#and the rest of the traitorous storm's end

[sleeplessdreamer123]

Fanfic Idea!

Where Lucerys is Laenor's trueborn son, he just has the looks of his grandmother and great grandmother.

Instead of dying, once he fell, the the Drowned Gods made the ocean embrace him, and made him one of their own, a merman.

Aemond kept having nightmares of the ocean, a song calling him from deep below. He fears it was Lucerys haunting him from his watery grave.

Then he heard rumors. The inhabitants of Storm's End started jumping of the cliffs. Those that were stopped were acting insane, screaming and hollering, saying they were being called to the ocean.

"Listen!" They hissed.

People thought there was a sickness of the mind spreading, and began shutting themselves in. Then they heard it. The song. At first it was faint, only few heard, but then it got louder, a voice so enthralling, so mesmerizing, it made them lose themselves. They leapt off the cliffs, the windows of the castle, any way they could, just to get closer to the owner of the song.

The rest did everything they could, they barred the windows facing the ocean, they closed the gates, they stuffed wax into their ears, but the songs just kept beckoning the people, so soft and sweet, asking them to join the singer in his world.

Even Lord Borros's daughters weren't immune to the call, one of them almost jumping off the window, had it not been for the maids grabbing her dress, she would have succeeded.

The wails of the inhabitants, both from those who lost their loved ones, and those who couldn't join them, finally forced Borros to call for his future good son to help them, be it finding the owner of the song, or burning the gods damned bay with that ridiculously large she-beast, anything to stop the madness.

Aemond almost went mad himself when he noticed how similar the song was to the ones from his nightmares, and searched the entire bay for it's owner. Soon, he even ordered Vhagar to dive into the ocean, and dive she did.

Both prince and dragon were never seen again. The songs have stopped, replaced by an eerie silence.

[leclercss]

Paris, je t'aime (Charles Leclerc),

a Tainted Love sequel

Masterlist

plot: it's almost three years since your tumultuous relationships with Lewis and Charles came crashing down. but you find your self in a new city with new beginnings and new ways to fuck up your love life. that's no thanks to a cheeky frenchman who's set you up on a double date with someone oh so familiar.

pairings: charles leclerc x fem!reader

warnings: (+18) mentions of smut, cheating and some swearing

authors note: our amours are back. hope you enjoy this sequel featuring our fave Monegasque.

word count: 4.3k

taglist: @toppersjeep @janeholt3, @princess-siba, @nichmeddar

"Pierre, I just don't get why you can't show me his picture?" you whine, throwing your head back against the sofa. Clearly you need to work on your negotiation (or blackmailing) skills because you've not made a dent in changing Pierre's mind.

"Because, [Y/N], I don't trust you this time. I've seen your love life, if you can even call it that, in the last six months. It's nothing short of embarrassing and from what I've witnessed, I know who the problem is," Pierre retorts.

You snort at Pierre's response. This man doesn't given a fuck and you do your best to not throw a cushion at his face.

"And what do you mean by that?"

"What I mean, [Y/N], is I've seen you make out with random guys in clubs, ugly ones by the way, who you either sleep with or have to spend the rest of the night hiding from. You're also useless when it comes to Tinder. You either fall in love with their pictures, match, have about a two minute conversation with and then ghost them entirely or you spend five minutes analysing everything that is wrong with them."

"That's no true," you growl.

It's Pierre's turn to snort. "Oh, it is! And if you do end up chatting to someone half normal, you just get drunk and show them pictures of your ex husband's dog".

This time you couldn't control yourself and so you launch the cushion at Pierre's head. Your aim clearly needs some work as you miss his head by about half a meter and hit the lamp above his head, causing it to hit against the wall.

"Right, you two! That's enough," you hear a voice yell from the other room. You look over your shoulder and see Pierre's girlfriend, Kika, storm into the living room.

"He started it," you cry out before shooting Pierre some daggers which earns a kick from Pierre.

"I don't care who started it. I care about ending it," Kika growls as she throws herself onto the sofa opposite then one you and Pierre are occupying.

Silence falls onto the living room but only for a few moments before you look at Pierre again, continuing your previous argument. "Pierre, I don't get why you can't just tell me anything about him".

Pierre, aware of the daggers he's receiving from Kika, simply rolls his eyes.

"Ugh, fine! Kika, can you please talk to Pierre?" you plead as you turn your attention to Kika.

She sighs at you, defeated. "I've tried, [Y/N]," she replies. "But Pierre has made some good points".

You narrow your eyes at her, "Traitor."

Pierre can't keep contain himself as he erupts into a fit of laughter. Annoyed, you return the kick that he gave you earlier which results in a loud cry from Pierre.

"Hey! We're the ones trying to help you out here," Pierre laughs as he rubs his shin, tender from your kick.

"I didn't ask for your help," you grunt, throwing you arms across your chest in frustration. You catch Kika in the corner of your eye trying to hold back a smirk.

"Spit it out, Kika!"

Both Pierre and Kika look at each other, exchanging a little chuckle, before you friend gives you a polite reality check.

"Well, we're in Paris, the city of love. And well, your love life since we've met you has been, putting it nicely, tragic. So Pierre and I thought that as your friends in this new city, we would take the trouble out of your hands for you when it comes to love," she politely tells you.

Pierre snorts again, "Nah, Kika. It's called an intervention".

You look around you to find any other cushions you can throw at Pierre but realise that you've thrown all cushions within reaching distance at his head already.

The truth is that, as hurtful as it may be, Pierre and Kika were right. Your love life since moving to Paris ten months ago has been pathetic. In fact, it's been pathetic for the last three years, ever since you had ended both your marriage to Lewis and your relationship with Charles.

Your intention at the time was to only end your relationship with one of them and in your heart and mind, you were going to end your marriage with Lewis. And that was what you did. Despite his last ditch attempts of rekindling your marriage and relationship, you had declined Lewis' offer to leave your life in London behind and join him in New York City.

An offer like that earlier on in your marriage would have been tempting but after yourself and Lewis both agreed to open up your marriage, and before all of the walls came tumbling down, you realised that whenever Lewis was close to losing you he would pull out all of the stops to become the husband you wanted and needed.

He'd done it throughout your relationship. Once Lewis smelt danger or felt vulnerable, he loved bombed you to the point where you fell in love with him all over again. Telling you everything you needed to hear and throwing you grand gestures like a proposal, a new puppy, extravagant gifts, monogamy (looking back, that one was laughable) and finally offering you a new life in the bright lights of New York City. And when he was sure that you wouldn't leave him and were fully committed, he'd go back to the Lewis of old - doing as he pleased without any questions or consequences. That was until Lewis pushed you too far, he'd tested you one too many times during your "open marriage" and pushed you into the arms of another man, Charles.

In a totally unplanned and spontaneous night out, you had met Charles and the two of you had clicked instantly. Charles was the only person that ever led you to doubt your marriage and relationship with Lewis. You developed a relationship which led to you falling in love with one another. It was very real and very serious. He gave you the love and fulfilment you had long yearned for. He was worth leaving your husband for and you were so ready to do that.

That was until Lewis' offer of moving to New York came about. You didn't want to move to New York. It may have been a dream once but not in those circumstances. Not after you'd already taken off your wedding and engagement rings and told your husband you were ready to move on in your life. This was Lewis' next step in life, not yours.

You were free from your marriage and you could continue your relationship with Charles but something weird happened. It all fell apart one night when you went to see Charles at his flat after you had told Lewis that you wouldn't be moving with him. Your intentions were to tell Charles that you were all his and you could finally start to build a real life together.

However, that’s not what happened. You couldn’t get the idea of leaving London with Lewis out of your head. Even in separation the man couldn’t leave you alone. He was in your mind as you spoke to Charles, kissed Charles and even when you made love to Charles that night. Something deep down was telling you that instantly starting a life with Charles just days after separating from your husband of five years wasn’t the right thing for you.

You needed time to mourn your marriage but also to figure out who you really were. You had been in a relationship since you had moved to London at 21 and had never gotten to explore adulthood and your twenties on your own. And just maybe, you needed a little bit of time to be you.

But that’s not how it went down, or how you had tried to communicate it to Charles. After you and Charles had finished having sex, Charles started a conversation about your relationship and mentioned the possibility of moving in together. You guys were in love and it made sense.

But you freaked out, confessing to Charles that Lewis was going to New York and had asked for you to go with him. And when Charles had asked you want you had wanted to do, you froze.

Fuck, why did you have to freeze? You already told Lewis no but why couldn’t you tell Charles that?

You realised over time it was because that you were unable to tell Charles that while you had said no to Lewis, you needed to be on your own for a while. And how could you tell Charles that after he had made love to you and confessed his loved to you once more?

And so when you struggled to find your words, Charles took it as a yes and that in fact you were moving to New York, leaving him behind. You were ending things with him to be with a husband who treated you poorly.

And when you did begin to find your words, Charles didn’t believe you despite the fact that you had already removing your wedding ring. He was fed up. He’d been humiliated by you and Lewis to one too many times and so he asked for you to leave.

You obeyed and left his apartment. Too hurt and stubborn to speak to one another, you both waited for the other to reach out. A text, a call, something to let the other know that this was stupid and you wanted to be together. But that text, call or something never came. And so you and Charles never spoke again.

Not long after you and Charles ended things, a position in work opened up in Singapore. With nothing meaningful thing you to London any more aside from your best friend Whitney, you applied for it. You were successful and so within a few moments you moved to Singapore for two years.

You finally got your new life and spent the last of your twenties in an amazing city. You even had a few casual, no strings attached situationships. But as you turned 30, you began to miss being closer to home and so you moved back to Europe, this time settling in Paris.

You enjoyed the city and while Paris was famed for being romantic and the city of love, your experience so far had been anything but. Which is why you were here now, letting your new friends Pierre and Kika salvage whatever love life they could manage for you.

You had grown close to them over the past few months. You had met Kika in work and over time she took you under her wing. You hadn’t told Pierre and Kika everything though about your life in London. They knew you were divorced from Lewis and that you had an open marriage got wrong but you had never told them about Charles. How could you even begin to explain that you had fallen in love with someone that wasn’t your husband and then, when you finally had the chance to be with him, you chickened?

No, you couldn’t tell them about Charles. It still hurt you when you thought about how things ended between you. With a heavy heart, you still valued your relationship with him and looked back with fond memories. Charles was still very special and important to you. And so, that was one story you wanted to keep close to your heart.

“Can you just give me a name? Not even a name, just the first letter of his name?”

You were back to whining at Pierre and Kika, begging for any details about this mystery guy that they’d set you up on a blind date with. So far, the only details you had gotten out of them was that you were going out with a guy this Friday night.

As Kika went to open her mouth, feeling a little sorry for you, Pierre flashed her a look.

“Kika, don’t! I know what you girls are like. One sniff of a detail about a man and you girls give the FBI a run of their money, Pierre cried. “No, you’re just going to have to shut up and wait until Friday to meet him”.

Finally accepting defeat, you sighed and rested back against the sofa. Pierre wasn’t giving in this time. With last fight in you, you looked over at Pierre and mumbled,

“Did I ever tell you how much I hated you, Pierre?”

“Yes, everyday”.

-

It was finally Friday and you still didn’t have a single detail or idea about the man you were meeting for dinner. For all you knew, he could be Timothée Chalamet. Pierre and Kika had given you nothing.

Despite withholding all information about this guy, the did feel bad for you and so had brought you out for a drink before you date to calm the nerves. Just one drink, Pierre had said, they didn’t need you showing pictures of Roscoe to another innocent soul.

As you sat in a Parisian bar, you began to bounce your legs up and down, anything to calm you while you waited for 8pm to arrive. With a quick look at your phone, you saw that it was only 6:30pm.

Shit!

You were going to need more than one drink if you were going to get through the next ninety minutes. You were halfway through your first Aperol Spritz but you’d need about two more if you were going to be any fun tonight.

“Can you stop bouncing your legs please? It’s incredibly annoying,” Pierre spat.

Kika, being the peace maker gently placed a hand on your knee to prevent you from causing any annoyance or, in the way Pierre was carrying on, preventing you from causing an earthquake.

You loved Pierre, but the two of you behaved like siblings much to Kika’s despair. The two of you constantly bickered and found ways to annoy one another but did deep the two of you were close and had a solid friendship.

“Children, please,” Kika groaned. As she took a quick look at her phone, you took the opportunity to flash Pierre the middle finger.

Another fifteen minutes had passed and you weren’t any less nervous about this date. While you had been on dates before, it was your first blind date. And while you had faith in Pierre and Kika’s taste, you wouldn’t put it past Pierre to drag Quasimodo down from the Notre Dame and bring him to a Parisian restaurant for your date.

Feeling bad that he’d been taunting you for days, Pierre felt like it was time to give you some reassurance.

“I don’t know why you’re so worried, [Y/N]. Despite being a pain in my side, you’re catch. You’re a good looking girl. You’re funny and smart. You’ve lived in four countries, I mean there’s so much to talk about,” Pierre says as he places a second Aperol Spritz in front of you.

You flash him a grateful smile.

“He’s right! You’ve got so much going for you, [Y/N]. Plus your boobs look great in that dress,” Kika added. “And he already things you’re hot”.

Your eyes nearly pop out of your head. “Wait, what? He’s already seen a picture of me”.

Pierre flashes Kika a look of what the fuck did you say that before accepting a small defeat.

“Yes, he’s seen a picture of you. And before you tell me how that’s not fair, he’s not a freak like you two”.

“But Pierre,” you begin but Pierre wags his finger out you.

“No. I’m not hearing it,” Pierre says.

Great, out of the four of you, you’re the most clueless about your date.

“Fine, if you won’t tell me anything about him, can you at least tell me what he said when you showed him a picture about me?”

Exhaling, Pierre nodded. “Sure, he pretty much grabbed my phone out of my hand when I showed him your picture. He seemed pretty into it, wanted to see more photos. Asked how we knew you, wanted to know as much about you as he could.”

“Oh, and you told him everything right?”

Pierre chuckled. “Not everything. Didn’t tell him that you were divorced by 30. I thought that it’d be funny for you to do that on your own”.

You thanked Kika as she hit Pierre for you.

“Sorry. That was harsh. He was interested in what happened in your last relationship though. If it’s any consolation, I’ve had to intervene in his love life too. It’s almost as tragic as yours,” Pierre continued.

You frowned at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” Pierre hesitated. “He was in a relationship about three years ago. Things were pretty serious but suddenly things changed. There were talking about moving in together but one day, she told him she was thinking about getting back with her ex. They had an argument and didn’t speak after that. The last he heard through a friend was that she had left the country to start a new life.”

A weird feeling of deja vu suddenly hits you. The story sounding very similar to your own. Except that you didn’t get with Lewis. You pause before asking, “Did she get back with the ex?”

“I think so,” Pierre answered. “Either that or she was a snake who used her ex as an excuse to end things with Charles”.

You feel your blood run cold as Pierre accidentally drops the name of your date.

“What did you say his name was?” you ask, making sure you’re not hearing things.

“Merde, I can’t believe I dropped his name at the last hurdle,” Pierre groaned, burying his head in his hands.

You mind was racing a million miles an hour. Surely this was just a coincidence. There was thousands of Charles' in Paris, let alone in France. And what were the odds of Pierre knowing your Charles? And a Charles who had the same break up story as your Charles? No, this couldn’t be it.

“Are you okay, [Y/N]? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Kika asks.

You force a light-hearted laugh before taking a sip of your Aperol Spritz.

“I’m all good, thanks. Just worried that Pierre is going to go into a downward spiral now that his plan of keeping this Charles a secret has failed,” you joked. But deep inside you were freaking out.

What if this was Charles? You weren’t sure if you were ready to see him. Even though it had been three years since things had ended, it still hurt you to think about your relationship. Even three years later, you knew you still loved him. But what about Charles? Did he still love you? Or did he hate you? According to Pierre’s story, he still seemed bitter about this break up with his ex.

“It’s a good thing you don’t have time to go through Instagram and find him then, you’ve got to leave for your date in fifteen minutes,” Pierre reminds you.

Shit.

This was really happening wasn’t it? You were going to see Charles finally after all these years.

Or maybe you were just being dramatic, maybe this was just a weird, fucked up coincidence.

“Whatever you do, [Y/N], just don’t break my Charlie’s heart, eh? He’s had to fuck his way through dozens of women just to get over her,” Pierre teases.

“Pierre,” Kika squeals, “You can’t tell her that before she meets him”.

But Pierre’s comment goes over your head. Charles’ fucking lots of girls was the least of your worries.

-

You’re the first one to arrive and the wait is excruciating. You have a look at your phone 8:03pm.

Fuck, it’s been the longest three minutes of your life.

You’re not sure if you want to look at the entrance and see who walks through the door or if you want to keep your head down and pray for the ground to swallow you whole. Right now, the second option feels preferable.

As another minute passes, your phone lights up. It’s a text from Pierre into your group chat with Kika:

Bonne chance! And if we don’t hear back from you by the end of the night, either my friend is a serial killer or you’re 🍆👉🏼🕳️💦

As disgusting as Pierre’s text is, you’re grateful that your mind is occupied for a few moments as you text a:

You’re disgusting 🤮

Once you send your text, you place your phone back down on the table and put your head in your hands, praying for a miracle.

“I’ve thought about what it would be like if I ever saw you again,” it’s a familiar voice coming from behind you, “But I’d never have guessed that it would be the two of us being set up on a blind date”.

Your head shoots up and you turn to the direction of the voice. It’s him. It’s Charles. Your Charles.

“I…,” you begin but that’s all you’ve got. You’re just sitting there with your mouth agape.

Charles smiles at you, he’s much more composed and prepared than you are. How could he not be when he knew long ago that it was you that Pierre was trying to set him up with? He’s probably had days if not weeks to prepare for seeing you in person again.

He takes a few steps towards you before taking your hand in his. Just like the last time, he takes your left one, moving it towards him. He smiles at your hand.

No rings this time around, he thinks to himself before placing a delicate kiss onto your skin.

You feel your cheeks redden at his touch and whatever feelings you’ve harboured for him over the last three years all come rushing back. His touch still feels the same, delicate but purposeful.

He gently lets go of your hand before taking the seat opposite you. You’re still shell shocked that he’s actually here, which is why you can only muster up a, “Hi.”

Charles laughs to himself a little.

“Hi, [Y/N]”.

It falls silent between the two of you. Charles gives you the space to figure out what the fuck is going on while he flicks through the menu for a drink.

You take the opportunity to take in his appearance. He looks good, if not better than the last time. His face is slightly more mature and he’s let his moustache and stubble grow a little longer this time. He’s a little bulkier, clearly he’s been lifting more weights in the gym. His hair looks the same, long and silky. And he’s sporting a tan thanks to the French summer. He dresses better than he did before.

Charles smiles as he’s reading the menu, clearly aware that your eyes are fixated on him, glancing over every inch of his body that you can see. He looks up from the menu and looks at you, still smiling. He’s confident in himself, he knows he’s in control and he seems to be enjoying it.

Embarrassed that you’ve been caught staring, you clear throat and decide to speak your first words of the date.

“Ho-How are you? You look good,” you manage to squeak out.

Fuck, that was embarrassing. Is that it?

