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munsonkitten · 1 year

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They say it’s for his own good. Because he’s dangerous. But Steve doesn’t feel any more dangerous than he did before this whole mess. Like, seriously, he could kill literal monsters with nothing more than a bat covered in rusty nails. He doesn’t feel any more dangerous now than he did when he hit Billy Hargrove with a fucking car or when he held back in all the fights he’s ever lost. Because he could kill fucking monsters. He wasn’t gonna find out if he was capable of killing teenage boys too.

He sees Eddie sometimes.

Eddie looks dangerous, but then he always has. Even if he never was. He always had that look to him, with his leather and chains and heavy boots. Dangerous in a good way.

Now he looks bloodthirsty.

Well, ha, Steve thinks. That’s because he is.

Steve is too, but he doesn’t think that’s grounds for imprisonment. He doesn’t think that’s grounds for being held hostage in the newly reopened and renovated Hawkins Lab.

They say it’s because he’s dangerous, but if that’s the case then they should’ve locked him up years ago. They should’ve seen what was wrong with him back when he was that asshole popular kid at Hawkins High.

Every time he sees Eddie these days it’s when they’re being shoved down hallways. They have Eddie in a mask to prevent biting. Some clear plastic thing that shows his snarling face as he’s pushed. His teeth are sharp and pointed, and he has this wild look in his eyes. There’s blood inside the mask more often than not. Whether it’s someone else’s every time, or if it’s Eddie’s, Steve never really knows. A mix of both, most likely.

They make eye contact and Steve tries to tell him they’ll get out of this mess, and Eddie looks back at him like he wants to believe him, but just can’t.

Steve doesn’t blame him. He’s lost track of how long they’ve been here. He stopped counting after six months, after the lines he carved into his wall with a sharp fingernail — talon, really — became too numerous to hide behind the one pin-up girl poster they gave him for good behavior after the second week.

Weird reward, if you ask Steve. The orderly that put it up for him smirked, said something about tissues in the cabinet in the corner of his room, and then left without another word.

Really fucking weird.

The head scientist comes into Steve’s room. Steve can’t remember his name. Matthews or Mathson or… Something. Doesn’t matter. Not like Steve really needs to know. He’s just called The Doctor and that’s that.

“According to our records, today’s a very special day, indeed. Happy birthday, Steven,” he says, looking down at Steve’s chart.

So it’s February fourteenth… But —

“How old am I?” Steve asks.

“Twenty-two,” the doctor answers.

Twenty two… Which means it’s 1988. Steve’s been here over a year and a half, since June ‘86 when they took him in the dead of night. Things had been weird before that. He’d been having cravings, and Eddie came back from the dead, clawed his way out of the Upside Down all by himself. He came back different, but still the same Eddie that Steve had mourned.

Twenty two years old and he doesn’t even remember turning twenty one.

“Since it’s your birthday,” the doctor continues. “We decided you deserve a reward for being so cooperative during your stay. Something you choose yourself, anything you want — within reason, mind you. Don’t ask to get out of here because that won't be happening. But if we can get it for you, it’s yours to keep.”

“Eddie,” Steve blurts out. “I want Eddie. I want him moved into my cell permanently. Get us bunk beds or some shit.”

“Ah, yes, well,” the doctor sighs. “Mr Munson is quite….”

“Dangerous? Insane? I can keep him in check,” Steve says quickly. “Look, we were friends before all of this and now we’re in the same boat. I understand him. If you want to get through to him, do this for me and I can help.”

None of that is true, of course. He’s not gonna make Eddie do shit, and he really doesn’t think he could if he wanted to. He’s wild, a little more monster than Steve is. It probably has something to do with being stuck in the Upside Down after he died. Different, but still Eddie.

Steve doesn’t blame him for the trouble he’s been causing. He’s seen it firsthand only a couple of times, but sometimes his doctors go missing and never come back. Sometimes they’re covered in blood when they come to see him after being with Eddie.

It’s not hard to guess what happens there.

“We’ll try it,” the doctor says. “But I can’t imagine why that’s what you want.”

He writes something down on his clipboard, clicks his pen with a sigh, and stands.

“I will see what we can do.”

And then he‘s gone.

Steve waits two days. Two days where no one comes to see him, to poke him with needles or flash lights in his eyes. He’s delivered his meals through the slot in his door, but that’s all that happens. He drinks the blood they give him. Animal today, he knows. They switch it up on him, and he’s found he can tell the difference easily now. It’s not the same as human, but it does the job.

It keeps him alive. It keeps him from wanting to tear himself limb from limb because of hunger and thirst. There’s still an itch in his throat and a nagging in the back of his mind saying he’s not satisfied, but it’s better than nothing.

On the second day, he’s told to stand against the back wall, and he complies easily. Complying means rewards — it means he doesn’t get hurt. The first few days he was here he was uncooperative and they beat him. It was too much like being in the Russian bunker beneath Starcourt again.

So he stopped fighting back. He stopped spitting and hissing, he stopped trying to sink his teeth into anything he could reach. And in turn he got rewards. He’s given more time outside his room, more time to sit in a room with a rainbow around the walls and a bunch of old children’s toys.

He knows he’s at Hawkins Lab. He can feel it, can feel something in the back of his head that tells him his family is close. His real family — Robin and Nancy and Dustin and everyone else. He knows he’s in Hawkins Lab and he can’t help but wonder if El lived in the same room as him, if she pushed around the same Hot Wheels car he does when he’s bored.

He stands in his room now, and it’s really a cell, but he doesn’t like to call it that, and he watches as two men carry his bed out. Two more come in with bunk beds that look like two of the regular beds welded together — thin metal frames with thin mattresses. Straight out of a prison.

The doctor comes into the room and he’s carrying a box in his arms. Steve can’t see what’s inside it, but he thinks they might be the few personal belongings Eddie has. The box gets set on the bottom bunk. An orderly comes in with a pile of extra blankets and two pillows. Those get set on the beds, too.

They all leave without a word, but Steve knows he won’t be alone for much longer. He knows that they’re going to get Eddie to him, and soon enough, they’re both going to be able to escape. Together.

Steve doesn’t know how long he sits there on the bottom bunk, but it’s a while. He only spares a single glance into the box, and he sees a spare hospital gown, and some clean underwear inside it. There’s a book sitting on top, tattered and splattered with blood. At least Eddie has that, Steve supposes.

The heavy metal door to Steve’s room opens and Eddie is shoved in, snarling and snapping at the guard behind him, holding his hands in shackles behind his back. They have heavy wool mittens on him, his plastic mask covering the bottom half of his face. Steve’s surprised they don’t just put him in a straitjacket and throw him into a padded room.

They make eye contact, Eddie’s formerly chocolate brown eyes now deep red. His hair is pulled back into a ponytail and shows his slightly pointed ears. Steve’s look the same, and his eyes are still mostly brown, but he can see the red swirling around inside them during the few occasions he can look in the mirror.

Eddie sniffs the air through his mask, bares his teeth. Steve can see the blood in his mouth through the clear plastic.

Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. What if Eddie hurts him too? What if he’s… What if he’s not Eddie anymore? If the last bits of his humanity have drained out of him, if he’s been forced to let the monster inside take full control… Steve doesn’t know what he’ll do.

I’d let the monster take me, too, he thinks, and then immediately regrets it. He doesn’t want to be that, and in his head he’s holding a snarling beast back with wrought iron bars, in a cell not too different from the one his physical body stands in. He’s gotten this far. It would be a waste to not even try.

The guard leaves Eddie where he stands, still cuffed, and backs away to the door. He slams it shut and locks it, then slides open the food slot. Eddie growls, jerks at his cuffs, trying to get free.

“Munson!” the guard barks. “Back up against the door.”

Eddie backs up until he’s against the door and Steve hears the key unlocking the cuffs around Eddie’s wrists.

The mittens come off next, and both things get pulled through the slot. The guard quickly slides it shut. Eddie is free from his restraints, and now he and Steve are alone.

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#this is the first chapter so go on to chapter 2 #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #vampire steddie #vampires #my fics #eddie munson #vampire eddie munson #vampire steve harrington

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ranticore · 8 months

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I wanted to keep drawing some pern dragon stuff because I'm now writing a full AU set in weyr but I didn't want to put this stuff on my main blog or patreon due to it being basically for my own reference, though i felt others would like it too! so here is My Take On Dragon Wings By Type...

It's no secret I love drawing bird wings and prefer them a lot over traditional dragon wings. Growing up, I read the pern books featuring cover art of dragonfly-like wings with lots of little translucent panels, which I always loved. So I thought I'd try to nail down some wing shapes & structures by blending those two things i like together. I am aware dragons fly by telekinesis but I prefer a more realistic type of creature design so I will be choosing to ignore that fact. I do not care about strict canon compliance but I do like to keep some of that framework there as well, for fun.

The wing is made up of three main sails, as well as a propatagium sail (in front of the elbow). They are relatively polymorphic and can expand or contract to an extent to change the shape of the wing in response to flight demands, like the wing of an airliner. The trailing edge can expand and the slots between the spars of the 1st wingsail can deepen or become shallower (where those are a feature). The main structural matrix is opaque, while the membranous 'sails' are translucent and let light through like stained glass. These are a bilayer of membrane with air sandwiched between, which forms part of the air sac & respiratory system.

It makes sense for the original engineers of dragons to diversify dragon wing types by colour so that when fighting Thread, there's a dragon for every conceivable aerial job.

[individual descriptions under the cut]

Queens have the longest wings, though the largest bronzes can rival them for surface area. Gold wings are high endurance - a queen can fly further than any other dragon in active level flight, leaving even the swiftest bronzes behind if they can't muster up the energy reserves to catch her. She is an effective flier at all elevations and can pass very low over terrain without issue as well; she is an expert at taking advantage of the ground effect, where extra lift is generated within one half of a wingspan above land. This way, she can pass low below the main wings fighting Thread to catch any stragglers without expending too much energy. However, she is not very agile and may need a bit of a run-up or cliff-edge to get airborne.

Bronzes are suited for command positions during Threadfall, rising highest and maintaining that altitude effortlessly by soaring on thermals. From this vantage point they can easily survey the wings of riders below and make tactical decisions to direct the tide of battle. They have the size and stamina to chase queens, but might find it difficult to keep up on the flat, so they continually select for fitter hatchlings as only the best manage to mate. It takes a very clever and agile bronze to catch a green, if they are so inclined.

Browns are swift, highly agile, and the fastest vertical fliers, ideal for diving through the Thread mass from top to bottom while the other types pass horizontally. During earlier Passes, browns were capable of using their speed to catch queens, but as queen & bronze endurance gradually increased, browns struggle to keep up if they haven't managed to immediately catch their mate in the starting scrum, which is unlikely due to the bulkier bronze dragons being able to shove the browns aside.

Blues are fast on the flat and nicely manoeuvrable, with enough endurance to last a full Threadfall. Good all-rounders with a characteristic vertical take-off, they work best in the horizontal plane in battle but really they can do a little bit of everything. They often beat browns to catch greens, being very precise in flight and almost as manoeuvrable as their green mates.

Greens make up for their low stamina with their extreme manoeuvrability. Their short and elliptical wings let them turn on a dime, hover, and even fly backwards if they are sufficiently skilled. They have the fastest wingbeats, flying with a distinct thrumming sound. Of all the types they are least likely to be hit by a stray Thread, but they tire easily on the flat and have no soaring ability at all, often tapping out midway through battle in favour of replacements. In battle, greens excel at catching odd and skewed clumps of Thread that don't fall as predicted, or ones that are missed by the other riders. Green mating flights are a whole different beast to gold mating flights, where extreme aerial acrobatics are favoured instead of endurance and altitude, and these flights may be over within seconds. You need to be able to withstand a Lot of G-force to be a green rider.

#dragonriders of pern #hi it's me again. this is my sketch dump blog (very new)#pernese dragon #pern

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mueritos · 7 months

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i hope we continue to see more protests within the US military. i see a lot of leftists and folks who are anti-military who have such an open disdain for the people who are in the military, yet neglect to considering the conditions this country makes to produce ideology, poverty, and the illusion of choice to make all kinds of people choose to enlist in the military. You ever see those videos of ROTC kids recording each other asking why they joined the military and everyone's like, "healthcare", "it helped me go to college", "I was bored" or "free ptsd lol". I hate to remind everyone but folks who are in the military are people, too, and they are the same victims and perpetrators of violence as the rest of you, we have all been shallowly conditioned to view each other as enemies just because one person is wearing army greens and the other is not.

some of the biggest anti-war advocates are those who engaged in war. Veterans who genuinely believed they were protecting the US against "terrorism" come back with blood on their hands, and they choose to realize that it was US imperialism that forced them to carry out violence, instead of doubling down and shielding themselves from the fact that they too are capable of atrocities... This is a class of people who are intentionally conditioned to be as poor and as ideologically aligned to US imperialism so that the military has a never-ending pool to send their youth to destroy other country's youth. The only people I have ever heard say "do not join the military" are those who ARE military.

