#and crimson dawns menace

[astoldbycrimson]

Betrayal and failure for whichever characters you want to talk about?

~Jasper

Heya, Jasper!

"Not-So-Nice" OC Asks:

betrayal: Has your OC ever been betrayed by someone they thought they could trust? Has your OC ever betrayed someone who trusted them?

CRIMSON DAWN:

Crimson was viciously betrayed be her twin sister, Scarlet. When Crim was forced to flee the kingdom after saving Shadow from his death sentence, Scarlet led a rebellion against the kingdom and murdered their parents while pretending to be her sister. So, needless to say, Crimson is not currently in good standing with what is left of her kingdom. Crimson takes trust very seriously. However, she does lie to many mortals and is actively pretending to be a mortal herself. She does this while trying to make humans more accepting of "monsters" that have taken refuge in the mortal realm.

failure: What's your OC's greatest failure? Have they been able to move past it? Does anyone else know about it?

ANASTACIA BLOODFALLEN:

Anastacia considers her greatest failure to be when she was unable to take her little brother Asmodeus with her as she fled their parents' home as a late teenager. She wanted so desperately to save them both from the abuse and torture they endured, but she was forced to leave him behind. She has not been able to move past this, especially knowing that her little brother is still trying to protect her from afar, having paid Risk to protect his big sister until they can be reunited.

Thanks for the asks!

~Crimson

[sttoru]

Trueform sukuna who never kisses his concubines. EXCEPT he only kisses his favorite concubine aka reader 😞🎀

𝝑𝑒 synopsis. you’re the only one deserving of lord sukuna’s.. direct affection.

tags. true form!sukuna x concubine!reader. fluff, suggestive at most. uhh exhibitionism ? kinda but nothing crazy sexual happens, so pda. size difference. reader gets called ‘doll.’

you’re standing at the entrance of the estate, along with some other concubines. four of them. uraume is there with you as well. you’re all awaiting the one person you’re serving; ryomen sukuna.

it’s silent. the women don’t dare to speak up nor do they dare address you in a menacing manner because of uraume’s presence. you’re thankful for them. you really don’t want to have another petty fight with the concubines. not before your little trip to the village nearby.

you’re all accompanying sukuna to meet up with an infamous clan leader. it’s official business, but you’re needed as a sign of your lord’s high status. you’re basically his trophies that he likes to show off.

“interesting choice of clothing,” sukuna finally shows up. you all bow, showing respect. you look up and only then realise that he’s addressing you. his eyes wander over your figure, “who’s chosen that for you?”

you glance down at your kimono. it’s a beautiful red—suiting the color of sukuna’s eyes. your hair is put up in a neat bun, with a matching crimson hairpin that represented who you belong to.

him.

“my lady-in-waiting, my lord,” you say quietly. you cannot see it, yet can easily feel it; the jealous glares from the four women. they’re dressed in the exact same color red, yet their lord hasn’t paid them any mind. not even a glance.

sukuna just hums in response and makes a mental note of your answer. at least his human servants are good for something. he continues to shamelessly check you out.

“lord sukuna,” uraume interrupts carefully. they bow their head once the king of curses looks their way with a stoic expression, “we’ll have to leave now if we wish to make it there at dawn.”

it’s a gentle reminder, but there’s some urgency in their voice. sukuna rolls his eyes—he may have some official business, but he’s not attending that. not before taking care of other more important stuff first. “silence,” he comments to uraume, heavy steps heading your way afterwards.

your eyes meet his. you blink in confusion, eyelashes fluttering. the sight makes sukuna’s hands twitch at his sides. the way you stare up at him with such naïveté is making him want to destroy it.

you’re unsure what sukuna wants from you. as he orders, everyone stays quiet. you watch as his big hands wrap around your body—your waist engulfed by his warm palms. your eyes widen, but before you can question his actions, your lips are sealed by his.

it’s rare that he does this. kissing sukuna is a privilege. one that no one has ever gotten the honour of having, except for you.

you’ve tasted him. you’ve felt his tongue slither against yours. you’ve had his saliva mix with yours. you’ve had him grunting in your mouth.

you’ve had it all.

no one says a thing. even as your feet are lifted from the ground by the sheer strength of sukuna’s grip on your small body. to reach his lips properly, he has to pick you up and hold you against his chest. it’s his favorite thing to do.

“pretty thing,” sukuna coos with a grin. you can feel his lips curling up menacingly against your mouth. it makes you whine. you instantly shut up once you realise that you’re still outside and surrounded by others—who are basically waiting on you two to be done.

you’re embarrassed to the point that you want nothing more than to hide your face against sukuna’s chest. but he will not let you until he’s had his fill. your tongues swirl around each other passionately, followed by him sucking on your bottom lip and biting it with his sharp fangs.

“my lord,” you whine quietly. you know this’ll end up like that one time in the garden. where he shamelessly took you in front of his servants. you’re unsure if it’s a smart thing to do right now. sukuna has an appointment to go to after all.

his mouth doesn’t stop interlocking with yours. his thick fingers tug at the hairs on the back of your neck, causing you to part your lips in surprise. the king of curses takes his chance and explores your warm little mouth. the one that he’s claimed as his the moment you became his concubine.

you tug at his sleeve as a reminder. sukuna grumbles in annoyance, but he knows you’re right; he should let go. his bottom set of eyes dart over to uraume for a second and upon seeing their expressionless yet determined face, he sighs.

all that official business can suck his dick.

sukuna finally detaches his lips from your now wet and swollen ones. you’re breathing hard, trying to catch your breath. you’re flustered to the point you actually bury your face into sukuna’s chiseled chest. you’re sure this’ll be the only talk around the estate for the upcoming week. you’ll become the victim of some more. . . bullying.

the king of curses notices that you don’t let go of him at all. he grins at the sight of you so desperately clinging onto him. he tries to undo the little mess he made of your once neat hair in the meantime.

“what? want me to carry you all the way there, doll?” sukuna raises an eyebrow, teasing you as per usual. you don’t let go of him since you’re still cooling off. you’ve never really kissed outside of the bedroom. it always happens behind closed doors, so this one time took you by surprise.

you shake your head and plop down on your feet again. “no, my apologies, my lord,” you straighten the material of your kimono and don’t even dare to look at the others. uraume would understand, since they’re used to their lord’s antics, but the concubines will cause big trouble once you’re back home.

sukuna nods in acknowledgment. he still got that evil smirk on his face. his thumb brushes the smudged lipstick from the corner of your mouth, cleaning up his mess once again. he’s nice enough to do so today.

“heh.” sukuna lets out an amused chuckle before walking away and ahead of you—the others silently following, as do you. you’re right behind him, on his right side, as he turns his head to yours, “just so y’know, i’m not done with you.”

you know sukuna isn’t. you can easily tell by the way that he didn’t even bother to wipe the lipstick from his own lips. he’s wearing that stain like it’s a medal of sorts. evidence that you’re the only one he’s ever going to show such affection to.

either way; you’re in for one hell of a ride once you’re back from your little business trip.

[uwingdispatch]

Just a couple of Sith dudes looking for revenge. Earrings available here.

[red-riding-wood]

Yellow Light

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x F!Reader

Summary: Jonathan is your guide as you escape Arkham Asylum.

Based off the song "Yellow Light" by Of Monsters and Men (original version here and acoustic version here). This song is really special to me and helped me brave my heart surgery in August. A lot of this fic is a projection of my own experiences, trauma, and health issues over the past several years -- but Arkham can represent absolutely anything you want it to that you or the character is trying to escape.

Song lyrics are in bold.

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, depictions of PTSD (hospital trauma specifically), drug addiction/use, psychosis, hallucinations, fear of death, blood.

Will also use similar themes to my upcoming series "Darkness Until Dawn" and OC Cassie Hart but this is a standalone x reader fic.

I also feel like Crane might come across a bit OOC in this fic because he's in an established relationship with the reader and he's in a comforting role, but I promise I have some very fucked-up stuff for him coming up where he's an absolute menace.

WC: 3309

Sounds of Hell threaded themselves into the night air. Howling, bleating, baying down the streets. Whispering thoughts of death into your ears. Thoughts that formed into icy talons that raked down your spine, that stirred goosebumps along the bare flesh of your arms. That froze you in place, your heart slamming against your ribs as they tethered you to the cold concrete like vines.

Frantic looks cast to your left, to your right, you turned, stumbling over your own feet as you whirled, the darkness of each alleyway sinking into your soul. Staring back at you as if to say, you cannot escape me.

I’m looking for a place to start. Everything feels so different now.

Which way was out? Which way was back there? Back to the dingy halls of Arkham, the acrid stench of spoiled cafeteria food, the howling of patients that still seemed to echo back to you from the alleys.

The maw of a great beast parted, razors of teeth glinting silver in the dark, stretching from one brick wall to another. Hurtling towards you, wisps of black smoke emerging from the darkness and curling round you like hissing tongues. The roar started as a peal of thunder, and ended as a shockwave, razor teeth shattering into glass as the beast collided against your skull. Dizzying waves sent the world spinning, brought you to your knees before the Devil himself.

She’s good as dead.

The beast’s maw burned hot as hellfire, breathing smoke into your aching lungs, ripples of molten lava racing beneath your skin. Teeth tore into your shoulder as your hand met the ground, shaking fingers settling into the grooves of the concrete like cold tiles. Death’s talons wrapped around your throat as a cry twisted from your larynx, pointed nails morphing to scalpels and tearing down your sternum, splitting open your ribs and baring your bleeding heart.

Crimson freckled the concrete, splatters of your blood landing hot and thick against the back of your hand as cold washed over each limb, the darkness creeping in from the corners of the alleys. You reached your free hand to your forehead, and nearly cried out again in pain, but you couldn’t speak; something sharp wedged itself between your fingers, something sticky attaching webs of hair against your clammy palm.

Your hand came away with a shard of glass protruding from the stretch of skin between your fingers, red dribbling down flesh too pale to be living.

Your stomach buckled, and you curled in on yourself, eyes rolling to the back of your throbbing skull and voices pouring in like a tide.

Get back here! She’s running. Running away. Where does she think she’s going? She’s not going anywhere. She can’t escape us. You can’t escape us.

Patients rattled the bars of their cages, threw themselves against their padded walls. Screeched warnings and mournful wails and haunted cries into the stale air of the hospital, into the icy chill of night.

Fingers seized into talons as they closed around your ears, attempting to block out the noise as it built into a terrifying crescendo, wails and whispers melding together as if the darkness were mocking you but the chill that swathed your impotent form reminded you of your isolation.

GET OUT! your lips parted to say but fell silent upon the words of the damned. Let me go. Let me go, let me go.

Warmth brushed your shoulder, and you blinked saline from your eyes, streaking salt down your lip, dampened hair falling over blurry vision as you looked up to the hand held to you in the darkness. The white cuff of a shirt disappearing beneath a black suit.

Just grab hold of my hand. I will lead you through this wonderland.

And his voice, soft and warm and human, cut through the noise. Hollowed a path through the tunnel of voices and breathed life into lungs that gasped for air. Sent a tremble of fear through death’s icy talons and made the demons crawl back into the earth.

I’m here, he said.

You couldn’t straighten your claw-like grip as it brushed the warmth of his hand, but his fingers entwined in yours and the glass split his palm and bled over your knuckles and he pulled, your shoulder screaming in pain and your legs wobbly beneath you, but you stood.

Your fingers balled into a fist, the touch of his hand dissolving like a pill in water, like sutures that held you to together for one moment only to leave you in pieces, scarred and bruised and broken. For a moment, you thought you’d fall again.

Faintly, a glow emerged from the blackness, silhouetting the lazy fall of a feather, so tranquil in contrast to the tendrils of ink black that writhed in your peripheral. You swiped a hand out to the feather, its softness akin to his hand, but the voices hissed at you to look up.

The jagged peaks of the skyscrapers groaned above, folding in across the dim sky and curling into black tides that came crashing around you as pressure mounted in your skull.

The darkness devoured you. 

Water up to my knees. But sharks are swimming in the sea.

The ocean came flooding in around you, dampness seeping into the cuffs of your trousers, rising as the blackness pressed in around you. Ahead, the light glinted yellow, casting a thin line of white against the waves. The feather bobbed along the surface, chased by current that now buffeted the backs of your knees.

One foot placed before the other, you waded through the water, each step weighing heavier than the last. Each time, the light ahead grew just a little brighter, though the sides of your vision darker.

Wretched creatures began to emerge from the darkness, hissing and snarling and reaching for you in tendrils of smoke and ink. Gravity began to pull you downward, the current guiding you forwards as the alleyway morphed into a tunnel, and the voices of the underworld rang louder in your skull as you descended into the bowels of the city.

She’s heading into the darkness. The rot.

A giggle, echoing against the walls of the chamber that reeked of all things barren and desolate. Her mind’s a disease.

The reach of death grew thick here, in twisted ropes and vines that swallowed the arched ceiling, that bore down on you like snakes and streaked through the sea like eels of tar, the water itself no longer seeming so heavy in comparison as they engulfed each limb. Tightening. Shuddering.

She can’t get very far. She’s killing herself.

She has to. She has to live.

The voices were starting to argue.

Some were even voices you knew; they came to you past the iron bars nestled into pockets of your memories, depressions in the walls – people you’d known in that awful place cried out to you, cursed you, their faces fuzzy but still recognisable even in the darkness. Fellow souls trapped in the place that knew not of the sun’s warmth against your skin or the whistle of freedom through the wind.

Look. Look, girl.