Charles chuckles to himself once more before it’s his turn to eye you up. His eyes take in your loose curls that are falling delicately over your shoulders. Your face looks the same, no difference to the last time he saw you. Still so beautiful. You’re rocking a summer tan too. And as for your body, well your breasts look incredible in that peach fitted dress. You didn’t look good, you looked phenomenal.

“I’m good. And you? You’re looking good too but I’m not surprised,” Charles replies.

You blush a little at his comment. “Yeah, I’m fine”.

Taking one last look at the menu, Charles closes it before looking at you. Giving you his full attention.

“How long ago did you find out that it was me you were going on a date with?”

“Erm, about- about thirty minutes ago,” you stutter.

Charles shakes his head. “Fucking Pierre,” he mutters to himself.

“How- how long ago did you know it was me?” you ask ever so quietly.

“About three weeks ago,” he watches for your reaction before continuing, “Look, I don’t want to do this here. And I’m sure you don’t want to do this here either. Let’s go back to my place”.

Without even thinking, you nod. And as Charles stands up from his chair, he puts his hand out for you to hold. His touch is so warm. He smiles at you softly before leading you out of the restaurant into the warm Summer evening.

He’s still holding your hand as he waves down a taxi. As you climb inside, Charles’ hand finds his way to your thigh as he gives his address to the taxi driver.

You can’t help but look at his hand on your thigh. It all feels so surreal. He’s being so nice to you after everything that happened and he’s going against everything that Pierre had said about Charles being hurt by an ex. But maybe Charles had changed, maybe he didn’t hate you that much after how things ended between the two of you.

As your drive through the Parisian streets, Charles’ hand remains on you thigh. And it’s Charles who breaks the silence between you.

“How was New York?”

Your head immediately turns towards him. His expression impossible to read. Confused, you answer him.

“Charles, I never went to New York”.

[lola-la-cava]

Met ‘23

Timothée Chalamet x Reader

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

“Y-yeah, don’t even worry about it. Who needs air?. Just… keep going” I say as they continue to tighten the corset. I grip my waist, sucking up as much air as I can.

All of a sudden, I hear a familiar voice tsk. The women helping me with my dress backs up, causing the piece of clothing to loosen.

“Did she put you up to this?”, he asked the woman. She nodded.

“Traitor!”

He laughs at my quip and comes up to kiss my cheek. “You look beautiful”

Timothée looks me up and down, examining the dress and taking my hand to twirl me. “You don’t look half bad yourself.” I giggle.

The curly haired boy gasped, “Half bad? Come on! Give me a little more credit!”

“Ah fine! You look gorgeous!” I praise, getting my body close to his to pull him in for a needed kiss.

“Ah, ah, ah. I’m not done yet! Couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, huh, lover boy?” my make-up artist comes to pull us apart and retouching my lipstick.

“How could I?” he stared at me with a love sick stare that I didn’t quite notice at the time.

Timothée hears a quick snap!from the camera. He whips his head around to see one of the photographers catch the perfect moment.

“Whoops” the guy shrugged.

“You people are sickening!” my assistant screamed from the other side of the room.

Timothée answers back, “Jealous much, Meg?”

“Ha. ha.” she teased. “I happen to enjoy being all alone, thank you very much”

I playfully roll my eyes at her antics. “Yeah, sureee”

“Aaalright, Y/N you’re set!” She pats my cheek as I look at her with grateful eyes.

Timothée’s arms wrap around my front once again as soon as she let go. His head resting on my shoulder, kissing my neck

“I just hope lover boy here doesn’t ruin your make-up”

“No promises” he giggles as he playfully placed wet kisses on the side of my head.

“I swear, you will never hear the end from me if you do” she warns him.

“Now, get on out there. Tons of people are expecting you”

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

Ah, the calm before the storm.

Well, as calm as it can get. Which was not very.

They stood in the line before getting their pictures taken. Celebrities in extravagant clothing surrounded them. Some familiar faces present that Y/N took note to say hello to later on.

Y/N smoothed over her dress and brought her hand up to fix her hair again. Timothée noticing this, he interrupted her movement and took her hand. He squeezed it three times before kissing it.

I love you.

She took her hand back and grabbed her phone from a discreet pocket on the dress.

She scrolled aimlessly through social media, trying to get feeling of impending doom of my mind.

Her eye catches a random headline from an entertainment news update account. It read:

‘Timothée Chalamet and Kylie Jenner hard launching their relationship at tonight’s Met Gala? Y/N Y/L/N left in the dust?’

She lets out an obnoxious scoff. Timmy hearing it, he looks at her screen, reading the obviously made-up headline.

“God, they’re still on that?”

He notices his partner’s silence. “Come on. You’re not really bothered by this, are you?”

She opened her mouth to say something. No words came out. She merely shrugged.

He gripped her shoulders and pulled her in for a bear hug. Timothée rested his head on hers as she got close to his chest, hearing the comforting beat of his heart that never failed to comfort her.

The couple stayed like that. “Trust me, mon coeur. I wouldn’t have this any other way. I’m perfect where I am and who I’m with”

“Shit, I actually might cry. I never know what to say when you say this sappy shit”, Y/N chuckles as she puts her hand up to mess with his styled hair.

Feeling her hand creeping his back, Timmy pulls away and bows. “I aim to please you. It’s my sole purpose in life”

A smile instantly appeared on her face and butterflies in her stomach. Nothing had definitely changed from when they first started going out. Same sparks, same chemistry, same tension. Whatever you wanna call it. It was there. They had it.

She tugged on his hand, pulling him in for one more kiss. Y/N looked at him, looking over the features she admired so much that she practically memorized them. Her gaze lands on his lips.

Some of her lipstick and gloss had transferred to his lips. She quickly tried to get the makeup off. “Shit, wait hold on. You have some-“

He smacks her hand away. “No, no. Keep it.” He rubbed his lips together getting the substance to cover all ground.

“Y/N Y/L/N and Timothée Chalamet? They’re ready for you.”

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

“Right now, I’m here with everyone’s favourite couple, Timothée Chalamet and Y/N Y/L/N” Emma, the interviewer, spoke with enthusiasm.

We’d just finished the carpet and were almost home free. Camera flashes blinded my vision as I tried not to close my eyes throughout the whole thing. Screams of my name were heard throughout the venue. Meddlesome questions and controlling demands to pose a certain way were yelled. To which, I didn’t respond to. Why should I? I maintained my balance by holding onto Timothée. You’d think after a few years, you’d get used to the bordering aggressive personalities you have to deal with every single day.

It turns out not really.

“How does it feel to be back? I mean, you guys have gone before, but how does it feel to be here as the quote-unquote, it couple?”

Me and Timmy both give awkward chuckles as we heard the last two words.

“Uh- I really don’t know about that last part, but it just feels great to share such a meaningful moment with him. I’ve personally dreamed of attending since I first saw it as a kid and to be invited for the second time… It’s just… yea”, I answer, not being able to expound on the statement.

Emma hums and gains back the mic.

“So, rumors have been swirling about the internet that actually said othewise. Do you have anything to say about that?” She points the microphone at Timothée this time, definitely hinting at the Kylie rumors.

He seems taken aback by the question, not knowing what to say and the only thing I’m able to do was squeeze his hand. Three times.

I love you.

Emma realizes this with a regretful look on her face. She leans toward both of us as she moves the mic away.

“It’s totally fine if you guys aren’t comfortable. We could just mov-“

He takes the mic, she gives him a grateful small smile.

“No, I uh, me and Y/N have actually seen a handful of tweets about this and I just wanna set the record straight and say we are very much still together”, he nods as he hands the microphone back to her.

“I think I’m right by saying that this has definitely relieved viewrs at home and me.” We laugh genuinely at her quip.

I imagine people on Twitter have stopped adding fuel to the fire after what he said and can have a better goodnight’s sleep later in the evening.

“And that’s our time. I’ll see you lovebirds inside! Have a great time together!”

We both shook her hand and left with an indebted expression for keeping it mellow (for the most part) after such a nerve-wracking red carpet.

“Very professional with that answer, Chalamet”, I hook my arms with his and leaned on his shoulder.

“Of course, ‘gotta remind everyone you’re still my girl”, he says with a smug smirk.

I laugh, “Your girl? I suppose that means you’re my boy?”

He playfully rolls his eyes. “Come on! As if you didn’t know that from the beginning”

“Ohhh, I know. I just wanted to hear it from your mouth!”

[thefandomdirtymind]

Hello! I saw your post you're open for a request and I was wondering if I could I have OPLA Sanji?

About Sanji fall in love towards reader but reader was hesitate and unsure if Sanji is being sincere it's like she's having trust issues since Sanji is considered a ladies' man or flirty and was afraid he'll broke her heart?

A/N IMPORTANT:  Hey, thank you for your request Anon ! I had to confess that it was kind of a hard one for me because well...trust issu hit close from home and I just start to write that angst even if it was not my specialty, but I really like the result and I hope you will too !

Trust Issues

OPLA - Vinsmoke Sanji

Sanji / OPLA Masterlist and Coming Soon

* English is not my first language, I tried really hard to correct myself but, I hope you will excuse me if some mistakes are still there.

—

Love wasn’t your cup of tea. Sure, the idea of a partner supporting and adoring you like you deserve was cute. But, in your opinion, you have already done enough. After all, your last relationship has resulted as becoming a pirate and being abandoned by your lover to save his ass. And, If the humiliation hadn’t been enough, not long after your escape for the marines, you had seen him parading with his new lady wrapped around his arm. Like if you hadn’t existed at all.

So, nobody could blame you if you had some trust issues and an aversion for ladie’s man.

It’s why you knew the minute you saw his smile what Vinsmoke Sanji was : A pretty flirt. 

If it was only you, you had refused his presence on the ship, but, like Luffy had said, the Going Merry needed a cook and the man was a hell of a fighter. As the morning came, you couldn’t also deny the fact that he looked incredibly good in his suit, his bag on his shoulder, ready to come aboard. Smiling at the instant he spotted you. 

“ Hello Madam, I'm glad we met again. Can I say that you seem even more beautiful in this sunlight” He offered, from the dock, as you were sitting on the main deck rail adjusting a rope. 

“ You may, but it doesn't mean I will accept the compliment. Luffy is on the upper deck if you search him” You coldly replied, trying to shut down your traitor heart. You will not fall for another pretty face, never. 

“ I didn’t expect much Madam, thank you for the information “ Sanji replied, his mood in nothing affected by your coldness. Sure, he had hoped for a warmer welcome, but after serving you the night before and found himself unable to turn his gaze away from your beauty. He was satisfied with just being part of the same crew as you, the rest would come later he had assumed. 

It took, in fact, way longer than he first thought. For the entire few weeks he had been on board, you hadn’t looked or talked to him except to thank him for the food or urgent matters. 

Many times, the crew had tried to talk to you, asking you to be more nice with Sanji. But, even if you could feel his charm often softened your shield, your stubbornness was even stronger. 

It wasn’t easy for Sanji either. He knew you clearly disliked him without knowing why. When, on his part, the more he was admiring you, watching you laugh with the others, hearing your brilliant plan, watching you gracefully climb the cordage and being as stubborn as him. Make him love you even more. Everyday, he was trying to charm you, offering you compliments, taking an interest in what you were doing or simply making you the best food he could. But, nothing worked, you answered him quickly and as coldly as always.  

It'll take another two months and a storm before Sanji has enough. 

The rain was falling for hours,helped by a wind so strong that you had to close one of the sails to avoid drifting away. Each two hours or so, the members of the crew were making a rotation, trying as much as possible to not fatigue themself too much and end up falling into the water. 

You were the only one still standing, drenched by the cold rain, your muscles sore by the force necessary to keep the helm stable. Multiple times Nami and Usopp had tried to push you to take a rest or at least eat something warm, but each time you refused resolutely, you would pass that storm and rest after. 

Meanwhile in the kitchen, Sanji was finishing his soup, preparing three bowls for the crew member who will come downstairs to take their rest. As he prepared himself for going upstairs, doing his part, the blond chef saw Nami and Usopp going down the stairs, alone. You aren’t with them, again. 

“ Where Y/N ” He asked, already knowing the answer.

“ She refuses to budge of the helm. we tried to talk to her but it’s like talking to a rock” Nami replied, wrapping herself in a big towel.

“ I’ll come back, I will bring her here “ Sanji only replied, his happy mood now sour. It wasn’t rare in the time who’s he was running the restaurant with Zeff that he lost his temper. He had lost it already a time or two during battle, but against another member of the crew,it was a first. 

Making his way to the helm, he looked at you, already knowing it will not be easy. But, to be sure you’re in security, he was ready to fight you if he had to. 

“ Y/N, your time has long passed, I will replace you. I prepared a dry towel and warm soup in the kitchen. Go take some rest “ He first tried. 

“ I’m not tired or hungry “ You simply replied with your gaze focused on the horizon. 

“ Then I’m afraid I have to excuse myself Darling “ Profiting from an adjustment of your position, he then proceeds to lift you on his shoulder, easily dodging all your attacks, as he was getting you down in the ship to dry both of you. 

“ How dare you ! “ You scream, shaking of rage and cold. As he sits you on one of the kitchen stools and throws a dry towel at you. “ I was perfectly fine !”

“ You were on a trip to catch death ! “Sanji replied sharply, his gaze dark and his wet form in a stiff posture with anger “ I don’t know what I exactly did to make you dislike me like that, but I can care for you if you do some stupid things like that ! “

“ Then just don’t care about me and go flirt somewhere else !!” You angrily answered.

Taken aback, Sanji tilted his head, frowning his eyebrow, clearly confused. 

“ Wait…what…You dislike me…because I flirted with you ?“ He slowly asked, trying to understand your point. 

“ I just don’t understand why you haven't given up yet ! I had already done with the damn flirty kind, go charm your other ladies and leave me alone ! “ 

" My other…” Sanji starts disbelief. “ I don’t give up because I care for you…stubborn woman! " Sanji tried to say. Never had he thought that it was his manner that you hated so much. " But if my affection isn't required, fine, eat and rest, that's all I ask " He sighs ,disappearing upstairs. 

A long and heavy silence fell in the kitchen after he left, leaving you with a curiously heavy heart and some concerned  gaze of Nami and Usopp eating their soup. After a while, you sigh, defeated and take yourself a bowl. As always, the dish was perfectly balanced and delicious.

" You know y/n...I know your story, I understand, I do.  But…Sanji didn't flirt with any woman aside from you for months…I think he genuinely likes you, " Nami softly spoke. "Of course I'm not you and you have all the right to act like you do, but it’s not Sanji's fault. He’s not him… and I think the day he will stop caring for you, you will realize it’s will be maybe too late”.

“ Maybe “ You admit, finishing your food before leave it into the sink and heading to the door” I will sleep a little, wake me up when it will be our turn again please “ 

But she never woke you up and when you opened your eyes, the sun was shining again on another day. 

Sanji wasn’t the kind of man who'd give up easily, neither on his dream nor on the people he loved. But, even with his flirty tendency, respecting women and their wishes was a priority. It’s why, even if it cost him and that your word had wounded him, on that sunny day, he started to restrict at the minimum his attention to you. 

And you noticed it immediately. His gaze on you, usually full of affection, was now more distant, he didn’t ask you if you had slept well, nor if you would like something in particular for breakfast, he simply put an omelet in front of you, smiled politely and returned to his occupation. Yes, for Sanji it was odd, but, as a ladie’s man you give him a week before going back to his old habit. 

Luckily for you, life decided to give both of you a hand.

Your estimation could never be more wrong. After two weeks of polite but cold Sanji, you were almost wishing you never had that fight. Your traitor heart was missed his radiant smile toward you, his compliments for every little detail of your person or the way he  tried to know every one of your favorite things. But you had broken it and you were now unsure how to repair it. Excuse could probably do the charm, but your stubbornness was always blocking you, estimating that protecting your heart wasn't shameful. 

The Going Merry was anchored alongside an island, doing his needed resupply. As the last barrel had been brought on board, you followed the idea of Zoro and decided to join your companions for a drink at the little bar on the beach.

But, as you put your foot in the small place, you froze, your mind resuming to a static white noise. Your ex, already another lady at his arm, was installed with his crew at the largest table of the little tavern.  

“ Hey Y/N come here, that table is free ! “ Luffy exclaimed, not noticing your stiffness.

“ Y/N is that you ! Damn girl, I haven't seen you since you were surrounded by Marines ! I own you for this one, how did you escape ?! “ The despicable man shouted, clearly more happy to see you, than you were to see him. “ Darla, that girl was... my most loyal crew member. “He explained to the girl at his side “Look at you, have you always been that pretty ? “ 

The compliment was the last straw that snapped you out of your shock. How could he talk to you so casually after all you had endured because of him. Doesn’t he have an ounce of regret or shame ?!

“ I escaped on my own after you had cowardly abandoned me ! “ You replied, as Sanji placed himself behind you, placing a hand on your shoulder in support.

“ Y/N, that man clearly doesn’t deserve your time, come, the drink will arrive soon” He tried, giving a hard look at the pathetique Captain who was now coming a you, his hand scratching his hair, gauging if Sanji was a menace for his future plan with you or not. 

“ Not deserving of his time, I had already two years of her time mate, go sip your beer and let us discuss. Y/N and I have many things to talk about. I haven’t abandoned her, I knew she could escape, she’s a smart cat. Aren't you Sweet pea” 

“ I have nothing to say to you, thank you Sanji but I’m not in the mood. Being in the same room as him would suck all the joy I have. I will be on the ship. “ You simply replied, making your exit before tears ran down your cheeks. 

Sat on the upper deck, watching the night sky, the fresh wind drying your last tears, you saw Sanji came back onboard. Without a word, he simply sat beside you and offered you the bottle he was keeping in his hand.

“ Zoro sent his regards and I’m here to tell you that I’m sorry. I had tried to respect your wish, but I couldn’t stop myself tonight. I can’t not care for you and that man was...he shouldn’t ever treat a lady as you like that. Maybe now he had learn “

“ Sanji, what did you do? “ You asked, strangely touched that he had actually take your defense even after you had left. 

“ I kicked his pathetic and disgraceful ass. I couldn’t tolerate the way he was looking at you, talking to you...But I understand now how my behavior led you to dislike me when I arrived, But I assure you that…” 

“ I know, “ You said your heart, still fragile, beating faster.” You aren’t him and I should have waited to know you. I was scared, I didn’t want to like you because I was afraid to repeat the same story. But even if I tried, I realize when you had stop to caring for me that I miss it, I missed you…a lot“ 

Suddenly unusually shy, his cheeks a slightly shade of faded pink in the dark, Sanji avoided your gaze, a joyful smile spreading on his lips.

“ I suggest that we start over. We can't forget all those months but we can restart our relationship.I can’t wait to truly know you Y/N” He tell, finally planting in gaze in yours, that lost spackles in his eyes, the one you though forever vanish, back even brighter that ever. 

“ I can’t wait too, Sanji “ You softly smile. 

___

Your first kiss with Sanji happened a little shorter than a month later. At exactly the same spot. 

Since that night, you have made a habit of watching the sky together, sharing stories, passions and thoughts. Even if the blond cook, not without surprise, seems to find the constellation less appealing than your sweet view at his side. But, you slowly adapted yourself to his flirting and even often replied, to his joy. 

It was in one of those moments, as you turned your head to point to him a group of stars that Sanji captured your lips, answering your heart's deepest desire from months and even probably since the tall man had put a foot on the deck. 