This is in no way to ever excuse or explain away any of the atrocious war crimes and violence this industry and its people have committed against others. What I am saying is that we absolutely cannot cast aside the individuals who have been victimized within US imperialism, even if they are wearing army greens. I was speaking with my Palestinian classmate last week and another classmate--a member of the US air force-- walked up to me and struck up a conversation. My military classmate showed me her new bird, bid both of us goodbye, and left. My Palestinian classmate asked me if I was close with her, and I said we talked quite often, and she said, "I never met a person who's in the military. I still hate the military, but I never knew that they did, too. I didn't realize that they were also victims."

If my Palestinian classmate--one who is actively watching her own community die--can understand that it is not individuals who are the problem but it is in fact systems, US imperialism, white supremacy, capitalism...why can't we all? And she has EVERY reason to hate any individual military member. A lot of online activism just creates more barriers. if your optics look bad, complicated, or contradictory, you are cast aside. Everyone has got the be the perfect activist, you can never make a mistake or share a half-baked thought, you should always believe every word from a marginalized persons mouth (because being marginalized doesn't mean you're not entrenched in white supremacy too!) and you should never question what you see...Do you know what you sound like? The very imperialists who are convincing poor whites to vote against themselves. Perfectionism is white supremacy. Black & white thinking is white supremacy.

I'd rather have a military member who genuinely believed in the US imperialism machine but was disillusioned after being deployed as my comrade than some leftist who cherishes the performance of "being a good person". I don't want "good people" in our movements. I want humans who care. I want humans who make mistakes and who learn from them. I want humans who accept the messiness of a person. I want humans who hold others accountable and allow themselves to take responsibility for their actions. I want people who change for themselves and others.

fight systems, not individual people. we can change each other, but if we're too preoccupied looking like the World's Perfect Activists, we will only consume each other alive. Connect to your fellow humans, forever and always.

#muertotalks #a mind dump after seeing so much come out after the self immolation of the us air force member #i know hes not the first one to self immolate for palestine #and he might not be the last #i hate the military #i really fucking do #but i choose to see the people within them as victims within the overall system just like the rest of us #i will never go through what they did to make them choose to enlist #i never struggled with poverty homelessness healthcare or social acceptance #i wont shame them #shame is not productive #i want them to know there are civilians who support their protests #i want them to know that we their allies too #a note on my palestinian classmate #if youre arab or also a colonized person impacted by the us military feel free to hate every member of the military #i dont intend to police yall in how you choose to feel your anger #im angry with you #the point i mean to make is about understanding and compassion #someone who has every right to hate these people still chose to see them as the people they are #yes i even want the best for the “bad” people in the military too #i dont want these people to continue the ideology but we cant stop that without dismantling these systems #and we cant do that without creating spaces for healing and reform and growth #so many thoughts so many thoughts #none of this is easy #i fight daily against impulsively hating the world #everyday is a fight to choose compassion and understanding #but being a leftist and doing leftism is not fucking easy #if you genuinely think it is it isnt #and you may be missing the point of what leftism is #anyway

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themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 8 days

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In Love and War (8)

Summary: The aftermath of all her family secrets might be more chaotic than Reader bargained for when her powers suddenly start to flare. Good thing her Warlord has more than a few ideas how to help navigate it ;)

Content Warnings: Depressive thoughts, Reader mentions wanting to die; Suggestiveness, Slight SMUT; Canon Typical Violence

Author's Note: To make up for the last chapter being so short, please enjoy that flirty little bastard being a menace! ;)

Chapter 7/Masterlist

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I don’t sleep at all that night. I lay there, Rhysand sleeping soundly beside me, exhausted from the events of the last couple of days. He’d barely kept his eyes open long enough to eat. I’d barely managed to choke down a few bites myself. The guilt has my stomach in a perpetual knot. I’ve dedicated so much of my life to hating this male, only to be wrong about all of it, and now I’m in too deep to even do anything about it. I can’t go home. There is no home to go back to. My family slaughtered an innocent mother and daughter. Rhys received their heads in boxes like some sort of twisted gift. They were supposed to be allies and my father betrayed them in the worst possible way. He paid for it with his life, with my mother’s life; it should have been the end of it. Tamlin was given a mercy and he should have taken it. He should have abandoned my father’s teachings and become a better lord, a better man. Instead, he perpetuated the cycle of abuse and suffering. He encouraged me to hate these people, to covet everything they had as if they were undeserving of it. All these years I loathed our miserable existence thinking the Mother hated us and was being unjust in giving these people all these things that we were never allowed. But we deserved it! We were the bad guys all along.

I roll over onto my side to look at him. He still sleeps in his armor, knife still strapped to his thigh, sword resting against the tent pole only a foot away. He’s ready to be up and fighting in a moment's notice. Our father’s were so similar, and yet, he turned out to be merciful and kind and somehow, so startlingly gentle that I often forget he’s still capable of intense prowess. He is the only male I’ve ever truly felt comfortable with, because that gentleness came as a response to the violence he’d seen, not because that violence was never there. He’d felt the cold sting of it, and chose to be something gentle instead of returning it.

And here I am, with all that righteous anger that had kept me warm on my coldest days, choosing to return all the violence that had been inflicted on me onto others. Just as Tamlin did. Just as my father did.

And looking at it I don’t want to be him. He ruined my mother! He took something good and kind and locked it away and used her for his own ends! I don’t even know if he ever really loved her. Why would you keep the things you love in a cage?

I sit up abruptly. Maybe he was as scared of being alone as I am.

I can’t sit in this tent anymore! I can’t-

Rhysand jolts awake as soon as I move, hand twitching for his knife, shadows swirling off his body in response to what his sleep muddled mind thinks is a threat. “What’s wrong?”

I put a hand on his chest, spinning onto my knees so I can kiss his forehead. “Nothing, I just need to relieve myself.”

He lets me push him down onto the mat, body relaxing and pliant beneath my touch. “You sure?”

“Positive.” If he tried to follow me out now I think I really might explode. My stomach feels like it's ripping itself apart. My bones ache, my skin feels like it's stretched too tight over them. There is too much nervous energy bound inside my body. I just need to get out and stretch my legs; get some fresh air and clear my head. I will be fine if I can clear my head.

“Take your knife,” he says, eyes already drifting shut again.

I strap it to my thigh as I slip from the tent, gulping down lungfuls of crisp, mountain air as I go. I just need to clear my head. Is finding a way to survive this fucked up world really me acting like my father? I’ve never killed innocent people. I’ve never withheld necessities or lorded my power over people. I’m just not being honest about my intentions. It’s shitty. I’m using a mating bond I’m still not wholly sure is real as a means to getting food and shelter and, hopefully, a decent helping of mind blowing sex.

Cauldron that sounds really, really fucked up.

But how am I supposed to tell him? Hey, I know that you really don’t like my family and they’ve done nothing but screw you over but I also accepted your offer to try and ruin your life and take all of your land and kinda only just changed my mind about it yesterday. And it would be really super cool if you just let that slide because I have nowhere else to go.

That would go over soooooo well. He’d be totally fine with it!

I ground my palms into my eyes as I walk behind a couple trees to at least make it look like I really did need to go pee. There are men on guard duty, no doubt someone is going to see me wandering around camp.

My brain feels like it’s being squeezed by my skull. There has to be a way to go about this that doesn’t get me tossed out into the coming snow, while also not lying so deeply about it. I do care about him. It was a lie at first but now…

I put my back against the tree and slide down until I’m sitting on the rocky ground, head still in my hands. I don’t know if he’s my mate. There’s something there, I feel it pulling at me, even now, but I can’t give it a name. And I want to be here. Not just because of the story he’d told yesterday. When Lucien tried to get me to leave, I really didn’t want to go back with him. But how am I supposed to live with the truth? How am I supposed to look at him and see that he wants this so much more than I do, despite everything?

Actually, why does he want this, despite everything? He’d asked me why I stayed. I never asked him why he brought me here. There’s certainly enough bad blood between our families to make even a mate hesitate to bring me in.

I lean back against the tree, the rough scrape of the bark against my aching skin a relief. My body feels so strange, being around Rhysand’s magic has made it feel like there’s something beneath my skin.

Tomorrow, in the morning, I will ask him why he still brought me back. Then I will decide what to do.

------

He certainly doesn’t make asking him easy. Rhys wakes me up with his lips on my throat, along the fading marks he’d left a couple days before, trailing them down as his hands hike up my sweater. The heat of him against the early morning chill has my resolve slipping, all my plans slipping through my fingers as he runs his tongue over my peaked nipples.

I can’t think past the roaring in my ears; the ache in my body for more, more, more. There is nothing and no one but him as he trails lower, each kiss more forceful than the last as he heads for the waistband of my pants.

“Rhys,” I moan, voice still thick with sleep, even as my body arches under him. I want him everywhere. I need him everywhere. The stirring feeling beneath my skin is worse today, only quelled by the trail of his hands on my body. For once, my racing thoughts are quiet. If only we could stay like this.

“Hmmm,” he hums into my stomach, just beneath my navel. There’s a bit of stubble along his jaw, the scrape of it against my oversensitive skin makes my eyes roll back into my head. “Did you want something, mate?”

“You,” I groan, hand reaching out to tangle in his hair to try and move him where I need him.

He grins, I can feel the upturn of his lips against my stomach, but he refuses to budge. Just nips at the skin visible above my waistline. “You have me.”

Bastard! My whole body trembles beneath him. I can’t get a breath down fast enough. I need him everywhere all at once. “Need you inside me,” I bite out.

He simply hums again, hands tugging at my waistband with an inhumane slowness that makes me feel like I’m going to burst out of my skin. I use the hand not in his hair to grip the mat, trying to ground myself, trying to find some semblance of control again. I’m gripping so tight my bones ache, fingers feeling like they’re breaking. There’s a tearing sound, a pricking sensation in my palm and then a gush of something wet across my hand.

Even he looks up at that, and when I turn to look, I’m more than a little surprised to find that I’ve grown claws, and I’ve just tore them right through my hand!

“Shit!” He’s gone from between my legs in an instant, all the heat in my body leaving with him.

I can’t unfurl my hand. Can’t retract the claws, they’re stuck through my palm with my fist closed around it. I’ve only ever grown them in anger, how the hell had I done it now?

Rhysand comes back with a towel as I manage to sit up. “I thought you smelled different this morning,” he muses.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I hiss.

“Our magic can be protective. It can hide itself if it doesn’t feel safe. I don’t think you were born with too little, I think you were born with too much.” His fingers massage my wrist, trying to find the right pressure points to help me unclench my fist. “I think that it buried itself inside you to keep you safe. And I think, now that you’re here, it’s manifesting, and like the wards, it has its own scent.”

Fan-fucking-tastic!

“Well I’d like it to un-manifest,” I hiss. “I was doing just fine without it!” There’s blood dripping through the towel, if anything it feels like my claws are burrowing deeper into my palm. I can practically feel them trying to tear right through the back of my hand.

He can’t seem to find the right spot and trying to pry my fingers out of my palm is a no go. He frowns, lifting the towel for a better look. “I’m gonna try something.”

I’m prepared for a blow from his own magic, some form of glittering starlight or shadowy darkness, I am not prepared for him to kiss me again. The sound I make in surprise is somewhere between a growl and a gasp because what the hell is he doing? But even though my head is struggling to catch up, my body is not. On instinct, I lean back to allow him better access, his tongue slipping behind my teeth. The rolling feeling beneath my skin lessens, the tightness in my palm slowly releasing. I thread my functioning hand through his hair as my body gives what I can only describe as a sigh of relief. A moment later, the claws retract and I can finally unfurl my fist.

“Flair ups can be heavily tied to your emotions,” he says, lips barely off mine. “Probably wasn’t the best idea to tease you in the middle of one.”

It takes him all of thirty seconds to find some rags and tie up my hand, even though the blood flow is already lessening. All I can do is stare at it while he does it. This is certainly a new and unwelcome development to this whole mess.

“Is that going to keep happening?”

Azriel pops his head into our tent, unannounced as usual. “Are you two done in here or what? I, personally, cannot live with Cassian if he beats us around the mountain.”

“We’ll be right there,” Rhysand huffs.

“I’m seeing a trend with him,” I mutter.

He smirks, “It’s one of Azriel’s many charms.”

He helps me to my feet, holding onto me like he thinks something else might just burst out of my skin. Truth be told, I can still feel something shifting around, a prowling animal begging to be released from its cage. I’d thought it was my unease this whole time, but maybe it’s worse than that.