Your brow furrowed, and your eyes scanned the darkness. With each face they landed on, the symphony of wails seemed to spike in volume along to the frantic thud of your heart, the little weaving line of a monitor etching itself across your mind’s eye.

Not there. No, not there.

Can’t she feel it?

It’s too late. The rot has her.

Soon it will reach her soul.

Your heart came lurching to a burning throat as the waters stirred and a creature emerged from their murky depths, slivers of metal protruding from its back before it disappeared, for half a moment resembling the wicked tips of syringes that still pricked your swiftly numbing skin.

Tearing your hands from the water, you froze, paralysis seeping in to every pore.

Ink tendrils snaked across the pallor of your flesh. From your fingertips to your elbows, the rot had taken you. It tightened round your forearm, your fingers turning completely numb.

You screamed.

Shhhhh, he soothed. Just come to me, darling. I’ll make it all better.

“JONATHAN!” Your mangled cry turned into something intelligible, the name sweet like honey on your tongue despite the bitterness of bile at the back of your throat.

Just follow my yellow light. And ignore all those big warning signs.

You began to slosh through the water, seeking him out in a frenzy, your teeth gritting as the walls of your skull began to cave in, as the rot spread to your shoulders and turned the water to pitch.

And at last, you saw him. Like the feather, silhouetted by the light, but unmistakably him. He paused, looking over his shoulder, strands of his black hair wisping this way and that. His face was shadowed, the sockets of his eyes black. The frames of his glasses glinted silver in the dark, like the teeth, the scalpels.

And he disappeared round the corner that twisted, walls shifting and shuddering as if forming a maze for a path.

Death’s icy fingers pried their way beneath your skin as the cold seeped past your blood and bones and settled somewhere deep inside the dwindling warmth of your soul. Freed from the water at last, you turned the corner and raised a rot-wreathed hand to the light fractured by a criss-cross pattern that reminded you of the bars of the asylum’s gate.

And the damp air became dry and musty, and the sewers morphed into dingy halls, alabaster wallpaper peeling back to reveal the black rot. Your pace quickened as these walls closed in, groaning with curses of the damned.

Just a little farther, the soothing, slightly-lilted baritones of his voice encouraged you on, but every turn you made down the narrowing halls, he managed to evade you, disappearing just out of reach. At the end of each hallway, what must’ve been a sewer drain and not a gate yawned from the blackness, little pockets of light stretching wider with each turn.

The feather crunched beneath your toes.

Fingers wrapped around the bars of the gate, and the hinges squealed as it swung open, your feet slotting into indentations along the walls as you desperately attempted to pull yourself up.

Warmth made you shiver in your cold sweat, and whispers funnelled into thin threads and lay buried beneath the ground as his hand met yours. In the faint glimmer of the light, you witnessed the rot dissipate, chased away by his touch. Purified.

“Jonathan,” you breathed, pulled flush to his chest, the mint of his breath raking across your lashes and the familiarity of his musk inhaled deeply through flared nostrils. You buried your face in his wrinkled tie and dress shirt and sobbed, your tears still tasting like saline. You savoured this moment, trembling beneath his touch, his hand petting the back of your dampened hair. You pulled away only as he hissed in pain.

“Jonathan, I’m scared,” you whimpered, guilty that you had seemed to wound him but caring only for sanctuary in this moment in which you knew nothing but fear. “Please don’t leave me. I’m so, so scared.”

“I know you are,” he said, squeezing your shoulder. “But you have to keep going.”

“Where? Where are you taking me?” You stared into the hollows of his eyes, still pitch black past the glint of those silver frames. Why couldn’t you properly see him? Could he see you? Was he just another shadow, a trick of light on the wall?   

Somewhere deep in the dark, a howling beast hears us talk.

Sirens wailed from the alley behind, and your blood ran cold. Jonathan stepped away, his touch tearing from yours almost painfully. Like he’d left the shards of glass in your palms.

“Don’t let them take me!” You pleaded, stumbling forward through the darkness. “I can’t go back! I can’t! COME BACK!”

She’s so afraid. So pathetic. She can’t do this without him.

The light grew in intensity, tinted more gold now than yellow, bathing the walls in a soft glow as they drew impossibly close, tapering the air in your lungs, building the pressure against your temples until your shoulders sagged under the weight of fatigue and white-hot fire cleaved your skull in two.

Jonathan paused, and turned. “Close your eyes,” he told you. “It’s not so dark here when you embrace it.”

I dare you to close your eyes. And see all the colours in disguise.

“NO!” You screeched, afraid that if you so much as blinked, he’d disappear, and you’d be lost to the darkness forever. You lurched forward on your heel, wedging yourself between the shuddering walls that closed in around you, following the same – and only path – he had taken. Turning sideways, you gulped in a breath of air, fingers scraping madly against the brick walls as the tide beginning to pool again round your ankles. The sky collapsed, pinning you, forcing your only breath from your lungs and snapping your ribs around your stuttering heart.

She’s gone. She won’t make it. She can’t reach him.

The air grew stuffy, stale. Your own breath bounced off the walls and flushed your cold, tear-streaked cheeks.

“Just trust me,” Jonathan said. “Just let go.”

Running into the night. The earth is shaking and I see a light.

With the darkness claiming you and the ground beneath you quaking with wrath, the howls of the damned echoing through a familiar hall, the world swaying on its axis, you had no choice but to suffocate your fear, to shutter your eyes closed on the light that seeped through the crack in the walls, warm against your skin in the cold dread of night.

She’s giving up.

She’s fighting.

She wants to die.

She wants to live.

The yellow-gold exploded across the backs of your eyelids, streaking like fireworks along the pitch black. Your skull still throbbed in pain, and your lips parted, the sound of a window banging against old hinges as death whispered to you through the alleys, the sewers, the hallways.

Next time.

Jonathan’s touch met your clammy palm, and the world fell silent, the walls disappearing around you and the emptiness of air spilling around your limbs.

I’m here, he reminded you.

The light is blinding my eyes, as the soft walls eat us alive.

Your eyelids peeled back to reveal the checkered, rose pattern of your wallpaper, the bright fluorescents of the bathroom, the blue eyes that bore into your own past silver frames. Slivers of ice encroaching on ink black pupils, cold and calculating yet echoing a familiar warmth.

He loosened the makeshift tourniquet from your arm, pins and needles racing from your fingertips to your elbow. A syringe of your favourite poison lay on the bathroom tile, beige powder swirling in a sea of saline.

“Come back to me. Come back to me, please,” he begged, as if for this moment alone, he allowed himself to believe in the higher power you knew he cursed.

Water seeped into your clothing like the sea of pitch, spilling from the bathtub that you had left on. It carried little rivulets of crimson around a minefield of glass. He didn’t seem very concerned with turning it off right now, despite always bitching at you about saving electricity or water. His eyes were on you, and only you.

“Jonathan,” you mumbled weakly, though you thought you screamed; your eyelids fluttered and your heart pounded faster in your chest as the darkness threatened to spill across your vision again. Your nails dug past the fabric of his suit, gripping his arm tight so that he could never let you go.

“I’m here,” he breathed, and reached his other hand around your neck to cup your head, to bring you forward. You glimpsed the white ceramic of the bathroom sink, bloodied where you’d tried to steady yourself with your hand after you’d bashed your skull against the mirror – your ineffectual attempt to cast the demons out. Glass shards lay scattered against the tile. Fragments of your broken reflection.

You still remembered the haunted look you’d hoped to banish from your eyes.

“You have to get your head out of that place,” he murmured against your scalp, his fingers bloody and sticky as he brushed shards of glass from your hair, seemingly immune to the pain. “You’re not in hospital anymore. You’re here. With me. You have to come back to me.”

Your lower lip trembled. “I can’t escape them,” you admitted, voice a mere whimper. “I can’t escape it. You’re here to take me back, aren’t you? You’re gonna lock me up.”

For a moment, you really thought that he might; his palm still rested, warm and bleeding, against your cheek, but his cold blue eyes studied you not as his lover but as his patient, assessing your condition. He sighed, as if disappointed. Shame crawled its way beneath your skin like the cockroaches that had infested the asylum’s lower wards. You had always been so desperate for his approval, he rarely saw this side of you since your rehabilitation. It wasn’t until slivers of ice shattered into twin pools of blue fire that relief began to seep into you, slow and warm but whelming.

“No. No, I’m not,” he said, voice gentle, soothing. Blue eyes glanced to your head again. “Though, you are showing symptoms of a concussion…”

Your heart sped in your chest, and the icy talons of death speared your soul, the darkness hedging the borders of your vision. Innerved by your fear, you reached for the bottle of tiny white pills that lay open, haphazard next to you. But the warmth of his hand left your face, and your fingers clenched around nothing. In a blur of movement, Jonathan threw the bottle at the toilet and it clattered against the back of the seat. You jolted, gasping, wincing as the jagged teeth of the beast sliced through your clothing.

“You prescribed me those,” you told him. “They’re supposed to make me better. You said so yourself.”

“I’ll fill you a new prescription tomorrow. Taper you off. They were no good for you,” he said, and laced his fingers through the bloodied locks of your hair. Pulled your forehead to his so that your breaths became one, and the demons in your skull grew muffled, and his warmth chased away the icy touch of death.

“What am I gonna do?” you whimpered, sobbing, hands grasping feebly at whatever you could grab hold of – his sleeve, his tie, his collar. You felt as if your soul, your mind, were laying in fragments around you like the glass, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t piece them back together. “I just want to be free. I just want to be okay.”

“I know.” He inhaled, closing his eyes, and his grip tightened on your hair, scalp stinging slightly at the almost needy action. Like in this moment he was more afraid of losing you than you were him.

Even he thinks she’s a lost cause.

And Jonathan was never one to utter false truths; because you knew this about him, his silence unnerved you. But finally, after what could’ve been hours or minutes of your pitiful sobbing and the endless drone of the tub, the trickling of water against the tile, he said,

“I’ll be right here, darling. All you need to do is take my hand.” The warmth of his palm slotted into your own, and you wove your fingers so tight that your knuckles turned white around the blood that trickled down both your wrists from the jagged glass that barbed your flesh. A seal. A pact.

“I will see you through this,” he said. “All of it. I promise.”

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[inhuman-obey-me]

👻 | Lucifer | No MC, please

"I'm the creature that haunts your mind." - Lucifer

“P-please, Lord Lucifer, c’mon – you know I didn’t mean anything by it! This is just a big misunderstanding! We’re buds, aren’t we?” With a toothy yet nervous grin, Casbriel looks up and tries to catch the gaze of his soon-to-be tormenter. The moment he does, however, he feels his heart leap into his throat as cruel crimson bores into his very soul. 

“Buds?” The word is spit out in disgust, though soon a sinister smirk graces Lucifer’s lips. “Oh, silly me. I guess I must have forgotten. Why don’t you remind me?”

“Oh, uh, well – yes. R-remember at His Highness’ party the other week?” Casbriel begins to sweat, grasping at whatever memory he could to hopelessly convince the other. “How we were just having a grand ole’ chat over some Demonus? You remember that, don’t you?” 

“Ah, yes!” The Avatar of Pride feigns surprise, eyes widening slightly as a gloved hand comes to hold his chin as if in thought. “I think that must have been after you and Buriel had your little chat, hm?”

Casbriel’s nervous smile falters. 

“I believe you two were talking about what a disgrace it was, that Lord Diavolo had a fallen angel right by his side as his closest aide. How you couldn’t wait to enact your plan to be rid of those despicable beings and, what was it?” Lucifer pauses, taking in the sinking features of his prey. “Get a proper ruler in place.” 

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about! We said no such thing, surely you wouldn’t believe we would discuss something so t-treasonous!” With a hysterical laugh, Casbriel waggles his head. 

“Oh? Then what about three weeks ago, when you were meeting at Buriel’s to discuss the intricacies of your plan? You sure had quite a bit of Demonus there as well, didn’t you?” Lucifer’s brow raises. “A favorite vintage of mine, actually. I’m sure it must have been delicious. In fact, it seems you certainly did find it to be absolutely delectable.” 

Dread sinks into the lesser demon’s belly as realization dawns. 

Lucifer was reading his memories. 

“Caught on, have you?” It was chilling, the way Lucifer’s voice could hold joy and ire at once. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you have a rather unhealthy obsession with me, with how you think of me so often.” 

Casbriel shifts in his restraints, deciding that all attempts at pleasantries were now futile. So he glowers, hissing at the demon towering over him, “You deserve every bit of contempt. Creatures like you don’t deserve to be here, and that damn prince is a fool for welcoming you with such open arms!”

“There it is.” Lucifer snickers, though his demeanor quickly turns cold. His wings whip out, extending to a frightening degree – as if they are about to eclipse the room and swallow it in shadow. “You really are pitiful. Is that all it took to get you to confess so willingly?”

The defiant fire that momentarily took over Casbriel was quickly extinguished, fear beginning to creep into his eyes as Lucifer circled him once again, like a vulture ready to feast. 

“Oh, Casbriel.” The Avatar sneered, coming to a stop right behind the other and lowering himself so that his breath could be felt on the lesser’s ear. “Us creatures don’t deserve to be here, hm?”

He places one hand on each of Casbriel’s shoulders, his gloves transforming to reveal long, sharp claws that begin to pierce flesh. “I suppose I’m the creature that haunts your mind most of all. Though, don’t worry,” Another menacing chuckle as his claws sink deeper, earning a pained cry.

“I’ll make sure to make all of that haunting a reality for you tonight.” 

