could read very well, and no one was coming to help her, so she better figure it out.

She stood in line for the ticket man’s attention. Surely, he could give her directions. The Magus was rich, and a little famous, she thought, so his neighbors must know where he lived. If the man in the booth didn’t know, she’d keep asking until she found someone who did. While she waited her turn, she set down her suitcase and sat on it, taking deep breaths that tasted like salt. It could be worse. What if it rained instead? Well. Actually. Rain sounded very nice.

Soon enough, she took her place in front of the booth, and the man frowned under his mustache like she’d arrived with a bill or a letter from someone nasty. She smiled prettily, the way the Fosters told her to, and tried to make herself look like less of a problem as she clutched her case again.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but do you know the way to Fawney Rig?”

He physically recoiled, and his frown hooked deeper with glowering doubt as he scanned her. “Fawney Rig? That devil worshiper’s house? Why do you want to know?”

“I’ve been sent to live there, sir. I’m expected, but I don’t think they’ve sent anyone for me.” Manners made things easier with adults. Good manners and clear words – the fewer the better.

But the man wasn’t swayed. He looked thunderous. Like she’d broken something valuable and ought to pay for it with a lashing.

“Do you have money for a cab?”

The Fosters didn’t own her anymore, and they’d given her nothing but cards, and costumes, and a hairbrush. All the cash stayed warm and safe in their pockets.

“No, sir.”

“Then walk down the main road. Go east from the village, and keep going until there are no more houses you can see from the street. There’ll be a path on the left with a big iron gate. Follow that and you’ll find your devil worshipers.” He waved her off like he’d slap her if not for the glass. “Next!”

Manners got her what she needed, at least. “Thank you.”

The other adults all moved aside as she trundled through with her case. It made it easier to avoid clipping ankles and shins with her luggage, but she wondered if they hated her the way the ticket man hated her – because of Fawney Rig – or if she simply smelled after the long, stuffy ride in third class. Not that adults needed an excuse to dislike her. The nice ones called her uncanny and gifted. The mean ones called her a witch, and a bastard devil-spawn, and other names a mother should wash out of their mouths with soap.

She wasn’t sure which ones were telling the truth.

She knew the way forward, though. To Fawney Rig. That was good, even if the other adults didn’t think so. The Magus may not be a nice person, she hadn’t known him long enough for the usual adult lies to wear thin enough to see through, but he was smarter than the Fosters, and he’d given her a lemonade, so maybe she wouldn’t be as hungry or thirsty under his guardianship. She’d still have to work. Adults only wanted her if they thought she could give them something. But everything was more bearable with a good dinner and cold drinks.

She hoped he’d give her another cold drink, even water with some ice, when she reached his home. The train ride left her terribly thirsty.

Leaving the shaded platform, she bowed away from the sun’s violent touch and started on her journey. The village only kept a cobbled road in the center of town. It led up to the train station, linking it to a clutch of shops and offices. A parish church sat a little way back from the road, separated from the secular world by a field of tidy tombstones in heat-bleached grass. People noticed her. They looked. They whispered to each other. But no one waved or offered a hand. Gossip didn’t move fast enough to beat her here from the train, and she wondered how people could tell she was odd. Society had so many rules beyond manners, but no one would tell her what they were, and she never guessed right.

By the time the cobblestones ended, she was struggling to hold onto her suitcase. The handle kept trying to slip from her fingers, even when she held it with both hands, and she had to work harder and harder to keep it out of the dirt. If she knew anything about the world, it was that good children didn’t drag their luggage, and bad things happened to those that did. She’d travelled enough to learn, and she wanted to make a good impression on her new keeper and his household.

The road outside of town went a very, very long way. The ticket seller’s instructions made each step sound the same length: go through town, pass the houses, go down the long drive past the gates. Her imagination had lied to her, though. Every time she thought she’d passed the last house, there came another. Each handed her down the chain of cottage gardens and small homes full of families who pretended not to see. They all knew she’d done something, like she had a brand on her forehead, and she wasn’t allowed to stop. She didn’t try to.