“We don’t know how deep your power well is,” Rhysand says. “And if it’s never fully manifested…” He blows out a breath. “When mine first started manifesting, I shredded a whole section of camp with starlight. There was a whole twenty-four hour period where my shadows blocked out the sun. And you’re my equal so, yes I think that will keep happening.”

Cauldron boil me!

“As long as you remain calm, it shouldn’t be too bad.”

“I should think you would know better than to tell a female to be calm, Rhysand.”

He grins, “Well you can also spend the day making out with me, since that seems to be such a lovely little distraction with you.”

I go to hiss an insult at him but the only thing that comes out is an actual, animal-like growl. I clamp a hand over my mouth in embarrassment while he bursts out laughing.

“This is going to be fun!” He declares.

I am not at all inclined to agree.

----

I only manage to ride with him for an hour or two before the pull of his magic makes my skin start to itch. He was right about magic having a scent. Half way through the hour I suddenly become very aware of the jasmine scent of him. It’s everywhere. In every breath. Every brush of his chest against my back, every movement of his hands along the reins. My body is hyper aware of every place we do and don’t touch.

“Getting all worked up again, aren’t we?” He purrs in my ear.

My jaw feels like it’s snapping as a set of fangs tear through my gums, spurting blood into my mouth. Somehow his magic is the catalyst for my transformation and the balm all in one. I can’t be near him and I can’t be away from him, as I soon learn. When I jump off the horse and declare I’m going to walk beside him, my claws return, in both hands this time. At least they shoot out my nail beds and not my knuckles like Tamlin’s.

The thought of him makes another growl rumble through my chest and something that feels suspiciously like fur sprouts from the back of my neck.

“Wouldn’t recommend,” Rhysand warns.

The itchiness of my skin is even worse on the ground. I feel the wards tugging at me like I’ve been tied to the glittering magic that builds them with a string. The jasmine and overripe fruit scent of them is enough to make my nose crinkle. Apparently the transformation heightens my senses as well.

“I’m gonna tear off my skin,” I snarl, fidgeting with my collar. Why is it so itchy? Is it supposed to be like this?

He slows his mount to keep pace with me and I do not miss the grumbled complaints of the males behind us. My ears twitch every time one of them speaks, the sound sometimes like a shout and others like a far off echo.

“Breathe,” he says gently. “The more worked up you get, the worse it will be until we can find a way to safely expel it.”

I draw a shaky breath, then another.

“Good girl.”

A shiver works its way up my spine at that.

“Now come here,” he leans so far out of the saddle he’s only holding on with his thighs, and my first thought is how we can get this little caravan to pause so I can be the one beneath him. He gets an arm around my waist and hauls me back up onto the horse and damn if that’s not the hottest thing I’ve ever seen a male do!

“Let’s get these wards up-” I’m hyper-aware how every word rumbles through his chest, the way his body shifts on the horse. “-And we’ll find a place to camp soon enough, then you and I can work on this.”

“Make it stop,” I gently beg. “I don’t want it!” The itch beneath my skin is becoming unbearable! My claws scratch up my arms, tearing up my sweater.

His free hand covers mine, intertwining our fingers, even as the horse begins to move. “Focus on me.”

I focus my attention on the way his body molds against mine. The way the leather of his glove slides over the back of my hand. I let my eyes drift shut, focusing on the brush of his chest against mine, the swaying motion of his hips as the horse moves over the rocky terrain. It’s not enough. Not like the feel of his lips on mine had been this morning. As if he knows it, he drops his head against my shoulder, nose brushing over the exposed skin of my throat.

“I’m right here,” he continues. “Focus on me, just like you did this morning.”

This morning there had been a lot less clothes between us.

“Breathe for me.”

It is a physical effort to draw a deep enough breath in; another to pull my claws away from my itching skin. He settles our joined hands against my stomach.

“Again.”

I manage to do what I am told, just barely.

“Good. Just like that.” His voice makes a shiver run down my spine as my mind spins with all the other things I want him to talk me through. I think I could do just about anything if he explained it to me in that rich, husky voice he was using in my ear. “Part of learning to control it is finding your center. Find a safe mental space to retreat to.”

“Like what?” There are few places in the world I have ever felt safe. Thinking about how I used to sit in the rocking chair with my mother and listen to her stories only fills me with pain now. Or perhaps a couple weeks ago I might have thought about all those summers I spent at the creek with Lucien, but now it only makes the thing beneath my skin rumble and shake like there’s some sort of animal that lives caged beneath my ribs and is trying desperately to break free. What makes me feel safe?

“A good memory, a happy time,” he lists.

I have nothing. My eyes start to water and my throat starts to close, talons growing longer and sharper at my fingertips. I feel the give of my leather chest-piece beneath them. Everything good in my life has been a lie! Everyone that was supposed to protect me only ever hurt me in the end. None of it was ever real.

And this, this thing that could be something, that could be real, I had ruined it. I have to lie to keep it. I have to pretend that I had every right to hurt him, when it was really the other way around. The only person who had ever told me the truth, who could see me for what I was, and I had ruined any chance of it being real before it had even had the chance to start.

A sob slips out of me and with it, the tree we pass erupts in a flurry of leaves and twisting, screaming bark that makes the horse rear. The earth rumbles, random cracks splitting in the rock face, gnarled vines crawling out of them like tentacled monsters. The itching in my skin won’t stop! The more I try to trap it the more the world around us screams in protest.

“Breathe, Y/N,” Rhysand orders in my ear. “You have to breathe.”

“I can’t!” I choke out.

He slides his hand out of mine and brings it up against the side of my temple. It feels like a shadow unfurling from his fingertips, but the brush of it is not against my face, but inside my skull. Darkness clouds my vision from the inside out. It feels as if my brain is being emptied, piece by piece with shadows until there is nothing inside my mind but him.

“Breathe,” he commands, the voice of a Warlord. “Now.”

I choke on each breath.

“You are safe, Y/N,” he says, gentler. There is nothing in the world but the two of us in this dark little bubble. Nothing but the press of night chilled jasmine and calming, all consuming night. From somewhere far off, I hear music on the wind, the swell of stringed instruments pulling my attention away from the itch running beneath my skin.

“Why is this happening?” My body feels so impossibly small, yet like it’s being stretched beyond its capacity, my bones trying to tear through the confines of my skin all the same.

“Our powers can very easily get tangled with our emotions,” he explains, the hand on my temple drawing shapes into my skin. Somehow, after looking at the stitches in the tent walls, I know he’s spelling something out in Illyrian, but I’ll never know what. “The last twenty-four hours have been a lot for you, I’m sure.”

There is no room to think about it in this headspace, no twisted memories to plague me, only the music and the faint twinkle of stars for company. I let myself fall into it, let it swallow me and fill me until I feel disconnected from the pulling of my skin.

“I don’t want this power,” I whisper into the darkness.

The darkness caresses me, wraps itself around me as surely as his arm around my waist. “I know, but we don’t get a say in what we’re given, only what we do with it.”

When have I ever truly had a say in anything?

“What if I hurt somebody?” What if I am just as bad as my father in both intentions and power? If I am capable of plotting to ruin someone’s life based on a lie, how much more capable am I of turning these claws on someone else? Maybe power is passed from my mother, but that will never change the fact that I now carry the same weapons that were used to scar me, and Rhys, and probably his mother and sister.

“You won’t,” he assures. “I’ll be right here to teach you. You can control it.”

He has far more faith in me than he should.

----

Once we’ve stopped for the night and camp is set up, Rhysand takes me by the hand and leads me out into the empty, grassy plains beneath the mountain. The knee-high yellow blades are brittle this time of year, cracking under our boots as we walk until only the smoke from the campfires pinpoints where we left the others. We’re far enough away that I won’t hurt anyone if I lose control again.

Shame flushes my cheeks. I’ve always prided myself on being the calm one of the family; always able to keep my emotions shoved deep down beneath the surface to keep them from getting the better of me. I thought I was good at it. I was wrong. It’s only been the constant brush of Rhysand’s shadows against my mind all afternoon that have kept me from tearing everything I touch to shreds. Even now, my hands ache from often my new claws have sprung and retracted from my fingertips.

I must feel about as awful as Rhysand looks. The circles under his eyes have not lessened in the slightest, and every once in a while I’ll see him start to sway, like it’s an effort to stay on his feet. The scent of his magic has lessened, the night blooming jasmine fading behind the citrus and salty scent of him. He shouldn’t be out here with me, he should be resting, recharging his own magic so he can be prepared for more warding tomorrow. According to Azriel and the scouts’ reports, we should meet up with Cassian and Mor’s group by this time tomorrow and Rhysand will need all his energy to ensure both ends of the wards are fully meshed together.

We stop once we’re cushioned between two large hills, nothing but the chirp of crickets and the stars to keep us company. The Mountain looms dark and shadowy beneath the small sliver of the moon.

“This looks like a good place,” he says as he finally releases my hand.

I keep my lower lip between my teeth, hands shaking at my sides. I don’t want to do this! Entertaining the idea that I have powers to train and use is foolish. I don’t need to learn to use them; I need to learn to shove them back down into the darkest parts of me where they can’t hurt anybody.

“Let’s start with something simple,” he suggests. “Tell me where you feel your power the most.”

My hand comes up to poke between my rib cage, where the stirring and itchy feeling is the most concentrated. “Feels like something is trying to break out of my skin,” I say softly.

“The claws and the fangs could be a beast form,” he muses. “Or it could just be some shape-shifting powers you inherited from your father?”

The mention of that bastard makes the stirring in my chest feel like a tidal wave, raw energy crackling so hard and fast through my veins that I feel it crest out my fingertips. The grass around me withers and dies, the ground beneath it crackling and rumbling with what feels like the early stages of an earthquake. I can’t have powers like my fathers!

There is no shortage of pity in those violet eyes and I press my palms into my eyes with a groan. I can’t do this! It needs to stop! I need to bury it now before it runs away with me; while I still have some control over it. Because if it goes any further than this…

Maybe Tamlin was right to send me away. Maybe he did know about my powers and that was why he got rid of me. I couldn’t hurt anybody if I was alone in the woods.

Rhysands shadows drift along the floor until they can slither up my calves, rubbing affectionately against me in a way that reminds me of a cat. “It’s ok,” he soothes.

Tears stream down my cheeks. “Make it stop!” I beg. “Show me how to bury it again.”

His shadows trail higher, winding over my hips and waist, even as he steps closer, leaving barely a breath between us. “Y/N…” he shakes his head, trying to find the right words and I feel a strange pang beneath the movement in my chest.

“Please,” I whimper. “I’ll do anything! Just make it stop.”

He cups my cheek and I give myself the briefest moment to fall into the warmth of his touch. “I know it’s scary, and that it hurts, but this is good. It has to be released. You will die if you don’t.”

Then let me. The words freeze on my tongue when a tendril of his power flicks over his shoulder, down his wrist, to brush against my cheek, but that doesn’t stop the spiraling of my thoughts. Let me be free of this pain. Let me go out before I become a monster like my father. Let that awful bastard be right; let me be useless and worthless and incapable of doing anything he could be proud of.

As if spurred on by my thoughts, the grass around me continues to wither, until there’s a whole circle of dead earth surrounding me. The harder I try to draw it in, the wider the circle becomes. Power sizzle through my nerve endings, a fire that digs itself into my veins and when I curl my hands into fists to try and stop it, I pull weeds through the cracks in the earth, the gnarled, leafy branches reaching up like skeletal hands that wrap around my, and Rhysand’s ankles.

“Focus on that spot,” his free hand taps gently against my ribs. “Focus until it feels like you’re holding it.”

I try to imagine the power like a bowl filled with sloshing, dark liquid. I imagine myself reaching for the lip of the bowl, the cracked edges and rough wood a mirror to the one that used to sit on our kitchen table, full of apples I’d sneak when no one was looking. If I make it familiar, it feels easier to focus on. I imagine every crack in the bowl, every worn edge, focusing until I get a mental hold around the edges. Now all I need to do is tip the bowl over. If I spill out its contents, there will be nothing left inside me to unleash… right?

“Once you can hold it, focus on containing it. Imagine it like a bottle, get all that energy into the bottle, and put a lid on the top,” Rhys says like he can hear my plans.

The liquid inside the bowl bubbles and hisses as my conflicted feelings run circles through my head. He hasn’t been wrong this far, I should do as he says, but I can’t help but feel like indulging this is a mistake. I can hear my father’s voice inside my head, telling me that this is not how females are supposed to behave.

I can feel the weeds I’d summoned dying around me. Can feel every blade of grass as if it was somehow attached to my skin. The longer I hold that imaginary bowl, the more aware of this power I become, but it doesn’t feel like control. It just feels like more things pulling at me, trying to move me in directions I’ve never decided I want to go in.