[reaper2187]

Bela dimitrescu x reader

Amidst the crumbling grandeur of Castle Dimitrescu, Y/N found herself drawn into the enigmatic embrace of Bela Dimitrescu. The towering countess, with her crimson robes and piercing gaze, held an allure that was both intoxicating and terrifying.

Y/N had stumbled upon the castle during a treacherous storm, seeking shelter from the howling winds and relentless rain. As she approached the towering gates, a sense of foreboding settled upon her. Yet, an irresistible curiosity compelled her to venture inside.

Within the dimly lit halls, shadows danced across the cold stone walls. Y/N's footsteps echoed through the eerie silence, her heart pounding in her chest. Suddenly, she heard a soft laughter that sent shivers down her spine.

Turning a corner, she came face to face with Bela Dimitrescu. The countess's eldest daughter stood before her, draped in a flowing gown that seemed to shimmer with an ethereal glow. Her long, blonde hair framed a face that was both beautiful and cruel.

Y/N's breath caught in her throat as Bela's piercing gaze locked with hers. In that instant, she felt an undeniable connection, a spark that ignited something deep within her. However, it was quickly tempered by a sense of danger as Bela's lips curled into a predatory smirk.

'Well, well, well,' Bela's voice was like velvet, yet laced with a hint of menace. 'What have we here? A lost little wanderer, seeking refuge in the arms of the night?'

Fear threatened to paralyze Y/N, but she refused to let it consume her. Summoning all her courage, she replied with a trembling voice, 'I... I simply sought shelter from the storm.'

Bela's laughter sent shards of ice through Y/N's veins. 'You think to deceive me, little one? This castle holds nothing but secrets and desires. And you... I sense a darkness within you that calls out to me.'

Over the following days, Bela held Y/N captive, treating her with a mixture of affection and cruelty. She showered her with lavish gifts and seductive caresses, yet her every word dripped with veiled threats. Y/N knew that Bela's obsession with her extended beyond physical pleasure; she craved her very essence.

As the sun sank each evening, Bela's true nature would come to the fore. Her hunger for blood would awaken, and she would feast upon Y/N's veins, her sharp talons leaving thin lines across her skin. Y/N endured the pain with a stoicism that both intrigued and frustrated Bela.

In those moments of vulnerability, Y/N began to see a different side to the countess. Beneath the cold, commanding exterior, there lay a sorrowful soul, trapped by her own desires. Bela's loneliness and longing for companionship reached out to Y/N, and despite the risk, she found herself responding.

One night, as Bela lay beside her, sated and exhausted, Y/N stroked her hair gently. 'You don't have to be this way,' she whispered. 'You can escape the darkness.'

Bela's eyes flickered with a momentary flicker of hope, but it quickly vanished. 'It is too late for me, my dear Y/N,' she said. 'I am a monster, and I must embrace my fate.'

Y/N refused to give up hope. Slowly but surely, through whispered words and gentle touches, she began to chip away at the walls that surrounded Bela's heart. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as an unlikely bond began to form between the captive and her tormentor.

One fateful night, as a full moon cast its eerie glow over Castle Dimitrescu, Bela made a desperate choice. Summoning all her remaining strength, she broke free from the curse that bound her to the darkness. In that single act of defiance, she renounced her vampiric nature and embraced her own mortality.

As the first rays of dawn pierced through the cracks in the castle walls, Bela and Y/N stood side by side, their past divided by a single night of revelation. The castle crumbled around them, its secrets forever buried in the annals of time.

Together, they ventured forth into a new world, one where monsters and humans could coexist in harmony. Bela's name would still evoke fear and fascination in whispered tales, but it would be remembered alongside Y/N's as a testament to the power of redemption and the indomitable spirit that can triumph over even the darkest of desires.

[nerdraging4point0]

Blood of Eden // Part Seven // Noah Sebastian Urban Fantasy AU Fic

Tropes and Tags: MM, MF, MFM, MFM, instalove, too much sex, tattooed men, polyverse, shapeshifters.

CW: 18+ only minors DNI. Urban Fantasy romance, Smut. Angst. Fluff (ish), Story includes D/S themes, mentions of blood and gore, mentions of drug use and distribution, mentions of prostitution, unprotected sex, male receiving oral sex, female receiving oral sex, cuckolding, P/A sex, P/V sex.

This work below is fictionalized ideas and stories involving real people but does not directly reflect their thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction.

Active taglist: @ladyveronikawrites @tearfallpixie @beaker1636 @circle-with-me @synthetic-wasp-570 @itsjustemily @thesazzb @vinyardmauro @cookiesupplier @concreteemo @dominuslunae @mountains-to-move @sundamariis @caitcoreeeee @crimson-calligraphyx @letmeadoreyoux @starsomens @artificialbreezy @lma1986 @iknownothingpeople @lilrubles @shilohrosechicken @missduffsblog @jessicafg03 @thatchickwiththecamera @mysticdoodlez @chels3a-smile @sinkingteethinwhitenoise @deathblacksmoke @roley-poley-foley @ravieisunhinged @dethronetheveil @to-be-written @somewhere-diamond @somebodyels3 @sacredthefran @th0ughts-pr4yers @skulliecadaver-blog @hayleylatour @littlefoxkota @anameunmusical @talialovesmiw @sacredthefran @jilliemiw86 @darkmxgician

The sun hasn't even peeked over the horizon yet, but the inky night sky is already giving way to a soft blue. Rosa stirs awake, tangled in the cream-colored sheets of Jolly's luxurious king bed. Beside her, Jolly snores loudly, his chest rising and falling with each rumbling breath. Careful not to wake him, Rosa extricates herself from the tangled sheets. She rummages through Jolly's drawers and finds a pair of his sweatpants. Rolling them at the waist, she secures them around her hips.

Quiet as a mouse, Rosa tiptoes down the long hallway of Jolly's expansive apartment to check Noah's room. Still empty. Perfect. With the stealth of a cat burglar, Rosa sneaks toward the front door. Gently, she turns the handle, relieved to find it unlocked. She slips out into the hallway and pads toward the elevator, pressing the button that will take her down to the first floor. 

The lobby is hushed at this early hour, as if not to disturb the slumbering city. Stepping silently out of the elevator, she glides across the marble floor towards the front doors. As they slide open, a chill morning breeze caresses her face. Outside, the city is still asleep, not yet stirred to life. Her footsteps echo on the stone steps in the pre-dawn quiet. A menacing growl to her left makes her jump. There stands a muscular black beast, shoulders rippling, face square and imposing. His inky fur gleams in the first hints of light.

The early morning calm is shattered by a sharp bark from the base of the steps. Rosa’s head jerks up to see Noah bounding up the stairs on all fours, his tail wagging excitedly. Close behind is the shaggy dog she had spotted on the roof the night she’d first met Noah. Though initially startled, Rosa feels a sense of relief wash over her as she recognizes these familiar, friendly faces.

Noah clears the final step and stands before her, his towering six-foot frame drawing near. An arm gently wraps around her waist, pulling her close. His tight black shirt clings to his skin, sleeves extending down to his wrists. Black pants and shoes cover the rest of him. A leather muzzle obscures half his face - her hand reaches up to touch it, heart aching that he must wear such a restraint. Though necessary, the muzzle pains her. She wishes to see his full face, unrestrained.

Her whisper is barely audible, "Can it come off?"

His eyes sparkle with mischief as he slowly peels the leather mask from his face.

"For you..." he murmurs, his voice low and intimate, "anything."

Her cheeks flush a rosy pink as she turns away, suddenly remembering they have an audience. At the top of the stairs stands a man with a mop of unruly curls tumbling to his shoulders. His mask covers most of his face, but she can see his eyes crinkling with a hidden smile. Over Noah's shoulder, she spots another man watching them intently. His olive skin and jet black hair contrast sharply with piercing blue eyes. Rosa notices his neck is free of the metal collar that constrains the others. She feels nervous under his gaze but offers a shy, friendly smile. They are wide eyed as they watch Noah unclasp the mask from his face. Though they're strangers, she senses a certain kinship with these masked men.

With a gentle smile, Noah draws Rosa closer, his arm wrapping protectively around her waist. He reaches out a hand to the man standing nearest and says warmly, "This is my partner, Oli, and the future commander of our forces."

Noah turns to the other man. "And this is Nick, our trusted partner and loyal friend."

Nick steps forward, his face open and welcoming. "It's a pleasure," he says sincerely, words only slightly muffled by his mask.

Oli wastes no time getting to the point. His voice is easygoing yet all business as he asks, "Want to tell me why you were breaking into the lab?"

Rosa freezes, the reasoning that seemed solid before now feeling flimsy given everything she's learned in the past day.

"I was looking for a cure," she offers timidly. Oli tilts his head, confused. "You see, I thought I was sick. People out there are dying from something called The Rage. It causes hallucinations, delusions, vivid dreams, and blackouts. Those of us affected or who lost loved ones believed there was a cure being kept secret in the labs. We were desperate to get it out to the people who need it."

Rosa's eyes are downcast with guilt. She sees now how misguided her actions were, but at the time she truly thought she was doing the right thing. She glances up at Oli, hoping he understands she never meant any harm.

The words stumble from Oli's mouth in a murky haze of bewilderment. "But you're not sick?" He questions, his eyes narrowing. "So what are you?"

"I'm not sure," she admits honestly, a tinge of uncertainty in her voice. "I have to wait for the serum to wear off to figure that out."

"Serum?" Nick chimes in, equally lost in the dark.

"I was a science major before I was diagnosed," she explains. "I found that with the right combination of medicine and Nightshade extract, I was able to keep the symptoms at bay."

A snarl erupts from behind Oli's mask, the sound feral and frightening. Rosa cowers, trembling, into Noah's arms as he holds her tight. His own growl rumbles in return, protective instincts flaring as he shields Rosa from his suddenly volatile comrade.

Oli's eyes flash with rage as he growls, "Nightshade is lethal to the Mage." His body tenses as he glares at Noah, barely containing his fury.

Noah steps in front of Rosa, shielding her from Oli's anger. "We've got it handled," he says firmly, keeping his voice steady despite Oli's threatening demeanor. "Jolly already has a sample and the lab is analyzing it. Calm down, Oli. She didn't mean any harm." Though his words are placating, his protective stance makes it clear he won't back down.

The morning sun creeps over the city skyline, bathing the surrounding buildings in a warm glow. Oli steps back, taking a deep breath as he gives Noah and Rosa space. Noah’s shoulders relax as the tension of the moment diffuses. 

"I'm sorry," he apologized sincerely. "I'm very protective of my mistress."

The sounds of the city coming to life broke the tense silence, as people emerge to start their day. Noah’s stance relaxes as he turns to Rosa, gently urging her back inside with a protective hand on her back. His features soften in the morning light, the panic from moments before dissipating.

As the elevator doors slide shut, they find themselves alone together, the air suddenly electric between them. Though neither speaks a word, their bodies seem to converse in a language all their own. She feels an aching need in her, a yearning that pulses in time with her quickening heartbeat. His eyes meet hers, dark with unspoken desire, and in that moment she knows they both want the same thing. The space between them hums with anticipation of what is to come when they reach their destination.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air as they step into the apartment. In the kitchen stands Jolly, shirtless, with loose satin pants hanging enticingly off his hips, his long dark hair flows down his back in a braid. He exudes a casual sensuality, leaning against the counter as the morning light caresses his skin. The two inhale deeply, enraptured by the mingling aromas of coffee and raw magnetism. Jolly's voice is like velvet as he playfully muses, “Good morning, you two.”

She watches his eyes flicker back and forth between her and Noah, and there it is again - that telltale flash of silver in his iris as a sly smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Hungry, pet?" he purrs, taking a slow sip of coffee from the porcelain mug cradled in his hands. "It's been a long night for you, hasn't it?"

A soft whimper escapes Noah's throat. "Famished, master," he breathes, his voice husky with desire.

The air between them grows thick with tension. She can't tear her gaze away from the two of them, a heady mix of longing and envy swirling within.

Jolly's lips curl into a roguish grin as he saunters over to Rosa, his fingers hooking under her chin to tilt her face up toward his. He glances towards Noah, a devilish grin playing on his face, "Be a good boy and serve up our breakfast first. I need my coffee before I eat," he commands, his voice a low rumble. 

Noah scoops Rosa into his arms, her body soft against his strength. He carries her to the dining table, its dark wood shining under the dim light. Laying her down, her hair splays out beneath her like a halo. In one smooth movement, he tears off her sweatpants, baring her to his hungry gaze. His hands roam her skin, unable to resist her allure.

Noah buries his head between her thighs, his tongue exploring every inch of her body. She whimpers and trembles under his expert touch, eyes darting to Jolly who sits casually sipping his coffee, relaxed as he watches them. Noah's tongue works faster, no longer teasing but giving her the release she craves. His fingers slide inside her, curving and stroking until they find that sensitive spot. She shudders as an orgasm ripples through her body, inside and out.

"Good girl," Jolly says casually, taking another sip. She throws her head back, panting, thighs clenching around Noah's face. Still sensitive, she squirms as his tongue and fingers continue their relentless pace, the overstimulation almost painful but somehow still needed. Grabbing his hair, she tugs, trying to pull him away, but he won't relent. 

“Noah, please, too much..” she begs. The hunter between her thighs only growls. 

“Don’t stop till I say, pet. Make her wet for me,” Jolly watched with dark satisfaction, sipping his coffee as he shifted in his chair, arousal building at the erotic display before him.

Noah's strong hands pinned Rosa as he continued his relentless pace. She tugged at his hair and pushed against him, desperate to break free of his grasp. Turning to face Jolly head-on, she begged between panting breaths, "Please, Jolly, please..."