Everything looked sickly yellow in the midday glare. Dust hung in the air, stirred by passing cars, lingering without a breath of wind to dispel the choking clouds. Everything looked flat and dead, so much so she almost missed the gate. Another leg of her trek done. Still too far to go, and the private road leading to the Magus’ home was longer than it had any right to be.

She didn’t feel well. The trees gave her a little protection, but her stomach and lungs felt hard, strained, the way her arms ached with carrying her suitcase. Only they were parts that shouldn’t feel that way, and she thought maybe she should sit down.

But she was almost there.

Even if she walked slowly, and her feet didn’t land quite where she told them to.

She just wouldn’t think about those things. Complaining was just making excuses, and she was expected.

The house appeared out of nowhere, or she was too dizzy to see it through the leaves before the last turn in the drive. It loomed, a very final-looking destination, and her suitcase escaped her grasp. The case was slippery, and her fingers didn’t curl the way they should. She bent to pick it up, and when she straightened, the whole world spun.

She stood very still until it stopped, and she found herself shivering as she approached the front door. Very strange. Was she afraid? No. That didn’t sound right. She felt terrible, too terrible to worry, and none of it made sense.

But she’d nearly made it. She had made it. Almost.

Knocking summoned a young man, and the door creaked open as he glanced down with a quizzical expression. “Hello? Can I help you?”

She tried holding her suitcase with just one hand, but it slipped away again, barely missing her foot. Maybe a handshake was a bad idea. The stranger hadn’t held his hand out for a shake, after all. She was just confused. He might not want to touch her. And she must look a picture after her walk.

She should’ve done something differently. If she were smarter, or taller, or…

“I’m Aisling Hunt, sir. The Magus sent for me.”

“Oh.” The young man’s eyes popped wider, and she wondered if he was younger than she thought at first. Stepping back, he pulled open the door to usher her inside. “I’m sorry. I’d heard someone was coming, but I’d thought you’d be… well, older. And I’m just Alex.”

“Nice to meet you, Alex. I’m Aisling.”

He nodded and plucked her bag from where she’d dropped it. “Yes. You said. Are you feeling alright?”

She didn’t know. And grownups didn’t really like it when she was unwell anyway. Before she could come up with a suitable lie that would get her what she needed without stepping on any toes, a familiar face appeared at the end of the hall.

“Ah! You made it.” Out of formal dress, the Magus still brimmed with authority. Aisling had met many adults who wore costumes and pretended to be something they weren’t, but the Magus seemed like he’d somehow stitched his chosen persona into his skin. “Welcome to Fawney Rig.”

She wobbled. “Thank you, sir.”

“Magus,” he corrected.

“Thank you, Magus, sir.”

At last, what he was seeing overshadowed his enthusiasm, and the old man frowned. “Did you walk here? From the station?”

“Yes, Magus.”

“The Fosters didn’t even give you money for a fucking cab?”

“Just the train ticket, sir. Magus.”

She blinked, and the whole room turned blue, like peering at the world through stained glass. It looked so pretty she didn’t realize the Magus was asking her another question until his hand settled on her shoulder.

His voice came from far away. “Can you hear me?”

Yes, she wanted to say. Yes, Magus, I walked, and I found Fawney Rig all on my own, and I’m not useless, please don’t throw me away yet.

But everything looked cool, and blue, and lovely. She was floating in it. Floating and so awfully heavy at the same time. The color slipped in with her breath, eroding her control until it slipped from her grasp like the suitcase had.

The world went dark, and she didn’t see, hear, or say anything more.

And deep below, in the belly of the house, Dream of the Endless waited in his cage, as senseless to the world above as she.