The ground rumbles beneath my boots again as my mental grip slips, and when I open my eyes the weeds, dead as they are now, have slithered all the way up my chest, reaching for my throat like some decrypt hand.

The air leaves my lungs in a rush and with it, the dead vegetation crumbles and turns to dust on the wind.

Rhysand should be looking at me like I’m a monster. He should be stepping away, shadows swirling, that giant sword in hand. We are supposed to be enemies and he should be looking at me like I am one. But he’s not. He reaches out and brushes some of the ruined plant off my shoulder instead.

“It’s ok,” he assures. “No one gets it on their first try. Not even me.”

That compassion and understanding makes my chest ache worse than any restless power ever has. I don’t deserve it. I wish he would treat me like the horrible creature I am. He would be better off if he tossed me out into the woods like Tam.

He stiffens and I can’t help but wonder if I accidentally said that out loud because his eyes darken as he closes the gap between us and takes my face in his hands. “Maybe I’m taking the wrong approach.” His voice is clipped, husky.

Good, maybe he can finally see me for what I really am.

I am wholly unprepared for him to crash his lips against mine. My brain short circuits, the agitation I feel morphing into that desperate, needy thing I had felt this morning. Just as I tilt my head back, lips parting to let him in, he pulls back.

“Let’s play a game.”

The power in my chest feels like it’s going to rip out of my skin again.

“Match what I do and you’ll get a reward,” he explains. “If you can’t…” He takes a step back and it is an effort not to chase after him, but the message is clear enough: Matching his efforts means his hands, his lips, his body is on me again, fail to do so, and he puts space between us. It shouldn’t work. It shouldn’t make me want to try, but I do. Gods I do!

“Ok,” my voice shakes a little. In the back of my mind I still think it’s a bad idea. Maybe I will regret it in the end, but this thing between us is the only thing that makes sense. There is nothing between us when his lips are on mine. I need that distraction tonight.

He holds out a hand and a ball of shadows emerge, the tendrils of darkness crawling out from beneath his skin to form the swirling shape. “Find that spot in your chest and push it into your hand. It’s a part of you, it answers to you. Make it answer to you.”

I hold out my hand, matching his position and then close my eyes, reaching for that bowl of darkness again. Hesitantly, I tip it sideways, sloshing some of the dark liquid over the edge and imagine pulling it through my limbs. It makes my muscles spasm, my claws shooting out of my nail beds in defense.

“Breathe through it, you’ll pass out if you hold your breath.”

Selfishly, I want to impress him. Want to show him I can. I want the reward of his lips on mine again. Want to not have to think about whether I should be doing this or that, the only thought in my head him and how good he feels. I do as he says, drawing in a breath as I keep pushing that bit of darkness in the direction I want it. It makes my head hurt, trying to focus so intently, but I’m nothing if not persistent.

I feel the rumble of movement beneath my palm, and just when I’m starting to think that maybe I’m more capable than I thought, the tiniest, most wilted looking dandelion grows from my palm. And then immediately turns to ash. It’s the saddest excuse for power I’ve ever seen and I growl out a complaint like a literal beast as even the thing in my chest shows its disappointment.

Rhysand snorts out a laugh too, which makes it worse.

So much for powerful.

He clears his throat as he steps back into my space. “It was a good attempt.”

“Don’t patronize me,” I hiss. “That was embarrassing.”

He wraps his hand around my wrist and places his lips against my palm anyway, never mind that my claws are still out and drifting over his temple as he kisses right where my powers flared. “You still tried.”

I shiver at the contact of his plush lips against my skin, his breath warm against my palm. My senses are still incredibly heightened and even that bit of contact makes my skin buzz with excitement.

He quirks a dark brow as he looks at me from where my hand is still pressed against his lips. “Try again for me?”

I nod, not trusting my voice when he’s looking at me like he wants to devour me. His pupils are blown wide, barely a ring of violet left to see. He keeps his lower lip between his perfect teeth as he watches me with an intensity that makes my thighs clench.

Just like before, I imagine myself holding that bowl, this time, I draw a breath and tip it over, letting more of that strange darkness spill into the abyss that is my soul. It is strange to see it like this, to have some parts of it so clear and yet the rest of it is shrouded in fathomless depths. There might be anything living within the confines of my skin. I’d never bothered to look until now.

I push it towards my fingertips, just as before. The same spasm in my muscles returns, a knot forming in my bicep that I do my best to ignore as I keep pushing my power towards my hand. I remind myself to breathe when it flares in my wrist, making my claws retract and pop back out.

“Just like that,” Rhysand coaxes.

Cauldron his voice makes my insides feel like jelly.

Crawling vines emerge one by one from beneath my palms, twining around my fingertips like tiny snakes. In the center sprouts another dandelion, a little taller than the last. I manage to hold it for all of five seconds before the knot in my bicep and wrist become too much and the vines and flower die together. My bones ache. How does he do this so easily?

“Better,” Rhysand praises as he places the next kiss on the inside of my wrist, his fingers massaging the knot forming there.

“Is it supposed to hurt?” I grumble.

“It’s a process,” he murmurs into my skin, lips trailing higher, causing a shiver to run down my spine. “Think of it like building a muscle. The first couple days of using that muscle will hurt. You’ll be sore. But the more you build it, the stronger it becomes, and the less it hurts. Eventually, you’ll be able to perform bigger and bigger feats with less and less discomfort.”

That sounds exhausting!

I’m going to have to do this for the rest of my life? The thought sours my mood, once again turning my thoughts away from this lovely little distraction he’s been offering and back into the darkness that’s been threatening to overtake me all afternoon.

I swear he can hear the thoughts spinning through my head as he suddenly nips at the tender flesh of the inside of my wrist. “You think you can give me one more?”

I have a headache just thinking about doing it again, but he keeps looking at me through those long lashes, the intensity in his gaze making all rational thought fly out the window.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he promises, lips trailing higher. He’s so warm and intoxicating, I think he might be capable of making me do anything, as long as his lips remain on my skin.

I focus on that spot, paying extra attention to breathe as I reach for that imaginary bowl a third time. Maybe if I let myself relax, lean a little heavier into the warmth of his touch, and stop trying so hard to hold on so tight, it won't hurt so bad. It has been like fighting a tide all this time; if I relax, go with the wave, will that make it easier?

I imagine that darkness spilling from the bowl like water instead, letting it flow like a river. The path from my chest to my fingertips is kind of like a stream, right? The water bubbling and rushing through me. There must be something to that thought process, because, when I open my eyes, there are more vines twining around my fingers and wrist, but this time, tiny yellow and pink flowers bloom from them. There is nothing dead or angry crawling out from beneath my skin, but something beautiful and alive. My claws retract as the vines spin around my fingers.

I can’t help but grin as I look to Rhys for his approval. “I did it!”

He grins right back, the sight so dazzling I think I might just stand here for hours summoning flower after flower to see it again. “That’s my girl!”

Instinctively, spurred by the excitement rushing through my veins, I stretch up on my toes and place a quick kiss on his lips. “You’re a good teacher,” and I mean it. Whatever this is between us, I am grateful for him, even if this is all we have. “Thank you.”

He slides a hand in my hair and kisses me back. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

I don’t know what it is I feel about it. It still feels wrong, or maybe it just feels different. Everything feels different these days, I’d rather not think too long about it. “Feels like I can breathe a little easier.”

“Good.” He kisses me again. “We’ll practice some more tomorrow.”

I slide my hand into the silky strands of his hair, nails scraping lightly over his scalp as he rests his forehead on mine. I won’t let myself think about tomorrow, or about these new powers. There can only be this moment.

“Just promise me,” he continues, “that you’ll keep trying?”

“I might need some convincing,” I return, clinging to this distraction with every last bit of willpower I possess.

He grins at the challenge. This is the best I can give him today; the closest to the truth I can admit without laying everything bare.

“I can be very persuasive,” he purrs and the next thing I know I am on my back in what’s left of the grass, the solid weight of him on top of me. “Maybe we should work on some self-defense while we’re at it. That was alarmingly easy.”

“The words every girl wants to hear when she’s beneath a man,” I retort.

“I just want you to be safe, is all,” he says as he kisses the tip of my nose.

I reach up a hand and brush some of the hair that’s falling over his forehead into his eyes out of the way. He is breathtakingly beautiful under the moonlight. I wish I could paint or sketch, immortalize every glorious sharp edge of him in ink and paper. “I’m with you, how can I not be safe?”

Cauldron boil me, I mean that too.

It’s not until later that night, long after I’d fallen apart on his tongue in that field and then tumbled back into camp, nearly asleep on my feet to nestle down against his warm body that I remembered I’d meant to ask him this morning why he’d still let me in after everything between us. By now I’m too exhausted to care; maybe I’ll find the courage to ask in the morning.

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

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linberlyy · 8 months

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Let's be honest: Criston's offense’s more than justified and well-reasoned. Another question is how much this very offense is, but everyone will judge this through their own internal compass. Let me explain Cole’s motivation and worldview, maybe I'll open someone's eyes.

Let’s simulate the situation: we have a son from a humble family (so low that his position was low even for an engagement), who, with sweat, blood, his skills and efforts, carved out a place for himself in the Kingsguard, taking into account that, thanks to the goodwill of a representative of the royal family, - who has a golden spoon in her mouth, we remember, was able to get a healthy assessment of her capabilities and skills without watered calculations.

- “I know what it’s like to fight for something that others don’t value.”

He owes his new position precisely to the favor of the princess, and we have no reason to refute Criston’s conscience, because BEFORE any traumatic and drastic changes/events, he manifests himself as a conscientious and devoted knight, with a clear worldview.

They spend a lot of time together, and already at Aegon’s name day we see that the level of trust between Rhaenyra and Criston is high, moreover, it is rapidly gaining momentum when she opens some part of her soul, shares things that can be called “personal”, laments his situation and outlines the problems he faces. Most notable:

— “My father is trying to sell me to Jason Lannister. I was named heir to the throne only to improve the position of Lord Casterly Rock.

— Should I kill him?”

This is literally a joke about killing the LORD that Criston makes in the presence of the princess, and it is remarkable that they both laugh without taking it seriously.

— “You can choose your own path, you are lucky. Many would gladly change places with you.

— “I am the princess of Dragonstone, but I am toothless.”

— “Once, not so long ago, you were able to write my name in the White Book. A position in the Kingsguard is the highest honor for the Cole family. I owe you everything. And I wouldn’t call it toothless.”

He provides her with sincere support, without greedy or hypocritical intent, and she accepts it with open arms.

The development of their relationship, on the initiative of the princess, follows immediately when, after some time, abandoned by Daemon (I condemn) in a brothel, she persuades Criston to have sex. Rhaenyra lures him into the room, plays with the helmet, kisses him, not allowing him to leave, and then tries to free the knight from his armor. Yes, Criston could more than experience romantic feelings towards his princess, but above all, it was a kind of admiration, sincere gratitude for what bestowed her favor on the rootless commoner. His representation of Rhaenyra may seem banal and naive, namely as “a poor princess, enslaved by her position,” we will note this in the future. But based on his pure motives, he faces a choice in which his feelings equally suffer, his vows and, of course, the wishes of his object of desire, in relation to whom Criston has never crossed the line before, are called into question. Many may underestimate the pressure that arises between the statuses and titles of total opposites, and only in the example of “maid - prince” do some realize the problematic nature of such a union, but not “princess - knight”. Please note: despite gender, it is still a class difference that breeds power with abuse. And, unfortunately, Cole cannot know and be sure that Rhaenyra’s need to get sex here and now has nothing to do with her love for him. He hesitantly follows the princess's lead, putting aside his white cloak.

Next we see and hear that Criston is ashamed of himself for violating his honor, neglecting his duty, although he listened to his heart, to his duty to Rhaenyra.

— “You occasionally confided in me... Over the years of acquaintance. And it seems to me that I know you. A little.

— “More than a little.”

Another imaginary confirmation in Christon’s eyes of reciprocity.

— “You have said many times how you despise your position. That you will be married off at the whim of your father, without thinking about the inclination of your heart. And this day has come."

He imbues her with the problem mentioned in the past; driven not only by his dilemma, but also by Rhaenyra's “confinement,” a literal shackle that equally binds and constrains them both.

— “I ask you to come with me. Away from all this, from the humiliations and burdens of your heritage. Let's leave all this and look at the world together. We will be free, nameless. We are free to go wherever we want, to love whoever we want. Will you marry me? Not for the crown. For love.