Jolly tilted his head, eyebrow raised in amusement at her pleasured agony. "What's that, pretty girl?" he purred, reveling in her ecstasy.

Rosa's lips glistened as she wet them, ready to form the words. "Master, please..." she implored, her voice dripping with desire. Every nerve in her body screamed out for more as Noah claimed her.

As he set down his coffee mug, Jolly's voice was thick with desire. "Let me have her, pet." Noah's mouth released its hungry hold on her flesh, his lips glistening as he drew in a ragged breath. Grasping her ankles, he dragged her along the table until she lay spread out before Jolly like an offering. Jolly stood, his erect cock springing free as his pants dropped. Crooking a finger towards Noah, Jolly's warm lips found his pet's in a deep, passionate kiss.

"Worship me while I worship her," Jolly murmured between kisses. Noah whimpered softly and dropped to the floor. On his knees, he took his Master's hardness into his mouth with an aching need. Rosa sat up just in time to see Noah's devotion, his head bobbing as he sucked Jolly's throbbing length.

Pleasure overwhelms Rosa as Jolly's tongue dances over her swollen clit. Her head rolls back, a soft moan escaping her parted lips. She wonders if her body can take another surge of ecstasy. Unfamiliar sensations flood her senses, her blood burning like fire through her veins. The room around her blurs, reality shifting on its axis. Bursts of blinding light explode behind her closed eyes, alternating with muted sunbeams filtering through the windows. She feels as though she's both falling into oblivion and ascending to paradise at the same time.

With a heady sigh, Jolly emerges from between Rosa's trembling thighs, urging Noah to take him deeper. "That's it, pet. All the way," he purrs, relishing Noah's submission. Jolly's fingers plunge into Rosa's slick heat, drawing a sharp cry as her back arches. Her eyes roll back, lost in ecstasy, as the room brightens around her in a neon haze of pleasure.

"There, pretty girl, ride into it," Jolly croons, his voice thick with thrill as she clenches around his fingers. Rosa moans, awash in rapture, every nerve electric and alive. Noah whimpers around Jolly, consumed by the heat and hardness filling his mouth. Jolly's grin widens, savoring their surrender, his pets so perfectly enthralled.

“Would you like to fuck her, pet?” Jolly asks, stroking Noah’s hair. The hunter hums around his length nodding his head eagerly. Jolly pushes him back a string of saliva still connecting them before Noah stands to his feet, working desperately to take his pants off. 

Rosa gasps as Jolly cradles her body and positions her legs on either side of his hips. His strong arms hold her close as he sits on the table's edge. Reaching between her thighs, Noah begins coating himself with the slick arousal still dripping from between Rosa's legs. She shivers at his touch, sensitive and wanting.

Jolly lifts Rosa into his lap, the head of his cock teasing at her entrance. With a groan, he lowers her down, stretching and filling her. Rosa's back arches as she cries out, inch by inch claimed by him.

"Such a good girl," Jolly purrs, stroking her hair as she adjusts to him inside her. Rosa rolls her hips, eager for more, but Jolly stills her movements. "Not yet, love. Wait for our boy."

Rosa whimpers, trembling with anticipation as Noah moves closer. She is ready, so ready, to be taken by them both.

Noah's hands grip Rosa's hips as he lines himself up behind her. She shudders as he presses into her, her tight muscles stretching to accommodate him. A whimper escapes her lips as he fills her inch by inch.

"Breathe," Jolly murmurs, caressing her face.

Rosa wraps her arms around Jolly's neck for support. With a deep exhale, she starts to lower herself onto Noah. The sting makes her tense up, but Noah is there, pushing up into her as she pushes back. They find a rhythm together, their bodies joining in heated passion.

"That's it, mistress," Noah groans into her ear. "Feel me inside you."

She cries out in ecstasy as they move as one, their bodies intertwined in heated passion. The feeling of both men sliding inside her, their cocks separated only by a thin barrier, sends her reeling. Their groans mingle as swollen heads press together within her. Eyes closed, head back, she loses herself in the moment.

"Pretty girl," he sighs, "look at me, sunshine."

Her eyes flutter open to meet his, pupils blown wide with desire. A foolish grin spreads across his face. "There it is," he groans, clasping her face in his hands. "Pet, look." He turns her to the other man, grunting and panting, hair falling across his face.

Their eyes meet, his own wide and dark. "So pretty," he pants.

She was lost in ecstasy as Noah thrust into her, eliciting moans of pleasure with each movement. The rocking of their bodies caused her to grind against Jolly, the fullness of them both inside her overwhelming her senses. Her hips found their own rhythm, matching their pace perfectly, the feeling of being completely filled leaving her legs trembling uncontrollably. In this moment of passion, consumed by the two men, her mind was hazy with desire - if asked her name or what day it was, she wasn't sure she could form a coherent thought to respond.

She's speaking, but the words fall from her lips without thought. Noah wraps her hair around his fist and pulls, arching her back so her muscles tremble.

"You like that, mistress?" he purrs as they fill her. His hands cup her breasts, twisting her nipples. Her mouth hangs open, beyond answering. Their synchronized rhythm drives her closer, higher.

A harsh slap on her ass makes her cry out. She turns to the men pounding her from behind.

"He asked you a question," Jolly growls. "I say you answer." She can't form the words, lost in a fog of blissful ecstasy. "Tell you what." Another slap makes her yelp. "We'll fuck you ‘til you answer. No coming until you do."

She's so close. How can she hold back? Jolly lays three more hard slaps on her skin. Her cries are drowned by the crack of his hand.

"Speak up. Answer him. Or no coming at all." He thrusts into her, spanking with each push.

"You both feel so good!" she finally cries. "I wanna come!"

"Yes that’s it, pretty girl," Jolly grunts, driving hard. "Come on my cock for me."

Waves of ecstasy crash through her body as the climax overtakes her. Jolly lets out a grunt, his thighs tightening and toes curling as he finds his own release inside her.

He pulls her close, whispering praises into her ear as the high slowly fades. "That's it, good girl. Let him finish." Behind them, Noah was still thrusting, grunting rhythmically as he chases his own peak. With a final growl, his body shakes as he releases into her.

"Such a good boy for your master and mistress," Jolly purred, reaching out to caress Noah's sweat-slicked cheek. As their breathing begins to steady, Noah leans into his master's touch, seeking his approval.

"Tell him, pretty girl. Tell our pet how well he did," Jolly commands.

Rosa feels her cheeks flush pink as she pants, her gaze meeting Noah's. His dark, pleading eyes bore into hers, but the words stick in her throat.

"Please, mistress," he begs softly. Her heart clenches at the vulnerability in his voice. She reaches out, stroking his damp cheek gently.

"Such a good boy for us, Noah," she manages, rewarding him with the praise he craves.

“Pet,” Jolly commands, “take your mistress, get her cleaned up, play with her more if you’d like. Only if she says yes.” Eyebrow raised at Noah. “I have to prepare for the meeting.”

Noah pulls himself out of her, lifting her gently in his arms. Jolly places a chaste kiss on her hand as Noah cradles her and carries her down the hall.

[caughtonwebcam]

here’s my SP highschool headcanon/AU sheet!

here’s what the text boxes say in case it’s hard to read:

Stan Marsh (he/they - bisexual - nonbinary)

Age 17

Lead singer of Crimson Dawn

On-again-off-again relationship with Wendy Testaburger

Takes fashion inspiration from the goth kids

Metalhead/grunge

Working on being sober

Introvert

Pines for Kyle Broflovski

Shares similar music tastes with Kenny

(Forgot to mention) Goes to therapy now for his depression

(Forgot to mention) Plays guitar

Kyle Broflovski (he/him - straight aegosexual)

Age 17

Works several part-time jobs

Straight-A student

Insecure about his appearance, especially his hair

Likes reading and studying

Short tempered/aggressive/defensive when he wants to be

Coffee addict

Single

Listens to *NSYNC and Backstreet Boys as a guilty pleasure

Has never touched a drug in his life

(Forgot to mention) Learning how to play the ukulele

Eric Cartman (he/him - questioning pansexual)

Age 17

An actual menace to society

Constantly in-and-out of juvie

Commits petty theft and arson for fun

Still sleeps with his plushies, but denies it

No job

Still chasing Heidi Turner

Weird obsession with Kyle (what kind? who knows?)

Deeply in denial of his sexuality due to internalized homophobia

(Forgot to mention) Possible interest in Wendy Testaburger

(Forgot to mention) Still a mama’s boy, but at risk of getting kicked out

Kenny McCormick (he/him - straight polyamorous)

Age 16

Got that W rizz

Total hippie

Absolute daredevil

Makes o by dressing up as Princess Kenny or Mysterion for parties

Was probably the first to lose his virginity

Moved out at 14

Lives in a tent by choice

Lives on poptarts and cup noodle

Has scars from past deaths

(Forgot to mention) Stoner

(Forgot to mention) Left Crimson Dawn to persue other projects

Marjorine (Butters) Stotch (she/her - trans mtf - lesbian)

Age 17

Very talented singer and dance

Started transitioning at age 15

Went into foster care to escape her parent’s abuse and neglect at age 13

Has a small crush on Red

Best friends with Kenny McCormick

Hopeless romantic; tends to rush into love too quickly, but is very loyal

Loves makeup

Lead guitarist for Crimson Dawn

Loves bedroom pop/disco

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: Epilogue (Chapter 72)

Finally.

Pretend that's Kevan Lannister.

Please welcome our new POV, Kevan Lannister. His bedchamber is covered in Tywin posters.

The light of the torches made a fiery blaze of Ronnet Connington's long red hair and beard. "Send me against my uncle, and I will bring you back his head, and the head of this false dragon too."

Let the Aegon debates begin!

Shoutout to @decadelongsummer for highlighting yet another "complicated" relationship between uncle/aunt - nephew/niece.

+.+.+

Lannister spearmen in crimson cloaks and lion-crested halfhelms stood along the west wall of the throne room. Tyrell guards in green cloaks faced them from the opposite wall. The chill in the throne room was palpable. Though neither Queen Cersei nor Queen Margaery was amongst them, their presence could be felt poisoning the air, like ghosts at a feast.

I don't want to spoil the story for you all, but whenever someone is referred to as a ghost they usually die.

I know, I know, disappointing. I thought Cersei might make it too.

+.+.+

Behind the table where the five members of the king's small council were seated, the Iron Throne crouched like some great black beast, its barbs and claws and blades half-shrouded in shadow. Kevan Lannister could feel it at his back, an itch between the shoulder blades. It was easy to imagine old King Aerys perched up there, bleeding from some fresh cut, glowering down. 

My goodness, an itch between the shoulder blades?

Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold … - Jon XIII, ADWD

That Iron Throne sounds menacing.

"This Iron Throne you speak of sounds monstrous cold and hard. I cannot bear the thought of jagged barbs cutting your sweet skin." - Daenerys III, ACOK

x

Next you will be offering me a suit of magic armor and a palace in Valyria. "If Daenerys is no more than a sweet young girl, the Iron Throne will cut her into sweet young pieces." - Tyrion II, ADWD

x

Sansa felt limp with exhaustion as she made her way down from the gallery. She wondered how badly Joffrey had cut himself. They say the Iron Throne can be perilous cruel to those who were not meant to sit it. - Sansa VIII, ACOK

Hopefully it doesn't kill another monarch!

The end of it was this hunched black beast made of razor edges and barbs and ribbons of sharp metal; a chair that could kill a man, and had, if the stories could be believed. - Eddard XI, AGOT

x

All day the lords made plans, and late into the night. It was the hour of the wolf when at last Maegor allowed them to take their leave. The king remained behind, brooding on the Iron Throne as they departed. Lord Towers and Lord Rosby were the last to see His Grace.

Hours later, as dawn was breaking, the last of Maegor's queens came seeking after him. Queen Elinor found him still upon the Iron Throne, pale and dead, his robes soaked through with blood. His arms had been slashed open from wrist to elbow on jagged barbs, and another blade had gone through his neck to emerge beneath his chin.

Man to this day believe it was the Iron Throne itself that killed him. - Fire & Blood

Of course we can't be sure that's what happened.

It might also have been a person or persons unknown, entering and leaving the throne room through some hidden passage. The Red Keep has its secrets, known only to the dead. - Fire & Blood

+.+.+

He had seen no reason for Tommen to join them. Kinder to let the boy remain with his mother. The Seven only knew how long mother and son might have together before Cersei's trial … and possibly her execution.

Throughout this chapter Kevan's going to give us the impression Cersei's end is near.

Pretty clear indication she has a ton of story left.

+.+.+

Mace Tyrell was speaking. "We shall deal with your uncle and his feigned boy in due time." The new King's Hand was seated on an oaken throne carved in the shape of a hand, an absurd vanity his lordship had produced the day Ser Kevan agreed to grant him the office he coveted.

You hear that? When Kevan dies, Mace runs this show.

Lmao, over Cersei's dead body.

+.+.+

"How many men-at-arms accompanied Ser Ronnet to the city?" Ser Kevan asked.

"Twenty," said Lord Randyll Tarly, "and most of them Gregor Clegane's old lot. Your nephew Jaime gave them to Connington. To rid himself of them, I'd wager. They had not been in Maidenpool a day before one killed a man and another was accused of rape. I had to hang the one and geld the other. If it were up to me, I would send them all to the Night's Watch, and Connington with them. The Wall is where such scum belong."

"A dog takes after its master," declared Mace Tyrell.