Somewhere on the lower level of the ship, you hear the playful screams and wolf whistles of your friends. But, as he captured your lips for another kiss you couldn't care less. You had an amazing group of friends, the sea was peaceful and with the help of Sanji, your heart finally started to heal.  

[whitedarkmoonflower]

Traitor

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female)

Authors note: a big thank you to awesome and incredible @little-diable for having the wonderful and crazy idea to write this together. I loved it so much! You are such an amazing writer.

Warnings: SMUT 18+, angst

Summary: you thought you had been prepared for everything as you were sent to spy on Uhtred, until the moment you met a certain Danish warrior

Word Count: 4,8 K

Headers and dividers by the lovely @arcielee

If you want to be added to or removed from the tag list - write to me.

I'm not sure if this letter will ever get to you or if you'll even want to read it. But I couldn't leave without saying goodbye.

You probably already know, and it's true. I was sent to spy on Lord Uhtred, on orders from Lord Wihtgar, Uhtred’s cousin and the current ruler of Bebbanburg.

I came here as a spy and an enemy, full of suspicion, hate and disdain. I was sent to spy on a traitor of his own kin, on a heathen teamed up with the Danes to try and bring down my Lord, the rightful ruler of Bebbanburg.

But now, as I'm leaving, I want you to know I'm going as a friend and an ally, even if you can't quite believe it, even if you all rightfully see me as a traitor.

These past few months have taught me so much - about trust, relying on others, feeling accepted, and being valued. But most importantly, I've learned what it means to be loved.

I'm sorry. I know it's not enough, and it never will be…

"It's all blurred and smudged from here. I can't decipher it," Osferth looked up from the small piece of vellum he held in his hands. His gaze wandered around the dimly lit room before settling on the silhouette seated at the table, with elbows propped up and head resting on hands, fingers entwined in hair.

"Read it once more," Sihtric growled, his voice rough and slightly trembling.

"I've already read it to you five times. What do you expect to uncover?" Osferth shrugged. The sound of the bench falling echoed as Sihtric suddenly sprang to his feet, knocking it over and grabbed the cup from the table, draining it in a few hasty gulps. He stood there for a moment, examining it in his hand. Moments later, the cup was hurled to the ground with such force that it shattered into countless small pieces, causing Osferth to flinch.

"Nothing," venom dripped from Sihtric's voice, "I'm a fool, a damned idiot. How could I not see it? How could I be so blind?" he roared before storming out of the room.

It had been surprisingly easy, much easier than you had anticipated. It appeared that Uhtred had a soft spot for taking in masterless dogs and those less fortunate. All it took was a heart-wrenching tale of being captured by Scots as a child and raised as a warrior to win his acceptance. You couldn't help but feel a sense of disdain for his kind-heartedness and naivety. He truly didn't deserve to be called a Lord.

A Lord should be stern and ruthless, someone who instilled fear in their subordinates, devoid of the lower emotions like love and compassion that made people vulnerable to manipulation. This was what you had been taught, ingrained in you since childhood, nurtured by your mother's milk, and enforced by your father's strict hand.

You happened to be the sole child of Bebbanburg's commandant and the trusted right hand of Lord Ælfric Uhtredson. Your father had always yearned for a son, but fate had dealt him a different hand – a daughter, a fragile and small creature with large, inquisitive eyes and infectious laughter.

The carefree and joyful days of your childhood came to an abrupt end when your father finally acknowledged your existence. Around the age of ten, as it became apparent that your mother would not provide the male heir he so desperately desired, your father’s attention shifted to you.

And now, here you were – a grown woman, a trained warrior, and a cunning spy, with deep and sorrowful eyes, and a laughter that had been absent from your life for years. This was how you entered the service of Lord Uhtred.

“You’ve got a knack for it,” Finan chuckled approvingly, and you saw his hand extending towards you to help you up from the ground. You hesitated, uncertain if he genuinely meant it, half-expecting him to withdraw his hand at the last moment, his warm smile giving way to a mocking grin. He had bested you fair and square. Again. Finan the Agile, they called him, and rightly so.

He had the appearance of a large, affable bear, with warm brown eyes, that always seemed to twinkle mischievously. What a deception! That man moved as swiftly as lightning. Despite investing all your strength, skill, and effort, you found yourself seated in the dirt, gasping for breath. The surprise in your eyes was impossible to conceal as you kept glancing at his outstretched hand. Even though you knew by now that his hand would remain there, that you could rely on it and you could trust it not to turn against you, old habits died hard, etched into your very bones, causing you to hesitate once more. 

Finally, you mustered the courage to grasp it, allowing Finan to help you to your feet. "That move earlier, when you suddenly changed direction and lunged to my left, almost caught me off guard. That was impressive," the bearded Irishman continued, his genuine smile unwavering. He retrieved your sword and handed it back to you. "Ready for another round?"

You thought you were prepared for anything. You were ready to fight for your place among the warriors, anticipating challenges and the disdain that comes with being an outsider, a newcomer, and a woman. You were prepared for the sly glances, whistles, and crude remarks, for unwelcome advances and dirty hands trying to grope you. Having been raised in the world of men, you knew their ways well.

"Hey, let the lady catch her breath," Osferth's ever-cheerful voice echoed across the yard as he approached with a pitcher and ale mugs in his hands. The shy former monk was undoubtedly the most peculiar addition to the pack around Uhtred. Why was he even carrying a sword? He seemed clueless about how to use it. Initially, you assumed he might be warming someone's bed, but it soon became evident that this was not the case.

There was no logical explanation for his presence in a warriors' camp, but there he was, offering a bashful smile as he filled the mugs with ale and handed the first one to you. You couldn't deny the calming and radiant aura that accompanied him, something intangible, something elusive that defied explanation. Always courteous and attentive, unwavering in his faith in God's benevolence, he carried the weight of being born out of wedlock with quiet dignity and bestowed genuine kindness upon those around him.

You had believed you were prepared for anything – ready to endure contempt and hatred, to withstand pain and humiliation, to employ your body as both a weapon and allure. You had experienced it all, endured it all, and each time emerged stronger. But there was one thing you hadn't been prepared for – to be accepted just as you were, to be treated with respect and appreciation. Friendship and loyalty had taken you by surprise, and above all, you had never anticipated being cared for and loved.

Love. It had been an empty word, devoid of real meaning to you. In this cursed world where power, authority, and control were the sole currencies of worth, there was no room for something as seemingly foolish as love. How could you have prepared for it when you had never felt it?

Love didn't strike you suddenly, nor did it assault your senses and reason. You might have recognized it then if it had. Instead, it arrived slowly, subtly, through tentative glances and concealed smiles, in the hesitant brush of fingers. It infiltrated your everyday life as helping hands to maintain your weapons or carry your saddlebag, as a casual shift to the side, making room for you at the fire, as unassuming inquiries when you appeared tired or unwell. The genuine care and attention that the reserved and initially withdrawn young Dane with that stern and piercing gaze framed by two mismatched eyes offered so effortlessly and unpretentiously wrapped around you like a soft, welcoming blanket. It dulled your wariness, dazzled you like freshly brewed ale, and you fell for it without regret.

“Fuck,” you moaned, eyes squeezed shut, hands pressed against the cold ground. You were lying flat on your back, unable to take another step. It had been a foolish mistake, really, one second you had tried to prove to the guys how easy it was to balance one too many cups of ale in your hands, the next you had found yourself on the ground. One of the other drunken guys had rammed into you, forcing you to the ground without another warning. 

It had taken you a few seconds to realise what was going on, blinking the tears away that welled up in your eyes due to the pain sticking to your foot. Voices had echoed in your ears, growing louder by the second, forcing you to at least try and sit up. All you could do was watch how Finan had to hold back Sihtric, who was about to tear the guy to shreds. 

You had murmured Sihtric’s name, hoping to catch his attention. If there was one thing you hated, it was being the centre of attention – and being the reason for a fight amongst the guys would definitely put you further into the said centre. It had taken Finan a few moments to get some distance between Sihtric and the guy, forcing the Dane to finally focus on you. 

“Can you stand?” Sihtric had kneeled in front of you, worried eyes flickering between yours and the hurt ankle you pressed your hand against. A whimper had left you as you had to rise, plopping back to the ground with a huff. There was no use in denying the shame thumping through your veins, filling every inch of your body. Only as Sihtric had placed his hand on your chin, redirecting your gaze towards him, had you managed to look at the handsome Dane again, sending him a smile. 

“Up you go.” Without another warning, Sihtric had picked you up, strong arms wrapped around your cold body. The shriek that had clawed through you had left Finan and Osferth laughing, watching Sihtric carry you towards the tent he was supposed to sleep in. 

And now here you were, placed on the warm fur, eyes studying the Dane’s every move. You could tell that something was holding Sihtric back, not daring to touch you for more than a handful of moments, pulling away whenever his eyes found yours as if your mere closeness set fire through his body. It frustrated you, seeing him this weary, scared to touch your already battered body. 

“Sihtric,” you murmured his name, once again sitting up to be closer to him. Your hand darted out to find his warm cheek, trying not to pay the way he seemed to hold his breath too much of your attention. Slowly your thumb began to move, stroking his soft skin, the small marks and scars littering his cheeks, marks you couldn’t help but admire. He emanated strength and danger, and yet you felt awfully safe around him, knowing that he’d always protect you – should you need it. 

With your breath hitched in your chest, it took you a moment to realise what was happening. Sihtric had pressed his lips against yours, hand placed on the back of your head to keep you close, not daring to let you go. Your heart was racing, torn between excitement and confusion, since you had hoped you’d eventually find yourself in a situation like this, and yet you haven’t dared to overthink it much. 

“I am sorry.” Suddenly he pulled away, trying to get some distance between the two as if you were some addicting poison he needed to stay away from. Your wide pupils followed his every haste movement, not understanding what was going on. “You’re hurt, I shouldn’t touch you, not like this.” 

A soft laugh broke out of you, hand reaching out for him to pull Sihtric in for another kiss. The moan that clawed through him left you grinning against his mouth, slowly parting your lips to deepen the kiss. You found yourself pressed against the fur, with Sihtric hovering over you. Neither of you dared to break the kiss this time, not as his hands began to work on your clothes, not as you fought against the need to arch your back to let go of a deep moan. 

“I want to take care of you, take away your pain. Will you let me?” His raspy voice shot shudders down your spine, eyes rolling back into your head the second his warm mouth found your chest. All you could do was moan his name, teeth running along your lower lip to somewhat try to be quiet, not wanting to attract the attention of nearby drunkards. Expectedly he sucked on your hardening nubs, grinning whenever you choked on his name. “My pretty shieldmaiden, the fiercest warrior I aim to claim.”

“Gods, Sihtric, more. Please.” Sihtric blindly followed your choked command, kissing his way down to your heat. You were dripping for him, needing to feel his hands and mouth on you before he could fuck you like you had dreamt of him doing for a while now. The way he groaned at your taste left you clenching around nothing, fingers holding onto the furs to try and ground yourself. 

His colourful eyes watched you intently, not wanting to miss one single expression, telling him all about how you felt buried beneath him, with his mouth on you. You felt as if you were drowning, clinging to every breath you were allowed to inhale, close to passing out. But Sihtric was determined, wanting to push the most sinful yet most beautiful sensation through your body. 

“I must have pleased the Gods for being allowed to feel you this close, you’re mine now.” A hum left you, unable to reply with words as he forced two fingers into your tightness. Your walls clenched around him, telling him that you were already close. The grin he wore on his lips was devilish as he spoke up once again, “Say it, say that you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, fuck, only yours.” Your eyes rolled back into your head as you came on his fingers, whimpering his name. Sihtric’s thumb kept circling your pulsing bundle, prolonging the intense sensations for a few more moments. For a second it felt as if you were reborn, heart racing too fast, palms sweaty from the way you had tried to hold onto the furs. 

You tried to rise from your position, wondering what he’d do next, but Sihtric kept you pressed to the ground, looking like Loki himself, the trickster with a grin that could fool anybody. With wide eyes, you watched Sihtric undress, leathers plopping to the ground to expose his carefully chiselled muscles, gracing his stomach, his arms, and his thighs. All you could do was choke on your breath as your eyes focused on his hard cock, begging for your touch, to feel you wrapped around him. 

“I promised to take care of you, but I won’t be gentle, not when I’ve got you buried beneath me like that.” Sihtric’s voice dripped with possessiveness, lust, and excitement, once again leaving you covered in goosebumps. You nodded, unable to speak up as his mouth found yours, kissing you breathless while he aligned himself with your cunt. “Hold onto me, mark me up.”

You didn’t need to be told twice, clawing your fingernails into his warm skin, adding more scars to the ones he had collected on battlefields. And yet he’d be prouder of the ones you added than any other, he’d fight any war if it meant getting to be with you. The both of you moaned in unison as he pushed into you, forcing your walls to adjust to his size. 

Sihtric hadn’t lied, he wasn’t soft, wasn’t sweet, no, he fucked you like a man on a mission, a man who followed his lord’s commands. And you loved every moment of it, every rough thrust that managed to set your body ablaze, every thrust that left you choking on the air you were desperate for. Your nails left bloody marks down his shoulders, holding onto him as he fucked you on the fur, hoping that this was the first of many nights you’d spent on this fur together. 

“You feel so good around me like the gods have crafted you for me, mine to own, mine to love.” Sihtric’s words almost drew tears to your eyes, desperately wanting to reply, to tell him about your feelings, but you couldn’t. You were too far gone, once again close to falling off the edge. With one last kiss pressed to your lips, you came, moaning his name into the cold night. Sihtric fucked you through your release, groaning into the crook of your neck as he came only a few seconds later. 

You both panted heavily, slowly coming down from your highs, as your foggy mind gradually cleared, and your hazy gaze locked onto Sihtric's mismatched eyes.

This was the moment you always hated the most - the moment of harsh and uncomfortable truth, filled with awkward glances, whispered words, and hurried, clumsy movements. It was the time when one inevitably left, fumbling for clothes and murmuring promises that were never meant to be kept.

You had been on both sides often enough; it was neither new nor unexpected to you. However, for perhaps the first time in your life, you felt an inexplicable emotion creeping beneath your skin. It drove you to dig your fingers into the plush, sweat-soaked furs beneath you, restraining the impulse to pathetically wrap your arms around Sihtric's shoulders in a desperate attempt to keep him from leaving.

Sihtric crushed down beside you, his breath ragged, and his strong arms instinctively encircled you, pulling your back flush against his chest as though he feared you might disappear.

"Will you stay with me?" a hoarse whisper brushed against your ear, igniting a new sense of life within you.

"I couldn't leave even if I wanted to," you chuckled softly.

"Do you want to?"

"No, I don't," you whispered, turning to face him.

"Good, because I don't want you to either," Sihtric murmured, pressing his lips against yours.

I'm sorry I never found the courage to say these words to you. I always thought there would be enough time for that.

I just hope you felt it, I hope you sensed it, how much I loved you. And I still do. I want you to know that will never change. I will always love you, until my very last breath.

Tears welled up in your eyes, falling onto the vellum before you.

Muffled noises from outside caught your attention, and you hastily rolled it up, inadvertently smudging the ink where your tears had fallen. Time was running out; you had to leave. There had always been rumours of Uhtred having his own spies in Bebbanburg, though no one had ever managed to prove them. Today, you had seen him - the blacksmith from Bebbanburg, here in Rumcofa, in Uhtred’s hall. You had tried to hide, but it had been too late. He had seen you, his eyes glued to your pale face, as your heart frantically drummed against your ribs. He had recognized you, just as you had recognized him, and in that moment when your eyes met, you knew your mission had reached its end.

It was too late to confess your true purpose for coming here. You had wanted to reveal your real identity so many times, but the right moment had never seemed to come. And now, it was too late. Your past life had caught up with you, its cold, bony fingers slowly closing around your throat. You didn’t want to leave, but you couldn't stay.

Silence, absolute silence enveloped you, devoid of any sound—no voices, no footsteps, no creaking doors. There was nothing to attract your attention, it was as if the world itself had stilled, allowing your thoughts to flutter through your mind like startled birds, beating against the cage of your consciousness. You had never imagined that silence could be so agonisingly painful, so suffocating.

He will not come! He hates and detests you! You deserve it! The cruel voice echoed in your head, driving you to cover your ears with your hands. Growls of frustration escaped your lips, reverberating against the thick walls of Bebbanburg's dungeon, as you attempted to silence the relentless taunting.

Bebbanburg had fallen, or rather, it had been reclaimed by its rightful owner. You had always known this moment would come, understood that Uhtred would never relinquish his birthright, his lands, or the fortress of his ancestors. You had simultaneously dreaded and longed for this day, aware that it would spell both your doom and your salvation. And now, it was a reality.

God as your witness, you had tried to forget him. You had attempted to banish him from your thoughts, to expel the longing from your mind. For a time, you had even believed you had succeeded, drowning your yearning and hunger for Sihtric's touch, for his commanding yet gentle voice whose orders you had been so eager to obey, for the stern yet loving gaze of his mismatched eyes that seemed to follow you wherever you went.

But the moment you laid eyes on him and Finan on the upper walkway, flanked by guards, you knew it had all been an illusion. You knew you had failed utterly. Your hand shot up instinctively, covering your mouth to stifle the scream threatening to erupt from your chest. 

As if in a haze, you recalled following the guards, sneaking into the dungeon—this very dungeon whose walls you had been pounding in anger and despair for the past few hours, leaving your knuckles raw and bleeding. Then, like a bolt of lightning carrying God's wrath, like a spear hurled by an enemy's hand, it struck you. The coldness in Sihtric's gaze as he lifted his eyes from the lifeless bodies of the guards on the floor to meet yours froze the words forming on your lips, causing them to hang in the air before shattering into a thousand pieces upon the ground.

"You?" was the sole word that escaped Finan's lips as you swiftly cut through the ropes binding their hands, yet even that was laden with disdain and revulsion. You had shown them the way out, the concealed passage to the main hall, and they had left—no words exchanged, no glances shared, no turning back—just silence, relentless silence. The same oppressive silence lingered as Ælfwynn and Hild departed the fortress through the small, secret door you had revealed to them. Traitor, her eyes had silently screamed at you.

You could have fled, escaped, started anew far from this cursed fortress, far from everyone who governed your life. You could have been free. Yet, as tempting as it was, you knew there was no escaping yourself, no escaping the searing shame and longing that had gnawed at you from within all this time. You couldn't leave, not again.

It was Sihtric's hands that seized you, wrenching you to your feet and twisting your arms behind your back when they found you seated in the main hall, awaiting their arrival. You offered no resistance; the touch of him, even as his eyes blazed with hatred, sent shivers down your spine, and you allowed yourself to be dragged to the dungeon in silence. What could you say? How could you explain the inexplicable?

Leaning back against the cold and unforgiving stone wall, you felt the rugged surface digging into your skin even through your clothes as you slowly sank to the ground. Here you were, locked up in the dark and soundless cells beneath Bebbanburg, waiting for something you knew would never come. Closing your eyes, you let the silence envelop you, to become a part of you, to seep into your soul. You were alone, yet strangely, you felt free. No more lies, no more disguise. Just you.

A creaking sound reached your ears, and you slowly, almost unwillingly, opened your eyes to meet whoever had decided to disturb your silence.