— “I’m the Crown, Ser Criston. Or I will be her. I can complain about my debt, but would I choose infamy in exchange for a barrel of oranges, or a ship to Asshai? It is my duty to marry a noble of a great house. But my marriage is not the end all be all. Ser Criston, Laenor and I have come to an understanding. I gave him the right to do what he wants. He granted me the same”.

— “Do you want to make me a whore?”

— “I want what started to continue.” You are my protector. My white knight”.

— “I made a vow, a vow of chastity. I have nothing but my white cloak, and I have stained it! I thought the wedding would cleanse him.”

Literally, Criston pours out not only his soul to Rhaenyra, but also to us, as viewers. He dictates the reality of his situation, assures that he can provide and protect the princess as much as possible. But, of course, for the blood of the dragon, for the heiress, for the father’s daughter, who was previously brought up in the conditions of “do you want it? Get it!” such a prospect is worthless. Naive of Cole? Yes, but not without reason.

After everything, he feels extremely vulnerable, as well as after a sincere confession to the Queen - which responds even more precariously and nervously to any conscience and confidence, despite her gratitude. Already at the wedding of Rhaenyra and Laenor, Cole, like a taut string, stands at the service, but restlessly and nervously looks at the princess.

— “I’m on duty, what’s your business?”

— “You don’t know me, Ser Criston, but this alliance is very important to both of us.”

— “If you have something to say, Ser Joffrey, speak.”

— “Ser Laenor is as dear to me as I know the princess is to you. We must swear to keep them and their secrets. We’re not in any danger yet... They are safe.”

Sounds like a threat to a pins and needles knight with a stained cloak and a sense of duty, don’t you think? Criston can only guess how Joffrey knows about his affair with the princess, and only one of the options may look convincing - Rhaenyra telling Laenor about this, who could notify his lover along the chain. Again, every possible inclination towards princess on his part is undermined when their secret is at stake. Yes, Criston succumbs to anger and panic, resentment and hopelessness, for which he commits a much more terrible act than calling a woman names. But even so, Cole feels guilt, boundless disappointment, and at the lynching he also feels remorse. He plans to voluntarily commit suicide and admits his every mistake. This scene is literally the rebirth of a knight in the rays of Alicent’s understanding and favor.

And as a result: people complain countless times and blame Criston for swearing towards Rhaenyra, for which he apologizes. Cool. Let's think critically and delve into the story and characters, and not spit hypocrisy.

#hotd #anti team black #houseofthedragon #rhaenyra targaryen #pro team green #team green #the greens #criston cole #alicent hightower

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panlight · 1 month

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I feel there's just so much wrong with the entire imprinting concept in the Twilight books.

The concept of never being able to say no or essentially make your own decisions because of the girl/whoever you imprinted almost sounds like a romanticized version of domestic abuse. Google describes it as "pattern incidents of controlling, coercive, degrading and violent behavior, etc". Now the threatening wouldn't be necessary because they literally don't have any choice or say in the matter. The entire idea of obsession and doing whatever pleases the person I've imprinted on sounds degrading, that you're now longer you're own person capable of making you're own choices. I find this ironic because SM literally tells us the underlying theme of these books is about choice. None of the wolves have a choice. They didn't choose to be wolves (shape shifters), they don't choose who they imprint on and they definitely don't choose what they get to do after imprinting. Did SM find it all romantic? Because everytime it's mentioned it just gives me the ick. The wolves are my favorite characters in the books and seeing them being forced into all this is so annoyinggg! They deserved SO much better.

Also, it shocks me that after all the success SM gained from tts that she didn't donate a penny to the Quileute tribe. It's super disappointing.

Oh, yeah, with you 100% on imprinting. I've never found it romantic. It reads as straight-up horror to me. Who even ARE you if you don't have free will? If you have to be whatever someone else needs? And beyond that it just feels fake and empty to me. Sam loved Leah. When he had a choice, he chose Leah. Magic overruled him and picked Emily instead. Why am I supposed to think his love for Emily is the 'real' love?

I get that the fantasy is supposed to be from the imprintee's POV, the fantasy of having this guy who is 100000% devoted to you, will never leave you, you never have to worry about cheating, he is there for you and will do whatever you want or need him to do. But that's not . . . that's not like a person who loves you, that's like a robot programmed to fulfill your wishes. For me, there's no real love without choice. This dude isn't choosing to show up for you every day if he has no other choice. It feels fake and arbitrary. Like a love potion, like Cupid's arrow.

And hell yes, the lack of choice with the wolves is a pattern and a really unsettling one given that she chose to make these characters Indigenous and tie their wolf-ness to that identity. They don't get to choose to be wolves, they don't get to choose who they love, within those relationships they have no agency and have to be/do whatever their partner wants, and then there's also the Alpha Order! They can literally be forced to obey, no choice there either. Again, this is straight up horror stuff. Loss of free will, loss of identity. That whole passage when Jacob imprints on Nessie is the stuff of nightmares to me. Everything that Jacob cared about, everything that made him who he was, is cut away and he is bound to a half-vampire baby instead. And now he has to keep phasing forever to stay immortal with her. To paraphrase Rosalie: this isn't the life he would have chosen for himself.

There are ways in which Twilight vampires get a raw deal too (when I'm sick and have a sore throat it's like, the Worst, so dealing with that forever and on a supernatural scale sounds horrific) but they still have CHOICES. Carlisle had the free will and agency to run to the forest and starve himself as a newborn. Rosalie had the will to kill her attackers without drinking their blood. Edward chose to leave Bella for a time when we're told Jacob spending any real time away from Nessie would be impossible because of the imprint. The vampires may have to FIGHT their nature sometimes, but SM lets them win more often than not. Carlisle can be a doctor; the Denali sisters can sleep with humans; Edward can resist Bella's blood; Bella can be the best newborn ever and not kill her dad. But the only time a shifter character is allowed to fight his nature is when Jacob defies Sam to break off and form his own pack, and that's only because of the loophole that Jacob was himself the rightful alpha. No one else has that option. Leah has to choose between allowing Sam or Jake to have alpha power over her.

Which is all why I thought Jacob's whole thing would be fighting an imprint. It would be so in character for him and such a good parallel to the vegetarian vampires fighting their thirst. I wanted to see Jacob say 'no, I don't care what destiny says, I will make my own path.' And you know if SM had had him imprint on literally anyone BUT Nessie or Bella she would have written about him fighting it! It would have been so cool! But no, because ultimately this is Bella's fantasy life, and part of her happily ever after is keeping Jacob around literally forever even though HE wouldn't have chosen an immortal life with the Cullens like Bella did.

#asks #anti-imprinting

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theblackfemininesociety · 7 months

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Five Mental Lessons The Gym Has Taught Me About Life:

Through my fitness journey, I have discovered several valuable lessons that have shaped my mindset and attitude towards life.

1. Pain is Temporary:

One of the first mental lessons I learned from working out is that pain is temporary. During intense workouts, there are moments when our muscles ache, and fatigue sets in. However, pushing through these challenging moments teaches us that pain is transient. It reminds us that we are capable of enduring discomfort and overcoming obstacles. This mindset can be applied to various aspects of life, reminding us to persevere through difficult times, knowing that they too shall pass.

2. Character is Shaped by Prioritizing Discipline over Motivation:

Working out regularly requires discipline and commitment. It's easy to rely solely on motivation, which can fluctuate over time. However, I have learned that true character is shaped by the days when we choose discipline over motivation. By prioritizing consistency and sticking to a workout routine, even when we don't feel like it, we build resilience, self-control, and determination. This mindset extends beyond the gym, helping us develop discipline in other areas of life and achieve long-term success.

3. You Are Stronger Than You Think:

Working out has taught me that I am stronger, both physically and mentally, than I initially believed. Through challenging workouts and pushing my limits, I have realized that my body and mind are capable of achieving more than I imagined. This newfound strength translates into other areas of life, boosting confidence and providing a sense of empowerment. Recognizing and embracing our inner strength can help us overcome self-doubt and conquer any obstacles that come our way.

4. Focus on Your Own Journey:

In the fitness world, it's easy to fall into the trap of comparison. However, working out has taught me the importance of focusing on my own journey rather than comparing myself to others. Each person's fitness journey is unique, and progress should be measured against personal goals and achievements instead of external standards. By shifting the focus inward, we can celebrate our own progress, appreciate our individual strengths, and avoid the negative effects of comparison.

5. Everyone is Battling Something:

Lastly, working out has reminded me that everyone is fighting their own battles. In the gym, we encounter people from all walks of life, each with their own challenges and struggles. This realization fosters empathy and understanding, reminding us to be kind and supportive to others, both inside and outside the gym. Recognizing that everyone has their own things to focus on encourages a sense of community and collective growth.

Working out is not just about physical transformation; it has the power to shape our mental well-being and personal growth. Through the five mental lessons I have learned from working out, I have gained a deeper understanding of myself, developed resilience, and cultivated empathy towards others. Embracing these lessons has not only improved my fitness journey but has also positively impacted various aspects of my life. I encourage you to reflect on your own fitness journey and discover the valuable mental lessons it has taught you.

Xoxo,

Leah 💋

#bfs fitness #black fitspo #fitness motivation #fitness #black women in femininity #sweat check

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daughter-of-sapph0 · 1 year

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"BDSM is recreating abusive sexual assault where a man beats and rapes a woman! it's bad!"

you're assuming that:

1) bdsm and kink isn't always consentual

kink is always ALWAYS consentual. just like any form of vanilla sex. in fact, kink is often more safe than vanilla sex as it is almost always planned well in advance and all parties involved know exactly what's gonna happen and when and how

2) kink is only between 1 man and 1 woman, and the man is always the dom

what the fuck is that homophobic xian bullshit?! fuck off with that crap. m/f maledom kink is like less than 2% of all kink relationships. kink is incredibly queer and diverse, mainly because the kink communities and the adult queer communities are one in the same.

3) kink always involves pain

I mean, sure it CAN involve pain. but that's just a very small subsection of kink. kink includes all sex that isn't what is considered normal. stupid people, mainly conservative, will call anything sex they don't like a deviance, and whether you like it or not, they will be considered kink by most people. so rather than trying to fight it, you might as well embrace it. all queer sex is kink. all blow jobs are kink. all anal is kink. all sex positions that aren't exclusively male on top cisgender heterosexual missionary position is kink.

4) women aren't capable of making their own choices

if you think that a woman cannot choose how she wants to have sex, then you aren't a feminist. if you think you can choose for her, then you're the abusive one, not the theoretical man who beats her during sex.

I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions. I can choose exactly how I want to have sex. I'm a dyke, so I'm not particularly interested in sex with men. but the way I have sex is between me and my partners. not you. you don't fucking control me. you don't get to decide what I can and can't do with my own body. you're no better than a sexist misogynistic conservative man. you think all sex is abusive because you're a puritanical controlling abusive piece of shit who thinks your opinion is more important than everyone else's, and that you are the sole authority on what women can and can't do. and you also probably watch way too much porn, which is a perversion and distortion of actual sex and in no way reflects reality. stop calling yourself a feminist, you stupid freaks. get a life, and stay out of my bedroom

#dostxt #I would have said 'stay out of my dungeon'#but that probably would have been a bit too much #would explode their poor little sex purist minds #also calling it my dungeon would imply that I own it or that I'm the domme

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 6 months

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AITA for leaving a hate comment on an author's social media?

so there's this author who recently got exposed for review bombing the books of other authors, mostly POC authors, while giving their own book 5 stars. the victims gave them the chance to handle this privately (which means they could still have their career intact if they chose to do so) and honestly I would've had so much respect for them if they chose to say "yes I did this, I'm sorry, this was coming from a place of insecurity and jealousy" but instead they made up conversations with a non-existing friend to try and blame them while painting themselves as a victim. on top of that they pulled the "I'm not racist I have autism & ADHD and I struggle with my mental health" card when people tried to hold them accountable.

I (23F) want to be an author, it has been my dream since I learned how to write as a child. I also have autism & ADHD. I also struggle with my mental health. and none of these things make me act deliberately racist???? I can be and I am sympathetic with them because dealing with bad mental health is horrible but they were handled their dream career, a book deal, promotion, beautiful art for their novel, and the chance to handle this privately and they still chose to try and escape consequence. I couldn't believe this so I left them a comment saying they were fucking ungrateful for living their dream and choosing to throw it all away just because they wanted to rip the spotlight from others... when any mildly capable author is also a reader who probably likes to read more than one author!!! it's stupid to treat one another like competition!!!!!

I'm angry but if I'm being honest, deep down I'm terrified - terrified that their behavior and their excuses will make editors want to not give other disabled authors a chance. we fight so hard to be taken seriously and this person, on top of trying to make things harder for POC authors, chose to make things harder for other disabled authors as well. but even though they were wrong, I know acting like a dick online is not the answer so AITA here?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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an-angel-in-the-garden · 5 months

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Hello everything is fine? If requests are still open can I request headcanons (aizen, komamura and zaraki) x fem!reader? The reader being a vampire and having the powers of Alucard from Hellsing? Thank you in advance.