+.+.+

"Black cloaks would suit them, I agree. I will not suffer such men in the city watch." A hundred of his own Highgarden men had been added to the gold cloaks, yet plainly his lordship meant to resist any balancing infusion of westermen. The more I give him, the more he wants. Kevan Lannister was beginning to understand why Cersei had grown so resentful of the Tyrells. 

#JusticeForCerseiLannister

+.+.+

Randyll Tarly and Mace Tyrell had both brought armies to King's Landing, whilst the best part of the strength of House Lannister remained in the riverlands, fast melting away. 

Relevant information for later.

There's two armies in King's Landing, both belonging to the Reach.

The Lannister forces are dwindling.

+.+.+

"Storm's End." Lord Mace Tyrell grunted the words. "He cannot take Storm's End. Not if he were Aegon the Conqueror. And if he does, what of it? Stannis holds it now. Let the castle pass from one pretender to another, why should that trouble us? I shall recapture it after my daughter's innocence is proved."

How can you recapture it when you have never captured it to begin with?

I'm going to be sad if Mace is never given the opportunity to embarrass himself on the field.

+.+.+

"No man doubts your daughter's innocence, my lord," Ser Kevan lied, "but His High Holiness insists upon a trial."

Lord Randyll snorted. "What have we become, when kings and high lords must dance to the twittering of sparrows?"

I'm obsessed with Randyll Tarly, therefore you're reading everything noteworthy he says in this chapter, in case you see something I don't.

+.+.+

"We have foes on every hand, Lord Tarly," Ser Kevan reminded him. "Stannis in the north, ironmen in the west, sellswords in the south. Defy the High Septon, and we will have blood running in the gutters of King's Landing as well. If we are seen to be going against the gods, it will only drive the pious into the arms of one or the other of these would-be usurpers."

+.+.+

"… as for Connington," Tyrell repeated, "what victories has he ever won that we should fear him? He could have ended Robert's Rebellion at Stoney Sept. He failed. Just as the Golden Company has always failed. Some may rush to join them, aye. The realm is well rid of such fools."

Everything about this screams House Tyrell switching sides to Aegon.

Whatever is left of House Tyrell.

+.+.+

If this truly is the Golden Company, as Qyburn's whisperers insist—"

"Call them what you will," said Randyll Tarly. "They are still no more than adventurers."

x

 "Here and here. All along the coast, and on the islands. Tarth, the Stepstones, even Estermont. And now we have reports that Connington is moving on Storm's End."

"If it is Jon Connington," said Randyll Tarly.

x

"Once Paxter Redwyne sweeps the ironmen from the seas, my sons will retake the Shields. The snows will do for Stannis, or Bolton will. As for Connington …"

"If it is him," Lord Randyll said.

x

"Connington may have more than the Golden Company. It is said he has a Targaryen pretender."

"A feigned boy is what he has," said Randyll Tarly.

Of all the council members, Randyll Tarly is the most dismissive of the Golden Company and Aegon.

I'm not sure if that means he's staying put, or switching to Aegon's side. I've flip-flopped on this opinion half a dozen times.

+.+.+

"We have these tales coming from the east as well. A second Targaryen, and one whose blood no man can question. Daenerys Stormborn."

"As mad as her father," declared Lord Mace Tyrell.

That would be the same father that Highgarden and House Tyrell supported to the bitter end and well beyond.

She's getting there!

I don't think it's a coincidence we're being reminded of House Tyrell's loyalty to House Targaryen.

+.+.+

Grand Maester Pycelle bobbed his head. "Dragons. These same stories have reached Oldtown. Too many to discount. A silver-haired queen with three dragons."

"At the far end of the world," said Mace Tyrell. "Queen of Slaver's Bay, aye. She is welcome to it."

"On that we can agree," Ser Kevan said, "but the girl is of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, and I do not think she will be content to remain in Meereen forever. If she should reach these shores and join her strength to Lord Connington and this prince of his, feigned or no … we must destroy Connington and his pretender now, before Daenerys Stormborn can come west."

Mace Tyrell crossed his arms. "I mean to do just that, ser. After the trials."

Mace Tyrell will deal with Aegon ✨after✨ the trial, got it?

Who's ready for some spoilers?!

In Arianne II TWOW we'll learn the Golden Company secures Storm's End.

But that's not all.

"Has no one told you?" Halden Halfmaester favored her with a smile thin and hard as a dagger cut. "Storm’s End is ours. The Hand awaits you there."

Daemon Sand stepped up beside her. "Shipbreaker Bay can be perilous even on a fair summer's day. The safer way to Storm's End is overland."

"These rains have turned the roads to mud. The journey would take two days, perhaps three," said Halden Halfmaester. A ship will have the princess there in half a day or less. There is an army descending on Storm's End from King's Landing. You will want to be safe inside the walls before the battle."

Will we? Wondered Arianne. "Battle? Or siege?" She did not intend to let herself be trapped inside Storm's End. - Arianne II, TWOW

There's an army descending on Storm's End from King's Landing. Remember, there's only two armies in King's Landing - Randyll Tarly's and Mace Tyrell's.

Now, at this point in the story, Margaery's (and Cersei's!) trial has taken place. This is ✨after✨ the trial.

I have a question for the audience:

Do you think this army actually intends to lay siege or battle like Arianne (the author) would have us believe?

Wait, there's more!

+.+.+

"The magisters of Pentos have been known to lend money as well," said Ser Kevan. "Try them." The Pentoshi were even less like to be of help than the Myrish money changers, but the effort must be made. Unless a new source of coin could be found, or the Iron Bank persuaded to relent, he would have no choice but to pay the crown's debts with Lannister gold. He dare not resort to new taxes, not with the Seven Kingdoms crawling with rebellion. 

Double check there is some.

+.+.+

"If that fails, you may well need to go to Braavos, to treat with the Iron Bank yourself."

Ser Harys quailed. "Must I?"

"You are the master of coin," Lord Randyll said sharply.

He will be in Braavos in Arya's first TWOW chapter.

Relevant information for later.

+.+.+

"The silent giant." Lord Randyll grimaced.

"Tell me, ser, where did this man come from?" demanded Mace Tyrell. "Why have we never heard his name before? He does not speak, he will not show his face, he is never seen without his armor. Do we know for a certainty that he is even a knight?"

We do not even know if he's alive. Meryn Trant claimed that Strong took neither food nor drink, and Boros Blount went so far as to say he had never seen the man use the privy. Why should he? Dead men do not shit. Kevan Lannister had a strong suspicion of just who this Ser Robert really was beneath that gleaming white armor. A suspicion that Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly no doubt shared. 

They're rather calm given the situation. A dead man serving in the Kingsguard probably deserves a bigger reaction, no?

Anyway, this is your reminder we're on the hunt for eating, drinking, and bathroom breaks in all future Victarion chapters.

+.+.+

Whatever the face hidden behind Strong's helm, it must remain hidden for now. The silent giant was his niece's only hope. And pray that he is as formidable as he appears.

Notice we have no idea who will be representing the Faith in this trial by combat? Not even a hint.

It's because it doesn't matter.

+.+.+

"Whatever Cersei may have done, she is still a daughter of the Rock, of mine own blood. I will not let her die a traitor's death, but I have made sure to draw her fangs. All her guards have been dismissed and replaced with my own men. In place of her former ladies-in-waiting, she will henceforth be attended by a septa and three novices selected by the High Septon. She is to have no further voice in the governance of the realm, nor in Tommen's education. I mean to return her to Casterly Rock after the trial and see that she remains there. Let that suffice."

You sweet silly fool.

+.+.+

The rest he left unsaid. Cersei was soiled goods now, her power at an end. Every baker's boy and beggar in the city had seen her in her shame and every tart and tanner from Flea Bottom to Pisswater Bend had gazed upon her nakedness, their eager eyes crawling over her breasts and belly and woman's parts. No queen could expect to rule again after that. In gold and silk and emeralds Cersei had been a queen, the next thing to a goddess; naked, she was only human, an aging woman with stretch marks on her belly and teats that had begun to sag … as the shrews in the crowds had been glad to point out to their husbands and lovers. Better to live shamed than die proud, Ser Kevan told himself. "My niece will make no further mischief," he promised Mace Tyrell. "You have my word on that, my lord."

+.+.+

Tyrell gave a grudging nod. "As you say. My Margaery prefers to be tried by the Faith, so the whole realm can bear witness to her innocence."

If your daughter is as innocent as you'd have us believe, why must you have your army present when she faces her accusers? Ser Kevan might have asked.

Margaery is innocent.

Does the author want us to know Mace's army will be in close proximity to the Great Sept of Baelor?

+.+.+

The Grand Maester consulted his papers. "We should address the Rosby inheritance. Six claims have been put forth—"

"We can settle Rosby at some later date. What else?"

No way this doesn't become an issue down the line.

We've already covered the Rosby Ward Mysteries.

+.+.+

"Preparations should be made for Princess Myrcella."

"This is what comes of dealing with the Dornish," Mace Tyrell said. "Surely a better match can be found for the girl?"

Such as your own son Willas, perhaps? Her disfigured by one Dornishman, him crippled by another? "No doubt," Ser Kevan said, "but we have enemies enough without offending Dorne. If Doran Martell were to join his strength to Connington's in support of this feigned dragon, things could go very ill for all of us."

Don't worry Kevan, Dorne's going to end that betrothal for you.

+.+.+

"It would," Ser Kevan said wearily. Time to put an end to this. "Thank you, my lords. Let us convene again five days hence. After Cersei's trial."

Relevant information for later.

+.+.+

Randyll Tarly left the hall with his liege lord, their green-cloaked spearmen right behind them. Tarly is the real danger, Ser Kevan reflected as he watched their departure. A narrow man, but iron-willed and shrewd, and as good a soldier as the Reach could boast. But how do I win him to our side?

Kevan dies, leaving this up to Cersei.

On the show she won the loyalty of Randyll Tarly, but on the show she was playing Aegon half the time.

I'll continue to flip flop, but my instinct tells me Cersei is likely to blow this (up).

+.+.+

"Lord Tyrell loves me not," Grand Maester Pycelle said in gloomy tones when the Hand had departed. "This matter of the moon tea … I would never have spoken of such, but the Queen Dowager commanded me! If it please the Lord Regent, I would sleep more soundly if you could lend me some of your guards."

"Lord Tyrell might take that amiss."

Love how I spent time in a previous chapter arguing Cersei was controlling Pycelle in that moment, when I could have just referenced this quote.

+.+.+

Aye, thought Kevan Lannister, and Pycelle is not the only council member our Hand would like to replace. Mace Tyrell had his own candidate for lord treasurer: his uncle, Lord Seneschal of Highgarden, whom men called Garth the Gross. The last thing I need is another Tyrell on the small council. He was already outnumbered. Ser Harys was his wife's father, and Pycelle could be counted upon as well. But Tarly was sworn to Highgarden, as was Paxter Redwyne, lord admiral and master of ships, presently sailing his fleet around Dorne to deal with Euron Greyjoy's ironmen. Once Redwyne returned to King's Landing, the council would stand at three and three, Lannister and Tyrell.

The seventh voice would be the Dornishwoman now escorting Myrcella home. The Lady Nym. But no lady, if even half of what Qyburn reports is true. A bastard daughter of the Red Viper, near as notorious as her father and intent on claiming the council seat that Prince Oberyn himself had occupied so briefly. Ser Kevan had not yet seen fit to inform Mace Tyrell of her coming. The Hand, he knew, would not be pleased.

Part two!

By the end of this chapter Kevan and Pycelle will be dead, leaving Mace Tyrell (Hand of the King), Randyll Tarly (Master of laws), Paxter Redwyne (Master of ships), Ser Harys Swift (Master of coin), and Nym on the small council.

Three to one, with Mace Tyrell in the driver's seat acting as Hand. The Tyrells officially control the realm, right?

WRONG.

Despite Kevan's death, Ser Harys will still take the (long) trip to Braavos to speak with the Iron Bank. Why?

The envoy from the Seven Kingdoms had taken two of his guards into his box to stand behind him and the Black Pearl, but the other two had been posted just outside the door to make certain he was not disturbed.

[...]

"How long do you think we'll be here?"

"Longer than you'd like," the old man replied. "If he goes back without the gold the queen will have his head. Besides, I seen that wife of his. There's steps in Casterly Rock she can't go down for fear she'd get stuck, that's how fat she is. Who'd go back to that, when he has his sooty queen?" - Mercy, TWOW

A queen sent him. That queen will have his head if he doesn't come back with gold.

That's quite the spoiler.

"It would," Ser Kevan said wearily. Time to put an end to this. "Thank you, my lords. Let us convene again five days hence. After Cersei's trial."

Not only does Cersei survive her trial, she's returned to power.

Why is the High Sparrow allowing that to happen? Why is a Tyrell dominated small council allowing that to happen? Why is Hand of the King Mace Tyrell allowing that to happen? Why is Queen Margaery Tyrell allowing that to happen?

I have a question for the audience:

Do you think it's possible Cersei killed most of these people at the trial?

I would also like to circle back to a previous question:

Do you think the King's Landing army from the Reach descending on Storm's End is there for battle?

If we are seen to be going against the gods, it will only drive the pious into the arms of one or the other of these would-be usurpers.

Side note, I'll eat rocks the day Nym Sand walks into King's Landing and serves under Cersei Lannister. Preposterous. I could laugh.

Tommen's the last one to die, and according to my watch he's got five days left. Myrcella is down to her last fifteen minutes, if she isn't already dead. That girl is arriving in a body bag.