#morpheus x reader #fic: persephone's devotee #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x oc #dream of the endless x oc #fic: hello mr. monster

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zecchou · 7 days

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hi. i set out on a journey to build the Argyris Estate, a sci-fi spin on baroque chateaus set in a space opera that i co-write with like three other people. this is day 2. i am making this post just to start documenting. more info under the cut

don't ask me how long this took i'm not counting the hours. day 1 was spent on outlining the floorplan itself after some drawings that took like an additional 2 days. it's not a 1:1 beause i suck at planning and also the reason i'm not actually an architect.

i use a modpack on Forge called Valhelsia 6, mostly for the decorative elements. i have like 4 variations on polished calcite, it's a little insane. however, Create has been very helpful with the creative worldshaper tool, or this would've taken far longer!

inspiration, as mentioned, sources from baroque french architecture and also the Ghiblicraft Howl's Moving Castle Kingsbury section. go look at it, it's not even done but it's so pretty. glass facade concocted by my bestie @ako-kipali. more updates to follow as i work on this

#my art #minecraft #mineblr #baroque #architecture #ennui of gaia

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notyetfixed-a · 7 months

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@a-crookedtouch asked | ‘ i won’t ever forgive them, but i still want them to beg for it. ’

"Oh, they will. I'll be there to make sure of it." Colette smirked a little bit as she looks to the map, her mapping tools laid about all around her as she planned their journey forwards. "So...we kill him and then what? Do you go back and become a Magistrate again? Do you take up his estate and run it as your own?" The blonde half-elf snickered at the thought, her quill now marking all the areas they had explored already.

The Goblin Camp, the Grove, and even that Hag's hut. She marked it with a big red X and a frowny face before she brushes the feather in her opposite hand, wondering what path they should take next. "I think it would be funny if Szaar Estate was suddenly renamed and people left wondering." Another wicked grin, crimson orbs flickering across the mp with confidence. Dusting it with a bit of drying powder, the amnesiac would stand, her head tilting up to him as she pictures him sitting in a proper desk.

"I can see it. You deserve to be in a position of power like that after all these years." The map rolls quickly in her hand before it's tied and stowed in her backpack. "But first, we should try to figure out how to get to through the Cursed Lands like Halsin told us. And deal with this...Absolute bullshit." Pun intended. Stretching up with a bit of a hum, Colette would look to the rest of their tents in camp, hands rubbing together as she comes up with a plan.

"Underdark or Mountain Path? Both seem quite risky. What the the Githyanki on one and possible murderous creatures below. All in all, sounds like we're going to do some damage." She welcomed his opinion; one of the only ones, really. Great minds think alike and all.

#v: the dark urge | sv; astarion #weapons do not weep | colette proudheart #colette speaks #hello darling!#hope this is alright!#let me know if anything needs to be chagned!#answered asks

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bonbons-artdump · 30 days

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Made a very silly Hazbin hotel AU.

I'm calling it Scoundrels.

Alastor radio host extraordinaire has always been down on his luck but with a silver tongue, natrual charisma and a lie. or twelve has managed to keep his rundown radio station up and running and playing all over hell. But repairs are getting dire and some hand tools and self knowledge only goes so far. Lucky for him the Princess of hell is putting out help wanted flyers for a new hotel shes building in her fathers absence.

the plan is simple: Get close to Charlie and find a way to become the benefactor of her estates or if push comes to shove hold the naive girl ransom with the help of some friends in low places.

#my art #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel vox #hazbin hotel valentino #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin vox #hazbin valentino #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel au #scoundrelsAU #hazbin hotel charlie #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin hotel vaggie #hazbin hotel velvette

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executorofwillandestate · 2 years

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This week my guests are Aproova Chintala and Sree Chintala. They are founders and the CEO and CTO of Clocr. Clocr is an all-in-one legacy planning platform. Learn more about the intricacies of Social Media Will and Time Capsule. Learn how the revolutionary Emergency Card can save lives in the hour of need.

#digital executor #Free Social Media Will #social media will #digital assets estate planning #legacy planning #online accounts #Executor #executor of will #digital estate plan #estate planning tools #end of life planning #in case of emergency #ice vault #digital time capsule

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dontmeantobepoliticalbut · 12 days

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House Speaker Mike Johnson on Wednesday appointed two far-right Republicans to the powerful House Intelligence Committee, positioning two close allies of Donald Trump who worked to overturn the 2020 presidential election on a panel that receives sensitive classified briefings and oversees the work of America’s spy agencies.

The appointments of GOP Reps. Scott Perry of Pennsylvania and Ronny Jackson of Texas to the House Intelligence Committee were announced on the House floor Wednesday. Johnson, a hardline conservative from Louisiana who has aligned himself with Trump, was replacing spots on the committee that opened up after the resignations of Republican Reps. Mike Gallagher of Wisconsin and Chris Stewart of Utah.