Things have been up and down ya know. Hope things are going well for you? My requests are still open and this was a fun one to get. I don't think I've written for Komamura? Either way, mixing some of my favorite things is always a good time. TW: blood and death talked about, unhealthy relationships and talks of bad treatment towards reader

Aizen

Aizen is perhaps the worst person to be with as a vampire unfortunately but is anyone surprised

Look, he's capable of learning to love but it's a slow and hard process that sadly means you suffer more then he will....to start

He wants control of everything starting with when and what you eat along with how much you get

His blood, wonderful tasting as it is, is only ever a treat for good behavior and more often than not you get espada blood

This will continue for as long as he doest fully trust or care about you

Fights are a common during this time but the longer you choose him, the longer you stay and fight back the more he softens and opens up

Though it takes time Aizen does eventually see why his actions are wrong and though he won't regret them he does change and aim to make up for it

Fresh blood from kills he got for you, his own blood straight from his arm or neck if you all are feeling cuddly and plenty of gifts

He thrives on watching you thrive, of seeing you smile and revel in being full and able to exist without worry

A power couple in the most dangerous sense of the words not to be taken lightly yet so happy to merely be around each other even if the road to get there was rough

Komamura

An absolute sweetheart who will do his best to make you feel accepted no matter your past or problems

Komamura understands what it's like to be so different and knows first hand that it can be hard to trust others so he wanted to reach out to you

Though he doesn't fully understand all your needs and will struggle to understand he wants you to tell him everything so he can help

Will have Unahana draw his blood so you can have food, his squad is willing to do the same one you become friends

One of the things he greatly appreciate about your skills is the ability to melt into the shadows, he doesn't want you to have to fight and this method can keep you safe

Trains with you whenever you ask and is happy to help you learn or overcome any trouble

You being a vampire really doesn't change anything to him, Komamura sees you as person separate from anything else

So long as you want to protect people and have good morals that's enough for him, you accept him and he accepts you

Kenpachi

Kenpachi is weirdly the best person to be with as a vampire and he's proud of it

Need food? That's find he was in a fighting mood anyway, he can hunt for you if you want or better yet just drink from him

It's the same for if you're ever worried about losing control or just need to explain some energy Kenpachi is more than happy to fight you and keep a close eye on you

He defends you from the others who think you’re untrustworthy or dangerous, really you're no worse than him

To everyone's amusement you both have this line of thought that you've tamed a beast in one way or another

Really Kenpachi is just so proud to say your his lover and for so many reasons that no one can really argue with him on it

Will want to fight you sometimes ya know to test "your strength and make sure your not holding back too much"

Gets really jealous if you drink from anyone else, even a blood bag but won't admit it, the only exception to this is if its a kill he got you

Overall he's fine with it there's nothing about it that bothers him and he encourages everything you do, feral or not he's here for it

Hello everyone~ I am back from a rather unexpected break. To make a long story short, a lot happened recently, most of it not good but getting better. I even started a new job that I've been enjoying so far. I want to write again though so I finally sat down and got this bad boy done. The next thing will feature a favorite character of mine that isn't even on my writing list so just know it's happening. Have a good day or night and thank you so much for your support. Lilly~

#reader imagine #x reader #reader insert #reader x #bleach imagines #bleach x reader #kenpachi x reader #aizen x reader #aizen sosuke x reader #kenpachi zaraki x reader #komamura x reader #sajin komamura x reader

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robin-the-enby · 7 months

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Hi! Can I get an angst/comfort fic of Arthur with a female s/o who is depressed and suicidal? Like he walks in on his s/o c*tting while having a mental breakdown? Or he just notices the cuts/scars? Or he walks in on his s/o bl33ding out?? Idk you can get creative with it I’ve just been having an extremely rough couple months. If this makes you uncomfortable then you can just ignore this request, but thanks anyways! I hope you have a great day/night!! <3

It's my problem if I feel the need to hide

Pairing: Arthur x f!reader

Summary: You feel under the weather, but decide not to tell anyone. As your condition only worsens, your friends start to worry about you. It's when you decide to let everything go your knight with blue eyes and a cheeky smile comes to the rescue.

Warnings: depression, suicidal ideation, not being able to care for oneself (containing lack of hygiene and proper meals), mentions of vomit(ing) (3), negative self talk, dark thoughts

A/N: I am so sorry for the delay of this fic, I hope it will be of use to you still. I haven't written for this fandom in a long while, so getting back to it was a little hard, though I enjoyed it none the less. I tried not to use any (Y/N)s and make it as racially neutral as possible, as well as appearance-neutral (Arthur carries reader 1 time, but he's stronger than a regular human, and y'all deserve it ladies, no matter your size). If anyone wants to talk about anything at all, my dms are open, as well as my ask box. Take care of yourselves and stay safe!

The human mind is possibly nature's greatest invention. The complexity with which all its components interact to keep the body functioning is nothing short of phenomenal. And not only that, but it is aware of itself, encasing its own conscience inside a safe vessel, built and evolved specifically to protect it. And as time progressed, and all the basic needs of the body were cared for, there came a need to create. The body could easily be fed, but the conscience needed a different type of sustenance.

The human mind is capable of incredible things. It can set goals for itself as well as achieve them. It shaped the entire world to its liking, for better or for worse. The human mind is the reason why we live the lives we do today. It is the thing that keeps us alive and sane.

It's funny how drastically that can change.

If you'd ask any of the men residing in the mansion on who the worst enemy of humans is, you're sure all of them would at least mention the human conscience, if not directly choose it. After all, their lives have been woven through with the thread of sorrow, the perpetrator being none other than the human mind- theirs or someone else's.

At this point, you feel like you've at least got a peek at the complex inner worlds of history's greatest minds. Some you knew better than others, but you've been le Comte's servant for long enough to consider all the mansion's residents at least friends.

It was evident to anyone who has been in the mansion for at least a month that all of the people (and vampires) residing in it had some sort of baggage, wearing them down even in their second undead life. Some were better at hiding it than others, some just felt more comfortable keeping their troubles to themselves, while others' emotions and traumas were sometimes too great, too overwhelming to be kept locked inside their bodies.

You've tried your best to help those who needed it, both physically and mentally. It helped a few to open up to you at least a little and as time went on, with your hard work, you've earned respect for yourself even amongst the toughest nuts in the mansion. Poking through others' personal affairs and traumas carried along numerous fights as well as apologies and in the end just served to strengthen the bond between you and the residents. And yet, at times like these...you couldn' help but feel alone.

Like all the others, you had to shoulder the burden of traumas, insecurities and unpleasant experiences collected unwillingly throughout your life. You suspected the others knew of this, or at least had a hunch that you, like all of them, haven't had the pleasure of living a carefree life.

They saw you as an independent, strong and courageous woman, resilient and kind in any situation. And if you were in the right state of mind, you would agree. But lately, you began to doubt these traits of yours, the ones you valued so much and were valued for.

You weren't a stranger to struggling and you knew that anyone in need of help deserved to receive it and should not be scared to ask for it.

So why did the thought of asking for help make your stomach churn?

You've been pondering that question for a few days now. Lately, your entire reality seemed to have shifted. At first, you didn't think anything was wrong, a simple bad day, or a bad week wasn't anything to be too worried about. Nothing a nice, relaxing weekend couldn't fix, right? And yet, when you had tasks to complete, you felt agitated and annoyed, but when you had nothing to do, you were antsy and restless. Always feeling like something should be happening, like you should be doing something. For some reason, you couldn't make yourself to do the things you felt you should be doing.

Soon everything has become a bother. Tasks you could usually do with one hand were suddenly so hard that by the end of the day, the thought of bathing or changing into clean clothes made you want to scream until your throat was sore. And so you chipped away at your routine that you so painstainkingly built when you appeared in this time, until the only remaining activities in your days were your work and some basic necessities.

You knew it was getting bad. And it constantly created an almost numbing whirlwind of emotions you really didn't need right now. Why was this happening? What brought it on? Why now?? Is it going to get worse? All these questions and none you had an answer to. You had guesses and various techniques you learnt here and there back in your time, but...you couldn't bring yourself to do anything.

You were trapped. At least it felt like it. Trapped inside yourself, inside your mind. You knew you should tell someone, that if you let it go on, it would sooner or later consume you. But you couldn't do anything. It was as if your body didn't listen to you.

It seemed the residents were starting to get suspicious of your strange mood as of late. There were times when one of them would approach you and carefully ask about your wellbeing, and as much as you wanted to say something, you never did. You logically knew that the first step would be the one to break through the loop, the one that would make all the others just a little bit easier until you felt normal again. But anytime you tried to break through the selfdestructive habits you had fallen into, a wave of such tirednes, nausea and shame overcame you, that you simply caved to your mind's twisted whispers.

You concluded that your best option at this moment was to lay low and let it pass. Your days have become a steady routine of wake up, work, go to bed. And repeat. It was manageable, at first, even with the onslaught of thoughts your mind was conjuring, managing to come up with more and more ways to taunt you with. But as days and then weeks passed, your energy slowly seeped away from your body and it retaliated by shutting off and out anything unnecessary to save as much of what was remaining.

These things included mostly socialising. You became less talkative, while you would usually enthusiastically engage in conversations, if not outright start them, lately you would not speak unles directly spoken to. It has taken a toll on your concentration as well. Many times when someone would try to strike up a conversation with you, they'd have to repeat their question or even call out your name mid-conversation, because mentally you just weren't there. These things not only started to worry Sebastian, your biggest constant in your new life, given that you worked alongside him every day, but also the other residents. You knew of this, as out of it as you might have seemed and/or have been these past few weeks, you knew that they noticed, because you knew them. But what started as a simple snowball had alrady turned into an avalanche and you had to admit that you were no longer in control.

Not that you really cared. You knew you should care, should be trying harder than ever to break out of this spell, but you couldn't. And every time you might have felt strong enough to confess how you were feeling, to lean on someone, to get the help you knew you needed, a sudden pang of fear pierced your chest and you shrivelled back, back into your own small shell that was your skull.

Trying to find a reason for this foolish anxiety proved not so easy, when your mind would make up about five reasons why you should keep your mouth shut every time you even dared to ask yourself such a question.

What if they didn't believe you?

What if it wasn't not that bad?

What if you were just making it up? Making it seem bigger than it is?

These people have gone through so much. They've seen war, witnessed and felt abuse and probably had been through things you couldn't even imagine. Why should they help you, when they're the ones who needed help?

You were not worthy.

Such comparisons were something you chastised anyone who would confess experiencing them for. And yet, when it came to you, it felt like a holy truth. Something that could not and should not be questioned. Because you don't want to be selfish, do you?

You've dealt with this by yourself before, surely you could do it again and not drag down others with you. These and many others became your daily mantras. Lay low, hide, be small, don't make a noise. Survive. But was that really how you wanted to live? If you could even call that a living. You were surviving, yes, but at what cost? For a promise of a period of time where you wouldn't feel like the world is made out of cardboard? A period of time where you wouldn't feel like screaming and crying every second of every day? And how long would that last? A few months, a year maybe? Was it really worth the struggle?

You blinked yourself out of your thoughts when someone vigorously snapped in front of your eyes. Looking around in slight daze, your eyes fall upon a smiling face. "There you are! Theo says he's just waiting for you to walk face first into a wall!" Arthur says cheerily, showing you his signature smirk. "I, like the good friend I am, keep defending you of course. But it's hard when your mind seems to get further and further away from us every day. At this rate, you'll wander off into Seine soon. And we wouldn't want that, would we?" he playfully jabbed at you.

You could feel yourself shaking your head, but the only thing you could focus on was how nice it acually seemed, the cold water seeping through clothes and circling your limbs, the undercurrents keeping you down, where nothing could get you, laying you down onto the riverbed, weighed by the water in your lungs... "So, what's going on in that noggin of yours, hm?"

Arthur was, besides Sebastian, the closest person to you out of all the others. You enjoyed his easygoing demeanor and his jokes never failed to make you laugh. He was a terrible flirt though, and someties could be pretty pushy with his advances as you've realised over the time you two spent together. Luckilly, after a firm conversation backed up by Theo, he had calmed down significantly towards you. The writer still heavily complimented you, always putting that silver tongue of his to use, but you thought nothing of it. He was like that with everyone, even some of the other residents, so the possibility of it ever meaning anything more than banter or a simple compliment never even crossed your mind.