+.+.+

The man we need is Littlefinger. Petyr Baelish had a gift for conjuring dragons from the air.

Is that a double entendre?

+.+.+

The three men walked together from the throne room. Outside the snow was swirling round the outer ward, a caged beast howling to be free. "Have you ever felt such cold?" asked Ser Harys.

Snow or ash?

+.+.+

The dry moat surrounding Maegor's Holdfast was three feet deep in snow, the iron spikes that lined it glistening with frost. The only way in or out of Maegor's was across the drawbridge that spanned that moat. A knight of the Kingsguard was always posted at its far end. Tonight the duty had fallen to Ser Meryn Trant. With Balon Swann hunting the rogue knight Darkstar down in Dorne, Loras Tyrell gravely wounded on Dragonstone, and Jaime vanished in the riverlands, only four of the White Swords remained in King's Landing, and Ser Kevan had thrown Osmund Kettleblack (and his brother Osfryd) into the dungeon within hours of Cersei's confessing that she had taken both men as lovers. That left only Trant, the feeble Boros Blount, and Qyburn's mute monster Robert Strong to protect the young king and royal family.

Love that segue! From iron spikes to the lack of personal bodyguards available to Tommen. Nothing strange going on here.

She paused upon the drawbridge that spanned the dry moat, gazing down at the spikes below. - Cersei I, AFFC

x

She left him on the drawbridge that spanned the dry moat with its bed of iron spikes and entered Maegor's Holdfast alone. - Cersei V, AFFC

x

"Should Ser Loras fall, Your Grace will need to find another worthy for the Kingsguard," Lord Qyburn said as they crossed over the spiked moat that girded Maegor's Holdfast. - Cersei VII, AFFC

x

Yet all these were as naught against the tragedy that descended on the court and king. On the twenty-second day of the ninth moon of 133 AC, Jaehaera of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the last surviving child of King Aegon II, perished at the age of ten. The little queen died just as her mother, Queen Helaena, had, throwing herself from a window in Maegor's Holdfast onto the iron spikes that lined the dry moat below. Impaled through breast and belly, she twisted in agony for half an hour before she could be lifted free, whereupon she passed from this life at once. - Fire & Blood

+.+.+

I could put Lancel in a white cloak, he reflected. There is more honor in that than he will ever find in the Warrior's Sons.

You can't save him, Kevan. Cersei Lannister never forgets.

+.+.+

His niece had been subdued and submissive since her walk of atonement, thank the gods. The novices who attended her reported that she spent a third of her waking hours with her son, another third in prayer, and the rest in her tub. She was bathing four or five times a day, scrubbing herself with horsehair brushes and strong lye soap, as if she meant to scrape her skin off.

She will never wash the stain away, no matter how hard she scrubs. Ser Kevan remembered the girl she once had been, so full of life and mischief. And when she'd flowered, ahhhh … had there ever been a maid so sweet to look upon? If Aerys had agreed to marry her to Rhaegar, how many deaths might have been avoided? Cersei could have given the prince the sons he wanted, lions with purple eyes and silver manes … and with such a wife, Rhaegar might never have looked twice at Lyanna Stark. The northern girl had a wild beauty, as he recalled, though however bright a torch might burn it could never match the rising sun.

Arya fandom in shambles.

I'd shower 8 times a day too, but I'm slightly suspicious about abnormal bathing habits knowing what I know about Jeyne and Theon.

This woman is actively plotting, we just have to figure out how.

+.+.+

I have no reason to feel guilty, Ser Kevan told himself. Tywin would understand that, surely. It was his daughter who brought shame down on our name, not I. What I did I did for the good of House Lannister.

His father ignored the sally. "The honor of our House was at stake. I had no choice but to ride. No man sheds Lannister blood with impunity."

"Hear Me Roar," Tyrion said, grinning. The Lannister words. - Tyrion VII, AGOT

+.+.+

"It had to be," Ser Kevan muttered over the last of his wine. His High Holiness had to be appeased. Tommen needed the Faith behind him in the battles to come. And Cersei … the golden child had grown into a vain, foolish, greedy woman. Left to rule, she would have ruined Tommen as she had Joffrey.

Won't take long either.

+.+.+

Only the knights of the Kingsguard were permitted swords in Tommen's presence.

Ser Boros Blount was in attendance on the boy king and his mother when Ser Kevan entered the royal chambers. Blount wore enameled scale, white cloak, and halfhelm. He did not look well. Of late Boros had grown notably heavier about the face and belly, and his color was not good. And he was leaning against the wall behind him, as if standing had become too great an effort for him.

I think I get it now.

"Ser Boros," the queen said pleasantly, "you look quite grey this morning. Something you ate, perchance?" Jaime had made him the king's food taster. A tasty task, but shameful for a knight. Blount hated it. - Cersei IV, AFFC

I predict Boros Blount will have a heart attack when he's in charge of watching Tommen, leaving Tommen unattended. Near a window.

+.+.+

The meal was served by three novices, well-scrubbed girls of good birth between the ages of twelve and sixteen. In their soft white woolens, each seemed more innocent and unworldly than the last, yet the High Septon had insisted that no girl spend more than seven days in the queen's service, lest Cersei corrupt her. They tended the queen's wardrobe, drew her bath, poured her wine, changed her bedclothes of a morning. One shared the queen's bed every night, to ascertain she had no other company; the other two slept in an adjoining chamber with the septa who looked over them. Cersei rose when he entered and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Dear uncle. It is so good of you to sup with us." The queen was dressed as modestly as any matron, in a dark brown gown that buttoned up to her throat and a hooded green mantle that covered her shaved head. Before her walk she would have flaunted her baldness beneath a golden crown. "Come, sit," she said. "Will you have wine?"

She's allowed to drink. That's a bit of an oversight.

Masterful performance by Cersei Lannister. When is this woman meeting with Qyburn? I want to know.

+.+.+

"I am well served. The girls are sweet, and the good septas make certain that I say my prayers. But once my innocence is proved, it would please me if Taena Merryweather might attend me once again. She could bring her son to court. Tommen needs other boys about him, friends of noble birth."

It was a modest request. Ser Kevan saw no reason why it should not be granted. He could foster the Merryweather boy himself, whilst Lady Taena accompanied Cersei back to Casterly Rock. "I will send for her after the trial," he promised.

She's scheeeeming. Why does she want Taena?

"Your Grace," that one said, in her sultry Myrish tones, "I have sent word to my friends across the narrow sea, asking them to seize the Imp at once should he show his ugly face in the Free Cities."

"Do you have many friends across the water?"

"In Myr, many. In Lys as well, and Tyrosh. Men of power." - Cersei II, AFFC

x

Drown, thought Cersei. "Highgarden has gold as well. You have my leave to hire sellsails from beyond the narrow sea."

"Pirates out of Myr and Lys, you mean?" Loras said with contempt. "The scum of the Free Cities?" - Cersei VII, AFFC

Does she want a sellsword company? Is that why Harys went to Braavos for gold?

The Lannister army is evaporating, the Reach army is probably going to Aegon, therefore she needs sellswords. If Daenerys has sellswords, Cersei will have sellswords. It is known.

+.+.+

"The bad cat?" Ser Kevan said, amused. He is a sweet boy.

"An old black tomcat with a torn ear," Cersei told him. "A filthy thing, and foul-tempered. He clawed Joff's hand once." She made a face. "The cats keep the rats down, I know, but that one … he's been known to attack ravens in the rookery."

"I will ask the ratters to set a trap for him." 

He clawed Joff's hand once? Sounds like Nymeria. Has the Jon Snow black cat morphed into Arya the cat?

Sorry, no ratcatcher is going to trap her.

The princess [Daenerys] was six, and years past being weaned, but a wet nurse was summoned, for there were some who believed that mother's milk could cure Shivers. Maesters came and went, septons and septas prayed, the king commanded that a hundred new ratcatchers be hired at once, and offered a silver stag for every dead rat, grey or black.

[...]

None of it matter. A day and a half after she had woken her mother from sleep complaining of feeling cold, the little princess was dead. - Fire & Blood

+.+.+

Ser Kevan could not remember ever seeing his niece so quiet, so subdued, so demure. All for the good, he supposed. But it made him sad as well. Her fire is quenched, she who used to burn so bright. 

Dumb. You're dumb.

The fire's only getting started.

+.+.+

Cersei lifted her chin, her green eyes shining in the candlelight. "Jaime? Have you had word?"

"None. Cersei, you may need to prepare yourself for—"

"If he were dead, I would know it. We came into this world together, Uncle. He would not go without me." 

I guarantee it!

I cannot die while Cersei lives, he told himself. We will die together as we were born together. - Jaime IV, ASOS

x

We will leave this world together, as we once came into it. "He will not lose. Not Jaime. Not with my life at stake." - Cersei X, AFFC

x

And Jaime and I are more than brother and sister. We are one person in two bodies. We shared a womb together. He came into this world holding my foot, our old maester said. When he is in me, I feel … whole." The ghost of a smile flitted over her lips. - Eddard XII, AGOT

+.+.+

She nodded. "Uncle, may I ask you a question?"

"Whatever you wish."

"Your wife … do you mean to bring her to court?"

"No." Dorna was a gentle soul, never comfortable but at home with friends and kin around her. She had done well by their children, dreamed of having grandchildren, prayed seven times a day, loved needlework and flowers. In King's Landing she would be as happy as one of Tommen's kittens in a pit of vipers. "My lady wife mislikes travel. Lannisport is her place."

"It is a wise woman who knows her place."

He did not like the sound of that. "Say what you mean."

"I thought I did." Cersei held out her cup. The freckled girl filled it once again.

Not only is she drinking, she's drinking a lot.

Second time Cersei has inquired about Dorna.

"Hardstone has cleared the broken men from Darry castle," he replied. "Lancel's bride awaits us there."

"Will your lady wife be joining you for the nuptials?" - Cersei III, AFFC

She wants Dorna to control Kevan, but Kevan will die.

Ser Harys had been thrilled by his appointment, too dim to realize that he was more hostage than Hand. His daughter was her uncle's wife, and Kevan loved his chinless lady, flat-chested and chicken-legged as she was. So long as she had Ser Harys in hand, Kevan Lannister must needs think twice about opposing her. To be sure, a good-father is not the ideal hostage, but better a flimsy shield than none. - Cersei IV, AFFC

We still have Dorna's father to control.

I'm not sure where this is going. Surely Dorna will be in King's Landing for his funeral, then what? I'm a bit nervous to find out.

+.+.+

"Osney's brothers will not stand by idly and watch him die," Cersei warned him.

"I did not expect that they would. I've had the both of them arrested."

That seemed to take her aback. "For what crime?"

"Fornication with a queen. His High Holiness says that you confessed to bedding both of them—had you forgotten?"

Her face reddened. "No. What will you do with them?"

"The Wall, if they admit their guilt. If they deny it, they can face Ser Robert. Such men should never have been raised so high."

Cersei lowered her head. "I … I misjudged them."

I will not be a happy camper if the Kettleblacks are anywhere near Jon, Sansa, and Littlefinger.

+.+.+

Before he took his leave, he dropped to one knee and kissed his niece upon the hand. If her silent giant failed her, it might be the last kiss she would ever know.

I'm convinced, author. You convinced me.

+.+.+

The rest was shrouded in shadow … except beneath the open window, where a spray of ice crystals glittered in the moonlight, swirling in the wind. On the window seat a raven loitered, pale, huge, its feathers ruffled. It was the largest raven that Kevan Lannister had ever seen. Larger than any hunting hawk at Casterly Rock, larger than the largest owl. Blowing snow danced around it, and the moon painted it silver.

Not silver. White. The bird is white.

At this point I'm giving every bird the side-eye.

+.+.+

Then something slammed him in the chest between the ribs, hard as a giant's fist. It drove the breath from him and sent him lurching backwards. The white raven took to the air, its pale wings slapping him about the head. Ser Kevan half-sat and half-fell onto the window seat. What … who … A quarrel was sunk almost to the fletching in his chest. No. No, that was how my brother died. Blood was seeping out around the shaft. "Pycelle," he muttered, confused. "Help me … I …"

Then he saw. Grand Maester Pycelle was seated at his table, his head pillowed on the great leather-bound tome before him. Sleeping, Kevan thought … until he blinked and saw the deep red gash in the old man's spotted skull and the blood pooled beneath his head, staining the pages of his book. All around his candle were bits of bone and brain, islands in a lake of melted wax.

Once Grand Maester Pycelle came with a box of flasks and bottles, to ask if she was ill. He felt her brow, made her undress, and touched her all over while her bedmaid held her down. - Sansa VI, AGOT

+.+.+

Was this his nephew's work? "Tyrion?" he called. "Where …?"

"Far away," a half-familiar voice replied.

He stood in a pool of shadow by a bookcase, plump, pale-faced, round-shouldered, clutching a crossbow in soft powdered hands. Silk slippers swaddled his feet.

Those shadows can be dangerous.

+.+.+

The eunuch set the crossbow down. "Ser Kevan. Forgive me if you can. I bear you no ill will. This was not done from malice. It was for the realm. For the children."

You cut the tongues out of children.

+.+.+

"There are … there are hundreds of Lannister guardsmen in this castle."

"But none in this room, thankfully. This pains me, my lord. You do not deserve to die alone on such a cold dark night. There are many like you, good men in service to bad causes … but you were threatening to undo all the queen's good work, to reconcile Highgarden and Casterly Rock, bind the Faith to your little king, unite the Seven Kingdoms under Tommen's rule. So …"

A gust of wind blew up. Ser Kevan shivered violently.