“I should have known.” You’d always recognise his voice, wrapping itself around you like the warm summer breeze. But now it wasn’t warm, no, it was set on freezing you, leaving marks that would forever remind you of your betrayal. Your eyes watched his every move, wondering, perhaps even fearing, that he’d step even closer.

God, how could you have betrayed the man who owned your heart? Why did you keep quiet, when he was right there to hold you, to take away your pain? 

“A traitor, good for nothing. I should be ashamed that I touched you.” At first, his words hurt you, cutting deeper than the swords he had held before ever could. But the more you pondered on them, the more you found yourself focusing on the “should” that had rolled off his tongue. 

“Should?” It was just a whisper leaving you, and yet it was enough to draw a sigh from Sihtric. He unlocked the cell and stepped into the small space you were forced to call your own. 

“As much as I want to hate you for betraying my lord, for betraying my family, for betraying me I can’t. The Gods know how much I tried to.” Sihtric crouched down in front of you, his differently coloured eyes wandering over your features, unable to bite down the smile that tugged on his lips as you leaned closer. Carefully he cupped your cold cheek, pondering on his next move. 

“I am sorry, so very sorry.” All he did was hum, dipping his head down to kiss you. You knew that he wouldn’t forgive you easily, but yet you hoped that he’d learn to, no matter what it took, you’d do it if it meant regaining his trust. Within seconds you were pulled to your feet, front pressed against the cold stones, away from him. 

The whine rumbling through you left Sihtric chuckling, a sound so familiar and yet it dripped with something you weren’t used to, something dark, something that left your body covered in goosebumps. You wanted to look at him, it had been too many hours since you had last gotten the chance to, but Sihtric didn’t loosen his grip, not even as he freed you from the fabrics and leathers covering your body. 

“You’ll take my cock and you’ll thank me for it. It’s the least you can do.” The sob that left you was almost pathetic, torn between the arousal thumping through your veins and the fear holding you hostage. Would he ever forgive you? Would he ever ask you to tell your side of the story? Thoughts that were lost the second he pushed into you from behind. 

It had been too long since Sihtric had last touched you, and yet your body clung to him, begging him to keep on going, to fuck you like you were his. God, how much you wanted to be his, the one to care for, the one who’d hold you close whenever you needed him to. The way he moaned into your ear, hand placed over your mouth to keep you quiet, made you shudder in need. 

“Fuck, they could hang me for humping a traitor, but you feel too good, you always have.” His pleasure-drunken words made you clench around him, eyes squeezed shut to keep your tears from rolling down your cheeks. This was your fault, your wrongdoing, and now you were paying the price, taking the cock of the man you loved, while he called you a traitor. 

You whimpered his name, unable to keep on speaking as his cock nudged against the swollen spot, making you see stars. With your hands pressed against the cold stones, you tried to ground yourself, hoping that you wouldn’t pass out from the intense sensations, especially when he had you on your two feet. 

The sounds of your bodies meeting grew louder as Sihtric felt your orgasm nearing, already done for, set on pushing you over the edge. Tears now dripped from your eyes, guided by the intense pleasure only Sihtric made you feel. Another choked gasp left you as you came on his cock, begging him to follow. 

Sihtric came moments later, imprinting himself on your walls with a groan. The both of you were heavily panting, but while you had your eyes squeezed shut, Sihtric already pulled out of you, wordlessly redressing himself. Slowly you turned towards him, eyebrows furrowed, eyes glassy. 

You wanted to beg him for forgiveness, once again desperate to regain his trust, but he kept on studying you, wordlessly. And without another word leaving him, he turned from you, leaving you behind, with the cell unlocked. He was giving you a way out, a test, nothing more than a test. 

Taglist: @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @hb8301 @zillahvathek @alexagirlie @gemini-mama @verenahx @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @willowbrookesblog @thenameswinter99 @ellabellabus07 @mcbuckyyyy @kirtseinw

[nebulaafterdark]

Can I get something Aegon x Velaryon(Strong) reader where she is his betroth but when he wears the crown she takes side with her mother. Rhaenyra annuls the betrothal and betrothes reader with Cregan Stark. Reader goes to Storm’s End with Luke to gain support. Well the rest is like in the show but Aemond takes her to King’s Landing forcefully after he kills her brother and when Aegon learns she’s betrothed with Cregan he weds her and makes her his queen no matter how much she resist. If you are uncomfortable you don’t have to make it yandere or dobcon/noncon. There can be smut or something else it doesn’t matter. I trust your imagination. I really love your Aegon x Velaryon(Strong) reader theme. There is no enough content in Tumblr about Aegon x niece!reader. Most Aegon contents are about Aegon x sister!reader and those contents doesn’t fulfill my thirst for enemies to lovers plot.

I love it! Enemies to lovers just hits different. But I feel they’re more like frienemies to start. Aegon definitely pulled her hair as a kid and if anyone hurt her (besides him) may the gods give them rest lmao. Let’s get into it 💜

Storm’s End

Aegon x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader

Warning: Targcest, Yandere!Aegon, dark subject matter, mentions of sex, themes of non/dubcon.

Storm’s End. Not a place Aegon’s given much thought to, until now.

Storm’s End. Where the new ruling King sends his brother, Aemond, to retrieve what is his. His half sister’s sweet daughter, Y/N.

Not so long ago they had been betrothed. Before Viserys died and any semblance of ‘family’ shattered. Y/N chose her mother, because she always did.

‘I am no more or less than a vessel tossed about to create the illusion of peace. As my mother’s eldest child, I go willingly, to protect that which come after me.’

That’s what she’d told him. So it came as no surprise when Aegon learned Rhaenyra had betrothed Y/N to Cregan Stark instead. It stung a bit at first, Y/N was the only person he’d bothered getting to know. Unlike his family, affections for him were not guaranteed. Unlike the whores from the pleasure house, she was not required to give him time of day; only to wed him and bear his heirs.

It is no secret that Aegon is intrigued by the Princess. He spent most of his days imagining where she would fit into his life, what their children would look like, how his cock would feel stuffed inside every hole she had. Perhaps it was wrong, perverse at the very least. But so long as she was his no one could stop it. No one would dare.

When word comes that Rhaenyra’s camp has begun flying about the realm, trying to steal his throne, Aegon sees his opportunity and he seizes it. But from the sound of his future Queen, all but growling like a caged animal, something must have gone amiss.

Aemond enters the room, with Y/N kicking and swinging at him, as they go.

“Get your hands off me, you fucking traitor.” Y/N demands, tossing her head back against Aemond with enough force to dislodge his nose.

“Quiet, bastard!” He seethes, shoving her toward his brother to tend his bleeding.

“I told you I wanted her unharmed.” Aegon rushes to Y/N, taking her around the waist. Partly to comfort, mostly to restrain. Her dark hair falls carelessly about her, escaping from the braid trailing down her back. Her cheeks stained with tears, nose running unabashedly. She is inconsolable.

“She did not come easy.” Aemond informs him, through gritted teeth.

“I wouldn’t go anywhere with you, murderer!” Y/N jerks in his arms, lunging for Aemond as best she can.

“What’s she on about?” Aegon demands, attempting to gentle her to no avail.

“He killed my brother.” Y/N wails, the words wrenching from her throat in an inhuman manner.

“Lucerys owed me a debt.” Aemond half smirks.

“He was a baby.” Y/N cries, “he was just a little boy.”

“Leave us,” Aegon commands.

Aemond nods, clearing the room with the other occupants, until only the King and his Queen remain.

Y/N continues to fight against Aegon, wrestling him to the ground.

“Stop it,” Aegon huffs. His body lying over hers, restraining her hands with his own.

Y/N rears back, spitting in his face.

“Oh my dearest love,” he chuckles, “I’ve missed you too.”

Y/N clunks the back of her skull into the stone floor of the throne room. “Kill me,” she pleads, “do it and be done with it.”

“Shhh,” Aegon frowns, “I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to make you my Queen.”

“No,” she shakes her head.

“Wed you in the tradition of our house and Old Valyria, bind our blood forever. Fuck you full of my children. Tear the Seven Kingdoms apart and rebuild them in your image.”

Y/N lets out a sob. “Please, Aegon. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I’ll say you helped me escape.”

Aegon click his tongue at her. Leaning down to her ear, “if I can’t have you, no one will.”

————————————————————————

However improper, Aegon is the one to prepare her for their ceremony. Trickling warm water from the bath over the delicate features of her face.

“Lean up, I’ll wash your hair.” Aegon taps her chin with his forefinger.

Y/N shifts forward, curling in on herself, knees to chest. Arms wrapped tightly around them. “Why are you doing this, Aegon.” Her voice is tired, drained as her body.

It isn’t love, it’s too dark, too selfish, too one sided. It isn’t lust, for he wants more than her body. He hungers for her mind, her soul, to become one in every way. Thoughts of her are all consuming. “Because you’re mine.”

“I’m nothing special. Plain featured bastard at best, by all accounts of your mother.”

“I do not find you plain.” Aegon dampens her locks, smoothing through knotted pieces with his fingers. The dark hair he’s yearned to stroke softly in comfortable silence, to brush sweat damp from her skin as he fucks her.

Y/N peers over at him slowly. Here she has the King on his knees, tending her like a prized possession. She would have married him willingly, in another life. She would have loved him. Instead he chose the crown over her. And she chose her mother over him.

He washes and dries her with a devotion Y/N has never known. Helping her dress in the customary gown.

She is not allowed to leave his side until they are wed before the eyes of thousands. Sliding the blade of her late grandsire’s knife over her palm, pressing it to Aegon’s. Allowing their blood to mingle, seeping into the gauntlet between them.

Y/N feels nothing, not the bite of the blade. Nor the split of her lip, the cool metal of her crown. She is Queen. Traitor to her poor mother who has lost her son. Does she know? Y/N wonders as Aegon reels her in for a kiss. Lapping at the cut on her bottom lip, which matches his own. Does my mother know I’ve betrayed her?

Y/N was always meant to be Queen, one day when Rhaenyra was cold and in her grave. Not now, as she lives and breathes. Does she think I’m dead too?

The bedding ceremony is customary. Y/N goes quietly, draping herself dutifully over the mattress, praying that Aegon is quick about it.

Perhaps he does love her with all the pieces of his decrepit heart. Perhaps she does love him with the fragments of her own. But does it truly matter if this is all they have to show for it? Put on display for the small council as they make love for the first time. To breed children who will feed back and repeat the same jaded cycle.

The sound this thought wretches from Y/N causes Aegon to falter and uncomfortable shifting in the viewing gallery. “I am sorry, sweet girl.” He squeezes her fingers in his.

Had he always been holding her hand?

A lifetime passes in that room and yet no time at all. When it is done the crowd clears; they are alone. Y/N cries, Aegon does too.

If only she and Luce had been sent elsewhere that day. Anywhere but Storm’s End.

“I’m going to get you out of here.” Aegon whispers, stroking her hair with an affection he shouldn’t be capable of. “We’re going to steal away on a ship, sail away, never to return.”

Y/N curls her fist against his chest. “Why would you do that for me?”

“I never wanted this,” he breathes. Not the crown, not the stupid chair. “I wanted you.”

Cregan Stark might have been nice. He might have been a better ally to their cause. In time, he might have come to care for her. But Cregan wouldn’t scour the narrow sea in search of her. Aegon would.

Part 2

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 7: Keep Quiet, Nothing Comes As Easy As You]

A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you so much for reading and loving this fic. 🥰 We are now officially halfway done with WTWICD, can you believe it?! I hope you enjoy Chapter 7. 💜

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, the smallfolk having a bad time everywhere you look, Aemond being a menace, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), discussions of pregnancy/babies, dragons, murder, some new perspectives! 🥰

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Nobody Puts Baby In The Corner” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

In the Eyrie, Rhaena is praying for one of the three dragon eggs in her keeping to hatch. In the shadowy ruins of Harrenhal, Daemon and Nettles are bathing in rooms thick with steam, while outside by the lakeshore Baela brings plump goats to Moondancer. In King’s Landing, Rhaenyra’s Master of Coin Bartimos Celtigar is levying heavy taxes on the smallfolk: taxes on wine, taxes on ale, taxes on inn beds and shop goods, even taxes on the bittersweet parody of love purchased in brothels, taxes on every possible distraction from the ceaseless bloodletting that has infected the world like plague. In the North, Cregan Stark is following the Kingsroad towards Moat Cailin and imagining what you will say to him when you are rescued from the clutches of the Usurper: Oh my love, my champion, my savior, my lord. But south in the Reach, Daeron is flying.

Tessarion’s scales are a blue sheen like light on the ocean; the flapping of her wings is a deafening, roaring wind. She is nimble in the air, lethally quick, banking seamlessly when Daeron asks her to turn towards the Hogs Head, an inn from which torrents of men and women run shrieking. They do not run fast enough. Tessarion’s flames are an electrifying cobalt blue like lightning. Flesh melts away, bones are charred black, screams evaporate as lungs are singed, consumed, destroyed. Daeron’s own lungs work perfectly fine; he is cackling, almost loud enough to hear over the wings and inferno of his dragon. After the inn, Tessarion burns the sept, the marketplace, the castle that is the seat of the disloyal House Caswell. There is a stone bridge, after which the town is named, traversing the Mander River. People are fleeing across it. There are children on the bridge, but this does not stop Daeron. Maelor was a child when these traitors ripped him apart with their bare hands. Jaehaerys was a child, and so is Jaehaera, who may be alive in Storm’s End or may be dead but in any case has suffered the decimation of her family, her brothers and her mother and her grandsire. Daeron is burning Bitterbridge for the Greens, yes. But he is also doing it for himself. And in the wake of Tessarion’s fire, Lord Ormund Hightower’s forces pour into the rubble of the town to seize whatever treasures it has left.

In the Riverlands, Aemond and Vhagar are setting fields of wheat ablaze and incinerating cattle, pigs, sheep, forests that can no longer be used by the Blacks and their supporters for timber. In the Citadel, white ravens are being sent out to the great houses of Westeros to proclaim the end of summer. And on Dragonstone, the Beggar King heals.

He spars with guards that Larys found, is tended by maesters that Larys recruited from the turncoat houses of the Crownlands, rules over a microcosm kingdom that Larys built for him. Aegon tires quickly, sleeps often, aches and collapses and bleeds, gets sunburned when he is outside too long on those rare clear days. But he always rises again. “Perpetual Resurrection,” he says, grinning through the pain when you caution him to be patient, to be careful. “I’m not dying. I’m becoming brand new.”

You hunt for softshell crabs together on the rocky shoreline, fill a basket with them, bring them to the cooks to serve the skeleton crew of the castle for supper. You walk through the gardens, a pine-smelling woodland of towering coniferous trees, thorny rose bushes, blood-red cranberries, indelicate creatures that can thrive in the thin, inhospitable earth here. You study the books of the castle library—an impossibly vast, ancient collection, safeguarding texts from Old Valyria—while Aegon swims in the ocean with Sunfyre, laughing and diving as the dragon glides around him in large, lazy circles. Sunfyre can fly, but only a very short distance at a time; he is ungainly when he walks on land with his improperly-healed right wing. But in the water, he and Aegon are both unbroken again. Soon they will be ready for battle. Soon they will have to leave this island, this mist-and-smoke haven, to rejoin the war effort; soon they will have to leave you.

You crave Aegon like some people need wine, rum, gin, gold, power, violence, milk of the poppy. He is ecstasy, he is consolation, he is a spell. He is your home; and any place you’ve ever mistaken for home was only an echo of the truth that you would one day find him. Even on that very first night, as the storm raged outside, you whispered to Aegon when you both woke long before sunrise: “I want you again.”

“You’ll be sore,” he warned, a warm murmur against your forehead. “We can wait. I can wait.” But already his hands were moving, and your thighs were opening, and he followed your body and your words when they told him yes, now, and tomorrow, and the day after that, and the next day too.

You smile when Aegon calls you insatiable, but you know that’s not quite it.

You are acutely aware that nothing lasts forever, not even him, not even you.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Are the days getting shorter?” you ask, your bare feet ankle-deep in wet sand. Sunfyre is out in the waves eating dolphins; a slippery-looking grey tail hangs from his snaggletoothed jaw.

“I think you just want the nights to be longer.” Aegon winks up at you. His head is in your lap, his arms linked around your waist. You are weaving his little braid for him. His hair is just above shoulder-length and as choppy as ever. He periodically takes his dagger to it and hacks away haphazardly, determined to never look like Aemond, Daeron, Daemon, his father. He burrows into the softness of your belly and shuts his eyes. “Perhaps winter is coming.”

In more ways than one, you think bleakly, picturing Cregan Stark on the Kingsroad with snow in his long dark hair and dirt on his hands. “We should ask Lord Larys if he’s heard anything.” As the Citadel—and most of the rest of Westeros—believes Dragonstone to be unoccupied, they would not have sent a white raven here. But several times each week Larys receives visitors from Eagle Harbor, and they bring him rumors in exchange for gold coins and promises that when Aegon once again sits the Iron Throne, their faithfulness will be generously rewarded.

Aegon hums agreeably; he is dozing. After a moment he says: “I keep dreaming of her.”

“Who?”

“Helaena,” Aegon says, his voice lethargic and eyes still closed. “She brings me things. Butterflies, crabs, snakes. Things that are reborn. She puts them in my hands or in my bed and won’t take them away when I ask her to. She keeps telling me: Don’t fall, don’t fall.”

You finish Aegon’s braid and comb his unruly hair back with your fingers, soothing him, listening to him. You try not to think of the way Helaena died, crushed and hemorrhaging on golden sandstone. Instead, you picture her living: strange yet gentle, tragic but kind. You see her children as well, white-haired and beautiful and doted on not by their parents but by Alicent and Otto and you…and Aemond. You remember Aemond’s quiet resentment, his simmering and dangerous envy. You recall Aegon’s half-flippant accusation: You’re always developing attachments to things that are mine. Targaryens have wed brothers to sisters since long before the Conquest, but that doesn’t mean they always got the combination quite right. “Aegon, was Aemond…was he in love with Helaena? Did he desire her?”

“No. Not like that. He cared for her, but I don’t believe he had any lust for Helaena. He just thought he would have been a better husband to her than I was. That he would have caused her less misery. That he was more worthy of carrying on the bloodline, of being the children’s father. And he was right, of course.”

“What happened to Helaena is not your fault,” you say. “And neither is what happened to Jaehaerys or Maelor.”

“I’m glad Daeron burned them all,” Aegon says quietly, meaning the people of Bitterbridge, a tale ferried to Larys from one of his numerous, nameless informants.

“I know you are, Aegon.” You can’t bring yourself to agree with him. Does one dead child bring back another? Does each swatch of flesh burned away from a supporter of Rhaenyra replace one that was sheared off the bones of a Green? No, of course not, but the wheel goes around and around and around.

In the sky, another sort of wheel: a sun that burns cool and muted behind a thicket of iron-colored clouds. High above where you and Aegon are entwined on the beach, something crosses in front of the shrouded sun, casting an impossibly large shadow. You gasp; at the sound, Aegon bolts upright onto his palms and knees and follows your gaze. There is a profound, archaic rumbling, something old and intractable like thunder, earthquakes, floodwaters rising.