"You're doing it again." the man in question sighed. You blinked at him with confusion. As if reading your thoughts, Arthur clarified "You're in your head again. It must be something really interesting in there to make you so distracted." he joked again, but his expression turned serious "But honestly, what's going on? You haven't been yourself for quite a while now and everyone's getting worried. Even Wolf asked me if I knew what was up with you the other day!" the writer looked at you intently "You know that we're here for you, right? Even if you feel like it's stupid, if you need anything, you can tell us."

You averted your eyes from Arthur' piercing gaze. You knew his words were sincere and it made your chest squeeze uncomfortably. Looking straight ahead, in the direction which you were going, you answered, trying to make your voice as leveled as you could "Thank you for worrying Arthur, but I'm alright, really. I've been thinking of asking le Comte for a break. It would be nice to have some off time." This wasn't a complete lie, since having some down time, where you could pretend time has stopped really did sound appealing, but now you'd have to actually go and ask the good count, which you really didn't want to. Not because you were worried you wouldn't be given a break, but because it was another plan to be made and you barely had enough energy to last you until the end of the day, much less go somewhere out of your own volition.

Arthur knew that you were lying, or at least not telling him everything, so he grinned at you again and spoke confidently "Alright, love, the game is on! I gave you a chance to explain youself, but it seems I'll have to solve this mystery myself." he winked at you and you expected him to take his leave. But Arthur softly grabbed your arm and stopped you in the middle of the halway you were in. Turning to face him in his hold you looked at him questioningly. His smile is much softer now, and if you could focus properly, you would see worry glinting in his eyes "If you ever change your mind, you can stop by. Day, night, doen't matter. We're here for you, love. I'm here for you. Just as much as you're here for us." and as soon as he finished speakig, he was gone. Down the hallway, in the direction of his room. You quietly turned around, trying to process the strange encounter while you went your way.

Your mind was surprisingly quiet for a few hours after that.

You eventually did end up in le Comte's study. Nerves were wracking your body and mind the entire day and when you finally did enter the dreaded room, after all your chores were done for the day, you felt like you would start crying at any moment. For some reason, you felt awful for doing this. You didn't need the break. You didn't need off time to get better physically or because you had too many chores. Why did you want a break, besides Arthur catching on that there was, indeed, something wrong? The only thing you had planned for this break of yours was rotting away in your bed and doing as little as humanely possible. Maybe fate would be so kind and take you away in your sleep. Let you wither away like an overwatered flower.

You tried to make the discussion as quick as possible. Fortunately, the count didn't ask too many questions about your wellbeing and the reason for taking a break, remembering well that you haven't had one in a good while. He did ask if you consulted Sebas about it and you forced down a shudder at the mention of your good friend's name. Not because the butler was opposed to you taking a break, he actually kindly insisted you take one, revealing that he also noticed your mental absence in the past weeks, which could be almost counted as a month now. The worry and confusion in his tone as well as his expression made you wish he told you to stay, to help him, anything to try and convince you to not do what you were about to.

Why were you so worried? There wasn't a reason you should feel bad about taking a break. Even if you physically were just as spry as a grasshopper, taking a break for the sake of mental health was just as important. But deep down, you coudn't lie to yourself. Deep down you knew you were going to give up completely. Either for someone to find you, or to be left to rot. And right now, you hoped for the latter, even if it was still scary to admit.

After Comte gave you a week off, asking if it was enough time for you, which you hastily confirmed, feeling bile rise up your throat and wishing for the comfines of your room, your shaky legs and hazy mind managed to carry you to your room. After spending some time emptying the contents of your stomach, which were absolutely too small you would bet, you nothing but collapsed onto your bed. Mouth unrinsed, hair oily and ruffled, it had finally dawned on you how much of a mess you must have loked like. This realisation finally seemed to open the dam that was holding back everything you were feeling. The disgust, the shame, the fear, the anxiety the heavines, the loneliness, but most importnatly the longing.

Fast, salty tears carried all of that out of your body, leaving your face a puffy, sticky mess. Suddenly, you felt rage boil inside of your chest, sprading quickly to your head. Why didn't you say anything? You were so worried and because of what? Your own mind? Could you be any more stupid? The very same mind that put you through absolute hell this past month was now angry at itself, at its own actions. Why did the world have to be this cruel? Why couldn't it grant you the simple request of a mind that would not try to sabotage itself? And now it was too late.

Yo chose this, you thought to yourself. You chose this and these were the consequences of your actions. As if the tears have released all your pent up frustration in your body, all that it left was numbness. A kind of numbness that made your eyelids heavy, making them gravitate towards each other and pulling you into a deep, calm slumber. The kind of slumber you have not been able to achieve for more than the month you've been actively suffering. But also the kind of slumber that would not bring you closer to salvation.

You woke up, not knowing the time and not really finding yourself caring either. You felt strangely...calm. There was no hunger, no thirst, nothing. Only suffocating quiet, the likes of which you would feel in the deep blue of the ocean. You laid stil for what felt like hours, but could have also been minutes, before you succumbed to unconsciousness again.

This has gone on for a few days of your week long break. At one point you felt the pang of hunger, yet you had no will to satiate it. You only rose from your bed late into the night, when the squeezing walls of your stomach, at this point surely eating itself, threatened to spill nothing but its own acid. You tiptoed as quietly as your stiff muscles could into the kitchen, and after munching on some bread and water, because even though you got up, you still didn't feel like cooking, or that you deserved anything more than the simplest of dishes, you quietly stalked the halls back into your room. You fell asleep again, your stomach satisfied, or maybe convinced into satisfaction by your mind, the last thing you heard was the faint sound of Mozart's piano in the dead of the night.

This cycle had repeated for another few days. Your days were interrupted by quiet knocking that would wake you from your slow decline, and sometimes joined by murmurs behind the door. You couldn't find it in you to care. The door wasn't locked. At one point, you could swear you saw a shadow in your window, but it was gone too soon for your slowed mind to focus on it.

One morning, somewhere at the end of your break, not that you were keeping track of time, your door opened. A gust of fresh air was the first thing that barged its way into your room, chasing out the old and musty, albeit warm air from it. You shivered and wiggled deeper under your covers, grumbling hoarsely in protest. Your half asleep mind registered someone slowly walking into your room, as if they were scared to find out what was in it. You kept your eyes closed.

Arthur knelt down beside your bed, looking at your sickly, worn out face. Carefully sneaking his arm under your blanket, his hand searched for yours until it could take it into its own. Caressing your knuckles with his thumb, he cooed softly "Oh, love. I am so sorry. I am so sorry we let this get so far." You didn't respond. What was there to say? "It isn't your fault" you croaked out quietly, not having enough energy to say it loudly and fearing your voice wouldn't work.

"Why did you hide from us? We would've helped..." the writer almost whined, and you could feel the guilt and worry radiating from him. You wanted so desperately to answer, to give him a good reason for how foolish you were acting, but you couldn't. There was nothing that would excuse you. Nothing.

Seeing your slightly open eyes well up with tears, Arthur rushed closer to comfort you. Shushing and soothing you like a small child after a booster shot, he held you close and you tried not to weep hader. "It's alright, love, everything is alright. I've got you. I've got you now, it's good. You're alright."

After you calmed down slightly, you wanted nothing more than to shoo him away, close yourself off again an bury yourself into your bed to get away from the immense shame you felt. But Arthur seemed to be having none of that. He softly but insistently reached under you and helped you sit up with one arm, holding your hand with the other still. you couldn't bring yourslf to look him in the eye and yet his tone never changed from the soft lull he comforted you with. "Come on now, darling. Let's get you cleaned up."

Your mind wanted desperately to push back at him, scream and yell and fight, but you almost limply let him straighten you up and help you walk over to the bathroom. The writer's heart nearly broke in two as he saw you in the same clothes you were in when he last spoke to you. The image of you suffering in silence for so long made him nearly tear up as well, but he held himself back, focusing on you being his biggest priority.

He ran a bath for you, helped you out of your clothes, his gaze never cascading from your face, looking for any signs of overstepping any boundaries and when he found none, he helped you into the bathtub, first washing your hair and then your body, asking if you could and wanted to handle your private parts yourself. You whispered out a small yes, feeling somewhat ashamed still and wanting to make his efforts a bit easier. Letting you soak in the blissfully warm water, a question appeared in your mind "Arthur..." you called out quietly "Were you the one knocking at my door?" you asked timidly, not knowing fully if it wasn't some kind of delirium your mind put you through. The writer's face became solemn as you took a peek at his face and he spoke, his words and tone equally heavy "Everyone did. We were worried about you. After we heard about your break, we thought it might do you well. Everyone noticed that you weren't quite yourself. But after the first few days, when no one ever saw you leave the mansion, let alone your room, our worries doubled. Wolf said he noticed you walking to the kitchen at night, but Sebas only noticed small portions of bread disappearing from the kitchen, so we wanted to check up on you. We tried knocking at your door, not wanting to disturb you if you really were physically ill, but that didn't do anything." "And the window?" you interrupted him, casting your eyes downward again at the rude gesture. But Arthur continued, with no offense taken "That was Dazai. He was checking up on you a lot. In his own way." Arthur smiled sadly "Today, I had enough. Something was telling me you needed help. And I'm glad I listened to my instinct." he smiled at you and you felt your dry lips lift up ever so slightly. You were found when you needed it the most, it seemed.

After Arthur dried you off and helped you put on fresh clothes, he told you Sebas made a nutritious meal for you that wouldn't upset your stomach. He also suggested it would do you good to get out of your room for at least a little while and eat it in the kitchen. Seeing the panic in your eyes, he rushed to assure you "You don't have to talk to anyone if you don't want to." And so you nodded.

The mansion seemed awfully quiet. There was no one in the halls, no sounds from either corner of the building. On your slow trek to the kitchen, you passed Mozart. The musician didn't say anything, but his lips melted from their usual stern frown to a warm smile and you couldn't help but to start crying again. Athur sat down with you on the cold ground of the hallway, pulling you onto his lap and rocking you back and forth until you felt good enough to walk again. Mozart was nowhere in sight.

You found out that Sebas made you a delicious soup, one with enough vegetables and some meat, the broth strong enough to get you up on your feet in no time. You ate slowly and savoured every spoonful. You suddenly realised how much you've missed eating good food. After your meal was done and Arthur washed your bowl and spoon in silence, he slowly sat down next to you. "How are you feeling?" he asked carefully, knowing that you were nowhere near out of the deep end yet, but desperately hoping his efforts weren't for naught. "Better. Fuller." you answered simply. After another beat of comfortable silence, where you soaked up the sun pouring in through the windows, the writer asked again "Would you like to go back to your room?" You pursed your lips. Suddenly, the idea of your bed and the stuffy room you hid yourself away in sounded horrible. But he comfortable, fluffy clothes and full stomach were pullig at your eyelids again, sleep threatening to take over. "My room it is, then?"

Arthur piped up and you nodded. Before you knew it, you were scooped up bridal style by the vampire, feeling his soft lips on your hairline "Rest, love. I've got you." Soon, you were in a room that smelled of coffe and cologne with a hint of ink. Once again, you wriggled under the covers, these ones feeling much fresher than yours, as you succumbed to sleep once again. But this time, you weren't alone.

#requested #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp arthur #ikevamp arthur x reader #ikevamp arthur x you #x reader #tw depression #tw suicidality #fem!reader #hurt/comfort #tw emetophobia

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thewriterthatghostedyou · 2 months

Text

The Dragon and the Wolf

Chapter 3

Hey guys! Hope you enjoy the next chapter! It’s hard to believe that we only have two more episodes left in season 2. :(

Trigger warnings: canon typical violence, poorly written sword fights lol

Divider by @zaldritzosrose

The heat of the summer sun bore into you relentlessly as you entered the loud and colorful arena where the tourney was held. You felt sweat drip down your back but were still thankful for the lighter dress you had on instead of your preferred furs.

“Lady Stark!” A feminine voice called out to you and you were surprised to see the Queen approaching you with an inviting smile.

“My Queen.” You bowed politely, wondering what exactly the Green Queen wanted from you. “It is a lovely day for the Joust.”

“Indeed it is. I heard that your brother will be riding today alongside my son.” Behind the woman stood her sworn protector, no longer able to participate in tourneys due to his role as a King’s guard. A pity seeing as how his skill would have made for an interesting watch.

“He is, my Queen, but I do hope that my brother does not face your son in the field. I would prefer it if we left the South with no broken bones.” You hoped that the flattery was not too blatant.

“Well these events tend to get bloody but I am certain your brother is more than capable of holding his own.” She looked at you in concern. “But with Lord Stark occupied, where will you sit to watch the tourney?”

You looked around at the crowded stands before shrugging slightly. “I had planned on sitting with House Manderly.” You gestured to one of your house’s bannermen before facing the queen again.