Committee spots have typically been given to lawmakers with backgrounds in national security and who have gained respect across the aisle. But the replacements with two close Trump allies comes as Johnson has signaled his willingness to use the full force of the House to aid Trump’s bid to reclaim the Oval Office. It also hands the hard-right faction of the House two coveted spots on a committee that handles the nation’s secrets and holds tremendous influence over the direction of foreign policy.

Trump has long displayed adversarial and flippant views of the U.S. intelligence community, flouted safeguards over classified information and directly berated law enforcement agencies like the FBI. The former president faces 37 felony counts for improperly storing in his Florida estate sensitive documents on nuclear capabilities, repeatedly enlisting aides and lawyers to help him hide records demanded by investigators and cavalierly showing off a Pentagon “plan of attack” and classified map.

Johnson did not release a statement on his picks for the committee.

Perry, who formerly chaired the ultraconservative House Freedom Caucus, was ordered by a federal judge last year to turn over more than 1,600 texts and emails to FBI agents investigating efforts to keep Trump in office after his 2020 election loss and illegally block the transfer of power to Democrat Joe Biden.

Perry’s personal cellphone was also seized by federal authorities who have explored his role in helping install an acting attorney general who would be receptive to Trump’s false claims of election fraud.

Perry and other conservatives have also pushed Congress to curtail a key U.S. government surveillance tool. They want to restrict the FBI’s ability to use the program to search for Americans’ data.

“I look forward to providing not only a fresh perspective, but conducting actual oversight — not blind obedience to some facets of our Intel Community that all too often abuse their powers, resources, and authority to spy on the American People,” Perry said in a statement.

Jackson, who was elected to the House in 2020, was formerly a top White House physician under former presidents Barack Obama and Trump. Known for his over-the-top pronouncements about Trump’s health, Jackson was nominated by Trump to be the secretary of Veterans Affairs.

He withdrew his nomination amid allegations of professional misconduct. An internal investigation at the Department of Defense later concluded that Jackson made “sexual and denigrating” comments about a female subordinate, violated the policy on drinking alcohol on a presidential trip and took prescription-strength sleeping medication that prompted worries from his colleagues about his ability to provide proper medical care.

Jackson has denied those allegations and described them as politically motivated.

The House committee that investigated the Jan. 6 insurrection at the Capitol also requested testimony from Jackson as it looked into lawmakers’ meetings at the White House, direct conversations with Trump as he sought to challenge his election loss and the planning and coordination of rallies. Jackson declined to testify.

The presence of Jackson and Perry on the committee could damage the trust between the president and the committee in handling classified information, said Ira Goldman, a former Republican congressional aide who worked as a counsel to the intelligence committee in the 1970s and 1980s.

He said, “You’re giving members seats on the committee when, based on the public record, they couldn’t get a security clearance if they came through any other door.”

#us politics #news #republicans #conservatives #gop #us house of representatives #house intelligence committee #2024 #rep. Mike Johnson #rep. Scott Perry #rep. Ronny Jackson #donald trump #fbi #us intelligence #house freedom caucus #Ira Goldman

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hexpea · 3 months

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Ch. 3 - Parents

After checking into your hotel, the two of you were undoubtedly weary from the day's travels. Seiko, however, displayed an unwavering enthusiasm to explore the vibrant streets of the city.

You made a promise to give Seiko a tour of the city as soon as the two of you settled into your room. Tokyo held a special place in your heart despite the memories, and you were excited to share its wonders with your partner.

As you strolled down the busy city streets, Seiko turned to you with curiosity in their eyes. "So, you mentioned that the school isn't far from here?" They inquired about your alma mater.

"Mhm," you affirmed with a nod.

Once you had your fill of sightseeing, the aroma of street food and the sounds of conversation drew you to a small eatery nestled amidst the growing sunset. The fragrant offerings of takoyaki and yakitori beckoned to you and you decided it was the perfect opportunity to take a break from all of your walking. The two of you sat at a corner table in the tiny restaurant, cramped nearly elbow to elbow with other patrons. Starving from a day of walking, you didn't hesitate to begin scarfing down your delicious meal.