A dragon, you know immediately. You try frantically to determine whether you recognize its voice. Too large to be Tessarion or Syrax, too deep a roar to be Caraxes. Sheepstealer?? Vermithor?? But no, you have heard this beast before after all, it’s—

“Vhagar!” Aegon shouts, and scrambles to his feet. As the massive swamp-green dragon disappears behind the castle, soaring rather sluggishly, Aegon sprints as fast as he can up the stone steps towards the entranceway. You follow Aegon into Dragonstone and there the visitor meets you both, sailing down a staircase with eerie lightness, his boots hardly making a sound, his long silver hair secured in a single thick braid. Larys arrives as well and stands in the dreary, torchlit chamber, appearing as he always does: face servile and tactfully intrigued, hands laced together overtop the handle of his cane, back stooped as if to make himself smaller, less threatening, more invisible.

“I got to thinking you might be here,” Aemond tells Aegon. He sounds pleasantly surprised. “You look better.” Then he notices you. “Oh. Perhaps that accounts for some of it.”

“Where’s Criston?” Aegon asks. Meanderingly, so it is sufficiently subtle, he takes several steps until he has placed himself between you and Aemond.

“Somewhere near Saltpans.”

“You left him?” Aegon is incredulous, furious.

“Temporarily,” Aemond says. “It is not the first time. Between battles Vhagar and I raze the farms and villages of the Riverlands. Criston and his men are more than capable of fending for themselves. I’ll be back in a day.”

“You’re supposed to stay with Criston,” Aegon insists, speaking slowly and deliberately as if to a child who might have difficulty understanding. “You promised that you would. The war is on the battlefield, not on goddamn farms.”

“And what feeds Rhaenyra’s forces? Is it not grain and cattle? And so if I destroy their food supply—while our own soldiers are still receiving regular shipments from the Westerlands and the Reach—am I not inflicting catastrophic damage to the Blacks?”

“You’re burning…civilian property?” you say to Aemond. “You’re killing women and children and old people? You’re laying waste their homesteads?”

“It’s total war.” Aemond stares at you defiantly; there is no suggestion of self-doubt in his face. “It is a well-documented strategy employed across continents and centuries. We kill soldiers on the battlefield. We endanger their families back home. Many men will desert to return to their imperiled wives and children. Others will starve. All are broken. All are rendered ineffectual to our enemy’s cause. And thus we will triumph.”

You and Aegon gape at him, not knowing what to say, not knowing what is right or wrong in a world where children are slaughtered and grown men murder with impunity. When will this war be over? How can we end it? Will any of our souls survive the choices we’ve made with our backs to the wall?

“My prince, you chose an excellent time to pay us a visit,” Larys offers diplomatically. “I have just received news that may be of interest to you. And you can bring it back to Sir Criston and his men when you return to the Riverlands tomorrow.”

“What news?” Aegon asks.

“Wait,” Aemond says; and he smiles, dark and hungry like a wolf, like a dragon. “I want to see the place where my ancestors made their war plans. I want to sit in Rhaenyra’s chair.”

On the top floor of the Stone Drum, the main keep of Dragonstone that booms and growls during storms, servants light the candles beneath the Painted Table and bring wine, ale, bread, cheese, honeycomb, jam, candied walnuts, red cherries and violet grapes. The map of Westeros, older than the Conquest, is striped with snakes of fiery luminance like lava. Aegon twists the gold dragon ring on his finger, its jade eyes sparkling. You gave it back to him the day after you arrived on Dragonstone; he says that when he wins the war, he will have a matching piece made for you, but with a crab in place of a dragon.

Larys cautions before he begins: “I cannot tell you the perfect truth. I can only tell you what I’ve heard from the whispers that make their way to me.”

“And what have you heard?” Aemond says. Aegon glances petulantly at him, as if debating whether to remind his brother that a prince regent is not quite a king.

“The Dragonseeds known as Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White—and with them, Vermithor and Silverwing—have officially declared for the Greens.”

“Yes!” Aegon beams and raises his wine cup. He refuses milk of the poppy, even on his worst days; he does not want to be senseless, he does not want to leave you unprotected. But he drinks red wine often and grows ill if he is without it for long. Aemond is laughing victoriously. The brothers are momentarily united.

“There was a battle at Tumbleton in the Reach,” Larys continues. “Lord Ormund Hightower was slain by Roddy the Ruin who, allegedly, managed the feat after one of his arms was severed clean from his body. These Northmen are formidable beasts, to be sure.”

Aegon looks at you, a fleeting, fearful look.

“The people of Tumbleton believed the battle to be over, but then Vermithor and Silverwing joined Tessarion in torching the city. All the Blacks’ commanders were killed, along with most of their soldiers. And the city was sacked. There are reports of looting and…well, all manner of indecencies being committed against the civilians of Tumbleton, mostly women and children. Even septas and silent sisters.”

Now an awkward silence settles over the Painted Table. Ruin, heartbreak, agony, death; but somebody else’s. It could have been yours instead. Perhaps tomorrow it will be. Perhaps there is no end to suffering, only a reallocation of it to people who you do not know, do not love. Perhaps the debt can never be satisfied but only passed to another.

Larys goes on: “The people of King’s Landing are petrified that the Greens and their dragons will descend upon them and subject the capital to the same atrocities that Tumbleton experienced. Rhaenyra had to order the gold cloaks to seal the city gates to keep her supposedly loyal subjects inside.”

“The smallfolk’s support for her continues to weaken?” Aemond says.

“It does more than weaken. Many people there detest her. Bartimos Celtigar has imposed heavy taxes upon the city. The smallfolk fear that Daemon has abandoned Rhaenyra, and therefore that they cannot expect protection from Caraxes and Sheepstealer. And…” Larys peers around the Painted Table apologetically.

“…And?” Aegon presses.

“Rhaenyra’s youngest son…Viserys…” Larys sighs, an anemic, perfunctory breed of sympathy. “He is dead. Of illness, it seems. The luckless lad.”

“He was always sickly,” you say, remembering his unwaveringly watery eyes and dripping nose. And you almost say Poor Rhaenyra, but then you remember how the Blacks celebrated Maelor’s death with cheers and rare, bloody boar meat.

“Yes,” Larys concurs. “That is what the people believe, that he perished due to natural causes.”

Aemond is watching the Master of Whisperers closely. “What does Rhaenyra think caused it?”

“She suspects poison,” Larys tells him. “She is convinced of poison, I should say. She raved and she threatened and she spewed accusations. She executed a dozen people, none of whom could be connected to the death of the boy with any certainty. The smallfolk feel she has gone mad. And there is one more crime the people have branded her with.” Larys turns to you.

Your heard pounds wildly, hot blood thuds in your ears. “Has something happened to Everett—?”

“Not him. The Celtigars themselves are safe from her wrath. Bartimos is too near to the throne, and Rhaenyra trusts him. But the servant girl—Autumn, you called her—she went into labor a month early and was delivered of a boy.” Now Larys’ eyes flick to Aegon, whose face goes pale and panicked. “A boy with blue eyes and silver hair.”

Aemond rocks back in his chair and shakes his head.

“Oh,” Aegon moans. “Oh.” He clutches his chest with one hand and looks to you. He says weakly: “I’m so sorry, Angel. It didn’t mean anything. The child…it…it will never really be mine—”

“It won’t be anyone’s,” Larys says. “Rhaenyra had him run through with a sword.”

“What?!” Aemond exclaims. “A baby? An infant? In her own castle, in the Red Keep?”

You are horrified. “Did Autumn witness this?”

“I’m not certain, my lady,” Larys replies. “What I have heard is that Rhaenyra proclaimed it vengeance for agents of the Greens murdering her youngest son. She declared all bastards of the Usurper to be enemies of the realm and thus sentenced to death. She has offered rewards for anyone who brings a white-haired child to her for execution. And the smallfolk are absolutely, viciously appalled by her. The Street of Silk in particular is rife with people plotting the so-called queen’s downfall. She is surrounded by enemies. And she has only two male heirs left.”

“Two more than Aegon,” Aemond mutters.

“Is Autumn alright?” you ask Larys. “Did Rhaenyra harm her?”

“Your brother Everett attempted to advocate for Autumn and the child. He was ignored; your father and eldest brother were vehemently in support of the murder. Shortly after the baby was killed, Autumn disappeared from King’s Landing. I’m sure Everett facilitated this escape. No one knows her present whereabouts.”

“She’s just gone? No signs whatsoever?”

“Nobody ever knows anything.” Aemond waves at Aegon. “They think he’s in Dorne.”

“Seven hells,” Aegon whispers, rubbing his face with his hands.

“Rhaenyra is destroying herself,” you say. “She is doing the work for us. If you try to take King’s Landing with dragonfire raining down on Green supporters who are effectively held captive, there will be ill-will against you in the capital that will last for generations. But if they overthrow Rhaenyra on their own, you can reclaim the city bloodlessly.”

Larys taps his fingers meditatively against the Painted Table. “I do wonder if Daemon would intervene to support her. His present motivations are…somewhat nebulous. To Blacks and Greens alike. But he controls their most powerful assets.”

“You haven’t crossed paths with Caraxes and Sheepstealer in Riverlands, I assume?” Aegon asks Aemond.

“No. We are locked in a dance of sorts. I’m not certain that Vhagar can win against two dragons of that size; they must know that it is almost certain that at least one of them would be killed in the struggle even if they defeated me. This Nettles girl’s dragon riding skills are unclear. Perhaps Daemon is training her, perhaps he is now sufficiently attached that he does not want her in combat. So we avoid each other. But when the girl is gone—when Daemon tires of her, or when Rhaenyra sends assassins to murder her, or when she is removed from the board by some other means—I will meet Daemon in battle and end him.”

“Your priority is protecting Criston,” Aegon orders; but there is trepidation in his large, ocean-blue eyes, there is defenseless worry there. “Wherever Criston goes, you go with him. I’ll be ready to fight again soon. I’ll be able to help you.”

“Daemon is mine. I want to face him alone.”

“I am the king!” Aegon thunders, and you can see the strength leaving him like birds taking flight from cold, bare winter trees. “You will not behave recklessly. You will not abandon Criston. We are winning in the Reach, and we are winning in King’s Landing without even being there, and we will win in the Riverlands too if you don’t sabotage us with your relentless fucking pride.”

You and Larys study Aemond. He examines the flame-colored light of the Painted Table, tracing the etchings of rivers and mountains with his fingertips. “Fine,” he concedes, very quietly.

“And one more thing,” Aegon tells his brother.

With great reluctance, Aemond meets his gaze. “Yes?”

“If you have the opportunity to burn Cregan Stark, take it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

When Aegon collapses into the bed you share, you curl up against his scarred chest, listen to his heartbeat, breathe in heat and rose oil and the salt of the ocean. He does not ask you what is wrong. He does not speak of Autumn or her child, his child, no matter how indifferent or remorseful he might have been. He holds you knowing that there is nothing he can say to make the world whole again. He can only rest until he is well enough to fly into battle, where he might be further maimed or taken captive or murdered. And what then? What was this all for?

“Somewhere there are people just living,” you marvel. “They’re reading books, they’re having supper, they’re getting married, they’re tending to their crops and their animals. And none of them are thinking about war or massacres or dragonfire.”

“Yes,” Aegon says simply, pulling you in closer, one palm pressed to the small of your back and the other brushing your hair away from your face so he can kiss you, soft and slow. “But they’re not us.”

When Aegon is on the edge of sleep, you tell him that you love him, as you do each day. He has not heard it enough in his life; you are trying to remedy that now. And as always, Aegon does not say it back. Instead, he murmurs something in High Valyrian that you cannot understand. Now you commit it to memory, repeating it silently to yourself again and again until Aegon is sleeping deeply and you can rise from the bed without disturbing him. You go to your writing desk and scribble it down on a small piece of parchment: the way this word sounds in the letters of the Common Tongue. You have no way to translate it. There are books written in High Valyrian in the castle library, but you do not know the alphabet of the language, and you have yet to find a text that can teach it to you. When you ask Aegon for lessons, he demurs and says that he doesn’t know High Valyrian well enough to teach you. You think he just wants a way to say things you won’t be able to comprehend. You squirrel the parchment away in the pocket of your gown and slip out of the bedchamber you share with Aegon.

It is far too early for your mind to stop racing, only sunset. You wander down halls of shifting shadows and iron dragons, fantastically high ceilings and narrow slits of windows. Questions fill your skull like rushing blood in the chambers of a heart: Where is Autumn? Is she alright? Is she safe? Is Everett, is Jaehaera, is Alicent? Are Criston and Daeron? Are any of us?

When you cross through the doorway and onto a balcony that overlooks the ocean, Aemond is to your left. He is nursing a cup of wine and leaning over the stone wall that separates you from a long, treacherous fall onto black rocks that jut out of the sea like the hilts of daggers from a corpse’s back. You whirl away from him and towards the craggy staircase that leads down to the beach.

“Now you’re going to pretend you didn’t see me?” Aemond calls out.

You halt mid-step, consider it, then return to him. “You’re just so undistinguished in appearance. So easy to miss.”

He gives you one of his enigmatic, teasing smirks. His hair blows in the breeze that tastes like salt and sulfur and mist. He wears a dark, lush green. Then he peers avoidantly down into his wine. “I…I don’t think I ever adequately apologized for what transpired regarding the brothel. The Pink Pearl.”

“You didn’t.”

“It is a place…” Aemond pauses. He chooses his words cautiously, like handling something that could easily break, a glass goblet, an egg, a butterfly in an open palm. “It is a place that I associate with great unpleasantness. I made assumptions about where your loyalties lied. I felt that you had hurt me, that you had caused me to suffer. And I wanted you to suffer in return.”

“It was a horrific thing to do,” you say pitilessly. “It was cruel. It was evil.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that now. That’s why I’m apologizing.”

“Then do it properly.”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond says. It takes some effort. “I was wrong.”

“You were.”

“And I’m glad Aegon was able to haul himself out of bed to rescue you. It’s not often that he gets to be the noble brother, the gallant one.”

“It happens more often than you’d think.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow. Beneath his eyepatch, you know, is a winter-cold sapphire in a bed of mangled flesh, a treasure steeped in corruption. “How long have you been here?”

“Two months.” No, more than that. “Two and a half, or thereabouts.”

“And I assume there has been no shortage of…horizontal activities with my brother.”

“Not exclusively horizontal,” you snap, to make him regret being so forward, to make him uncomfortable. “We are more inventive than that.”

It works; Aemond flushes a gory mottled pink. Still he manages: “And you have not yet conceived?”

You glare at him, ice and fire at once. “No.”

“Why do you think that is?”

You shrug, exasperated, dismissive. “Aegon has been through so much physical trauma, perhaps he is no longer capable of having children. Perhaps I never was. Perhaps it will happen in a month or six months or a year. Perhaps it is not meant for us. Only the gods know.”

“You aren’t at all concerned?”

In truth, no; you are so consumed by whether Aegon will survive the war with any vestige of humanity intact that anything beyond this seems hopelessly distant, a constellation, a shadow on the moon, the silvery gleam of a comet. “It’s not something I spend much time thinking about.”

“It should be,” Aemond insists. “If the Greens expect men to go to war for us, for women to give up their husbands and sons to us, we should have a stable succession to offer them in return. Jaehaerys and Maelor are gone. Jaehaera is a girl and cannot inherit even if she is alive and well in Storm’s End. Aegon needs an heir.”

“Aren’t you next in line for the throne, Aemond?” you say cuttingly. “And isn’t that the role you believe yourself best suited for? Being king? Proving how worthy you were all along?”

He is uneasy, perhaps ashamed, evading your eyes. “Regrettably, I cannot begin trying for my own sons until the war is over and I marry Borros Baratheon’s daughter, as I pledged to in return for his support for our side. Daeron will not be able to marry for several years. In the meantime, there is this…disquieting lack of certainty. To complicate matters, Aegon has bastards in King’s Landing, I’m sure. The red-haired girl was far from the first whore to lie with him. If he does not have a trueborn son, claimants will appear to challenge mine or Daeron’s for the throne.”

You search yourself—unspoken longing and ancient cobwebbed fears—for any desire for a child of your own. You cannot find it. You are fond of children, you find fulfillment in caring for them, but the need to carry and deliver one yourself? It is not something you can remember ever yearning for. It always felt like yet another way in which your body would be used to further some man’s legacy, to give him pleasure at your expense. “Can you tell me what this means?” you ask, handing Aemond the folded piece of parchment that you’d tucked into the pocket of your gown. He takes it with one long, lithe hand. “I’ve probably spelled it wrong. I’ve never seen it written, only heard it spoken aloud.”

Aemond opens the parchment. His river-blue eye narrows; thoughtful creases appear in his brow. “Aegon has said this? To you?”

“More than once.”

“What prompted it?”

“Does your translation depend upon the context?”

“Hm.” Aemond skates his thumbprint over the dried black ink. Then he looks at you. “It means: To your misfortune.”

The alarm must show on your face.

“Not like a threat,” Aemond clarifies. “It is a common expression. It suggests that someone has entrusted something of value to the undeserving. It implies naivety. Unwise benevolence. But it is certainly not malicious. It is usually said fondly, like a backhanded compliment.” He returns the parchment to you. You rip it over and over again until it is only scraps that vanish in the wind, Aegon’s voice speaking to you: I ruin causes. I ruin people.

“Why did you kill Luke?” you ask Aemond, not accusingly but with hushed, weary wonder. “There was very little strategic advantage in it. There was great peril as a result. Rhaenyra will never surrender, never negotiate. You will forever be known as a kinslayer. You could have taken him captive. You could have humiliated him, you could have shown the world how weak he was. Why did you have to kill him?”

Aemond says nothing for a long time. He stares out over the ocean where the sun is setting, dolphin fins cut in swift arcs through the surf, Sunfyre dozes on wet sand, the sky glows dream-lavender and blood orange. He sips his wine and contemplates things that are mysteries to you. Aemond keeps his thoughts like untrustworthy animals: in cages, in darkness, turning fierce and feral, snapping jaws and rattling chains. At last he says: “They’re all dead anyway. They were from the moment Aegon was born and my father refused to name him the heir. It’s all of them or all of us. You think there is any scenario in which Aegon reigns as king while Rhaenyra’s children survive? No, no. Someone will always be willing to fight and die for them. Just like Green loyalists would have been willing to fight for Jaehaerys and Maelor.” Something shifts in his face like the breaking of a wave, and for a second you can glimpse the deep well of dark, helpless misery inside him, filling up drop by drop since he was a boy. Then Aemond is steely again. “Luke had to die. So did Jace and Rhaenys and that eternally sniffling toddler Viserys. And all the other Blacks will follow. Unless you care to see Aegon’s blood spilled. And mine, and Daeron’s.”

“No,” you say softly, an agonized little whisper that understands, that surrenders. “No, that cannot happen.”

Aemond takes another swallow of his wine and drums his fingertips restlessly against the cup. “Any heir our side puts forth must have undisputed parentage and Valyrian features. Aegon’s wife is dead. He can marry you. You are a Celtigar, you share our blood, you carry the memories of silver hair and rare magic in the marrow of your bones. These attributes are dormant in you, yet could be passed on to a child. A son of yours could secure the succession and one day inherit the Iron Throne. But the father has to be a Targaryen.”

You turn to Aemond, perplexed and wary. His wording is strange. “Well, it has to be Aegon.”