"Are you cold, my lord?" asked Varys.

Speaking of shivers and cold, did you know it's believed the Shivers came to King's Landing because of harbor rats from the Free Cities?

And then the Shivers came, and the Stranger walked the land.

[...]

Many of the smallfolk believed that it was carried by rats; not the familiar grey rats of King's Landing or Oldtown, big and bold and vicious, but the smaller black rats that could be seen swarming from the holds of ships at dock and scurrying down the ropes that held them fast. - Fire & Blood

And those little buggers killed precious little Daenerys Targaryen!

It was the hour of the owl when Queen Alysanne was awoken by her daughter shaking her gently by the arm. "Mother," Princess Daenerys said, "I'm cold." - Fire & Blood

Personally, I believe they have an undeserving reputation. Nobody was able to prove the rats were even guilty!

Though the guilt of rats was never proved to the satisfaction of the Citadel, suddenly every house in the Seven Kingdoms, from the grandest castle to the humblest hut, required a cat. - Fire & Blood

+.+.+

"I thought the crossbow fitting. You shared so much with Lord Tywin, why not that? Your niece will think the Tyrells had you murdered, mayhaps with the connivance of the Imp. The Tyrells will suspect her. Someone somewhere will find a way to blame the Dornishmen. Doubt, division, and mistrust will eat the very ground beneath your boy king, whilst Aegon raises his banner above Storm's End and the lords of the realm gather round him."

All true, but when you stab Substitute Tywin dozens of times after the crossbow it kind of makes it look like retribution for Rhaenys.

Doubt anyone picks up on that though.

+.+.+

"Aegon?" For a moment he did not understand. Then he remembered. A babe swaddled in a crimson cloak, the cloth stained with his blood and brains. "Dead. He's dead."

"No." The eunuch's voice seemed deeper. "He is here. Aegon has been shaped for rule since before he could walk. He has been trained in arms, as befits a knight to be, but that was not the end of his education. He reads and writes, he speaks several tongues, he has studied history and law and poetry. A septa has instructed him in the mysteries of the Faith since he was old enough to understand them. He has lived with fisherfolk, worked with his hands, swum in rivers and mended nets and learned to wash his own clothes at need. He can fish and cook and bind up a wound, he knows what it is like to be hungry, to be hunted, to be afraid. Tommen has been taught that kingship is his right. Aegon knows that kingship is his duty, that a king must put his people first, and live and rule for them."

Yeah, here's the thing about Aegon being trained in arms, it doesn't appear to be a strength of his. Oh well.

To me, it seems like Varys drops the facade whenever he's telling the truth.

Varys smiled apologetically. "I will not keep you long, my lord. There are things you must know. You are the King's Hand, and the king is a fool." The eunuch's cloying tones were gone; now his voice was thin and sharp as a whip. "Your friend, I know, yet a fool nonetheless … and doomed, unless you save him. Today was a near thing. They had hoped to kill him during the melee." - Eddard VII, AGOT

x

"I recall," said Tyrion. "You did not want to talk of it."

"Nor do I, but . . ." This pause was longer than the one before, and when Varys spoke again his voice was different somehow. "I was an orphan boy apprenticed to a traveling folly. Our master owned a fat little cog and we sailed up and down the narrow sea performing in all the Free Cities and from time to time in Oldtown and King's Landing. - Tyrion X, ACOK

x

"Perhaps he read a book and looked at the color of a bastard's hair, as Ned Stark did, and Jon Arryn before him. Or perhaps someone whispered it in his ear." The eunuch's laugh was not his usual giggle, but deeper and more throaty. - Tyrion III, ACOK   

I guess we'll have to wait and see!

By the way, the part about being educated and possessing knowledge of history, law, and poetry is when it becomes clear it's not about Arya Stark. Sorry.

+.+.+

Kevan Lannister tried to cry out … to his guards, his wife, his brother … but the words would not come. 

Lol, loser.

+.+.+

He shuddered violently.

"I am sorry." Varys wrung his hands. "You are suffering, I know, yet here I stand going on like some silly old woman. Time to make an end to it." The eunuch pursed his lips and gave a little whistle.

Ser Kevan was cold as ice, and every labored breath sent a fresh stab of pain through him. He glimpsed movement, heard the soft scuffling sound of slippered feet on stone. A child emerged from a pool of darkness, a pale boy in a ragged robe, no more than nine or ten. Another rose up behind the Grand Maester's chair. The girl who had opened the door for him was there as well. They were all around him, half a dozen of them, white-faced children with dark eyes, boys and girls together.

And in their hands, the daggers.

Wait, who had the last chapter again? Right, Daenerys.

Anyway, here's a bunch of rats children coming through the secret tunnels of the Red Keep to kill Kevan Lannister with daggers.

He's cold.

Final thoughts:

Fam,

WE DID IT!

Not to sound dramatic, but that was the worst experience of my life.

-> return to menu <-

[mxserish]

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 || chrollo lucilfer

chrollo lucilfer x reader

genre: pure angst; self-confort

tw: blood, gore

you had so many things you wanted to say to him. so many loving words that remained unspoken. so many wishes that died on your throat. only when you stare at his ‘corpse’ do you spit out all you've wanted to say.

It was pouring heavily in Yorknew City. The rain was falling like bricks, effectively drowning out all sounds. Not that you could create any while staring at it.

The body was slumped against the wall, his skin adorned with multiple stab wounds. His clothes were completely destroyed by the assassin hired to kill him, you assumed. The crimson blood ran down his cheeks, and a few droplets fell to the ground, staining the muddy grass.

Perhaps you should feel more depressed over losing your beloved and enraged at the world for taking him away from you. You should be sobbing uncontrollably and screaming out in pain. You couldn't bear feeling those pitiful sentiments after he had betrayed you so many times. Not when he left you without saying goodbye.

You could feel how fridgid his skin was as you brushed your fingers across his cheek. The only other sign that showed he was indeed gone was his dispassionate gaze that peered into your very soul.

"I hope it hurt, whatever torture they put you through." Those words felt uncomfortable in your mouth, as if you were forcing them out.

"But knowing you, I doubt you would have been the least bit afraid." You talked to him like you always did, ignoring the reality that he wasn't going to answer.

In frustration, you gritted your teeth. "Say something, anything. Just get up and laugh like this is one of your ridiculous jokes." You were reminded of the time he pretended to die in order to gauge your response. You can still remember how upset you were with him for making light of such a serious situation.

However, he didn't stand up as he usually did. He didn't chuckle at your terrified expression. He did not wipe up your tears and spoke to you in a reassuring tone. Deafening silence was all you got in response.

As the harsh truth dawned on you, you finally allowed the barricades you had built to crumble. You knelt down and grabbed his tattered shirt firmly.

"You bastard! Why are you able to make me feel so miserable even after you've died?!" You repeatedly struck his chest, venting your rage on his cold form. Your tears streamed uncontrollably down your cheeks, mixing with the rain.

"Why did you make me love you if you were just going to leave me straight after?" Were you merely a plaything for him? Was he amusing himself by messing with your feelings? Your mind was obscured by those menacing ideas at this vulnerable time.

Your cries gradually faded and you stopped hitting his chest, with only the occasional hicups escaping your mouth. Your lips curled into an embarrassed smile.

“Heh, you probably would have told me to quit sobbing over you.” Happy memories began to fill your head. Despite the fact that they were few compared to all the painful ones, they warmed your heart and gave you peace of mind.

"I guess this is really over, isn't it?" He doesn't reply, and you eventually accept that he is leaving, opting for a smaller, sadder smile on your face.

"Perhaps you wished to run away from all the sins you had committed. You should have known better." A little chuckle escaped your tongue, and after a brief time of staring into his empty eyes, your lips finally settled on his bloody ones.

Your foreheads came together as you spoke your last words to him and shared this final moment. "I wish you burn in hell, my darling."

As you moved away from the body, you experienced calmness in your thoughts. You had the impression that the last puzzle piece of your life had been put in its proper position. You would not strive to forget him, as he played a significant role in your life, but rather learn from your and his mistakes in order to live a better life.

You were finally able to escape his grip because of his death. At least, that's what he was thinking as he saw you walk away from his 'corpse.' 

bruh how much gel does chrollo waste on his hair i’m genuinely curious

— posted: december 13, 2022

[astoldbycrimson]

24 on the writer ask game?

~Jasper

Heya, Jasper!

Writer's Ask Game:

24. Share a moodboard for (one of) your current WIP(s).

A lil moodboard for the story involving Crimson and Shadow because these are my dearest babies.

Thanks for the ask!

~Crimson

[1-800-wakanda]

𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 | part two

summary: after being taken by wanda, you soon realize that there’s no escape and that you’re trapped in the scarlet witches world.

warnings: mentions of kidnapping (holding someone hostage), possessiveness and death

word count: 758

authors note: i am so sorry it took me so long to update this series. shortly after publishing the first part my motivation for writing just disappeared. however after a couple weeks away from my computer, my excitement for this series resurfaced (honestly the excitement was always there its just that my motivation went out the window). although i dont see this part as my best work (its kinda rushed tbh), it had been too long without an update.

taglist: @coollemonsaresour​ (if you would like to be added to this series’ taglist just let me know!

view series masterlist: here

view part one: here

“Y/N!”

Before you could even comprehend what was happening, you heard the voices of Billy and Tommy getting closer to you. You try to lift your head to find which direction their voices were coming from only for you to pull your head back down at the pain of your chin hitting the ground moments ago.

Two pairs of little arms wrap around each of yours, trying to pull you up. You weren’t even focused on the witch standing beside you, watching as you hurriedly attempted to get yourself back on your feet.

When you do, however, your eyes fixate on the woman now standing three feet away from you (as you tried to push yourself as far away from the woman as you could without making it seem like you were running away) and your glare fell upon her expression, taking notice to how blank yet menacing it was.

As frightened as she made you, you had to stay strong to protect Billy and Tommy.

So, you mustered up all of the courage you could gather and spoke. “Who are you?”

Wanda’s facade broke for a moment, sadness bleeding through her stoic features. “I’m—” She moved closer to the three of you, but you all took a step back and you instinctively extended your arms to guard the twins. She seemed even more hurt by this, but continued talking, “I’m Wanda.”

Your eyes narrowed as you glared at her. You could see that this Wanda and your Wanda were nearly identical, but that was where the similarities ended. You could tell that they were two entirely different people from what the “witchy” Wanda had shown you in the (literal) five minutes you'd known her. But why were there two Wandas in the first place? And more importantly, where were you?

Upon questioning your whereabouts, your eyes drift around your surroundings. You noticed that the  ground was covered in a foreboding fog while the sky was completely covered with scarlet clouds. The trees around you were dead and a chill settled into the atmosphere, making your situation even more uneasy than it already was. 

You shake your head. “No. Our Wanda is back through that portal-” You motion your head to where the star-shaped portal once was only to realize that it’s gone. Then it dawned on you.

You’re trapped.

On top of that, the woman across from you seemed to get more timid at the mention of your Wanda.

“She can’t give you the life that you deserve.” Wanda tells you, slowly stalking her way towards you and the boys.

“And you can?” You test her. You knew it was a bad idea given what this Wanda shown she can do but she was talking about your Wanda...it was as if she was trying to compete with her and you weren’t about to take any of that.

Wanda, however, remains silent as she raises her palm, crimson energy gathering in it. You, Billy, and Tommy recoil back in fear of what was about to happen. 

But, nothing happened. Well, nothing except a change of scenery. Your eyebrows knit in confusion as the dreary background begins to fade and a welcoming entryway takes its place.

Your eyebrows knit in confusion, holding the boys closer to you. 

“What is this place?” You demand, trying not to show your fear.

Wanda smiles as you looks at you, seemingly disregarding your cold expression. She understood why your resentment towards her was there, but she couldn’t focus on it for long, not when you were standing there, alive. The other Wanda, her alternate self, didn’t understand just how lucky she was to have you in her universe. In her own universe, Wanda had lost you to the mad titan Thanos in Wakanda. You died protecting her so that she could destroy the Mind Stone before Thanos could use it, only for the titan to rewind time and undo her efforts, rendering both of your sacrifices pointless.

And the worst part was, she was going to marry you.

Even now as she stands feet away from you, the engagement ring you proposed to her with was tucked on her ring finger, untouched since the day your alternate self placed it there.

That happiness had been stripped away from her the day you died. And again when she had to let you go in Westview. She had finally got it back, and she wasn’t about to let it go again.

She looks towards the boys and then back at you. “Our home.”

-

[helluvaoutlaw]

Heart to Heart

As Striker stepped into Crimson's opulent mansion in the Greed ring, he felt a chill creeping up his spine despite the warm interior. The imposing shark bodyguards flanked him, their presence a constant reminder of the power Crimson wielded.

He had been summoned by the imp mafia boss, probably to give him another task.

In the lavish living room, Crimson awaited, his smile oozing with false warmth.

"Ah, Striker, my old friend, welcome! Come in, come in, want something to drink? Something to eat?"

Crimson greeted, his tone unsettlingly cordial.

Suspicion gnawed at Striker's gut. Crimson's overly friendly demeanor felt like a facade, a thinly veiled trap waiting to spring shut. Nevertheless, he played along, feigning a smile of his own.

He did not sit down when offered a chair, nor accepted anything to eat and drink.

"Crimson, good to see you again. What can I do for you?"

Crimson's smile widened, but there was a cruel glint in his eyes that sent shivers down Striker's spine.

"Oh, Striker, it's not what you can do for me. It's what I will do to you."