"So," Seiko started the conversation between bites, "if I remember correctly, you said your family deals with...cursed objects?"

"Yep," you confirmed before shoving another bite in your mouth.

"And what are those again?" They asked for a reminder, listening intently.

"Essentially, it's like a bulk of cursed energy, the stuff that comes from our negative emotions, which makes the object more powerful -- like cursed tools or cursed corpses," you began, still chewing that last bite. You didn't think about how Seiko likely didn't know what a cursed tool or cursed corpse was but continued anyways. "Sometimes the objects contain the bits of a sorcerer that can be reincarnated if the object is consumed by a vessel."

"By vessel, you mean..." Seiko trailed off, now completely engrossed by what you were talking about. You were a little thrown off considering they were never that interested in it before, but you were too tired to ask any questions.

"Like a person," you shrugged, taking another bite from your meal.

"I...see," they seemed a bit confused but nodded anyways. "So out of these objects that have these...sorcerers in them, who's the most powerful?"

You thought for a moment, your brain almost fried from fatigue. "I think that'd probably be...Sukuna," you confirmed with a single nod.

"Sukuna?!" They smiled at you as you spoke. "Sounds powerful."

"Very much so," you widened your eyes and looked down. Seiko didn't know the half of it. "He was the most powerful sorcerer alive, like, a thousand years ago. He's trapped in his current form, hopefully for good."

"Wow, so there's a lot more to this jujutsu stuff than I thought," Seiko smiled with a look of thought behind their eyes. "I definitely want to know more."

"I'll tell you whatever you wanna know," you shrugged. Their sudden interest was different, but you felt loved having a partner interested in your family. Though things were strained, they were still important people to you, their actions not always so questionable.

The two of you finished up your meal and paid, heading sleepily back to your hotel for the night. The next day, you planned to meet with your parents, their happiness evident in their tones.

After a long, well-deserved sleep and a little bit more sightseeing throughout the afternoon, the two of you took a taxi out to where your parents lived in the evening.

Though your family was powerful, they weren't Gojo powerful; so that meant your family wasn't paid like the Gojo family. The estate you grew up in was of moderate size, still in the traditional Japanese style just like most of the buildings near the school which was only a block or so away and protected by Master Tengen's barrier. The area was just outside of Tokyo, just enough to see its beautiful lights and hear some of its late night sounds. It was humble and it was home.

Lanterns illuminated the path up to the front door of your parents' home, casting a warm and welcoming glow over the front garden. The small rocks that lead the path to the door crunched under your feet as you made your way up the front porch and opened the front door.

As you approached the genkan to remove your shoes, you couldn't help but feel a barrage of emotions. It had been three whole years since you had seen them, the last time being a few weeks after your divorce to Gojo as you moved your things into a moving truck. Because the marriage was arranged and divorce followed, there was a certain tension on your relationship with them. Not to mention it felt weird just being back in your childhood home after so many years. You hoped that time had softened the awkwardness of the situation.

Seiko maintained a respectful and composed demeanor, this being the first time they met your parents in person. Though they appeared cool and collected, you could also sense their curiosity and anxiety. At the same time, their presence was a source of comfort, a reminder that you weren't alone.

"Y/N! And..." your mother quickly hugged you but her smile awkwardly faded when she forgot the name of your new partner you had talked about over the phone various times. By the smell of her, you could tell she was already a bit drunk, likely to quell her nerves about seeing you again.

"Seiko," they bowed lightly with a smile, "it's a pleasure to meet you both. I've heard a lot about you, and the work that you do."

"Wonderful," your father's deep voice sounded as he appeared in the doorway behind your mother. His arms were sternly crossed over his chest but the look on his face was softer than expected.

Their smiles had "unease" written all over them. They weren't sure where they stood with you and you didn't know with them either. They hated that they had to push you into the marriage to begin with let alone that it ended in divorce. They felt horrible for having put you through that pain unnecessarily.