Aemond is impatient, irritated. You have not been keeping up. He says, his eye on the darkening horizon: “There are other Targaryens.”

You stare at him. You don’t understand, you don’t understand, and then suddenly you do. “What?”

This is not the reaction Aemond had hoped for. He gulps down the last of his wine, leaves the cup on the stone wall, storms down the staircase to reunite with Vhagar and resume burning the noncombatants of the Riverlands to ash.

~~~~~~~~~~

He finds her at the shore of the Gods Eye, rippling blue like a vast mirror. The Isle of Faces—forbidden, undiscoverable—is a faint mirage in the distance. Moondancer is circling overhead. Baela is perched on a large rock by the water’s edge and fishing; she is intrigued by tales of the strange creatures that dwell here, the hungry currents, the way this corner of the world has only a translucent, threadbare veil between our world and the realm of spirits, ghosts, demons. She has always been curious and bold by nature. She has always been his most beloved child.

“You found your way out of Nettles’ bed,” Baela pitches, a jest but not a judgment. She is already developing an appetite of her own that renders monogamy woefully lacking. She mourns Jace, but not the woman she would have had to pretend to be for him. “I’m shocked.”

Daemon smirks, tilting his head to the side like a wolf does as it’s listening. “You know how sheets have a way of getting tangled. Around ankles, around wrists…sometimes it is difficult to free oneself.”

“You were fighting hard, I’m sure.”

“Yes, all morning.”

Baela chuckles, reels in her fishing line, recasts it. She cares deeply for Rhaenyra and is loyal to her still, but Baela shares her father’s pathological aversion to weakness. She feels that Rhaenyra has driven Daemon away with her moodiness, her melancholy, her unmooring from the fearless, ardent woman she once was. Daemon says that being with Nettles is like being with a young Rhaenyra again. It would not be just to condemn him for seeking out what Rhaenyra took from him and has no intention of returning.

Daemon says: “I want you to go to Dragonstone.”

Baela is aghast, betrayed. “You are getting rid of me?”

“I am entrusting you with a vital enterprise.”

Now she is intrigued. Now she is considering it.

“Moondancer is too small to fight Vhagar, Tessarion, Vermithor, or Silverwing,” Daemon says. “If Caraxes and Sheepstealer meet Vhagar in battle, you cannot go with us. Nor should we leave you here unprotected. And I know you have been impatient for an opportunity to play a more…consequential role in the war.”

“I long to be useful,” Baela agrees. “More than anything.”

“Go to Dragonstone,” Daemon says. “It is vacant, it is safe. But it must remain under the Blacks’ control. Patrol it and ensure the Greens do not try to take the island and find riders for Grey Ghost or the Cannibal. Rhaenyra will return to Dragonstone if she is ever forced out of King’s Landing. I have tasked you with making it ready for her.”

“And I have permission to execute any traitors who might appear there?”

“Yes. You may swing the sword yourself. Or feed them to Moondancer, whichever you prefer.”

Baela smiles, a slow, toothy grin that spreads across her face like plague, like fire. “When can I leave?”

[irisintheafterglow]

The Archer (gojo x you)

summary: after your best friend becomes viewed as a monster, the only thing to do is cling to the ones that loved him too. (or, screaming who could ever leave me darling, but who could stay?)

wc: 1.1k

cw/tags: hurt/comfort, angst but heartwarming ending, manga/anime spoilers, established relationship, pet names (babe, baby, sweetheart, etc), mention of vomiting but nothing descriptive, yeah did i mention angst

note: i just need to hold gojo satoru and tell him that it's going to be okay is that too much to ask for (anyways hope you enjoy the pain that my brain farted out)

likes/reblogs/feedback are always appreciated <3

“Su?” He freezes, rooted in place as the sun casts shadows on his unreadable expression. “Where are you going?” He sticks his hands into his pockets and turns to you with a smile so fake you need to take a step back. He'd lost a lot of weight but what terrified you the most was the calm aura that surrounded his weakened body, a contentment that was scary to see on someone in so much agony.

“Mission, just a few Curses plaguing a village of about a hundred.” Forcing normalcy into his voice was as successful as forcing a square block into a round hole and you couldn’t stop the worry from leaking onto your face. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I had another dream.” His face falls, washing over into careful blankness. He was used to this, your technique and the consequences it brought. It was, however, a long time since you confronted someone directly about what you see. “You know, Future, it doesn’t show me what will happen.” He won’t meet your eyes and you hesitantly take a few more steps toward him.

“It shows me what can happen.” 

His words are cautious, delicate as if saying the wrong sentence would break you like a fragile piece of pottery. “And what did you see?” 

“Something that I’m begging you not to fulfill.” You swallow the lump in your throat and blink back the fear threatening to spill over from your eyes. “I’m so scared, Suguru. I’m so fucking scared.” You stumble the rest of the way forward and his arms wrap around you instinctually, holding you tightly as you continue to plead for him not to go. He pulls away to look at you and a sliver of hope pokes the back of your mind when you see the conflict in his eyes. It disappears as resolve hardens on his face. 

“You’re family. Whatever I do, I will not harm you.” 

“I need you to promise you won’t–”

“I can’t promise anything beyond that.” After a moment you have no choice but to nod, defeated, and he pulls away for the last time. “You have my word.”

The news hits you like a train that you saw coming ten miles away, knocking the air from your lungs and sending shards of invisible shrapnel into your body. Because of your technique, you know before everyone–Yaga, Shoko, Nanami, the higher-ups, Satoru. You feel the moment Suguru makes his decision in your own body like cruel twin telepathy and you rush into the nearest bathroom to expel everything you’d eaten that day. You feel the same sensation again when word reaches Yaga, the whispers of massacre and Curse User and traitor seeping into your ears. Nothing, however, could compare to the storm you felt when Yaga told Satoru. 

You fall asleep early in the days after Suguru leaves. Not because his absence didn’t keep you up at night, but because you didn’t really know what to do except hide in dreams. Dreams that kept you in a state of blissful ignorance; you, Suguru, Satoru, and Shoko at the fair or the park or the beach, not scattered into four separate corners by indifferent Fate. Suguru’s departure felt like a severing of your soul, like your brother died rather than your best friend leaving. You avoided others like prey escaping a predator, paranoidly checking reflections in windows for people you didn’t have the energy to talk with and ducking behind corners when voices got too near. When the few missions you completed were over, you were back in bed, curled into yourself so tightly that no one could reach you. 

No one, at least, except Satoru.

He calls you some nights later and you squint against the harsh light of your phone screen. 

“Satoru?”

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.” There’s a forced smirk in his voice that you see through like glass, immediately noticing the way his pained tone wavers with every uttered word. “Did I wake you from your beauty rest?”

“Mhmm,” you hum exhaustedly, groaning as you sit up in the darkness and swing your legs over the side of your bed. “Door’s open if you need it.”

“Yeah…okay.” The melodically teasing tone in his voice drops in an instant, as does its volume. You make sure there’s an unopened bottle of water ready for when he gets to your dorm. He was probably just as dehydrated from sobbing as you are. “I’m sorry.” 

“For what, love?” 

“Waking you.” You laugh softly, rubbing your eyes and sitting back on the edge of your bed. 

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re too good at that.”

“What, knowing when you’re lying? I thought we weren’t supposed to lie to each other. Relationships 101.” He huffs as much of a chuckle as he can. “What are you really sorry about, Satoru?

His voice cracks and your heart feels like it’s been stabbed a hundred times. “I need you. Really badly.” There was no suggestive air or promiscuous tone in his voice, just unfiltered desperation not to be alone. “Can I–”

“Of course. Get over here; I miss you.” 

You time the duration it takes for him to get to you, two minutes on the dot. He opens your door slowly as if to check if you’re still awake, and shuts it just as gently. You flick on your nightstand lamp and feel your stomach sink when you fully take in just how tired he looks. There’s no trace of anger or frustration on his face, only pure loss. The bags under his eyes deepen as he sighs, avoiding your eyes for the first time you can remember. He just stands there in the middle of your room, deflated and suffering. When he speaks, it’s a strangled and helpless choke. 

“I couldn’t–”

“Shh, just come here.” You rise from your bed and catch him when his knees buckle, his face buried in your shoulder. He doesn’t cry or heave like you did; he just grabs whatever he can with his hands and holds you so needily his arms start to tremble. “I’m right here, baby. I’m not going anywhere.” 

When you finally slide under the covers with him, he’s still clinging to you like you’d float away if he let go. “Stay.” He pleads with you even as you have him locked against your chest, gently carding your fingers through his hair. It’s soft between your fingers and reflects the little moonlight seeping through the cracks in your curtains. 

“I will.” You press another kiss to his forehead as if to seal your words, but he doesn’t feel safe yet. 

“Please, stay.” 

“I swear on my life that I will not leave your side.” You try to lace Cursed Energy into your words, make them as unbreakable as you command them to be. Squeezing your eyes shut, you breathe him in, willing him to let himself go. To not be the honored one or the strongest sorcerer, but Satoru, to break down and grieve just as any other man would. 

“I’m so sorry.” There it is, baby. Just let go. 

“I know, sweetheart. Rest now, I’ve got you.”

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[throneofsapphics]

points for creativity 

Cazriel x f!Reader

Summary: Cassian comes up with a solution to your fight. 

Warnings: nudity, arguing, suggestiveness, not proofread, minors dni!

A/N: this wouldn’t leave my mind 

“I’m tired of this.” Cassian muttered, and grabbed your hand - dragging you right to your bedroom. “Take your clothes off.” 

“Excuse me?” You yelped, but he stormed in and kicked the door shut behind him, finally letting go of your wrist. He took a few steps away from you and crossed his arms over his body, grabbing the edges of the fabric. You were distracted, admiring the planes of his stomach, the way they moved as he stretched, the shirt discarded to the side. 

“Stop ogling.” He grunted, “your turn.” 

You narrowed your eyes, but he had an expectant look on his face, his arms crossed over his chest, and you decided to play along. You let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling your eyes before angrily pulling your shirt over your head, bunching it up and launching it at him. He caught it with a chuckle before tossing it to the side. He eyed the band over your chest. 

“That too.” 

“What the fuck is this,” you mumbled, but listened to him. The rest of both of your clothes followed, until you both were standing naked in the bedroom, a few feet away from each other. 

“Now yell at me.” 

What were you arguing about in the first place? “You were the one yelling.” You snipped at him, ignoring how his fists clenched slightly. It was more difficult to get angry at him like this, with him bare in front of you. Still, somehow you ended up in a slightly less heated argument about what the argument actually was, and who started it - but not about the issue itself. 

Both of you were distracted enough that you didn’t hear the door creak open. 

“Do I want to know what’s going on?” Azriel’s cool voice echoed through the room, shadows pooling around his ankles. You figured he knows exactly what’s happening, but wants to hear it from the two of you. 

You pointed over to Cassian, “he thought this was a solution to our … disagreement.” 

“You both were just yelling at each other.” He deadpanned, closing the door and leaning back against it, arms crossed over his chest as his mouth quirked up at the corners. 

“Her voice isn’t bursting my ear drums now.” Cassian muttered and you flipped your middle finger at him. Azriel curled his fingers inward, motioning for you to come closer to him. 

You strode across the room, the wind hardening your nipples and watched how his eyes tracked that - his pupils dilating. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest and placing a kiss against the top of your hair. 

“Traitor.” You heard the other male, and hid your smile in his chest. 

“I said nothing.” Azriel murmured, but his hand ran up and down your spine. 

“I’m prettier naked.” You mumbled, squeezing him before turning in his arms to see Cassian’s look of mock-hurt. You could tell Azriel was scanning Cassian’s body, based on how he seemed to be preening, standing a little straighter. 

“You’re pretty too Cassian.” Azriel finally said, flicking one of your nipples when you called him a traitor, keeping his arm tight around you as you squirmed, an indignant yelp leaving your lips. He lowered his mouth to your ear, lips grazing across it. “Hush.” 

His palm spread across your stomach, his thumb running light strokes up and down. “Well,” he pushed you closer to him, your body easily melting into his. “What were you fighting about?” 

[cherllyio]

The Warrior of Flower Fruit Mountain

This is Macaques design from my Moana AU.

He is currently an enomurs and terryfing Shadow Monster, but he was once Sun Wukongs old "friend", and travel buddy on their many voyages together in the past.

Why is he like this? Well i made little angsty backstory, with clues to what happend to the once great Warrior.

You can read it either here, or on A03 where i also posted it (here)

The Voyager, The Sun and The Monster

Chapter 1 (Prolouge): Drowned by your Love

There is a small island, somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, where both terrifying demons and small monkeys live together. One of these creatures inhabiting the Island, while just as much monkey and demon as the rest, stand outs quite a lot.

He has beautiful silk white hair, six magical ears, that can catch the wind flap of a bird thousands of miles away, and a pair of radiant golden eyes, that will pierce through anyone who dares come near.

His name? Liu Mihou. Also rightfully known as “The Warrior of Flower Fruit Mountain”

On normal circumstances The Warrior would be either be training, gathering food supplies for him and the other monkeys, or making his presence known, to any hostile idiot, dumb enough to try and challenge him. 

But not today. Today, you can find The Warrior in the early morning light, preparing for voyage he is not sure when, or if he will ever come back from.

Yet... The Silk Monkey knows it will be worth it. For the person he is looking for is worth everything, and more, that can be worth something in this world.

 “The King of Flower Fruit Mountain!”, “The great sage equal to heaven!”, “The Monkey King!”. Or, as Mihou knew him: “My Sun”.

Just a few hundred years ago, these two celestial monkeys were sailing through all the great oceans together. Battling through storms, strong enough to destroy entire islands, becoming more powerful than the other demons could ever hope to become, and at the same time forming a bond strong enough, to become something greater than friendship.

Except…that all changed when Sun Wukong started playing against a power, he was not prepared for. The power of the Jade Emperor.

This traitorous act against the emperor, would ultimately end in the great sage’s downfall, where he would be catched and imprisoned by the Buddha himself, and pinned down by his very hand. And now, he was now trapped under “Five Element Mountains”, until an unknown destiny would free him.

Nobody, not even the wisest of the immortals, knew when that day would come.

It’s been 500 years since the great sage’s new destiny, fell upon him. Yet now... he has disappeared.

Mihou didn’t know how or where, or if it was done by fair means or foul. He solely knew that the once immense mountain, that had once sealed away his sun, was now only rubles and ashes of its former greatness.

Initially Mihou had been exited, ecstatic even, about this news. However, he quickly realized that like mountain, the King too was gone.

No messages, no clues, no anything. He was truly… gone... But he wasn’t "gone, gone" that would be crazy! "Sun Wukong, The Great sage equal to heaven" could never, would never.... Yea... His sun is fine, he will surely find him!

Plus, Mihou got all the things he needs to find The King, his magic ears being a big part of it. And then… they can be together again, and everything will be balanced, just like before! After all, how can a moon shine without its sun?

He confidently looks down at his own reflection, his silk white hair and shining ears animated in the cold and radiant water below. Everything is going to be ok.

But then he notices the dark roots crawling up his hair.

Dark roots that are slithering its way inside his silk white hair, like an infection, and turning it as dark as a burned corpse.

And nearly, one thirds of his entire mane can’t reflect any of the suns glow back anymore. And it will never be able to do it again.

For a second, it catches The Warrior off guard, but he really shouldn’t haven’t been surprised by this.

These dark roots have slowly been taking up more and more of his silk white hair, for well… Mihou keeps failing to remember that, but it was before his sun disappeared, he knows that much.

Mihou closes his eyes, trying to push the thoughts back. But instead, an old memory creeps up, and fills his soul with dread.

...

A demon. It attacked them.

They were young, stupid and furthermore in love, and together, they thought nothing could stop. Neither in celestial realm nor on earth.

Sure, Mihou was barely half the power of his counterpart, but that didn’t matter. It never really had mattered. The only thing Mihou and Wukong had ever cared about was each other.

Except, this time, it DID matter. Because… Wukong got hurt. Badly hurt.

There had been so much blood… Macaque could barely look at him… and Mihou had started panicking… while a piercing cry had cut through the air, when his Sun was impaled… The world turned around… everything had become so awfully quiet.

And Mihou had just been STANDING THERE. He had done nothing, but tremoring in horror over the cursed remains that was his dying sun. And then that awful, awful demon that had HURT HIS SUN, started whispering terrible, terrible words in his all too powerful ears…

“Oh, how sad” … “did he mean much too you?” … “What a pity…” … “you should have protected him better then…”

And… He listened. For wasn’t it true?

Wasn’t he the one who now stood beside his fading sun, that could barely light any brighter than the flickers of an ending campfire? Wasn’t he the one who had just been standing by his side, while his sun had worked so hard for everyone. Worked so hard and continued getting stronger. To get strong enough to protect his people. To protect Mihou. And he is now dying for the sake of a six eared demon, that would never be able to pay him back. Mihou hadn’t earned any of that. Wukong hadn’t deserved that. Mihou was a traitor.

The demon didn’t even notice, before it was too late. The demon didn’t even notice, before his insides lay before him, and he lied next to it. The demon didn’t even seem to notice Mihou’s scream of agony and pain, before his soul had already left his body.

Everything after that was a blur.

A blur filled with small glimpses of his dying sun, while an unworthy Warrior had desperately tried to save him.

And when the world finally came back into the view, his sun… His sun was ok. His sun was ok. His sun was ok.

“Sorry I scared you so badly there, my dear moon”, Wukong had said with a sad look on his face. “I must admit, he wasn’t as strong as me, but he sure was clever.” His sun had said with a grin on his face.

And oh… How Mihou could have looked at that smile forever. Yet… he was constantly reminded of what had happened.

If that demon… If that god forsaken demon had been any stronger, just a bit, Wukong…

Mihou couldn’t risk that… Never again would he look at his dying sun, covered in his own torn open flesh and shattered bones. Never again would he hear, Wukong’s breath draw close to its final limit. Never again would The Great Sage be betrayed by his own Warrior, who he thought he could trust to always protect him.

For in The Warriors own eyes, he was a traitor. A foul soul who would simply overserve as a prejudiced destiny would drown out the only spark of hope left for their island and its people.

Hence why Mihou did, what he did next.

On the darkest day of the year, where the shadows rosed higher, than their own creators, Mihou stood in the middle of an abandoned Island. He was hoping for someone who could help. And soon enough, someone rose up. The silhouette of the darkness. A spirit. One made of magic not seen quite often.

“The six eared Macaque asks for my help. Don’t you have enough assistance from the king already?” the spirit remarked in a gravelly, judging, voice, whilst turning itself into a clone of The Great Sage to prove its point.

“Yes, please, I need your wisdom…”

“My wisdom… Well, there sure is a considerably amount of that, you will have to be more specific…”

Even though he knew exactly, what he had been come for, it still took Mihou a few seconds, before he finally answered:

“How do I protect someone, who is stronger than me? How do I make sure, I can help someone, when I barely have the strength of the wind, against a storm coming their way?”

Mihou could feel small tears starting to pierce through his eyes, yet he did little to stop them. “How do I make sure, I don’t betray the people I love, when they need me the most?”

The silence after that was barely enough time for the water to hit shore in its never-ending rhythm. Despite that, it had felt like millions of winters and summers had already passed, by the time the silhouette finally spoke again.

“There is one way….”

Mihou looked up.

“However, as all things, it comes with great consequences.”

“I will do anything, please! Just tell me what I need to do!”

The silhouette seemed to watch him like a hawk.

“You are more stupid than you look, Warrior of Flower Fruit Mountain.”

The shadow started morphing into something else.

“Liu’er Mihou, for my power you need to know. This power requires the utmost control. One step aside could lead you drowning in its pit, leaving you only as host to submit.”