“Well you are more than welcome to join us in the family box.” And that was why the queen had such an interest in you. You remembered the conversation you had with Cregan a short while ago. “My daughter Helaena has wanted to meet you since your arrival.”

You stammered slightly as you spoke. “That is a high honor, my queen.”

You looked up at the box and were relieved to see that Princess Rhaenyra and her children were present so you would not be surrounded by only Greens. After all, to turn down such an offer would be an insult to the Crown.

“Of course, it’s no trouble. We would not want to leave you all by yourself.” The Queen continued, waiting for an answer.

“Well I would be honored to join you.” You flashed her a smile that you hoped seemed genuine before walking with her to the Royal Box. The king was nowhere to be found, perhaps still recovering from all the excitement today had already had.

Princess Rhaenyra gave you a small smile as you entered. She was sitting towards the front of the box with Prince Lucerys and his betrothed in front of her and Princess Baela Targaryen on her right.

The Queen scoffed slightly as the Princess waved you over to sit on her left obviously intending you to only interact with her children. Of those, her oldest and youngest sons were towards the front with the middle one missing, but Princess Helaena was sitting closely to her half sister.

You bowed slightly to all of them before taking the empty seat between the two princesses as the Queen sat directly behind you with her father. You also noticed The Princess Rhaenys and her husband farther back in the stands.

“Lady Stark, it is lovely to meet you.” Princess Helaena spoke softly, meeting your face with a shy smile.

“The pleasure is mine.” There were multiple squires running across the field completing last minute preparations before the joust began. “I must admit I’ve never been to a tourney before.” You whispered to the princesses. “Exactly how does this work?”

It was Princess Rhaenyra who answered. “Well, since my son Jace, Daemon, and Prince Aemond are all competing they shall pull straws to see who chooses their first opponent.” She gave you a wide grin as a large group of knights on armored horses appeared. “From there, the other knights will be paired up in a similar way and the first round will begin.”

You watched as all of the knights lined up before the royal box seeing at least 20 houses present with the higher ranking ones in the front. Your own brother was among them on top of a speckled gray horse wearing a tarnished silver armor fancier than you had ever seen him use before with a metal wolf head as his helmet. Among the more noticeable ones were the Hightowers, Tyrells, Lannisters, and all the other great houses all in expensive armor that reflected their sigils. “I hope that your journey South was pleasant.” Rhaenyra continued, changing the subject.

“It was very long but I am very excited to see the city.” You confessed, eyeing a platter of wreaths confused as they were placed in front of the group. “What are those?”

It was Helaena who answered this question. “They are wreaths.” Her mother sighed behind her obviously listening in on the conversation but Rhaenyra allowed her half sister to continue. “When a knight wins a round they can request one from a lady. If she grants it, it is her showing her favor to the man and wishing him luck in the rest of the competition.” She held up one of the red and black ones that was intricately weaved with flowers and twigs. “This one is House Targaryen’s.” Her eyes followed the curving twigs and she seemed lost in her thoughts as she spoke.

“This one is your house’s.” Rhaenyra added, gently handing you one that had white and gray flowers, your house colors.

The older Princess shot up excitedly as a long row of drummers began playing a repetitive melody. “It’s about to begin!”

Sure enough, a squat man appeared from under the box wearing a bright red ensemble with the Targaryen crest. “Introducing the Princes Daemon and Aemond Targaryen and Prince Jacaerys Velaryon!”

The crowd roared loud enough to shake the stands as three horses trotted into view. There were two black stallions with bright red saddles that had the Targaryen emblem stitched into their sides. On one you recognized Prince Aemond in black armor with red stripes lining the edges of his armor. It shone brightly in the sun as the Prince held his helm to his side. The other rider on the Targaryen mount must have been Prince Daemon. He was fully suited up in a terrifying armor that had exaggerated dragon scales and wings that reached from the sides of his helmet.

The other horse was pure white and wore a light blue saddle with the Velaryon crest. You concluded that it must be Jacaerys. “Is this your son’s first tourney, my princess?” You asked Rhaenyra keeping your gaze on the three men.

“It is, yes.” The Princess was staring at her eldest son as he and Daemon rode closer together while Aemond approached the center of the track farther from the two. “He has been training with Daemon rigorously to prepare.”

Jacaerys’ armor was a sharp silver that stood out next to the Targaryen black that the other Prince’s wore. It had a golden Seahorse engraved on the front with scales that paid homage to his Targaryen ancestry on his arms and shoulders. His helm was also held at his side.

“A first for both princes.” The Queen added in. “My son has also been looking forward to showcasing his skills.” You turned around and gave the Queen a polite smile, remembering how Prince Aemond had claimed that he ‘Didn’t give a shit about tourneys.’

“Well I am excited to see how they both fare.” You said diplomatically. “I know Cregan was also looking forward to the joust. We do not tend to hold such large gatherings up North.”

“Prince Jacaerys Velaryon will now choose his first opponent!” The man shouted, as Jacaerys put on a sleek helmet with a light blue feather before grabbing his pole from a squire at his side. You placed your wreath back on the platter as his horse trotted towards the line of noblemen.

There were hushes across the crowd as everyone waited for his choice and a loud roar rose up again when he pointed his lance at the rider from House Lannister. The Lord of the House you believed.

The other man gave Jacaearys a curt nod before steering his horse a few paces back.

“Prince Aemond Targaryen will now choose his first opponent.” At the man’s loud yell, Aemond donned his helmet and steered his horse towards where his nephew waited. His helmet was black on the bottom but became a more fiery red as it went higher and you could barely make out a line of flames engraved in it from where you sat.

His horse stamped his heavy hoof in the ground seemingly ready to begin the joust as Aemond scanned those available. The crowd quieted slightly again, trying to catch any glimpse of his thoughts.

You heard a loud gasp behind you and a disappointed sigh as Aemond’s lance pointed to the rider who bore the House Strong Crest. Your eyes flitted behind you at the noise as the Queen quickly dropped her hand from her mouth as if not to draw attention to her reaction. Her father shook his head exasperatedly before rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“And finally…” The man continued once more. “The Prince Daemon Targaryen will choose his first opponent!”

The younger of the queen’s sons, Daeron, if you remembered correctly, gave his mother a nervous look as Daemon pointed to the Hightower knight as his horse joined the other two.

You breathed a small sigh of relief that your brother would have time to warm up and acclimate to the spectacle that the tourney is before facing any of the Princes. For all your teasing he is a formidable fighter but you couldn’t help but worry as the field emptied, save for Jacaerys on one end of it and the Lannister lord on the other.

Your focus on them was severed; however, as you heard Princess Helaena mumbling something to herself. “When dragons dance the wolf is separated from the pack.”

Her words made little sense to you, was it a threat for what was to come after the king passed? Or was it a warning of some kind.

“A clash of claws and a clash of talons. The king born of both shall rule only in the night.”

“What?” You whispered softly, but it was drowned out by the sound of metal clashing loudly. You jumped at the sudden sound and returned your attention to the joust below.

Jacaerys led his horse around the fence with his lance still in his hand and his opponent on the dirt floor.

With a small gasp you leaned forward to see what would happen next. When the lord staggered up, he waved his hand dismissively before walking off the field.

“The first round goes to Prince Jacaerys!” The announcer boomed and you clapped excitedly alongside his mother.

“Prince Jacaerys is off to a wonderful start.” You remarked as they cleared the field of any wooden debris.

Rhaenyra beamed at the compliment as she watched her son leave the field on his horse with a proud smile. “Thank you Lady Stark, Jace has trained hard for this.”

You were about to continue the conversation when Aemond rode out on his horse. You felt Helaena nervously grab your skirts as his opponent lined up on the other end.

“Prince Aemond Targaryen will now ride against Ser Germund Strong!”

You grabbed Helaena’s hand and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Your brother is going to be ok, he is a very adept fighter.”

The younger princess nodded at your words. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

As a red flag fell, the two men urged their horses to sprint at the other at full speed. You tried not to flinch as Aemond’s lance hit the smaller man in the stomach. The boy was thrown from his horse at the impact and hit the ground with a loud thud. There were loud cheers as Aemond threw his lance to the side and the Strong boy was surrounded by squires. They seemed to fervently check him over before motioning for a stretcher to be brought out.

“Gods.” You whispered. As the men lifted the boy you saw that his arm was at an unnatural angle.

“Prince Aemond Targaryen has won his first round!”

You did not offer the Queen the same compliment you had given Rhaenyra and she seemed too busy picking at her nails to notice. Whether the nervous tick was from her worrying about her son or his competitor was something you could not figure out.

You watched the next few rounds with excitement as your brother won his match against House Celtigar. In between you managed to strike up a small conversation with Helaena about embroidery and the differences in the North from the South. It came easily and as you chatted you watched Jacaerys win his second match against a house from the Riverlands you were not familiar with.

After a friendly handshake between the two men, the prince steered his horse towards the box and removed his helmet to reveal an excited grin. You felt your cheeks blush slightly as his hair had begun to curl around his face.

“My lady Stark, I am confident in my abilities on the field; however with your favor, if you choose to grant it, I believe I will progress much farther.” He tilted his lance to you and you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling as you reached for your wreath.

“Very well fought, my prince!” You ignored the Queen’s pinched expression at Jacaerys’s request and slid your wreath onto his outstretched pole. “I look forward to seeing more of you on the field.”

Jacaerys gave you a respectful nod before steering his horse away from the box. Your heart was beating impossibly fast as he left.

Rhaenyra beamed at you as you returned to your seat. “I am grateful for your favor, Lady Stark.” You fiddled with your fingers, looking down at your hands with a blush. “And I know Jace is as well. He had practiced that request more times then I can remember.”

You smiled wider at her words feeling more heat rush to your cheeks. Your gaze rose from your skirts as you tried to refocus on the tourney below but froze at Prince Aemond’s icy expression.

He was staring at you intently with a scowl on his face that made your blood run cold. Your eyes met for a brief moment and he shot you a cruel looking grin before saying something to the announcer below him.

“Prince Aemond Targaryen has chosen to face off against Lord Cregan Stark in his next match!” You gasped as you heard your brother’s name. And the Queen whispered something unintelligible to her father beside her.

It was Rhaenyra who placed a reassuring hand in yours as Cregan lined up on the other end of the field. You were thankful she didn’t expect you to talk as the red flag was raised.

You felt your breathing stop as it fell seemingly slower than before and the two men urged their horses towards the other.

The crowd’s constant screams of approval died down to a dull buzz in your ears as both men’s lances bounced against the other's shield.

The young Strong boy’s broken arm flashed in your mind as the two prepared to go again. You knew your brother was the best you have ever seen but it was in your nature to worry for your older brother.

This time Cregan’s lance hit true and you fought yourself from celebrating as Aemond was knocked off of his horse.

“Sword!” The younger man yelled, hand outreached for his weapon. A young squire ran over to meet him before offering the hilt of a large sword. Aemond unsheathed it with a practiced fluid motion as your brother’s squire ran to Cregan with his sword, Ice. Cregan leapt off of his horse and took the sword with an equally practiced motion before patting the squire on the back.

“Prince Aemond wishes to continue with a contest of arms!” The crowd’s screams returned to a normal pitch as Aemond advanced.

Your brother hung back allowing Aemond to be on the offensive as he studied his movements and tactics. Cregan effortlessly blocked Aemond’s aggressive slashes before swinging his own sword under an attack and landing a strong hit on the Prince’s armor.

Aemond stumbled back, stunned at the hit before throwing himself back at Cregan with more rage than before.

You sat up taller in your seat as your brother used a gap in Aemond’s attack to be the one on the offense. The strength of his blows caused Aemond to stumble back. Using this movement to his advantage, Cregan smashed his battered shield into Aemond’s sword before pointing his own blade at the Prince’s neck.

After a brief moment of unheard conversation between the two, Aemond let his sword fall to the ground before storming off the field like a petulant toddler.

“Lord Cregan Stark has won his second round!” You jumped out of your seat and clapped excitedly along with the rest of the crowd and noticed that Rhaenyra and her younger son had joined you.

“A very well fought battle.” The Queen said tactfully.

“Your son fought very well, my Queen. It was very close.” You couldn’t help it, but anger pooled in your gut and you knew that this was a retaliation for you granting Jacaerys your favor. But alongside your anger was fear.

At least Cregan was skilled enough to defend you and himself from the man this time but you knew that this was far from over. Aemond seemed like a proud man and losing a round in such a public fashion would only anger him more.

It was obvious that Aemond wanted your attention and would not be above petty retaliations if it meant that he got it.

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Tag list 🏷️

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Joust Outfit

#fanfic #reader insert #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond x you #dark aemond targaryen #dark aemond targaryen x reader #dark aemond x reader #hotd #aemond fic #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys x you #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys fic #self love #got

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