Confusion flickered across Striker's features. This wasn't what he expected.

"What...?"

Before he could react, Crimson's demeanor shifted, his expression darkening as he signaled to his guards. In an instant, they pounced, seizing Striker and pinning him down with brutal efficiency.

Realization dawned on Striker too late. Crimson hadn't called him here for a job; he'd called him here to settle a score.

Fear and rage clenched at his heart as Crimson's sadistic intentions became clear.

"You washed-up mafioso BASTARD!!"

He hissed, struggling against his captors, and with his tail he actually managed to whip the face of one of them, temporarily blinding him.

He kicked and punched and bit, but the sharks were too many and too heavy.

They took his angelic guns, rope and knife at the door, and he was mentally kicking himself for being so stupid.

Crimson merely chuckled, relishing in his prey's futile attempts at escape.

The mafia boss's calm demeanor belied the storm brewing within him as he approached Striker, cigar smoke swirling around him like a sinister fog.

"You see, Striker," Crimson began, his voice a low, menacing rumble, "You failed me. And in my line of work, failure cannot go unpunished. Your brilliant plan to kidnap Blitz and Fizzarolli, nearly cost me everything."

As the acrid smoke stung Striker's eyes, Crimson's words cut deep, each syllable dripping with venomous disdain.

"One of my best lawyers, gone at the hands of Asmodeus. Half of my men, decimated by Blitz's and that clown's crazy antics. And let's not forget the warehouse debacle. All our resources, all our hard work, reduced to rubble in an instant."

The weight of Crimson's fury bore down on Striker, suffocating him with the realization of the chaos he had wrought. His stomach churned as he braced for Crimson's wrath to come crashing down upon him.

"And now, cowboy..."

Crimson continued, his voice calm and cold.

"You and Blitz will pay for every single problem you've caused me. Every setback, every loss, will be repaid in blood."

"Oooh, I'm trembling in my boots-GAAHH!"

Striker cried out when Crimson put the lit cigar on his cheek, burning him, using him as an ashtray.

"You better tone down that Wrathian arrogance of yours, cowboy."

With a sharp snap of his fingers, Crimson commanded his men to secure Striker, their movements swift and decisive. Striker's protests were futile as they bound his hands and feet, rendering him powerless.

"Take him to the cellar. Let him meet his cellmate."

Crimson ordered while smirking evilly.

As Striker was forcibly taken away, a sense of dread washed over him.

He needed to escape, but how?

As the sharks unceremoniously threw him inside a dark cellar made of concrete and steel, Striker raged against the reinforced door, punching it several times and even leaving a few dents.

"I'M GONNA RIP YOUR ORGANS AND FEED 'EM TO MY HORSE, YOU MISERABLE MOTHERFUCKER!!"

@tangledfate

[queer-starwars-bracket]

Queer Star Wars Characters (Round 1): General Character Bracket 8

Chelli Lona Aphra | Identity: lesbian | Media: Star Wars Comics

Oh Aphra, where to begin. Honestly the best way I can describe her is that she’s Star Wars’ Vriska. She’s a “rogue archeologist” and in marketing material sometimes compared to Indiana Jones, but the only similarity is that she can feature in the same wacky stories about retrieving artifacts except with none of the mismatch between modern ideas about archeology and repatriation and Indy being the hero, because she specifically isn’t. She was originally created for the 2015 Darth Vader comic series, recruited to help Vader raise a force that would let him coup the Emperor. She was so popular she then got her own comic series, making her the breakout star of the Disney/Marvel Star Wars comics. The Fandom Menace can’t touch her.

Her comics have been a series of frankly strange adventures involving Force artifacts, Vader either working with her or wanting her dead, and double crosses that leave your head spinning. She has Thrawn level tactical abilities, but only for schemes. She is haunted by how her trauma born behaviors make it hard for her to maintain relationships and be a good person. She has so many exes it's an entire section of this tournament. Her most significant relationships have been with Sana Starros and Magna Tolvan. As of the end of the Spark Eternal arc, the comic seems to be leaning towards a poly ending with the three of them, but first Aphra needs to stop self sabotaging.

One of Aphra’s greatest achievements was at the end of her 2016 comic run, where she trapped Vader in a PTSD flashback Force artifact on Tython and hacked his suit to allow her to erase Hoth from the Empire’s records. She did this for the sake of her loved ones who had joined the Alliance. Doing this gave Echo Base enough time to build up before they were found again that they were able to evacuate much more efficiently. That’s right, disaster lesbian love saved the Rebellion.

Brene | Identity: wlw | Media: War of the Bounty Hunters

Brene is a member of Boushh’s queer found family. A fellow Ubese exile, she was the first one recruited by Boushh and became his lieutenant. A bounty hunter crew, they were hired by Crimson Dawn to kill the entire executive board of the Tagge Corporation. Domina Tagge was the only survivor of this attack, and for their lives and a promise of their exile being rescinded, they betrayed Crimson Dawn and got a new job working for Domina. They later defended Domina from a Crimson Dawn coup. Brene found Domina attractive when she was carving through Crimson Dawn operatives with her protoblade. She also makes bad jokes.

From the script notes shared by Alyssa Wong, she is “A small, cheerful, mischievous sweetheart” and “will steal your snack and eat them just to see how you'll react”

[a-dorin]

GIVE ME A BRIEF OVERVIEW OF ALL YOUR OCS (PLEASE)

hehehe I WILL RIGHT NOW

so first things first we have:

august juniper moor — my baby. my first star wars oc. she’s a zygerrian set in pre-phantom menace all the way through revenge of the sith & the crimson dawn era. she is widely known as (previously) darth (now just) maul’s lover. she’s endured a lot. she’s been through some shit. she’s very against the jedi order even though she spent years training alongside obi-wan under qui-gon. she lost her eye in a duel with count dooku where he set the ship to explode. she’s a badass & the strongest force user out of my ocs. her kyber crystal was purple and now it’s red. she wields a double-bladed saber, similar to maul’s. she left the jedi order before the events of rots/order 66.

kade kolpall — a nautolan who is also set in the clone wars era. he was 17 in rots and 35 (1 bby). his inspiration comes from bioluminescent fish species so he has a darker grey skin tone with yellow markings. one of them falls over his right eyes and resembles a crescent moon. he’s 6’8” & one big fella who can crush your windpipe with the snap of his finger. his master was kit fisto. (he was sort of a loose canon (he is sort of a parallel to anakin) he then joined the empire and sort of became an inquisitor but also didn’t really fuck with any of them so he just did his own thing and hunted down the jedi. (fuck canon because this is MY star wars lore) he has two lightsabers that were yellow kyber crystals but now they are also red. he met the love of his life on a backwater planet while trying to hunt down remaining jedi/force users.

erena lianoma arballor — my only human so far out of my ocs. she was 14 during rots and then 32 (1 bby). her home planet is alderaan. she’s 5’7”, medium build, with long, thick, black hair that reaches her mid back. she has hazel eyes and freckles. she was a jedi padawan during the events of order 66 but managed to survive and evade death on some backwater planet. she is taken in by a nautolan mechanic by the name of mara and they end up running a shop together. they sort of become sisters but mara has maternal instincts at times. kade initially is the one assigned to find her and kill her since her force signature can be felt by vader & palpatine. the best part is, kade is so awestruck by her beauty he can't kill her.

all of my clone ocs -- the 328th legion featuring commander bull, leo, scorpio, aro, & gunther. there are a few others but i just haven't fleshed them all out quite yet. their armor is navy with powdery blue accents. they are august's boys and she loves them to death.

mara -- my other nautolan oc. she's 22 when she first takes in erena, and i have to really flesh her out as well. she's a mechanic, insanely intelligent, & is overprotective of erena. her markings resemble a koi fish, and she has the warmest amber eyes you've ever seen.

if you have any other questions, feel free to ask hehe! :))

[ravenloftian]

On the Way to Marais d' Tarascon

November 12, Y356 (Game session 8/19/2023)

After discovering the mauled acolyte at Sir Ranceval's Feast, the abbey's clergy decides to investigate neighboring Marais d'Tarascon. Before dawn, Sir Brandak sends two groups on separate missions. Percival Donner and Costi Negrescu head to the village of Corbeanu near the Menagerie due to reports of marauding orcs. At the same time, Marcus Vossmeyer and Valeriu Vodalescu are summoned to investigate Marais d'Tarascon.

With gear in tow, Marcus and Valeriu meet Inigo, Talia's father, at the docks. Inigo teaches them to assemble a log raft and guides them to the ancient stone circle, said to be halfway to Marais. Here, they spot a peculiar blue butterfly among the stones.

A fierce storm brews as they proceed, shrouding them in thick mist. It becomes evident they're lost. At sunset, they pull the raft ashore and camp without fire due to the lack of tinder. Night falls, enveloping the swamp in darkness, a clammy fog rises, and eerie silence prevails.

During Marcus' watch, they are attacked by a creature of nightmares–an incorporeal vampiric mist. The Crimson Jenny rises from the darkened swamp, using foggy tendrils to drain the characters' blood. The entity feeds on them repeatedly before taking on the corporeal form of a beautiful woman. In this form, the paladisn can strike true. Turning proves ineffectual.

After seemingly defeating her, the mist splits to create another entity. They defend themselves, waiting for it to take physical form before destroying it.

After a quick repast, the party sets off at dawn.

The following day is gloomy and overcast, with gray mist and clouds. The sun has not appeared since their departure, and the air is chilly and damp. A crocodile emerges from behind floating logs as they pole through deep water. The party rows quickly toward shore, followed by the menacing beast. The crocodile strikes and flounders, allowing the party to promptly chop it down.

As they journey, the raft glides through a labyrinth of tall reeds lurking beneath the dark, murky water. Although the fog has lifted, the surroundings remain shrouded in gloom. Above, the branches twine, creating a thick canopy that blocks sunlight. The sounds of the swamp grow louder, echoing through the trees. Unseen creatures glide beneath the water's surface among the reeds. A cacophony of croaks and ribbits erupts as if in welcome, drowning out all other sounds. Then, suddenly, the chorus falls silent.

Three colossal frogs launch an ambush on the party from the nearby reeds. They fall victim to the creatures' sticky tongues as the frogs attempt to drag them into their gaping maws. These enormous amphibians, each measuring six feet long and weighing 250 pounds, proved formidable adversaries. After several intense rounds of combat, the paladins defeat the monstrous frogs.

As the sunless, gray day stretches on, time seems to lose meaning for the party. Marais d'Tarascon remains elusive, nowhere in sight. Throughout the day, the sky darkens and churns ominously, yet not a single drop of rain falls from the brooding clouds overhead.

As night descends upon the swamp, the paladins spot a small island of dry land emerging from the stagnant waters. Illuminating the surroundings is the warm glow of a campfire situated at its heart. Within this flickering light, the paladins discern the distinct features of a gypsy wagon adorned with vibrant colors, two elderly mares, three cheerfully dressed children, and an old woman. A moment later, two men step into view. One is old and thin, the other young and strong. They settle beside the fire. Then the old man looks up, directing the gaze of his good eye upon them. The other eye is milky and blank. The man smiles and motions with his withered hand, inviting them to join their group.

Despite the numerous, often unsettling stories about the Vistani, the paladins set their apprehensions aside and approached the strangers. Determined to make the most of their charisma, they cleanse themselves of the swamp's muck and lay their sodden clothes out to dry by the fire before partaking in dinner.

In due time, they understand that the elderly gentleman who introduced himself as Scarengi is the head of this small family group. His wife, Ryana, a cheerful woman with silver hair and twinkling eyes, appears to be of a similar age. Their son, Carloni, is a robust young man with matching black hair and a stylish mustache. The three lively children belong to him.

Scarengi and his wife share that Marais dTarascon is not too far from their current location, but they caution against visiting on a night like this. Carloni says, "It's better to stay in the swamp." Scarengi refuses to divulge more, and his wife, Ryana, agrees, saying, “To speak of evil is to invite it to dinner.”

Before the stew is served, the door at the back of the wagon swings open, revealing a graceful young woman with dark, expressive eyes. She offers a shy smile and then settles herself by the fire. "This," Scarengi proudly introduces, "is my lovely daughter, Valana. She will read your fortunes."

Valana looks at each member of the party, her large, black eyes shimmering in the firelight. "The trouble started when I cast the runes for that quiet, lost young man," she explains with a hint of sadness. "Maybe it will end with another casting." She holds a flat pan filled with stone tiles in her hands and, one by one, drops them into the pan while gazing into their eyes.

"The lost one has summoned you!" Valana gasps, prompting her family to make protective gestures. "The dead will rise with the approaching storm, and you must find a way to put them to rest. If you fail, the rain will turn to blood! It will engulf you—all of you and all of Marais dTarascon."

Scarengi quickly ushers his wife and daughter back into the wagon. "No charge for your fortune," the old man hastily adds. "It's time to rest after today's adventures. Be our guests and sleep by the fire."

Carloni gathers the children and drapes himself with a cloak on the driver's seat. As the paladins settle for the night, they see Valana’s shapely form outlined in the wagon doorway. She speaks barely above a whisper, but they hear her words clearly. “Beware the madman,” she says. “Beware his blood.” Then, the door closes, and she is gone.

Tired from their exertions in the swamp, the paladins fall fast asleep cozy and peaceful by the fire.

When they wake up, there is no trace that the Vistani were ever there. No tracks, no ashes, nothing. The only evidence they have that they didn't dream of the encounter is the missing carved squirrel figurine that Val gives Valana.

All party members gain 600xp this session for excellent roleplay and defeating powerful foes.