The shadows showed The Warrior consumed by shadows, until there is no light left in him.

Mihou took a deep breath.

“How can I control it then?”

“Warrior, only destiny will be your reaper.”

It morphs back into its normal silhouette.

“Now… do you accept this power?”

Mihou, looking back, should probably have thought it more through. But back then, the guilt and love for his Sun had been so strong, it had almost blinded him.

“I do, I accept it.”

And then everything went black.

...

Hundreds of years later, Mihou still doesn’t know, how or when he ended back on Flower Fruit Mountain.

But that didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered then, was the power he had now. The power to protect the island, its monkeys and… his sun.

Wukong was skeptical at first, luckily the King had always been more of the oblivious type, so he quickly started to pride the new power as much as Lihou used too.

The newfound power Liu’er Mihou had gained were shadow powers. He could manipulate, create or absorb any shadow as he pleased.

This power also made it easier for him to learn the “72 transformations”, which Wukong had already learned hundreds of years ago, since Mihou could “copy” them using his shadow powers, until he didn’t need Wukong by his side anymore to do it.

Though, as all things, it wouldn’t last long until he learned the consequences of his choices firsthand.

Wukong and Mihou had been fighting a demon, who was stronger than what they were used to, but they had been fighting a lot of them recently, anyway. However, for just a second, Macaque had become cocky, and his let the shadow powers run free to devour their enemy whole.

Expect, after the fight was over, Macaque noticed the dark hair for the first time.

It had been small at first, barely noticeable, but with every “slip up” it had gotten more and more noticeable.

It wasn’t just if he got cocky in battle. If something had hurt him mentally, it would also grow. Which, when Wukong got trapped under the mountain… The infection had grown to the length of two small snakes crawling up his legs and arms in just a few hours.

Moreover, when they got into a fight while Wukong was trapped… The fur on his legs was almost completely black.

So, the 500 years that had slowly been passing by had been both a physically and mental war in his head, that from each day that had went by got closer and closer to winning…

The lack of a king also meant that more demons had started to attack Flower Fruit Mountain, therefore Macaque had to use way more power than usual, which would just make the curse worse...

And then every night, if it was a quiet one, he would cry himself to sleep, in his now empty nest.

Yet, as the black fur was getting dangerously close to his heart, which Mihou did not want to find out what happened if it reached it, there was… hope.

Wukong was free now after all!

Mihou was so sure, that as soon as they found each other again. When he could finally embrace that golden fur again, everything would be fine.

And as Mihou looked down the boat, now ready for the long voyage ahead, he felt A hope rise in his chest, for the first time in these 500 years.

Everything will be ok; nothing bad ever happen anymore.

Wukong is waiting for him after him after all!

…

Right?

[kneelingshadowsalome]

im gonna stay dreaming that either vampire engel turns Konig or her drinking his blood somehow turns her human because the way you write in general, the angst, the yearning, I wanna eat your writing my dude

Omg turning Engel back to human?? (Omg he could finally marry her and… um… love her properly)

What if…

What if König tried to find a cure for her…? 🥺🥺

König has never been so feral. He's rooting out vampires with a newfound purpose, but instead of just killing them, he tortures them first to find out if there's a cure for vampirism.

And Engel knows what he's doing... She knows, and says nothing. She can't believe that a human man wants to help her (well, technically, König never asks if she wants to become human again; he has made all her decisions for her for weeks now, but Engel's soft little lips tremble from seeing how fervently he's searching for a cure, just for her sake). Sometimes, he has to drag them to their camp for torture, and König doesn’t like it that she's close by, not one bit.

"Look away, little angel," he demands with a grim voice, completely different from the tone he usually uses with her, the gentle accent she's now grown used to. The violence of his trade seeps through everytime he's filled with bloodlust, and once, when a captive vampire spews out curses at her, shouts how she's a traitor, how she's not a wolf but a lamb for preferring to be with cattle, how their love is cursed, König's fist brings an end to the spell-like rage as the captive's jaw is ripped off by the blow.

And she can't look away.

She's now utterly, hopelessly, desperately in love, and hungry all the time: she never drinks enough because she just can't bring herself to do it, no matter how many times König orders her to have her fill. She can see that he can't take it, large and able-bodied as he is, so she has to lie to him that she's feeling well when in truth she's about to collapse. She nearly faints from thirst once, and that's the first time König gets angry at her. She falls to her knees and tries to apologize because she can't take it when he's upset, far less bear it if he's disappointed in her. But König storms from the camp, and she feels like dying; she's too weak to even follow him.

She can't, because it feels like a kiss.

That captive just read her mind and revealed her true feelings for her human captor, and König isn't appalled at all; he doesn't turn around and ask her if it’s true. He simply smashes a face in to stop the curse, like it matters to him that her love stays pure. Like he loves her too...

After a while that feels like a century, König returns like a mountain of fury. He's dragging her first proper meal in weeks with him, and looks like a man who has finally sold his soul to the devil, says nothing as he throws the poor male at her feet, even slits his throat for her. Hesitantly, he crawls forward and starts to feed, assuming that the young male he brought for her must've been some kind of a criminal. A thief or a rapist, perhaps.

She lies on the ground, all hope lost: did her one true love just leave her? For disobeying him...?

She can finally drink her fill, and after a while, König comes to crouch at her side. He starts to pet her hair while she drinks: and she can’t help but whimper. She drinks as neatly as she can, like a human drinking from a saintly cup, not giving into her lust, just closing her eyes and savoring the song of blood inside her and König's gentle hand upon her head…

She's so in love by now that she wants to be with him at all times, even when he rests. She simply can't take another night without him. Not an hour before dawn, she crawls out of the coffin she just crept into to escape the approaching sun. She slides onto the bed next to König, and tries to be as silent as possible – he would just command her back to her coffin if he woke up – shuffles next to him like a cold shadow, and almost succeeds... But then he stirs as she attaches herself to his warm, powerful form, practically clutches him like she's drowning.

She's quiet as a mouse, but no scolding comes, there's not a single sharp command from him. König just goes tense when he senses there's a woman latched to him; then starts to relax upon noticing it's just his love-starved pet who's crawled to him in the night. He even wraps his hand around her like they've always done this – like they're a married couple who have curled together for warmth and love for years and years.

"Engel… You need to go back to your bed," he says, voice parched and soft from sleeping. König always calls her coffin 'bed' as if it's merely just that: a downy bunk where humans go to sleep. At times, when they have to take refuge from a hail, König bribes the innkeeper and hauls her coffin to his room. She likes to think it's because he wants to ensure that nothing bad happens to her.

He starts to caress her softly (she can't believe how gentle König can be with his touch when he wants to): first her head, then her cheek, then her arm… Her fingers fiddle with the hem of his mask, the large black draping hood that König uses to conceal his true identity and which sets him apart from the rest of the village folk.

They're not that different, perhaps, her and him. He's a monster in the eyes of the humans too; they fear him at least as much as they used to fear her.

"Not yet," she whispers, asks, begs, and grips his heavy shirt in a tight fist, making it clear that he has to pry her fingers off one by one if he wants to get rid of her. The man just sighs and lets her cling to him for a little while longer. But just when she starts to relax with the hope that König might allow her stay here until the sun rises, he collects her in his arms and lifts her from the bed like she's nothing but the dress she wears.

He carries her to her coffin and sets her down, down, down to the wooden box he has made so lovely and snug for her; it's furnished with dark red velvet paddings and even has a small pillow with cute little tassels attached to it. The sun is already rising, and she feels like crying again when König moves to pick up the large, heavy lid like it weighs nothing at all.

"Sir… Don't leave me," she whispers as her last wish, beckoning to him with all she has, the last part of her that's human and not the creature he hates. There's a flash of agony in his stare: a brief, sullen, pained look as he looks down at her like the Holy Christos himself.

"I will never leave you," he promises, under his breath, a broken vow from a broken man, just before he encloses her in darkness.

[ddarker-dreams]

Collapse of Paradise.

Yan Childe x M Reader. Commissioned piece.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, power imbalance, gaslighting attempts from Mr Childe. Word count: 3k.

It started with the small things.

Synchronicities, perhaps, little blips on a piece of paper that appear seemingly unconnected. No lines could be drawn between them at first glance. Some of these coincidences weren’t necessarily bad; if anything, it was as if you’d hit an unprecedented stroke of luck. When you went to buy groceries at the market, the second you’d go to get your money out, the store clerk would start rambling about how ‘he needed these goods gone anyway’ and lowered the price significantly. In the days that followed, he’d stopped charging you altogether.

You’d found it odd, but he was insistent, countless stories prepared to explain away his altruism.

Then there were the lines. It didn’t matter if they were long or short, many of the people in front of you offered their spot. At first, you hesitantly accepted, but it started to make you feel wrong, so you started gently turning the offers down. After that, you noticed the typically crowded streets of Liyue seemed easier to traverse. Others would scramble to move aside for you, apologizing under their breath if you so much as bumped shoulders or anything of the like.

Eventually, you began to wonder if this stroke of luck might be a veneer for something more sinister.

Were the rumors spreading that you weren’t privy to? Slander and gossip? You couldn’t fathom why, you’ve always kept to yourself, never troubling anyone. For days now, you’ve mentally combed through your memories, searching for any act that could’ve been interpreted as offensive. These brainstorming sessions always end with more questions than answers. You just weren’t the type of person to form ripples in calm water. You favor tranquility, going to lengths to keep it.

You shut the book in your hands with a quiet sigh. Despite having opened it an hour ago, you were only halfway through the first chapter. The plot and characters failed to transport you to another world as you hoped. You slide your bookmark into place — a narwhal-shaped piece, courtesy of your lover — then opt for staring at the ceiling. If you couldn’t distract yourself, maybe you could zone out and turn your traitorous brain off for a bit.

Should you post an apology on a bulletin board, where there’s bound to be lots of foot traffic? You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for, so it might not be the best idea. Maybe you could ask the next person to give you this unwanted special treatment? That doesn’t sound satisfactory either. It could make matters worse if they think you’ve remained blissfully aware of your offense all this time.

Having your home quietly turn hostile is a unique type of pain.

“Hey, what’s with all the sighing? Is the book that bad?”

Sunlight parting through storm clouds — that’s how you’d best describe Ajax. His warmth never failed to reach you. It sought you out, chasing after you for as long as necessary, maneuvering through obstacles like they were nothing. No matter where you hid, he always found you.

“I wish I could tell you. I haven’t made enough progress to determine that yet,” you give him a smile that must look as unconvincing as it feels. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice you sooner. Have you been here for long?”

He juts his thumb toward your front door. “Just snuck in, actually. Not too stealthily either.”

You frown at the implication. Ajax had often playfully complained your front door was squeaky enough to alert the whole neighborhood of his presence whenever he opened it, a sentiment you agreed with. You must’ve really been out of it to not hear those decibel-breaking hinges.

The couch dips to accommodate his weight as he sits next to you. He props his feet up — his boots off, thankfully, you had to remind him countless times — and rests his arms behind his head. You both stay like that for a moment. Your eyes are on his side profile as he thinks, about you, no doubt, the grin you’re so used to seeing on his face uncharacteristically absent. You shift in your seat at the prolonged silence.

He just got back from a long day at work, you’d rather not bother him with your paranoia. For someone who acts so lackadaisical, he’s freakishly perceptive, picking up on your every nuance. He pointed out tics about yourself that even you were unaware of. It didn’t feel fair for him to have to keep guessing what’s been bothering you while you struggled to make up an excuse different from the last time he asked.

Ajax inspects you from the corner of his eye. “Feel up to going out to eat? It’s been a while. As much as I love cooking dinner with you, sometimes it’s nice to take the night off. How about it?”

You gnaw on your bottom lip. He isn’t bringing it up out of consideration for you, you know it, he knows it. And still, it seeps into every aspect of your life. You’ve been avoiding going out. You aren’t a total recluse, there’s still work to be done, but you’ve been staying at home more often than not. At first, you told yourself it was unrelated to the strange predicament you found yourself in. You’d only recently come to terms with the fact that was a lie, meant to lull you into thinking things aren’t that bad.

“If you’re tired, you can relax while I whip something up,” you propose, sounding as cheerful as you can manage. His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Oh, there are some leftovers from my lunch too. We can just warm that up and—”

“[First].”

You’re looking everywhere but his eyes. “Yes?”

“I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong,” his hand is on your forearm, serving as the anchoring force you so desperately need. His tone isn’t judgmental or irritated by how elusive you’ve been acting. It’s overflowing with patience so sickeningly sweet, that a lump forms in your throat. “You know you can tell me anything.”

The sensation of guilt that washes over you then is unwelcome. You wish you could both keep playing along, but all dreams are destined to end. This conversation and the doors it’d open were bound to happen.

He gives you a squeeze before you part your lips, having sensed your change of heart from the subtlest shift in demeanor.

“I’m not exactly sure how to explain it… I just get the sense people are treating me differently lately. Not in an overtly bad way, but more like they need to be careful around me. I don’t know. It’s weird.”

Another squeeze, this time to your hands, which he takes in his. “When did you start noticing this?”

It’s a question you don’t like the answer to. They’re unrelated blips, you remind yourself. This world you live in is filled with plenty of those. Correlation doesn’t equal causation and all that. Ajax’s gaze never falters from yours. He’s wholly concentrated on you as if nothing else could possibly matter more. This display of unflinching devotion brings forth a fresh sting of guilt. It tingles all over, pricking against your skin.

For a lie, your next words come out surprisingly easy.

“A week or so ago, maybe.”

Ajax is unabashedly inspecting your facial features. He studies every little counter, each dip and groove. The way he examines you now is different from his usual, loving stare. It feels colder, more critical, almost like he’s been charged with determining whether or not you committed a crime. You do what you can to keep yourself from squirming.

You have an easier time breathing when he pulls back, apparently satisfied with the outcome of his search.

“I can’t imagine why that’s happening, but these things naturally tend to resolve themselves with time. Maybe someone overheard something out of context or got overly chatty while drinking. The people of Liyue are reasonable. Keep being you. They’ll see through any of the mistruths they came across.”

His lips curl into the lopsided grin you’re so used to seeing. A part of you is relieved by how he’s handled your admission, though you can’t fathom why. He’s a good man. It doesn’t matter how many hours he’s worked, he’ll stay up late into the night to write replies to his siblings, insisting he wants them to receive their presents as soon as possible. He cares for you, dotes on you, going above and beyond without needing to be asked.

You don’t want to think about the small things if you can avoid it. You want to think about the upcoming trip to Snezhnaya he’s planned, insisting his family wants to meet their future brother-in-law. How he took time away from his busy job to nurse you back to health the last time you fell ill. The almost magical way he can distract you from your problems, whether it be through witty banter or exciting adventures into nature.

He brings your head to rest on his shoulder. You accept the gesture, knowing how he favors being physical with you. Letting him have this seems like a good idea.

Your eyelids flutter shut and you’re back to where you started — struggling to quiet the desperate whispers of your mind. The voices grow more hoarse from how loud they must strain to try and be heard.

Trust is built on open communication, you know this, yet you’re holding back one piece of critical knowledge from him.

That you know all these peculiar interactions began around the time Ajax started courting you.

-

You’ve watched people convince themselves of things in the past.

It was a sight that brought out a myriad of emotions, namely confusion and pity. Should you let them carry on in their misguided ways? Hope that maybe they snap out of the reverie of their own volition, or someone better equipped might happen by and lend a helping hand? You’d witnessed it in grief-stricken mothers who lost their sons at sea, refusing to attend the funeral while claiming ‘he’s still out there’. Then there were the failed entrepreneurs who put everything into a business for it to just go bust. They’d swear that their investment will pay off eventually, that economies change, it isn’t a total lost cause; the justifications never ended.

It’s strange, going from being an audience member to these predicaments to landing the lead role for yourself.

You see the script, know that the words were written in advance, yet still try clumsily acting through them all the same. What else is there for you to do? Ajax has never harmed you, never given reason for you to openly doubt him. These suspicions were spun by you. His job at the Northland Bank was never a secret, neither was the financial prosperity it brought him. Their collaboration with the Fatui is similarly public knowledge, though the degree of which is unknown.

Picking up a rock, you test its weight in your hand, then give it a calculated toss. It skips across the clear, shimmering water, then plunges into the depths.

“This would certainly make for a nice fishing spot,” a voice casually quips from behind. Your shoulders go stiff. It didn’t take long for him to find you, it never does. “What do you think? Should we make a date out of it?”

You feel the point of his chin press against your neck. “I, uh, might not be the best fishing partner. It requires waking up early and sitting still for hours, doesn’t it? That sounds difficult.”

“Patience is always a good thing to hone, it’s practical. I’ve found mine being tested lately,” he taps you on the side. Once, twice. “That’s the thing, though! It’s important to get pushed to your limits. You’ll never know what you might be capable of otherwise. Wouldn’t you say so, [First]?”

There’s an attempt to turn around and face him, yet what your body wills doesn’t come to fruition. Ajax’s body might appear lean, but it’s strong, almost inhumanly so. It requires no strain on his behalf to keep you rooted in place. You have nowhere to look aside from ahead. The sun is setting now, molten gold easing into shades of amber. You squint, finding the scene both beautiful and difficult to stare at directly.

Sunlight could be as painful as it is beautiful.

“We aren’t right for one another,” you mumble, almost grateful you can’t see his face. “I don’t want to keep doing this. I don’t know what to do.”

He laughs, the sound ringing hollow. His warm breath tickles your ear. “You don’t have to do anything. Neither do I, for that matter. Everything was fine. Everything is fine. What have I done to you to earn this cold behavior, hm? Would you care to tell me?”

Your palms might bleed from how harshly your nails dig into them. “… You haven’t done anything to me.”

“And I wouldn’t, either,” he seems to take pride in confirming. The fact he has to say this in the first place is reason enough to worry.

Waves brush against and retreat from the sandy shoreline. The breeze carries with it hints of the ocean, tousling your hair, ensuring it’ll maintain the scent of saltwater for hours to come. This place that would set your heart at ease any other time fails to comfort you now. Each breath you take grows increasingly unsteady. A damning word that’s been floating around in the recesses of your mind grows louder and louder, demanding your attention. No longer do you have the energy to hush it.

“Ajax,” you begin, fighting through the impulse to say nothing, for your mouth is terribly dry, “Are you familiar with the alias ‘Childe’?”

A spray of water droplets kisses your cheek after a particularly sizable wave comes crashing down against the shore.