The four of you sat down for dinner, a beautiful display from the cooks your family employed for occasions such as this. You exchanged the usual pleasantries: "How are you?" "How's your job?" "Have you done anything fun recently?" You obliged their questions, attempting to keep a positive face as the tension slowly began to ease.

At some point during the meal, your father brought up the elephant in the room when he could no longer stand it. He had been the most quiet so far that evening. "I'm sorry about your divorce, Y/N," he sighed and placed his chopsticks done. He had a look of sincerity. "And I'm sorry that it's come back to haunt you with this...this awful paperwork situation."

"Y-yeah," you nodded and looked back down toward your meal. You really wished the topic could have been avoided, but then again you needed to ask about Gojo anyways.

"But you're getting married again?" He continued, inquiring about your relationship with Seiko. Both of your parents glanced at the ring on your finger, a simple, diamond-studded band with a larger diamond at the center. "And you...didn't want to tell us?"

"Of course not, Dad," you scoffed, feeling your face heat up with embarrassment as you hid your ring by putting your hands in your lap rather than on the table. You somehow felt like a child again, getting scolded or punished. "After what happened..." you almost couldn't finish the sentence. "Marriage is a sensitive topic between us," you cut your thought short, not wanting to ruin the atmosphere which was already hanging on by a thread.

"Well, Seiko, you're lovely company," your mother complimented with a warm smile, shifting the topic to a more lighter one with ease. "I'm happy you're happy, dear. It's well-deserved," she turned to you. With a few sips of sake in her system, her mood had quickly eased even further than it already had been.

"Thanks, Mom," you smiled with a giggle at her slightly tipsy demeanor. "I wanted to ask...do you know if Gojo is still in the area? I don't...have his number anymore, so I'm not sure how to reach him to get this paperwork signed."

Your father took another swallow of his beer, smacking his lips awkwardly. "Yes, he's still active in the community, but he's moved to an apartment downtown rather than staying at his family's estate. I can get you the address later."

"Gotcha', thanks," you nodded, voice trailing off and unsure of where to carry the conversation next. The air around you felt incredibly heavy.

"Y/N," your father started again, always being the more direct of your parents, "we understand this situation with Satoru was not easy for you. Is not easy for you. We've always wanted the best for you, but we realize now that perhaps our past decisions weren't the right way to achieve that."

Your mother, looking at you now with a mixture of concern and regret, added, "we want you to know that we support your decisions and that we're happy to see you moving forward."

Their words were heavy with a sense of apology and you appreciated their acknowledgement of the past. The worries you once had about being there had ceased as things suddenly took a turn for the better.

"Thank you," you said sincerely, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. "I know you wanted what was...an attempt at the best for the family and I really appreciate your support now. It means a lot."

Seiko offered a reassuring smile of their own. "Your support means a lot to both of us. I'm just happy to be here and get to know you better."

The evening continued with lighter conversation as you shared stories of your time living in Hokkaido with Seiko. Seiko went on and on about how they proposed to you just a few months prior. Your parents really seemed to like them and felt that you were in safe hands. The atmosphere in the room gradually shifted from awkward to warm and you found solace in the understanding and acceptance of your family. You considered one part of your mission accomplished.

The dinner had been a significant step in mending your strained relationships caused by the arranged marriage. You were grateful to reconnect with your parents, the whole thing going far better than expected. You hoped that your visit to Gojo's would go just as smoothly, but the likelihood of that happening was slim to none.

Before leaving for the night, you made sure to get Gojo's new address from your father. The plan was set for you to make the visit to Gojo's the next day, leaving Seiko to venture around Tokyo on their own. They had an eagerness to them that you hadn't seen before. It pleased you to know that they'd be okay on their own while you did your business. You couldn't believe that the day you'd have to confront the menace that was your ex-husband was upon you, your relationship with him always being either hot or cold. You could only hope that his manners as you knew them had gotten better and for your sake he'd sign the papers without another thought.

#gojo satoru x y/n #gojou satoru x y/n #satoru gojou x y/n #satoru gojo x y/n #gojou satoru x reader #satoru gojou x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojou satoru x you #satoru gojou x you #gojo satoru x you #satoru gojo x you #jjk #jujutsu kaisen

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