His hands are on your shoulders. Your sense of equilibrium is thrown off by how sharply he turns you around, forcing you to confront a reality you can no longer ignore. The rays of the dying sun are bright, yet his eyes do not reflect them. You’ve never seen those pools of bright blue turn so dull. His lips are set in a straight line, his face mere inches from yours. What you would’ve once considered an intimate moment feels like a perverse invasion of privacy. He’s giving you no space, no time, no air.

You have to remind yourself to breathe, the action no longer involuntary.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” his fingers are on your chin. You wonder how much blood has been shed due to the very hand cradling you. “I keep that portion of myself separate from those I care about.”

He isn’t denying it.

“That isn’t something— something you can just clock out of. People are scared of you. Because they’re scared of you, they’re scared of me.”

He sighs then, the closest thing you’ve gotten to resignation from him so far. “I know, I know. I really did want to avoid that. It isn’t anything I can’t fix. Still, you need to work with me on this.”

“I… what?”

You don’t want to believe you heard him right. You try to take a step back, but he doesn’t allow it, his grip unrelenting. The skin beneath his eyes crinkles when he smiles.

“You were happy,” Ajax states. When you voice no dissent, he continues on. “You must’ve been, if you were willing to overlook your suspicions for as long as you did. Maybe you should be scared of me… maybe you will be, if you keep looking into things you shouldn’t. Or you could make this easy for yourself. We can take things slow, work it out a day at a time.”

Toward the latter half of his proposal, he finally lets you go, yet you don’t make any move to run. It’s as if the sand beneath your feet has been replaced with iron shackles.

You need a moment to compose yourself for your next words to come out. It’ll be the most confrontational you’ve been yet. That thought alone is almost as frightening as the situation itself.

“What makes you think I want to work this out?”

His toothy grin never falters at your challenge, instead, it grows wider. You shiver at the possibility your unusual resistance excites him.

“Do you have what it takes to go the other route?” His voice takes on a condescending lilt. When he sees how you bristle, he laughs, shaking his head and putting his hands up in mock defense. “C’mon, I’m joking. Don’t look at me like that. You’re a smart man, I know you’ll make the right choice.”

You’re not sure what other options you have.

Ajax bends over to grab some stones of his own, just as you did before his unwelcome arrival. He winds his shoulder a few times, then gives it a toss, the rock skipping too many times for you to count. It goes out impossibly far before finally succumbing to its watery prison. He tries to hand you one. You stare at it unblinkingly.

“Something tells me this might be our last romantic outing for a while. Might as well make the most of it,” he nudges it closer.

With some reluctance, you take the rock into your hand. He’s back to throwing the few he collected, beaming while he does so. You thought you were growing adept at playing pretend — that pales in comparison to his abilities. Pleading his case is no longer of any interest to him. He knows what you’re going to choose, he could always read you, and he’s only going to get better at it.

“Nothing about this is romantic,” you finally murmur. This rock fails to glide over the water, plummeting immediately. “That’s a word I’ll struggle to associate with you... Childe.”

He winks and replaces the rock you just threw, his fingers brushing over yours.

“Well, it's a good thing I just love challenges then.”

[stromuprisahat]

Beware! Potential growth's peaking out!

Siege and Storm- Chapter 11

LOL

Alina doesn't know anything the Darkling himself didn't tell her.

Forget artist!

Modern!Alina would be a member of doomsday cult!

Just... what does she built her hypotheses on? Baghra's words about Aleksander and her own fatalism?!

Frodo, halfway to Mordor:

Yeah, I shouldn't talk much about the Ring. Sam doesn't want to go to Mount Doom already. What if he turns around and bails on me? I'd have to abandon my quest alongside him...

For a person certain the world's about to end, unless she "stops" the Darkling, Alina sure lacks determination.

No, you only wanted her to inform her rapist about Darkles' plans... I'm sure that would result into heartfelt apology and her promotion from a cocksleeve to respected member of household.

Alina, repeat after me: There's nothing wrong with becoming flushed, when an attractive man touches your bare skin, especially on parts not used for casual contact. It doesn't make you a wanton whore or fallen peasant girl, and it doesn't mean you're provoking further intimacies.

Gods! I so wish to shake her or at least watch her overcome her prudish upbringing.

Thought 1- Genya might be in trouble.

Thought 2- ... and what about poor lonely Alina?!

Subtle, but I'd more appreciate spiralling due to Genya's possible fate. Alina believes the Darkling to be heartless monster and theoretically understands mechanics of offence and punishment. Yet Genya's situations is a possiblity, Alina's feelings regarding herself certainty.

Alina's sense of duty's quite something. Especially for a lowly peasant. Instead of learning, she's learning new excuses she can use to get away with bare minimum.

I don't think actually poor person with no real status (lineage AND money) would attempt such thing. She constantly treats her "betters" as nuisances, equals at best. While not perhaps actively insulting, she's hardly behaving properly. Exactly in a way that cannot be ascribed to her origin.

Perhaps Nikolai should try acting like a Royal Prince towards her sometime. Remind her of their priorities, instead of tactfully insinuating she's forgetting to be discreet about her preferences of company.

Darling, uniforms have their purpose. And it's not only to make people hate you. Sure, a lovely LITTLE pin will make it obvious, who belongs to your retinue...

I didn't want uniforms.

The uniform in itself distinguishes members of the military from civilians, but also from one another (infantry, artillery, navy, and later air force).

I've read "they" and immediately went back, because that didn't sound like Alina at all. It seems too little sleep might conjure caring heroine, yet not even that's enough for the rest of the brain to believe it.

Oh dear, how shall Tolya cope?!

Look! A place for character development! Now's the time to set up for realization the Darkling was right to require his subordinates' obedience. Yes, that incudes you, Alina...

It's shocking to see Alina act as the voice of reason. If only her perception remained at all times.

Surprisingly sound logic on Alina's part.

Sleeping under the same roof as potential assassins?!

What's the point of all these parallels or at least similar situations offering them, if Alina won't connect the dots and change her worldview?

Why should I admire Alina's courage to accept and offer protection to possible traitors without granting the same courtesy to Aleksander?

Because she's the MC? Because she's the Sun Summoner, therefore a greater target?

Yeah, and Sasha's The Black General, the most powerful Grisha alive AND a living amplifier...

She ain't completely stupid! I'm officially rooting for THIS Alina to stick around!

[sun-and-moon-mushroom]

Day 11: Time Loop

AO3 link

(Based on the AU in this post)

(cw for canon typical torture, suicide, implied SA)

During Luo Binghe’s first life, he was one of Shen Qingqiu’s favourite students. It wasn’t something he achieved right away, but rather something he worked for, until his shizun could look at him with pride. Among his martial siblings he was one of the strongest, and was overjoyed when he was given the chance to defend the sect from a demonic invasion. When Shen Qingqiu was accused of murdering the Bai Zhan Peak Lord, Luo Binghe was his most ardent defender, making sure that the Bai Zhan disciples that attacked their peak would never disturb his work or rest. Shen Qingqiu might seem cold and cruel to others, and Luo Binghe wouldn’t deny that he was — it was just that those were the traits he admired in his master, the ones he dreamed of emulating some day.

When the seal on his demonic heritage broke, he was terrified for the first time since he was a child. It was something he’d been having nightmares about for years — that his nature as a demon would be discovered, and that Shen Qingqiu would think he was a traitor and cast him out. What happened instead, after a tense interrogation, was his shizun ordering him to jump into a rift that led to the Endless Abyss, warning him that if any of the other cultivators in the area saw him — a heavenly demon in the middle of a demonic invasion of the largest cultivation event in years — he would be dead within moments. Luo Binghe left, but not without promising Shen Qingqiu that he would be back as soon as he could.

He could never figure out why a flash of sorrow flew across Shen Qingqiu’s face at his words, not until he returned to the human realm once more, six years later, to the news of his imprisonment by Huan Hua Palace for his crimes — something the sect leader, who had always been apologising to Shen Qingqiu for some unknown failing when Luo Binghe was a disciple, had stood by and let happen. Luo Binghe had stormed Huan Hua with an army of demons, intent on keeping his promise, but in the end, he was too late. Shen Qingqiu had died of his injuries just a few days before.

Even as he went on to become Emperor of both the human and demon realms, amassing a harem of a hundred women and becoming more and more powerful with each year, that old promise still lingered in his mind. He made it a point to return any kindness shown to him at least ten-fold — if Shen Qingqiu was still alive, he would be safe and living in luxury, perhaps as one of his advisors, while the sect that betrayed him burned. He wasn’t though, and so the thought remained, until Luo Binghe came across rumours of a rare technique.

It was an ability said to send the user back in time, into the body of their former self, in order to fix their past mistakes. Luo Binghe made it his mission to track the technique down, spending years on the project, until he finally found it. There was an aspect to it that none of the rumours had told him about though — if he returned to a time after he had begun to cultivate, the shock of the transition would send his body into a qi deviation, one that would probably be fatal. That was fine by Luo Binghe though — he knew the perfect time to go back to. The next time he opened his eyes he was back in the body of a child, right before being accepted into Qing Jing Peak.

Things were different the second time. He wasn’t sure what he could have changed — maybe it was just something he said, or maybe Shen Qingqiu was able to see the spark of his older self in his eyes. Either way, when the other disciples started bullying him, when they pushed him out of the dormitory and into the woodshed, he let it happen — it must just be Shen Qingqiu testing him, right? What once was an affectionate nickname becomes a cruel insult. He doesn’t even notice how wrong his cultivation manual is until much later, just using the knowledge from his first life to progress.

As much as he hopes for it, his relationship with Shen Qingqiu in his second life never gets better. He doesn’t know what went wrong for his shizun to hate him so much, doesn’t know what went differently in this life compared to the other. At his worst moments he starts to wonder if the Shen Qingqiu of his first life ever actually cared for him, or if he had simply seen his potential earlier and wanted to claim it for himself.

Years later, the Endless Abyss is open once more, and the sign of his demonic heritage is clear on his forehead. Shen Qingqiu looks at him with rage as he pushes him over the edge while he’s still unsteady from the unsealing, and he wonders if this was how it was always going to be. He makes it through the Abyss faster this time, returning to the human realm after only five years. Xin Mo seems louder in his mind, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.

This time, it’s Luo Binghe who orchestrates the trial, using every piece of knowledge he has to bring Shen Qingqiu under his power. As before, his martial siblings are quick to abandon him, like the cowards that they are. When he first visits his former master in his cell, Shen Qingqiu calls him a beast as he spits at his feet, and in a sudden moment of rage, Luo Binghe tears off his arm. His mind becomes clouded with fury as he thinks back to everything he endured, all out of a hope that Shen Qingqiu would care for him again, only for each and every effort to fail. If Shen Qingqiu won’t love him, he concludes, then he can face the consequences of his actions, here in this cell.

Years later, when Luo Binghe sits on the throne of the combined realms, with six hundred wives, Shen Qingqiu finally dies, and Luo Binghe goes back in time once more.

In his third life, he leaves for the demon realm instead of Cang Qiong, and takes his place at it’s rightful heir by the time he’s fifteen. He comes with Sha Hualing when she leaves to attack the sect, and in the chaos of the fight, he manages to capture Shen Qingqiu. He’s still injured — from the caves, from Liu Qingge’s death he assumes — so he can’t fight back as well as he could. Luo Binghe brings him to the palace he’s been rebuilding, the one that once belonged to his father, and locks him inside a set of luxurious rooms. Maybe, if he sees what accepting Luo Binghe will get him, he’ll be more open to it?

Instead, Shen Qingqiu slits his throat in his room before Luo Binghe can even feed him his blood. He spends the next few years recklessly cultivating, until he is once again strong enough to use the technique that will send him back in time.

In his fourth life, he resolves to make sure Shen Qingqiu will not die, not without his consent. He becomes a disciple again, and slips his blood into his food after breaking his seal in secret. He uses the chaos of the Immortal Alliance Conference to capture him this time, keeping him in an enforced sleep until he finds somewhere safe to keep him. This Shen Qingqiu thinks he’s a spy, thinks he betrayed the sect and kidnapped him to weaken it. He laughs at the idea of a ransom — they both know that the other Peak Lords would never agree to it.

Luo Binghe almost dies in that life, impaled by the blade of Xuan Su, but he manages to survive it, turning his own blade on it’s wielder. In the moment of panic before he breaks free, he pulls on his blood parasites and they tear Shen Qingqiu apart — if he can’t have him, nobody can.

The lives go by, again and again. He’s familiar with the sight of Shen Qingqiu flinching now, with his rare tears of pain, but the way his smile looked is starting to fade from his memory. In one, he tries wiping away his memories, in another he tries wearing a different face, but each time it ends in failure. In one life, he even takes Shen Qingqiu as a concubine — the pills he’s fed provide an illusion of love, but Luo Binghe knows it’s not the real thing. Nothing he tries seems to ever work.

This is what Luo Binghe doesn’t know — Shen Jiu remembers each life as well. Not consciously, not the details, but the impression of the emotions he felt remains. From that first life, where he died alone and cursing his own hope that a half-demon disciple would ever keep his word, he’s been turned against Luo Binghe from the start, with each successive timeline only making things worse and worse, as the hate and fear he feels for him grows.

In a life long after the first, Luo Binghe opens his eyes, once more about to become a disciple of Cang Qiong. Instead, he feels a hand press against his forehead, breaking the seal on his demonic heritage too early. The next thing he feels is a sword through his chest. He looks up at Shen Qingqiu, who is standing there with his sword outstretched — and sees that same look of sorrow he remembers from so long ago.

[tidetower]

Addam Velaryon and Daeron Targaryen as John Everett Millais' "A Huguenot, on St. Bartholomew's Day" by maiahee_

The artwork is meant to depict a pair of young lovers on opposing sides of a conflict. One of them attempts to have the other displayed as loyal to their side so that he may be spared from the ensuing massacre, but the lover has already chosen his own allegiance.

Artwork is based off my theory that Addam's secret conversation with Corlys was him asking for Daeron to be spared as he had not taken part in the war at the time, after which Corlys asked the same of Rhaenyra. Daeron later joins the war effort on the side of the Greens. Meanwhile, Addam was declared a traitor to the Blacks.

And Addam Velaryon, lately Addam of Hull, sought out the Sea Snake after the battle; what they spoke to each other even Mushroom does not say. [...] She would send envoys to Storm’s End and Casterly Rock, offering fair terms and pardons…after she had put an end to the usurper’s brothers, who were in the field against her. “Once they are dead, the rest will bend the knee. Slay their dragons, that I might mount their heads upon the walls of my throne room. Let men look upon them in the years to come, that they might know the cost of treason.” [...] Prince Daemon himself would take Caraxes to the Trident, together with the girl Nettles and Sheepstealer, to find Prince Aemond and Vhagar and put an end to them. Ulf White and Hard Hugh Hammer would fly to Tumbleton, some fifty leagues southwest of King’s Landing, the last leal stronghold between Lord Hightower and the city, to assist in the defense of the town and castle and destroy Prince Daeron and Tessarion. Lord Corlys suggested that mayhaps the prince might be taken alive and held as hostage. But Queen Rhaenyra was adamant.

[bonefall]

I’d there any info on one eye EATING Tom??? That’s so wild but I hope one eye didn’t get heartburn from eating that dead beat

I'm still working out some key details of Thunderstar's Justice, especially since I'm at One Eye's part in my reread and things are really starting to come together.

But here's the current draft of One Eye and Skystar's tale so far, isolated from the "Grander Story" of Thunderstar's Justice;

To set some exposition a bit; Thunderstar's Justice is the SE following BB!DOTC. It begins after the First Battle. In BB, the main arc happens entirely before that point.

It opens on the burial. The sun rises on a hot summer day, the living cats commanded to bury the bodies to receive their lives.

But the day is hot and the clearing reeks. The bodies of their friends are decaying and there's too many to put to rest in one day.

(Sunlit Frost is a survivor of this fight, but he was badly bitten on the paw and yet he refuses to sit this out, digging and burying with a fresh wound. He develops an infection that permanently disables his hand. But that's off in the reeds)

The point here being that the summer stench of hot decay summons One Eye. A god of war, among other things.

And of course he takes a shine to Skystar right away. The Clans are weakened from losing so many cats, and ambitious Skystar is eager to recover his strength quickly.

So of course he is now getting more... "openminded" about accepting people into his Clan. There is a language barrier he's now considering bridging; where all his cats were previously Tribemew speakers, he decides that perhaps mean-looking Townmew and Parkmew speakers "deserve a chance"

Tom is one of them, but if there end up being any traitors, murderers, or other exiled cats from the other Clans, they are going to end up here.

NEW addition compared to previous drafts.... One Eye was quite loyal, at first. Useful, observant, helping Skystar in his plans to grow. But Skystar started noticing that One Eye was... too good at running things.

In fact he was quite charming. Always seemed to know what to do. Like he'd been a leader before.

This is still Thunderstar's story, with occasional cuts to Skystar. He isn't aware that SkyClan isn't currently planning conquest, but absolutely doesn't trust Skystar.

He's EXPANDING. He's accepted the person who got Turtle Heart killed into his Clan, plus other rogues, and Thunderstar stopped him before he was able to kill mama Bright Storm during the First Battle. No, he doesn't believe for a second that Skystar isn't planning something with those 8 extra lives he's got now.

He only hopes his own 8 will be enough as a deterrant.

It doesn't take long though. SkyClan is back on its shit and unstoppable

There's a few battles that are curbstomps, displaying how much power One Eye is lending to SkyClan. So Thunderstar has a taste of what he could have if One Eye was on his side.

At some point, Thunder remarks that the spirits were trying to give Sky a chance to change his ways, and yet he's only ever gotten worse and worse. One day it'll catch up to him!

Skystar shrugs this off. Of course. "I'm Just Trying to make my clan strong"

BUT, at one point... Tom breaks the code and kills someone. There are two rules and he just broke half of them.

And Skystar takes him aside to punish him... but One Eye comes along. In spite of Skystar trying to tell him off, because HE is supposed to be leader.

"I'll decide how to punish my own cats"

"But will you do so properly? Allow me, I've been waiting a long time for this."

"I said get out! This is MY cat and I decide what happens!"

But when Tom tries to join in on Skystar's scolding, "Yeah winky! Know your place!" One Eye bites his paw clean off.

Sky is too shocked to do anything. Tom is screaming

Is One Eye bigger, suddenly??

He has prepared the obituary ahead of time, licking his lips; "The pain you cause seeps into your meat like a flavor. You have sins deeper than your bones, soaked into your very marrow, and I will savor each bite."

Heavy_TF2_Nom.mp3

Clear Sky realizes something in this moment...

He needs One Eye, but One Eye does not need him. He is a leader. He is a monster. He is a God.

He is everything Skystar is, but stronger. Unstoppable.

And what will happen when One Eye ceases to want him around? And what did he mean-- 'waiting for this?' Sins? Flavor seeping into the meat-- like a marinade??

A lightbulb goes off in Skystar's head; "Tom was lunch and I'm going to be dinner. Good god I'm being seasoned!"

So, Tom's death is an important turning point. It's where Skystar's ambition is ground to a halt because of self-preservation. He fears death, and he fears a death as gruesome as what happened to Tom.

He realizes that what he's unleashed on the forest isn't mortal, and he has no control over the situation. He's fucked up BIG time... so badly that he needs the other Clans if any of them are going to hope to survive.

SO that is the context around Eat Tom. I'm still working on specifics here though, while this is technically a reworking of everything post-First Battle up to Thunderstar's Echo, this is practically a new story lmao.

I also left out the main story from this summary which is mostly Thunderstar as he considers what leadership means, how his anger influences his decisions but how far he's come from the main series, encouraging Bright Storm to retire and become the first elder, while connecting with Frost who feels like he's losing meaning in his life; now that both an arm and his dominant hand prevent him from building.